"Faster, little fool! Faster! I swear, you've got the legs of an invalid." The emerald-clad admiral batted at his son with a twining walking stick (capped, oddly enough, with the sculpted head of a Chameleon). A brown-haired youth with pathetic green eyes, the boy stumbled and whined momentarily before regaining his balance. He didn't bother complaining: he'd grown up this way, humiliated and berated on a daily basis.
His father, the great Admiral Deloco, sneered at his offspring momentarily and then turned back to his charge for the day, the king himself, accompanied by his snobby princess of a daughter. All four had come out to hold an inspection of the great fortress from within its very guts, first weaving between the protruding girders and heavily armoured walls in a small skiff, and then disembarking to wander about the innards. It was all very disorganised, DeLoco noted with no little amount of annoyance; tools were strewn everywhere, hunks of soldered and fresh metal laying about in heaps, workers rushing around chaotically as though the world was ending. Curling one drooping, purple moustache vaingloriously, the diminutive naval officer made a mental note to come down hard on the foremen for such a lack of discipline.
He, certainly, was not lacking in such a thing, to be sure. As an admiral and a father, DeLoco demanded strict adherence to his rules and regulations. Any discrepancy between what he envisioned and reality was not to be allowed, for what existed inside his genius mind was as reality should be. He would no sooner brook his son to be lazy and complacent – even at two years of age – than allow his workers to act in a like manner. The swirling chaos of his mind belied this rigid belief, yet neither conflicted with the other much.
The king coughed. An excess of dust and other chemical remnants elicited the fit, not that it took much to bring out the worst in the way of heaving in the old man. He'd never recovered from his earlier health problems. Everybody around him, from the queen on down, knew it was only a matter of time before he kicked the proverbial bucket. "Erm, what is going on here, exactly – pardon me – admiral?"
DeLoco was at his peak when explaining technical details. "Well, you see, my lord, this particular section is intended – if I remember the blueprints correctly, which I'm sure I do – for a series of forward turrets. I have plans for introducing a much larger cannon size than usual when designing the fortress: this particular spot will boast a few such cannons." He removed his monocle and handed it casually to the young DeLoco for decontamination upon his well-pressed, frilly shirt; one wipe was all it took. Without so much as a nod of thanks the elder retrieved his eyepiece and continued with his dialogue. "They should be capable of firing projectiles several meters in height. It's an exciting prospect for our country."
The king nodded gravely. Teodora, though slightly more respectable than when she had been a child, cared not a whit for any of this military foolishness, and instead decided to nab little DeLoco for a jaunt. Senior DeLoco didn't mind their excursion a bit, waving his son away with a dismissive hand; the king made sure to appoint two of his guards to escort them on their romp through the skeletal fortress, knowing full well that he would have no success in dissuading his daughter. Taking hold of DeLoco's tiny arm, Teodora dragged him along into the depths of the fortress, sneering at all the dirt around her yet unable to resist the adventure.
DeLoco, for his part, was petrified. He'd suddenly been thrust into an unknown situation with a complete stranger, and one with a perfectly rotten disposition at that. Not that his father was any better: however, the son preferred the rat he knew to the one he didn't. Paranoia had already planted itself firmly in his brain. Had he not been his father's son, DeLoco would have blossomed into an intelligent, well-rounded young man, for he was unusually mature for his age. His mind comprehended more than most people would care to believe, and he was possessed of an uncanny memory. Yet he was doomed to be the progeny of a twisted madman, and the hooks of misguided insanity were deeply entrenched in DeLoco's character.
Teodora spurned all that she saw, paying token respect only to those they encountered of upstanding social rank. The guards, and the labourers especially, were forced to bear her malicious humour without a word in return. All knew that she could order executions all round with a moment's notice and have every last whim catered to.
They walked on for a time, Teodora largely ignoring DeLoco yet still retaining an iron grip on his pudgy hand, until a sort of bored realisation hit her. "Why don't you have purple hair like your father?"
DeLoco gazed up at her helplessly. It was a question he could never answer.
She sneered. "Hmm, sign of bad breeding, that. I suppose you were adopted. Probably the son of a guard and a whore." Her eyes closed, as though she were concentrating hard on the thought. "Your father is reputed to be quite the lunatic, so, it is not too surprising. You will probably wind up as deluded as him!" She shrieked in laughter at her joke, one that little DeLoco could not wholly comprehend nor appreciate. He was sure, however, that it contained some rather deprecating comments guided towards him. Such was the norm. They continued on, followed by their guards, both of which had a violent urge to smack the pompous girl over the head with their halberds yet never daring to.
It was only a matter of time, perhaps, before Teodora grew tired of her minute charge. She released his hand and yawned. "Well, this has truly been invigorating, but you are simply dull. Please go away. Come, guards!"
He panicked. DeLoco knew enough to realise his abandonment was imminent. In a moment of desperate helplessness he attached himself to Teodora's flowing dress – a grey, ornate piece adorned with yellow stitching, reminiscent almost of a storm cloud – and began to cry. Even visions of his father's beatings whenever he shed a tear did nothing to still the flood.
Teodora gazed down at him in disgust. "Peh, lowborn scum! Remove him from me, post haste!"
The guards had no choice but to comply. They pried the tiny boy off of the princess with little difficulty, after which she planted a firm kick into his stomach. DeLoco, sputtering in pain, collapsed into a fetal position, bouncing idly against a stray piece of wood in his misery.
Teodora then spat upon him. Bubbly curls of water slid down his cheek. She motioned to her guards, and they left the boy to his own devices.
DeLoco lay there for a long time, untouched by all who passed him – labourers recognised his clothing for that of a noble, and avoided him. No foremen happened upon the area. Indeed, it would be a cutting forty-five minutes before one youth, a broad-shouldered young buck with shaggy red hair and a dirty face, happened upon little DeLoco.
The clothing mattered little. He knew what it was like to be helpless and alone. He'd experienced it many times in his life. Without a word he hefted the boy into his arms and carried him off.
DeLoco was only dimly aware of what was happening. It all passed in a haze: the pain, still well imprinted in his stomach – oh, if only she'd not been wearing heels! – turned his vision to a blur. Mangy, forced labourers and a few fresh-faced foremen passed by distantly; the foremen yelled at DeLoco's carrier but did nothing to relieve the burden. Eventually, they came to a stop.
An insistent voice sounded, and DeLoco, beginning to recover, caught the words for once: "What, you crazy, Marlo? Put 'im back where you found 'im! They'll beat yer ass! Think you kidnapped 'im or somethin'."
