A/N: This section takes place 8 years prior to the main storyline. It is my longest section yet and I would really like some constructive feedback. I don't want to write something this long again if you find it uninspired, predictable, totally out of character, or worst of all: boring.
If you've read a prior version -- read it again. I revised and reworded it significantly and you might take away something entirely differently this time around. I promise not to edit in place ever again.
Chapter 3 - Life of Joan
CONFIDENTIAL MEMO #AR-103101
FLPO 4327
LANDIS FOREIGN LEGION BARRACKS
PORT-ON-NEBRAS
37 Spring 698 OV
Mme Srgt Fran:
I urge you to join me two days hence (39 Spr) at 1500 on the second floor of the White Cap in the neutral town of Balfonheim, to discuss a transfer into the Imperial Arcadian Army and a possible promotion.
We have encountered serious armed resistance from incorporated towns since the annexation of Landis and the surrounding region. We are spread too thin on the ground to make any headway in securing these areas. The newly formed Ninth Airborne Armada headed by the Honorable Judge Zecht has been tasked to turn the tide with air superiority, and they are in desperate need of capable pilots for supply and reconnaissance missions.
My intention is to recommend you for one of these newly formed positions. In return, you would get full citizenship and depending on the position you choose, a commissioned office with a crew at your command. You would be promoted to at least lieutenant commander no matter which position you choose.
In all my years as your liaison here in division command, this has been the most lucrative opening that has come across my desk. I am offering this to you first before I put it up for bid, as it's otherwise impossible for legionnaires to compete against Imperial rank and file.
I hold the utmost confidence that you will make the right decision, and exceed all expectations upon your acceptance. You may have your doubts, but please, let's discuss this over a drink before you dismiss my actions as folly.
Sincerely,
Rear Admiral Judge Firmus Piette
She turned the clear plastic card over and over between her fingers, not quite looking at it, rather into the reflection of the acrylic-clad signage on the till. "Do not accept checks from Lone Wolf." She spied mirror-Piette across Quayside Court, strutting towards the plaza onto which spilled the Whitecap's open seating. A passing quayhand bid him hello, and he returned the gesture cheerfully with a ruffle of his laced cuffs. He looked so queer in civilian clothing.
A well-traveled pirate addressed the admiral by title having recognized him without his mask of justice, but Piette simply waved him off. In this town, rank and birthplace are of no currency, and Piette would have no man treat him any differently. He returned the salute by way of a great (unexpected) hug, patted heartily him on the shoulder, and strode away.
He was genuinely in good spirits... thank the gods. Fran wasn't sure what to make of this sudden meeting and so hoped to spy other interested parties, meeting in secret, lurking in shadows, reminding Piette to do his part or else. Or perhaps to catch Piette in a moment of self-reflection and doubt, sneaking a swig from the liquor flask he often hid in his vest. Piette didn't rise to his rank from common stock without having made a few sacrifices along the way: swallong his pride, sweeping bits of his humanity under the rug, and biting his tounge when a braver man might speak. She would not fall victim to neither the Imperial machine nor the egos of men who too long have greased its wheels.
I suppose all this cloak and dagger is of no consequence. Entertaining nevertheless…
"We have an excellent combination offer for that gambit there. Couple that beaut with our Ally: Status KO model and save thirty percent. You'll never worry about being overwhelmed by your quarry again, I guarantee..."
"Not interested," Fran interrupted the street vendor, finally flipping the card onto the table. She turned and jogged across the court into the plaza, trailing Piette at a distance. The tassels adorning his belt and scabbard disappeared through the front door, and she quickened her pace, ducking between tables. Her ponytail flitted into the shadow of the alcove, catching the door before it could close. She slinked into the lobby, watching as he made his way through the crowd towards to back stairs. After watching to make sure he wasn't being followed (hah), she turned to make her way around the seating area when she nearly toppled the Whitecap Wench.
"Oh! 'scuse me, I'm so sorry," she gasped. "'ave you been helped?"
"I... If you will excuse me, I'll show myself upstairs," Fran replied, flustered by her own inattention. She squeezed up against the wall, and darted around the back of the floor. At the landing of the stairs was a full length mirror. In a fit of nervous vanity, Fran took a moment to examine her hair. A few displaced strands of her white finery stood out over her colorful crimson bolero; she pushed them back behind her shoulder. Under her jacket she wore a sheer chemise of earth-toned nanna wool, which once was frocked with a delicate hem; she had removed it leaving a frayed edge that dithered into her cocoa skin pleasingly. Her eyes followed it down her midriff where it disappeared under a cotton duck skirt, artfully wick-dyed with indigo. They snapped back up to her jacket where she fiddled with a brass button. I look queer in civilian clothing.
In furtherance of her surveillance plans, the previous day Fran went to find a set of outfits that would help her blend in with the natives. Perhaps she did too good a job; she barely recognized her own reflection. Glancing behind herself in the mirror towards the seating area, she was greeted by the hungry stares of patrons. She frowned, and the more coherent of them looked back to their drinks. Quietly, she made her way upstairs out of sight, closed her eyes, and wished away the thoughts of their leering eyes. Probably so drunk they would buy a cactaur a cocktail… She looked up and knocked on the door to the smaller of the two upper meeting rooms.
"Come on in. You're a little early."
The room was the size of a guest bedchamber, anchored with a round oaken table that had seen better days. The chairs were still piled in the corner of the room. On the topmost chair in the stack lay Piette's scabbard, next to which was a large, heavy-looking canvas bag. She didn't see Firmus carrying it, and wondered briefly who might have left it there. Her focus was drawn to the back wall which broke to a balcony with double french doors, for one of these were open. Visible was the back of his head in an outdoor chair; cigar smoke circled around him, and his requisite bourbon-on-the-rocks was riding sidecar on a folding canvas ottoman. After debating for a moment whether she should set up the chairs so they could sit down inside, Fran glided across the room to join him outdoors.
"Oh! Have a seat." Firmus was surprised when Fran walked onto the balcony; she was without her military-issue footwear and forgot that her footfalls were quiet as a coeurl's. She made sure not to forget to not salute him, lest she unnecessarily have the wind squeezed out of her in retaliation. Instead she quietly sat in the wicker chair he had placed caddy-corner to his makeshift table. "Did you order a drink?" he asked.
"No, not yet."
"What are you having?"
She considered for a brief moment how impaired she could afford to be before her next shift, then reminded herself she was on leave all week.
"Brandy of serpentwyne."
Firmus got up slowly, stretching. "Ahh. Fitting. You know how the saying goes: Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men, but she who aspires to be a heroine must drink brandy." After flicking the dead ashes from his cigar over the balcony railing, he quickly stepped to the door of the interior room, and shouted indiscriminately down the hallway towards the stairs and the bar below.
He stepped back outside and puffed his cigar a few times, thoughtfully. "You didn't have to do that," Fran told him. "I can yell," she added, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Nonsense. You would have gone all the way back downstairs to the bar."
Fran rolled her eyes at this, and turned her attention to a seagull that was brave enough to perch upon the occupied balcony. Secretly she was glad she didn't have reason to endure those hungry eyes again so soon. In her peripheral vision Admiral Piette returned to his seat, and took a careful sip of his bourbon. They sat quietly for a brief moment. Just as she turned to face him to break the silence and get down to business, the Whitecap Wench was politely knocking at the french doors with her drink.
"'cuse me, sirs, ma'am," she asked quietly as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sun. Her face lit up when she recognized Fran from downstairs.
"Firmus, whose purse are you dipping into for our drinks? Your own, or the general ledgers'?" Fran asked, pretending to ignore the glass in the barmaid's outstretched hand.
"Don't you worry about that. And you know as soon as you accept a commissioned office, you can fill out expense justifications yourself. It could be your first exercise of your authority." Fran crossed her arms and titled her head. "So I don't think we're going to have any trouble properly compensating our gracious hostess," he added, now speaking to the Whitecap Wench.
"Leave the bottle please," Fran added with a smile as she accepted the carafe and snifter. Firmus slid the ottoman closer to Fran so she would have somewhere to put it. After the Wench excused herself, Fran turned the glass on its side and poured at an angle until the devilish brew reached the rim. She returned the carafe to the ottoman, and swirled the upright glass a few times, noticing the legs of the crimson liquid as it ran down the insides of the glass.
Delicately she brought her nose over the mouth of the snifter, and inhaled gently. The sharp but pleasant aroma triggered memories of a desert cave she became lost in (temporarily) while exploring the Jagd Yensa. Exhaling, she took a long sip of the brandy, letting it linger on her tongue, tingly on her gums, and exquisitely warm as she swallowed it. She could almost feel the bristle of wind-kicked sand on her skin, or maybe it was goose pimples.
Firmus snapped her back to the present. "So did you get all of your shopping done this afternoon?" She coughed, and lowered the glass from her face, straining to keep it from reddening. He leaned in towards her and added, "You should see the prices on gambits in the winter, it's best to buy them in the off-season."
"What gave me away?" she asked as nonchalantly as possible.
"Oh, it was the hair. I recognized you from a few hundred paces on that alone. But I have to say, that outfit threw me for a moment."
She sighed and took another draught from her glass. "I suppose my kind is not suitable for reconnaissance."
"Oh come now. All you would need is a haircut and you'd look like any other vieran tourist," he chided. Upon this suggestion, Fran looked at him severely. "…And much better dressed, I might add."
"Indeed," she replied dismissively. She hid her displeasure at the suggestion of curtailing her locks by retreating behind her snifter, which she then drained. With a sigh she reached for the carafe again.
He leaned towards her and added quietly, "And I do mean that. I must say that outfit is quite becoming. It really complements your eyes." Coughing, he quickly straightened up again, concerned with whether he overstepped his boundaries.
Fran regarded him blankly. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, leaving one dangling which she bounced involuntarily. His admission to admiring her looks was not itself inappropriate, just unexpected. And in truth she hadn't considered her appearance when she bought the clothing; it wasn't her intent to impress anybody, so even if it were true, she felt she didn't deserve that kind of praise from her superior. Part of her wanted to just ignore him, but another part of her, the same vain part that cringed at the suggestion of cutting her hair, allowed a twinge of pride at his complement. So why was I so self-conscious in the bar?
At this juncture, a warm and peculiarly fuzzy feeling spread from her head out to her extremities. Or perhaps it was her perception of this numb blanket that spread outward. She noticed it in her ears first; they could no longer feel the cool of the ocean breeze. The alcohol was taking effect rapidly on her empty stomach; her previous emotional preoccupations were thus redirected to the intoxicating qualities of her drink, and whether she should be making career decisions in this condition.
Almost on cue, Firmus decided to change the subject, and busied himself with searching his numerous vest pockets for various bits of paperwork related to the intended purpose of their meeting. In a few minutes time he had collected a small bundle. Fran decided it was better they run through it while drunk; she could rely on her instincts and subdue her tendency to over-think matters. And she would probably forget most of the decision-making process, so she couldn't admonish herself later if it didn't work out. Perfect.
"So... let's try to, uh..." Firmus drawled as he flipped through the pages, looking for an appropriate starting point. Fran's expression softened as she tried to give him as much attention as she could muster. "You don't want to be thrown into the midst of a large crew, I take it?"
Fran shook her head. "It is easier to work with people individually." She pronounced each syllable in the last word with distinction.
"Couldn't agree more." Firmus flipped through the stack and filtered some pages from it, folding and discarding them to the side of his chair. "And I guess reconnaissance is right out," he added with a chuckle.
In response she looked away and stared once more at the seagull. A particularly strong breeze caused it to alight, and when it lazily dipped below the railing she was forced to turn her attention back to Firmus' fluttering folio. He was still searching through his papers for a position that better suited her personality.
"You could test pilot the CB58 Valfarre. It has a reputation of being a nice piece of kit."
"CB58, that's made at Draklor."
"It's too sensitive to be contracted out."
Fran downed the rest of her brandy. "I won't fly any prototypes unless they're made by moogles." An uncharacteristically sweeping statement, but one that felt right at the time. As she put her glass down on the ottoman, she caught her reflection and found her nose had grown noticeably pink. She crossed her arms and sat back in the chair, her foot bobbing at a more determined pace.
The middle-aged judge sighed, and made two passes through his papers. He folded them and put them between his legs, and reached over for the papers he discarded earlier, and went through those a second time. Furrowing his brow, he pulled out a thin stapled section.
"Well there's this, but I don't know if... see it's Atomos class. Which means at least 8 permanent staff. Then again–"
Fran's foot froze. Firmus took this to mean he should continue.
"So they want someone to skipper this experimental armed container vessel. Code named: Eisenwolk. Designed by a moogle shipwright's guild..."
"Moogles," Fran interjected in a musical voice, then caught herself and sat up straighter, adding, "I mean, that is a good sign."
"...Right. Five hundred tonnes displacement, handling six thousand deadweight, with fifteen hundred more for thrust (gods!) — ten permanent staff: two officers including you, four civilian maintenance, four enlisted..." He scanned down to the bottom of the document. "They'd make you a commander."
Fran mouth went just a bit slack. "That ship must be the size of this block." She leaned forward, the numb blanket seemingly dissolved. Never had she ventured foot on quite so large a vessel in her years as a courier or in private freight.
"Not in all dimensions. But the bay doors are taller than this balcony. I saw it in dry dock... it was impressive."
Fran frowned, and asked an all-important question. "Wouldn't this position necessarily make me a judge?"
Firmus scratched his forehead, conjuring a succinct description of her duties. "Technically? Yes. What does it mean?" he began, and exhaled noisily. "Uphold maritime law, detain mutineers and pirates, all that good stuff. Nothing unfamiliar if you already went through the commercial license process. Oh, and do whatever sector command tells you."
Fran chuckled. "I had no idea being a judge gave one such freedom."
"You get to take out your anger on your subordinates. That's a nice perk."
"So why didn't you mention this position earlier?"
"Well, you would be paired with a co-pilot. Probably an aggressive, up-and-coming judge from the Akademy, and I didn't want you to have to butt heads, especially as you'd be coming in from the outside and outranking him."
She sniffed loudly and then dryly remarked, "Kids need to learn to respect their elders." Firmus laughed, pushing back his salt and pepper hair. That simple reaction to their shared perspective prompted a chilly thought: she was old enough to be his mother.
Piette walked over to the canvas bundle on the stack of chairs, hefted it over to the table, and let it fall unceremoniously with a loud clunk. Fran helped get some chairs and put them around the table. As he spread out the paperwork, Fran went to the doors and closed them partway. She looked back at Piette. He had implied she would find the position uncomfortable, challenging to her interpersonal skills — this hardened Fran's resolve to take the job. She wondered if that had been his intention all along. It fit the pattern: sending her a letter days in advance, stringing her along with her surveillance... she shook her head gently and returned to her seat.
"So there's three steps. The final one is your written exam, which you'll sit for a month or so from now and ace, I'm sure, so we'll not concern ourselves with that now. More importantly, you first need to become a naturalized citizen." He slid a gel roller and single piece of paper in front of her. It was already signed by a notary.
"You need to just state your full name and place of birth," Firmus added, relighting his cigar.
Fran stared at the blank prompts. "You mean, Fran; Eryut Village?"
"Come on, you can do better than that."
What the hell does he expect me to put here? Francesca bint-Jevti Margrace al'Dalweh? I'm sure that will go over well.
"Look, you just have to make it believable. No one is asking for birth certificates or anything; that part is already signed."
Apparently he had gone through some trouble on her behalf. With a few strokes of a pen (and a few well-placed bribes), he could rewrite her past. Thankfully she wasn't too attached to it.
"Well I am not going to put down 'Fran'. But I wouldn't know what else to call myself," Fran mused. "Give me the name of one of your grandmothers."
"Hmmm... Merose?"
Fran mouthed the name, trying it on for size. She shook her head.
"Well, there was my nana Joanna. I always liked calling her that, it rhymed."
"Joanna... Joan," Fran muttered thoughtfully. Its monosyllabic variation appealed to her by some unqualifiable aesthetic.
"Joan Kenroh of old Landis. That rolls off the tongue nicely, does it not?"
Fran gripped the pen gently, her hand hovering over the document. She glanced up at his eyes. He darted his eyes to the pen she held, and made a futile gesture with his cigar. He was giving her another chance to back out. She cursed quietly as she committed her new identity to paper.
"And now you shall be known as Joan of Arcadia," he noted, and punctuated his sentence with a drag from his cigar. He took the paper away from her, folded it up, and slipped it back into his vest, taking more care than when he first pulled it out.
"So what of the missing second step?" Fran asked.
In response, Admiral Piette reached over to the canvas bag, rotated it to face Fran, and unbuckled the straps that kept it fast. He unfolded the canvas to reveal an impressive assortment of two-handed, long reach weapons. "Every Judge needs to be proficient with a weapon befitting of the title," he stated simply. Fran couldn't tell if he was being facetious. After all, she would be piloting an airship with 50 caliber autoguns.
"Despite what you may be thinking, you will use it one day, if you are lucky enough." The playful demeanor she observed earlier that evening was replaced with stoicism on this point.
Fran traced her finger along the arms from right to left with her dominant hand. She skipped over the halberd (she had experience with it). A greatsword with an engraved hilt caught her attention. It read: "Ultima Ratio Regum"
"What does this mean here? It is not in a language I recognize."
Firmus' expression softened. "Ah, the Kingsbane. I've asked what that expression meant; all I've gathered is that it is from a long-dead tongue. The origin of its common name however is well understood."
Fran hefted it in her hand. Stepping away from the table, she pushed her chair in and stood behind it. Carefully she gripped the Kingsbane with both hands and raised it behind her head. Firmus could not help inching his chair backwards. With a menacing swoosh, she brought it down upon the back of the chair. She intended to stop it before completing the stroke, but the sword was too massive. Only by twisting her wrists at the last moment did she save it from being split in twain, causing it to slap the chair back on the side of the foible.
They both winced at the ugly sound of the reverberating blade, thankfully damped by the wood. "It gets easier with practice," Firmus reassured her. She leaned over and replaced the greatsword on the canvas, unimpressed. To its immediate left was a smaller sword, discreet, thin, with a long grip. She picked it up, and tossed it from one hand to the other.
Repeating her previous acid test, she raised the sword up, then brought it down towards the chair. It stopped imperceptibly above it, and as she drew the sword back to her right side it left a faint scratch. "Or you might find one you like better," Firmus began, but Fran interrupted him with another unexpected stroke of the sword. As she followed through she imagined she saw a trail of green luminescence following the blade's path, but it could have been a trick of the light. The chair split cleanly into two halves, falling away from the table with a clatter.
"I think I like this one. What's it called?"
Firmus swallowed, then regained his composure. "Wolkenrfassung... the Ame No Murkano. A wise choice."
Joan smiled. Change might not be so bad.