A spin-off piece that has occurred because of my involvement in "Room and Board" and "Rule 39" (see AFF-net). Maybe I'll get around to doing more with this at some point, for now, this is it. The funny thing is about all this? I'm way more of a cyberpunk girl than I've ever been a Steampunk girl.

~Tawnya

The hand that struck him drew blood. Phoenix reeled under the blow, the fresh burst of pain effectively wiping out his thoughts in a bright flash of white. The only reason he did not topple to the ground was because of the overly secure rope currently binding him to an equally secured pole. Still, he sagged within his bonds, the heavy clout to the head having split not only several older wounds, but formed a new one over his eye as well. Each throbbed angrily, dribbling spots of red over everything.

The first thought that came back to him was that the sodding louse had no sense of humor. The second was that he probably shouldn't antagonize his captors.

As the fog in his brain continued to lift, he couldn't help but wonder why it had come to this. His pirate creed had always been of the Robin Hood sort—steal from the rich to give to the poor (minus a bit, of course, for royalties, upkeep, and whatnot). Not a bad guy, just not friends with most of the law enforcers, either. No, wait… He couldn't call himself a pirate anymore. He was a hired corsair now, a difference that had been maintained as very important, though for reasons he currently couldn't fathom.

…Ah, yes. It was because he and his ship had been brought into the protected confederacy of Fardrop. In exchange for asylum from the whole Northern Royal Fleet, who were still apparently sore about the whole Storm King escapade, he pursued and raided targets specified to him as threats to the last free terrestrial city. It was supposed to be accorded neutral territory, which meant none of the Seven Sovereign Powers could control it as part of their territories. Duke Skyheed of Areopa seemed to think that didn't apply to him. The politics of it all had been explained to him, but seeing as how he had never had a head for the intrigue in the first place and had been rather preoccupied with making sure his heartily abused beauty of an airship didn't simply drop out of said sky, he hadn't been too keen on remembering details. Besides, it had been take the offer or die, and aside from being very partial to living himself, it wasn't fair to his ship or his crew to say anything except yes.

If he managed by some grace of God to survive this, he, the Fardrop liaison, and a certain displaced Baron were going to have a nice, long chat about new terms of service.

The only point that made sense was that because this was a hostile takeover that couldn't look like a hostile takeover taking place in an area it couldn't take place in, everything had to remain very hush-hush. They couldn't just trot out the bailers and the breachers and whatever other heavy artillery the governments had at their disposal and have at each other. Flags couldn't be flown or torn down. It had to be run by the most backstabbing, dirty, cheating lot of cutthroats that could be found. The fact that everyone knew it was a war yet wasn't willing to say as such was baffling, but he couldn't complain, either. It was steady work, free supplies and repairs, and a handsome reward for doing what he did best. It had been a long time since that had earned anyone three squares.

Until recently, all their targets had been mundane. Mostly supply transports, with a few anxiously creeping battleships and other enemy corsairs thrown in just often enough to keep things interesting. And then, out of the blue so to speak, a science craft. A particular target to choose, one that had had two of the men he trusted with his life looking at him and saying it was a bad idea. Jak he had been able to persuade to his side, but Razer…

The whole ship shuddered as yet another something exploded. From the suddenly acrid smell in the heavy smoke, it was probably those holding tanks mid-ship. Who knew such a tiny vessel could hold so many flammable things under pressure? He pushed ahead blindly, feeling the floor tilt at an unhealthy angle under his feet. In front of him, Razer had already reached the gangway connecting the Arclight and the PhantomBlade. Phoenix cleared the last bulkhead. It was going to be close, he could feel it.

He'd just opened his mouth to say something cheeky, like he did every time they succeeded by the skin of their teeth, when the much more substantial shockwave of an exploding gyrogear rocked the Arclight. Razer fell one way, Phoenix another as the gangway supports ripped free, finally separating the dying ship from her final lifeline. Had either of them been different men, there might have been screaming, maybe even swearing. As they were, they simply watched in silence as the other drifted ever further away.

Good God. If his captors didn't kill him before this was over, Razer would do it for them after.

Still, the thought of his lover brought a smile to his face, even if it was bittersweet. Had he and Jak quarreled? Of course they had. His passionate friend would have wanted answers, wanted to immediately follow after, to save Phoenix from a fate no one could be saved from. And cool, logical, detached Razer would have reminded him of his duty to the Blade and the remaining crew, which Jak would take because he was honour bound to do as such. The blond would get everyone back to safe harbor and ultimately take on the role of captain himself. Having never been an actual member of the crew, Razer would probably pack his things and walk off into the crowds, never to be heard from again.

No one had a reason to think Phoenix was alive, including himself. That science vessel had been a bomb, one designed to take out an entire armada as they slept secure within their hangers. Everyone in a ten mile radius had to have seen the impact detonation, let alone felt the resulting shockwave. It would have surely killed anyone still on board. His saving grace was that he hadn't been. He'd been brokenly winging his way away using one of the madboy contraptions put there to help sell the research ship ruse. He remember the heat on his back, the deafening displacement of air, and nothing more until an over curious pinpig tried to pull one of his earrings free and the pain awoke him. Scaring the thing half to death was a poor way to say thank you for an act that had saved his skin so shortly after being granted it again, but he was sure it understood.

There had been many great escapes from the enemy, slipping between the floating isles he'd crash landed on and plying his dumb luck into his favor. A firefight, two more crashed ships, and righteous, good ole fashion brawl had ultimately brought him here, which was a rather inglorious end all things considered. A life of a career outlaw rarely ended neatly, but he had rather hoped for something a bit more, well, exciting. Not necessarily a blaze of glory or utterly selfless act of redemption, just more than waiting for exsanguination or infection to finish off what the beatings had started.

"I'll ask you again," someone (these idiots all looked the bloody same) said. "How did you survive?"

"Voodoo magic, mate." He smiled at the thug he thought was talking, blinking blood from his eye. "You know how it goes. Hot jungle princess, a night of indiscretion, that awkward morning after where you have to run to the ship before the locals try to use your liver for something unsavory. Didn't manage that last part so well once and she cursed me. Can't die until I go back and beg her forgiveness." He frowned. "Well, maybe you don't know, but I'm sure the bloke to your left will attest to—"

The backhand caught him squarely in the face, splitting his lip. This time, it was darkness that invaded his mind, his vision, leaving the world distorted and wobbly. His ears were ringing, so he couldn't hear any of the sudden commotion the five men around him were making. Wait…five? Why was that sixth lying down? That was insulting; to be thought of as so boring that it was okay to nap during an interrogation.

"How did you do that?!"

Phoenix stared at the suddenly panicked face in front of his, the fear and anger nothing compared to the confusion warring on those scarred, and frankly ugly, features. "Do what?"

Another blow, this one thankfully not to the face, but to the stomach. As satisfying as it would have been to retch on the bastard, it had been quite a while since his last memory of food and there was nothing. He did manage a small moan as the pressure in his head skyrocketed.

As the clearly delusional man turned to shout orders, Phoenix noticed a second man now face down in the dirt, weedy, unwashed hair slowly becoming saturated in blood, cerebral fluid, and God knew what else, flowing out into a slowly gathering pool. He watched in wonder as a third man tried to outrun his fate, only to suddenly fall to the ground like a marionette quickly cut from its strings, a crimson flower also starting to bloom from the neat hole now punctured through a broad forehead.

They've been shot, came the incredibly slow conclusion as a fourth man crumpled to the ground. But I don't hear a report. How can there be a shot without a report?

By now, it was just him and the one captor who'd been delivering the majority of the abuse. Arranged around them in an almost ritualistic pattern were five corpses, each with a single hole in the head and still warm enough to be considered asleep rather than dead. The last man standing was beyond terrified as he ripped the ornate knife from his belt and pressed the shining silver blade to Phoenix's throat.

"Kill me an' you kill him!" he shouted to the silence. With the way that hand trembled, the beaten captain was guaranteed death regardless. Still, there was no challenge to the threat. The silence continued, heavy and oppressive for a space so clear and open. There was delirium in the eyes that then wrenched toward him. "Call 'em off! Do it!" the man hissed, practically foaming at the mouth with his fear.

"There's no one to call off," Phoenix hissed back. "My crew thinks I'm dead, remember?"

"But yer a liar. Curses ain't real!"

"You're right." The cultured third voice was followed by the deliberate cocking of a pistol hammer. "I am very real and, most assuredly, more dangerous than some backwoods religious swearing. Now, if you please, drop the knife." For a long second, it seemed the other would follow through with the threat and slit his throat. Phoenix didn't know what convinced that tensing hand to ultimately relax, but he wasn't going to complain about the results. It dropped to the dirt with a dull thud. "Very good. Now you will take one step to the right and kneel. And just in case you have some sort of idea that you can do something other those two things, you should know this is a modified Blackers Blunderbuss that's been filled with lead buckshot. All I have to do is pull the trigger and you will be missing significant parts of your body for thirty yards in all directions."

The blithe threat worked. The enemy did as was bidden, taking exactly one step to the side before dropping to his knees. To the man's begrudging credit, there was no blubbering, no cries for mercy, even in noticeable terror. As much guts as it took to stare death in the eye, there was something admirable about being calm when death remained completely unseen. The schism worsened when the pistol butt connected solidly with the man's head, leaving to a dirt nap quite different from any of his compatriots.

Like he was trying to avoid contact with something particularly foul, Razer stepped over the body so that now he and Phoenix could face one another. He only looked about half as bad as Phoenix felt. A crusted cut accented one sharp cheekbone while fresh blood smeared down from the hairline. His usually well maintained hair was in complete disarray, the pale skin of his arms covered in dirt, angry abrasions, and colourful bruises, and his clothes torn, rumpled, and stained. It was the very opposite image the outcast noble tried to project, yet in this moment, he had never seemed more regal. The fact that he had his high-powered, sniper modified Elrussion rifle slug across his back next to his ever beloved lever-action and the blunderbuss in his hand only made the scuffing sexier.

The fact that still cocked handgun was pointing straight at Phoenix did detract from the experience, though.

"You are twelve different types of a pig, you know that?" Razer snarled, green eyes glittering.

"I've never claimed otherwise." Realizing he might still be shot, he tried to continue, but was interrupted before another word could form.

"Shut up." Acting as though he sincerely regretted the action, the weapon was lowered the disengaged. "It's not like I have the ammunition to waste on you anyway," Razer grumbled. The gun was shoved into his belt as he reached for the discarded knife. With quick, yet furious motions, the rope was cut away. The sudden lack of extra support nearly left Phoenix flat on the ground as well. But instead of hitting dirt, he hit a wall of muscle—Razer had caught him. He looked up to say something only to have the words stolen as chapped lips covered his own. The kiss was hard, demanding, and tasted heavily of copper from his split lip. The hand in his hair was clenched tight, pulling painfully. The tongue that invaded made a possessive sweep before licking gently at the leaking cut on a now swollen lip.

Razer did not pull away when they parted, instead resting their heads together. Hands that shook took tender care now in checking for further injuries. His breathing was controlled, like he was trying to maintain normalcy even though he desperately wanted to do something else. Phoenix waited quietly, knowing that if he interrupted the process, the other would shut down completely. A lifetime of anger had made feeling anything else nearly impossible, so each additional emotion was fragile and priceless.

"I thought I had lost you." The words were barely whispered, shaking with suppressed emotion and followed by a weak, choking laugh. "Something one would assume I'd be accustomed to by now…"

This time, it was Phoenix who lurched forward into that hard, possessive kiss. Sometimes it was surprisingly easy to forget how much had already been lost in the other's life, how much he still sacrificed to give the ones he loved a chance at peace and safety. To think he had almost become one more heavy scar to bear was nothing Phoenix was going to let linger.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily." He grinned when their eyes met. "Voodoo curse, remember?"

"I will tie you back to that pole and leave you." But that small smile had come back, meaning the worst was already over, so the threat wasn't taken seriously.

With an arm thrown over a shoulder and solid grip on his belt, Razer lifted them both back to their feet and began half dragging them back to civilization. It was probably for the best that Phoenix never mentioned that he was indeed under a spell. The details were just different. Not a jungle princess, but one of the maligned Rose Aristocracy whom he'd done many indiscretionary things with at the risk of consequences far more severe than having just his liver removed. And the forgiveness he would have to beg for would never be for dying, but for not telling him sooner that he was loved.

Owari