Disclaimer: Wild ARMs IV is the property of XSeed and Media Vision (name incorrectly punctuated because FNN won't let me do it right). Rating is for language and violence.
Quest
A moth-eaten cloud drifted across the sun, making Raquel squint, reminding her of a pair of her mother's evening gloves, age-yellowed lace. She must've visited Raquel's room one night before leaving for a dinner party. Raquel had a vague memory of lying in bed, seeing her tall mother standing in the doorway, a lamp shining behind her, the bright lights of Verklarung city glittering in the window. Her younger sister, Beatriz, hadn't stirred.
She shook the memory from her mind, dragging the dusty sleeve of her jacket across her hot forehead. It never failed to amaze her that, no matter how much Filgaia punished her, it always offered some beauty. Her travels had led her into the desert badlands. When she was a child, surrounded by blossoms and silks, she would've thought this place ugly, but now she saw the artistry of the striated rocks, upheaved and balanced precariously, the stones glowing red and gray against the blue sky.
Raquel wanted to keep moving, but she also wanted to remember this place, so she awkwardly fumbled her sketch pad from its pocket inside her jacket, unclipping the felt pencil holder. Bracing the tablet at an angle on her stomach, she loosely sketched the contours of the arches and mesas. Maybe when she came to Port Rosalia she'd be able to buy some pigments for paint...
She was concentrating on the shadowed curve of a natural arch, and that was the only reason she noticed the movement beyond it. Her steps faltered - then she continued walking, slower now. Her pencil, almost on its own, moved along lines she'd already drawn. Her face was turned towards the paper but her eyes, peering through her pale lashes, remained on the bridge.
A smooth whistle parted the distance between her and the arch. "Saw us, huh?"
Raquel straightened, flipping the tablet closed and hooking the pencil holder on the front cover. By the time she'd slid it into her jacket, two men had sauntered out from the stones. They wore the drab brown fatigues of Congresional soldiers, though the man who had spoken lacked a helmet, his dark hair gleaming in the sun. Deserters, Raquel decided, turning a contemptuous grimace into impassivity. Unable to bear the brunt of war even in this supposed peacetime.
The man in front bent his arm at the elbow in a cursory wave. "Nice day, miss." He was smiling. She took a deep breath and shifted her left foot behind, standing so he could see the long sword strapped across her back.
"I suppose so," she replied evenly, careful to keep any wariness out of her voice. She didn't entirely succeed. "Do you know if it's far to Port Rosalia?"
"A fair pace." He and his comrade, shorter with a thin blond mustache, stopped about fifteen feet from her. "Any money, miss?"
Raquel glanced up the road to see how smooth the going was. Not very. Fifteen years ago, there'd been a highway here, but the bombings of ten years ago had left it a ragged avenue of rubble. "Aren't there jobs in Port Rosalia?"
"Maybe you'll find out." The dark man took two steps toward her. "How much gella now?"
Raquel squared her jaw. "I want you to go away." Already the other man was approaching. She hooked her arms back and grasped the swordhilt.
They stopped, thought she could see the dark one fingering a long knife in his belt.
With a cold rasp of steel, Raquel drew her sword. "Please leave."
They glanced at each other. "A sword?" the blond said incredulously, his mouth twisting into something close to a smile. "What are you, the Sword Magess come outta a story book?"
Raquel set her lips into her own smile. "Merely a traveler on a quest."
"A quest." The blond one nodded, smirking, and stepped forward.
Raquel raised the sword into a guard position. He stopped.
Raquel glanced up the road again, wanting to move away from them. But that would be a retreat, and she couldn't afford that now. "A quest is a journey to find something precious." The dark man had drawn his knife. "Something no one else has been able to find."
The dark man smiled; maybe he wanted this all to be a game. "If you've got a treasure map, we'll be glad to carry it for you." The blond laughed, but shortly.
"I don't think either of you will find what I want." She spread her feet, balancing her weight. "It's beauty."
The dark man raised his eyebrows, his footsteps halting. "You for real, lady?"
The blond, seeing his friend's hesitation, rolled his eyes and grabbed the knife. In almost the same motion, he threw it, the windmilling blade slashing through Raquel's sleeve as it passed.
Raquel ignored a flare of pain as she raised her sword and charged, striking for the blond. The soldier tried to block. The blade pierced flesh - it was too soft - instead of his arm, she'd dug into his stomach. He cried out, falling back, sinking to his knees, arms wrapped around his belly. Blood already stained his fatigues maroon; she couldn't tell how deep she'd cut.
"Holy shit," the dark man breathed. But as Raquel turned, she saw he wasn't looking at his companion's wound. He wasn't even looking at the red-splattered length of her blade. He was staring at the rip in her sleeve.
The knife had cut through the leather jacket, down to the soft cotton of her dress, and shallowly, very shallowly, into her skin. Her sudden movements had widened the tears, exposing three inches of bare flesh.
"What the hell?" The soldier's eyes darted up to her face, then back to her skin, eyes round.
Raquel's face didn't change as she stared at her skin, the living wreckage of the Verklarung disaster. She hadn't flinched from it in four years, but each year had made seeing it harder.
As much as she disliked it, she wiped her sword clean on the tattered hem of her jacket, dropping it back into its sheath. When she came to Port Rosalia, she'd find an inn where she could stitch the tears and try to clean off the blood. She turned, her movements oddly heavy, and as she walked down the broken road, she glanced back once. The dark man was helping his friend stand. She hoped he'd live, but she knew they wouldn't accept her help.
Raquel raised her eyes to the turquoise sky, the russet rocks, then down to the blood on her jacket. Blood she'd willingly spilled on Filgaia's already burdened surface. She gazed at her exposed arm, the ten-year old scars that would kill her. Then back at the badlands, the sky.
So much beauty around her. So little in herself.