Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine.

~~~

            Torn knew he shouldn't be so angry, especially when it came to Erol. He should be annoyed, or irritated, but not angry. Erol wasn't worth anger. Metal Heads were worth anger.

            So why did his chest hurt?

            All he had to do was say it. "You're out." That was it. Two words. Two words and Erol would be out of his way forever. Out of the guard, out of his mind, out of anything and everything he knew. Except racing. It was so simple, so easy, so…so obvious that any idiot would have done it long ago.

            Yet somehow, he hadn't done it.

            He rammed the Blaster mod onto his Morph gun and fired at a group of Grunts that were getting too close for comfort. They flew back; their bodies shattered, leaving behind traces of Dark Eco and liquid-filled Skull Gems for those who needed them. Torn ignored them and stomped on through the flooded Pumping Station.

            Why couldn't he do it? Why? Why? The question plagued him like a gnat. It wasn't a question of whether he wanted to or not. He had the desire to do a lot more than just kick Erol out of the Krimzon Guard. He had the lawful and logical reasons to remove him without even having to bring it up with the Baron. He had the power to do it, too – he was the commander, and only the Baron ranked higher than him.

            The want, the proof, the power: that was what he had. That was all he had. And that was all he needed.

            But Erol continued to be a Krimzon Guard under Torn's command.

            Three Grunts lingered on a crescent-shaped beach around one of the giant water tanks. One of them approached the water out of sheer boredom and was promptly shot in the head. The other two jumped up, their tiny brains registering that shots equaled danger.

            Torn was not in the mood to play nice, so he shifted his gun to the Vulcan Fury mod and riddled the Metal Heads so full of bullets that they left six inch imprints where they fell.

            He was about to cross the crescent of sand when:

            "That was a waste of bullets."

            Torn craned his neck up to see who had spoken, although he already knew who it was. A lithe figure leapt from an above cliff and landed a few meters away from Torn.

            "Don't lecture me," he snapped, not looking at his accuser.

            "What crawled up your ass?" was the saucy reply.

            Now he looked over, both eyebrows drawn together.

            "Shut it, Ashelin. I'm not in the mood."

            "Really? I couldn't tell." Ashelin strode over and peered at Torn's face. "Let's see. You're pissed as hell, stiff as a steel two-by-four, and you smell like a combination of alcohol and zoomer grease. Let me guess – Erol."

            "You're psychic," he said dryly, glaring into her gold eyes. "And you've got a nose like a Croca-dog."

            "I should slap you."

            "What's stopping you?"

            "Your gun."

            "That's never stopped you before."

            "I've never slapped you when you were in a homicidal mood before."

            "…I…" Torn struggled to call up a memory that would counter this verbal attack, but came up with none. Ashelin shot him a sly smile and turned away.

            "So. What did he do this time?"

            "What do you think?" He followed Ashelin as she stepped over to a small set of islands leading to the crescent beach.

            "Just checking. With that crazy bastard, you never know what he'll do next."

            "Hn."

            Ashelin kicked one of the fallen Metal Head bodies that had not yet broken into a thousand pieces. "So did you kick him out?"

            "No."

            "Why not?"

            "I don't know."

            "How hard can it be, Torn? Just walk up to him and say – "

            "I know!" he snarled, kicking a Skull Gem as hard as he could. "I know how goddamn easy it is!"

            "So do it!" Ashelin snapped.

            "I can't! Every time I try to say it, I…can't."

            "You can't?"

            "Something tells me not to. Something…" He struggled for words that would describe the heavy feeling that descended on him every time he tried to remove Erol from the guard. "…I just can't."

            "Bullshit. You just don't want to."

            Torn whirled to face Ashelin.

            "Why," he began, his voice dangerously low, "Would I not want to?"

            "Because you…"

            Ashelin faltered under Torn's furious gaze, wishing briefly that she hadn't brought up the subject.

            "Because I what?"

            She quickly regained her composure and glared.

            "Because you know he's a damn good shot, and because every squadron in the guard needs a psycho to balance out the squares."

            There was silence.

            Torn stared at Ashelin, who stared back.

            And who was struggling to keep a straight face.

            Both commanders burst into unrestrained laughter. Ashelin collapsed where she was standing, and Torn staggered over to the metal tank wall to support himself. Neither one could properly speak for lack of air.

            This went on for quite some time before Torn finally managed to stop laughing.

            "That was terrible," he coughed. "Erol…a good shot…yeah right…"

            "He's the only psycho we've got, too…" Ashelin couldn't stand up straight. "Oh god, my stomach…"

            Torn made his way over to Ashelin and helped her up. She eventually sighed and brushed a few braids away from her face.

            "Did I cheer you up?"

            "Unfortunately."

            "No need to thank me, your face says it all. Want a ride back to the city?"

            "Nah, I've got some more Metal Heads to fry."

            "If you're sure." Ashelin twirled the keycard to her zoomer between two fingers. "Hey, if you're not busy tonight, would you mind meeting me down at the Hip Hog?"

            "What for?"

            "I need a reason?" She grinned and leaned in toward Torn, causing him to lean back. "Besides, I heard one of the new bands is playing there tonight and I can't wait to see you dance."

            Torn narrowed his eyes.

            "I don't dance."

            Ashelin sighed and turned away. "You always say that. Well, be there, ok? 20:00 sound good?"

            "If the Baron doesn't decide to hold a meeting before then, sure."

            "Don't skip out on me."

            Torn watched her vanish into the sparse foliage of the Pumping Station and rubbed his head. He wasn't particularly fond of women, and Ashelin hadn't been an exception in the beginning – especially after he found out she was the Baron's daughter. Of course, that had led him to wonder why she was only a commander instead of in his job – second in command – because the Baron had been known to give in to favoritism. Surely his own daughter would be given a high station…

            But no, she had worked her way up to the position and was quite satisfied with what she had. That was what began his grudging respect for her. What had been continually increasing it was her innate ability to appear just when he was ready to explode and make him laugh.

            Prior to Ashelin's arrival, Torn had never laughed. And because she could do this, he had started to like her in a way that could be considered – he hated this word – romantic.

            And sometimes, that really, really pissed him off.