Proditor Pro Falsi Parti
By Sakki
None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine.
~~~
"Skipping out on duty to go racing."
"Mhm."
"Abandoning your post without a replacement."
"Yeah."
"Disobeying strict orders from your commanding officer."
"Mhm."
"Not listening when being spoken to by your commanding officer."
"Mhm."
"Being an incompetent jackass."
"Mhm. Wait, what?"
"Paying attention now?" Torn said, glaring at Erol from the other side of the booth. "Because if not, I'm sure the toilets could use your company."
"I'm listening." Erol leaned back, regarding Torn with disdainful contempt.
"This makes seven times in the past three weeks you've gone to the stadium during an assignment. It makes the Baron look like he's got a useless army, makes me look bad, and makes you look like you can't handle the simplest task."
"That's not what the public thinks."
"The public doesn't matter," Torn hissed through clenched teeth. "What matters is whether you obey my orders or not. And I specifically told you not to – "
A tall glass, filled with a dark liquid, was thumped down on the table between Torn and Erol, closer to the latter. Both men moved their gazes to the formidable silver form known as Sig, whose hand was still on the drink.
"Krew sent it." He shrugged in the direction of his employer. "Says it's thanks for winning the race earlier."
"Ah…tell him thanks." Erol reached for the drink as Sig turned his back on the table. At that moment, however, Torn reached out and seized the collar of Erol's tunic, hauling the man halfway across the table so they were face to face.
"If I ever catch you at the Stadium during your assignments again, Erol, you will be out of the army and into the Beggar's Guild faster than I can fry a baby Metal Head. Is that clear?"
Erol glared right into his commander's infuriated eyes, feeling his ears lower in a submissive manner.
"Crystal," he hissed.
There was a moment in which time shuddered around the two men, wishing that one of them would shatter into a million pieces to stop the violent tension surrounding them both.
Eventually, Torn broke the barrier; he threw his opponent back and stalked out of the booth.
Erol gave the finger to Torn's retreating back.
Once his commander had left the bar, Erol took his drink and tasted it. Not good, not bad, plenty of alcohol, a little too much water, a little like blood running on the ground, over soil and over metal, the blood of so many innocent people and Metal Heads, cracked skull gems, bullet shells, energy discharge, skin and oil and blood and hate and fear and jealousy and determination and everything he'd ever felt in his entire life, his entire worthless life.
He chewed thoughtfully on an ice cube that had slid from the drink into his mouth. Erol was probably the only person who didn't complain about the state of the water in all of Haven City. It wasn't exactly the most sanitary of water; compared to what the Baron got, it was like yakkow shit in a bucket. But hey, if he wasn't dead, it probably wasn't lethal.
Probably.
"Another successful race, ey?" said Krew, floating over to where Erol was sitting. His body oozed out over the sides of his current hover device, leaving his legs to hang uselessly.
"Yeah." Erol sipped his drink again.
"Killed a man, you did. I like your style."
"You've said that before."
"No problem in saying it again, is there?" Krew chuckled, a hoarse, thick sound.
"I wouldn't know." Coming from you, it's practically an insult.
"I made a lot of money on that bet, ey. Win the next race and I might be able to get you a Peacemaker morph for your gun."
"Really." Erol inspected his now half-empty glass. "Where did you get it?"
"From a…friend."
"Illegally, then."
"Nothing's legal in this city anymore, ey. You should know. The Baron and you Krimzon Guards are the only law left." Krew fanned himself furiously. "You've reduced me to using the sewers!"
Fitting. "You have my deepest sympathies," Erol said wryly.
"No need to be mean now, ey," Krew wheezed. "By the way, I've got a shipment coming in pretty soon, and I'll need a clear path to get it here. D'you think you could get your commander to, maybe, look the other way?"
Erol laughed. It was short and sharp, causing Krew's smile to turn into a surprised frown.
"Torn? You want me to tell Torn that he can ignore you for just a little while because you've got an illegal shipment coming in? You want me to even try?"
"Don't need to be so obvious, ey. Or so loud." Krew glanced at the door. Erol tipped his head back and finished off his drink.
"Thanks for the poison. What was it?"
"Second best in the house."
Erol cringed inwardly. If that's the second best, then I'd hate to try the worst. "When I win the next race, I'll expect the best you've got."
"Think you'll win, ey?"
Erol stood up and slid his racing mask back onto his skull.
"No."
"No?"
"I know I'm going to win."
The icy emphasis Erol had put on the word know struck Krew into silence. It was filled with determination, which was common for racers, but it was also filled with a hatred few people could match.
The only question was, hatred for what?
"Then you won't be needing luck, ey?"
"No." Erol smiled at something to Krew's right, something invisible. "No, I won't be needing luck." He strode out of the Hip Hog, leaving its owner to ponder over his possible choices in saner racers.
After all, who needed luck when Death and Danger were constantly at your side?
