Colors of War, Chapter 1: In the Beginning
This day, rearing high above the Mithril Mountains, was like every other day that passed in the region. The sun was shining, refracting light into the clouded depths of the mines, and the sound of expensive loafers coming down the winding tunnels was a bare clicking under the whistle of eager wind.
Well, so maybe the loafers were out of place. But then, the motley Turks were out of place in almost everywhere that existed on the Planet. Everywhere, that was, except among their grounds and offices. Still, here they were, three of them in varying outfits, striding down the earthen tunnels as if they belonged there, not the occasional wide-eyed miner who gawked at their passing. Not that there were many of them. For today, the bulk of the Mithril Miners had been persuaded to take their business elsewhere.
The Turks, as the recently coined saying went, were out on business.
--
For today it was innocent enough, though things could readily change. Iridalan Blackthorne idly toyed with the lay of his lapel, thinking with a frown about what could so easily go wrong. This tip-off had been anonymous but significant, news of a weapon under development which could ignite all the political unrest that the Turks profited from. Likewise, if that weapon was ever completed and used against the Turks... foresight was the most prudent option.
Nobody who looked at the three Turks could have picked out their leader from looks alone, for all of them had the proud, confident carriage of upperclassmen. The only thing that separated Iridalan as the de facto leader was the glimmer of iridescent metal at his left ear, a small clasp of titanium that neither of his other two companions shared. Other than that, all about the same middle age and geared in casual formal, Vincent Valentine and Lancir V2 were equal in authority. One dark and the other scarlet, they matched each other in looks if not personality.
Lancir frowned suddenly, looking around as if tugged by invisible strings. He halted, and the others were halfway down the tunnelway before Vincent turned back, scowling in annoyance. "What's your problem?" he called back with the exasperated air of a nursemaid, striding to his partner's side. "The meeting place isn't that far off." Taking hold of the back of Lancir's trenchcoat, he began to drag the redhead towards their leader, who was looking upon their antics with indulgent irritation that his little soliloquy had been interrupted.
"I'm not tired," Lancir protested, trying vainly to pry his trenchcoat from Vincent's firm hold. "I'm not tired, just... I've been hearing something ever since-"
A thin, unhappy wail ghosted down the tunnel they had just turned into, indistinct but undeniable. Iridalan's eyes narrowed; Lancir gave a shout of aggrieved triumph and would have attempted to rush off after it if Vincent had not closed his other hand upon his partner's trailing ponytail. This was also part of Vincent's job, actually; Lancir had a blind spot for children a mile wide, a lethal liability when cold-bloodedness was called for. Vincent was responsible for reining him in appropriately. "Let me go! You heard it, didn't you? Come on-"
Vincent gave the length of hair a firm yank. "Quiet! Don't you smell danger?"
"I smell blood," Iridalan murmured, and set off at a run, drawing his revolver from an inside pocket. Startled at his leader's sudden decision, Vincent released the ponytail, and his partner shot off after their boss, followed closely by a suddenly disturbed gunman.
Had something gone wrong already?
--
"There's your informant," Vincent muttered disgustedly, putting up his Quicksilver. The cave of meeting stank like the worst mating of a slaughterhouse and a severely unhygienic plumbing breach. Their supposed informant was now obviously unable to inform anyone of anything other than that someone didn't want news of the 'weapon' to get out.
Iridalan studied the carnage with distant coldness, noting the minutiae of this scene. "Long sprays of blood. Body parts still intact, or all there anyway." He traced the scattered limbs with a critical eye, scowling. "Looks like an animal did this, but no animal hunts without intent to feed. Too big for an animal anyway. On the other hand, though, no human can rip things apart like paper tissue."
Vincent looked at his bossed thoughtfully. "The 'weapon'...?"
"Boss, can I keep the baby?" Lancir said plaintively, straightening. He held a bundle of red, bawling flesh, which was stubbornly resisting all attempts to wipe it down with a grimy kerchief. "Please?" His partner scowled deeply and started to say something acidic, but Iridalan beat him to it.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Lance. No, you can't keep it. It's going to the local orphanage." Lancir's mouth tightened sharply at the statement. He knew very well what was the usual fate of orphanage children, having been one himself. If they weren't sold into indentured servitude, they were sold into prostitution. Lancir had been lucky. The death of his master had dropped him onto the dank streets where the Turks did most of their recruiting. But for every lucky break there were hundreds of slaves that had no hope of release.
"Sir," the redhead said quietly, uncharacteristically serious, "I've never asked you for a favor before, but I'm doing it now. It's already lost its-" he glanced at the dismembered corpse- "its father. If that was its father. I won't knowingly send it to its fate."
Again Vincent opened his mouth to speak, hopelessly, but he closed it again. He knew they couldn't take the child, but he also knew that Lancir wouldn't let things go that easily. Vincent's only role in this was of a bystander. Neither leader nor partner was likely to welcome his input.
Iridalan stared at his Turk, then, since it defied overlooking, at the scattered body parts that painted most of the cavelet. "You do realize that there's only one way to keep it," he said slowly.
Lancir went pale. Chalky, even. He steel his mouth and nodded, though it was plain what Iridalan intended to do. There was only one way in and out of the Turks- the death, or sacrifice, of something. This baby's 'father' had unwittingly paid the price for its stained future. But at least... at least-"You know what to do," the redhead said grimly, wrapping it in his light woolen scarf. Its screams of outrage had dwindled to quiet, exhausted whines, and it curled chubby stick arms to itself in some unconscious quest for comfort. Gently the Turk cradled it into the bend of his arm, hushing it as a mother would, before raising his gaze to Iridalan's impassive grey one. "Can I keep it... her... then?"
Sourly, the leader grinned. "No."
"No? -then what-"
"Vincent will raise her. I'll adopt her formally." A raised hand forestalled Lancir's injured protests. "You're a sucker for babies, redhead, and you'd spoil her for good work. Turks are not pampered people. I'm sure you know all about it."
"But-" both partners said at once, and Vincent continued indignantly, "I hate kids! This isn't just training, Blackthorne, it's bringing it up from scratch- look at it! It's just newly birthed, and what was this guy doing with it in here anyway? I can't train a baby-"
Iridalan's smile was little more than a snarl. "Do you have any objections to my orders, Mr Vincent Valentine?"
Lancir pinched his partner's arm sharply before Vincent could dig himself any deeper. "No sir, of course not."
But inwardly Vincent seethed. His resentment found its target in the oblivious baby, his new charge.
/You want a Turk? Fine. I'll show you what kind of mistake you made./
--
"Sir, we've found something in the excavation site!"
Lenny Pierce was especially grateful for this distraction from his reports. The bureaucracy had been hinting that his project was facing the axe, since it had been running for several months with little more than scattered shells and bits of broken crystal to show for it. If it was axed now, he would be minus a job. Grabbing gloves and a hiking kit from the heap beside his work table, Pierce hurried after the flunky, asking tersely the details of this newest discovery.
No, they had not personally found anything, but one of the diggers had fallen into a deep crevasse covered by a thin shell of soil; there might be some underground dwelling, consistent with the living seclusion of the known Ancients. Mister Pierce was the authority on site, so they had come to him for instructions.
Perhaps if he had not been so desperate for something, anything, Pierce could have known caution. He would have known that the news was fishy- he was not the authority on site, just the archaeologist on site. But he needed an escape, and swung down into the rift with hardly more than a second thought. After that there was no more thought, and no more inclination for thought.
He saw the huge, blue-skinned woman sealed into solid rock, slightly taller than two and a half meters, more clearly than by the light of a single lamp. The lamp was out anyway, cast carelessly to the side where it illuminated the body of the hapless forerunner instead. Either of them was beyond caring. Pierce, or the thing that had once been Pierce, went to the base of the woman and began to dig at the rock with hands that blistered quickly. He might have dug alone forever, but others came, and they dug, and the woman smiled.
Things were looking up for the Starsnuffer.
--
Blanket disclaimer: I don't own anything, Squaresoft does, and if I owned it I'd do my best to own Squaresoft too. Ah, well. I wouldn't turn down a Red plushie.
Author's notes: Yup, it changed again, hopefully for the last time. Seems to be flowing all right, but all the reviewers out there will probably tell me otherwise... Tell me if I start coming up with a Mary Sue, ok? (Second A/N: Changed the formatting slightly to include italics. Now THAT looks good.)