A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) / Chapter originally written on 01.30.2005. Re-polished on 01.12.2006 for the arowrites dot net archives.
Review-replies can be found now on arowrites dot net.
Formatting repaired on 04.13.2010 -- thanks, ffnet, for eating all my scene-dividers sometime in the last four years!
05.02.2010: All scene-dividers have been eaten, again, on all of my stories. I give up. Please just go read this story on arowrites dot net where it hasn't been made incoherent; I am unable to keep up with this site's stupidity.
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Requiem for the Dream
( entry 10: moonstone madness )
"I decline." Admiral Jones folded her gloved hands carefully upon the conference table, fixing him with a steady, disconcerting gaze. She had perfected that look, he surmised, long before Wren had ever risen far enough in the ranks to know the Admiral herself personally.
Wren opened his mouth to argue, object.
"You may leave." the Admiral cut him off, coldly. He glared, she stared, and of the two--her eyes cast the most chill by far. Without seeming to even try, the frosty bitch...
"Are you dismissing me, Admiral Jones?" he smirked, but would have that triumphant quirk of the mouth wiped away shortly enough.
"Not at all, Wren of Esperanza."
Sarcastic, as always, and still in that constant near-monotone voice. Wren opened his mouth to reply... and found himself staring, slightly cross-eyed, down the barrel of a very large pistol. Jones, behind it, tilted her head slightly to the side, not a single twinge of an eyelash breaking her composure.
"Merely making a suggestion."
"Ah," he fumbled after his own control, swallowing. Even that was not as... easily managed while facing certain death at point-blank range. "I... see. I'll be going then."
"Allow me to make another suggestion, Wren of Esperanza." she said, cutting him off neatly. "You may have tricked Lord Galcian into raising you temporarily to the rank of Admiral, but, one of us you are -not-. Not to myself, not to Admiral Ser--"
The door to their meeting room swung open, and an extremely nervous looking messenger rushed in.
"Admiral Jones! They caught--"
Jones swung her gun away from Wren's face, and there was a loud BANG.
And then the screaming started, the messenger dropping to the floor and clutching his mangled knee.
The bones were shattered and tissue ripped apart from the slug that had fired a mere four feet away, and blood from the severed artery was spurting several feet across the floor. Wren watched, morbidly transfixed, as the man's hands turned scarlet to the wrists with his own blood, and the tattered cloth of his uniform darkened around the wound. He was thrashing, gasping for air between screams, and Jones...
"Have someone clean this mess up." the ebony-haired woman said, eyeing the scene with disgust as she stood, "You -can- manage that, can't you?"
And then she was gone, stepping carefully around the messenger and easily avoiding his grasping, bloodied hand. It wouldn't do to get blood on her uniform, now, would it?
...even the desperate screams didn't seem to phase her. Wren licked his lips, suddenly tempted to catch her from behind, pin her to the wall by the neck...
/ I must have that composure, that coldness. / he thought, standing as well now. Wren walked around the table to better watch the messenger bleed out, the scarlet of blood in bright contrast against the dark marble floor.
/ Megan Jones, you will be helpless when I have you, you will be mine. We'll see how long you keep that calm when I have you under me, won't we? /
He shook the messenger's grasping hand off of his boot, annoyed, as he stepped around him. The screams were dying off, fading, a sight and sound that the Coroner had long ago bored of, clearly, considering her work. He'd break her, someday, and enjoy it. Something about the cold bitch just appealed to that side of his psyche, begging to be crumbled and scattered in the wind. Challenged him to try it, she who -dared- hold a gun to -his- face.
/ Oh, I'll have you all right, you filthy bitch. I'll break you somehow, but you are not my priority... no. First, first... /
First he had traps to spring, and lies to weave. He'd snare them all, just like his stupid brother...
And he walked away, not bothering to order anyone to clean the mess in the conference room. Someone would come across it shortly enough.
/ It had been raining heavily that afternoon, the leather straps connecting the armor of his uniform had creaked faintly as he'd walked, and the silver-blond hair had been matted to his face as the water ran over him. Funny thing about rain, it hit everything just the same... mountain, human, ship...
The trail up Moonstone Mountain had been slick, and muddy. Visibility had been poor... and he had paused for a moment before entering the mountain, taking a deep breath of the crisp Arcadian air and contemplating the rain.
The Admiral would protect him. Everything was going to be just fine. /
"Name." the order shook him out of his reverie, misty rain battering the side of the mountain was replaced by harsh midday sunlight as a pair of jade green eyes slid to view the speaker. A guard with a list in one hand and a sword in the other was watching him with a bored expression, his face not hidden as it would have been in the days of Valua.
"James, of Esperanza.." he said, sharply, "--Sir."
"Straight ahead, don't make any turns once you enter the mines and you'll meet up with the right people."
James nodded, and began to retrace his own steps from so many years ago.
Funny how it always seemed to rain on fateful days. Or, if it didn't actually always rain, then he always at least remembered it that way. He paused a moment at the entrance to the mountain, taking a deep breath of hot Arcadian air, and then continued on his way.
It wasn't raining today.
Everything was going to be just fine.
It was only an hour later and James was well back into an ill mood, seated at a desk inside one of the mine's many offices. He was damp, for one thing. Underground tunnels of any sort, in the land of the green moon, were bound to be a little humid... but the knowledge did not improve his outlook.
Rain, or lack of, was firmly gone from his mind now.
His hair hung in clumps, sticking to his face and to the back of his neck. The inky-black strands seemed to be trying--likely just to spite him--to make their way into his eyes at every opportunity. This wasn't helping his mission one bit, even -if- that mission was currently mundane, simple paperwork. He was copying the crude tally marks from scrap paper down into record books as real numbers.
And all -that- would accomplish was that later the process of mining the moonstones would seem a little more civilized than it really was.
Paperwork. Bloody, ridiculous, horrid paperwork... and it was all for appearances. Nothing particularly interesting, just records of what had been mined that day, 'fancied up'. Feh.
Suddenly, as if to join the conspiracy his hair was launching against him, James' eyes began to water. Charming. He paused to swipe the back of his free hand across them and glanced to the side.
There, another desk stood with old record books stacked atop it. Not the same books as his mind's eye suddenly recalled, but similar enough in general appearance...
It hadn't been raining anymore when a younger Ramirez had reached this room fourteen years ago. Not that he would have known it, or cared, or likely ever remembered it anyway.
/ Finally, the record books he'd been looking for all day. The officers in charge of the mine had put up a valiant effort to keep him from these notes and figures. They knew, even if Ramirez did not, what Admiral Mendosa would probably do to them if the silver-haired assistant discovered them and made the connection.
Unfortunately for Mendosa, he did, and fortunately for the officers, the crooked Admiral would never have the chance to exact any revenge. But... that was the eventual future, and right 'now' the door was pushed open and a wide-eyed Ramirez slipped in, lantern in hand... /
The bounty-hunter growled at himself, and wrenched his attention back to the books in front of him and the ink that he'd been allowing to spot. He had, as himself, been here only once since that betrayal--sniffing out the air pirates that had taken refuge in the tunnels. Centime and his accomplice had been the hardest pirates to finally corner, and it hadn't even been in Moonstone Mountain that -that- particular hunt had come to a conclusion. He'd only managed to chase them out again like rats.
Back then, Ramirez had been too busy to dwell on these... memories.
He wasn't all that busy here, now, as James. Stupid, inane, bloody paperwork...
"Well," he said wryly, feeling eyes on him from the doorway, his voice barely audible to his own ears over the scratching of his quill, "at least it isn't grills."
Past.
Gilder hurried, boots splashing in the mud of the upper mining tunnels.
Of course Centime knew, but he wasn't fool enough to let the inventor flee at his own pace. Too much was riding on the balding air pirate and his inventions, he'd only barely completed the designs for the...
the...
...carbon-automated revolving something-or-other. Gilder cursed, that damn thing needed a shorter name than what Centime always called it. The gunslinger could never even remember its real name.
C.A.R. he decided as he ran, CAR. That would do just fine, and it made for easier shouting--
"Centime! Get the CAR plans and lets -go-!"
--at stubborn inventors.
"CAR? You mean the central-aligned ro--" a thunderous crash drowned out the ridiculous name as Gilder started grabbing up the scrolls.
"I never remember anything more than C.A.R. anyway." Gilder muttered, grabbing Centime by the elbow and forcing him out. "Come on, man, we've got to hide and fast! That fucking Silvite is probably already anchored outside!"
Pirate Hunter, that's what they few others remaining had taken to calling Ramirez. He was just 'the bastard', to Gilder, who would have welcomed Clara's hunting after such a long taste of what it was like to have Ramirez sniffing around after his life's blood.
"Down the elevator shaft, we can't risk using the machines--they make too much noise!"
What had, apparently, served as DeLoco's office was right near the side and main entrance to the mines... and unfortunately it was the only part of the underground system with enough lighting for Centime's purposes. Hell, the main way into the mountain passed directly under the office, and the very idea made the hair on the back of the gunslinger's neck stand on end.
/ Yeah, doesn't it just figure. The only way to hide is to trap ourselves, feh, well I just hope the bastard doesn't realize that we're really here. /
"Gilder, I'm not certain..." the bespectacled inventor began. Gilder had just pried one of the elevator shaft doors open, and he paused. "if we take that route, the door will tell it."
"You're right." he frowned, shutting the massive door again with a lurch, "wait! Those stupid trap doors!"
"Yes, that will work perfectly!"
They took off at a sprint down the side tunnel, both grasping blueprint scrolls in their arms, until they came to a fork in the path.
"That one!"
Churnk!
Churnk!
Gilder and Centime managed to both land on the track relatively unharmed, the empty cart that would have caught them and carried them down had long since been moved out of the way.
"Up the tracks and into the tunnel!" Centime whispered urgently as the sound of metal-shod boots clacking steadily along metal walkway sounded from above and out of sight.
End.
The pipes were sad.
He sighed, melancholy, as he listened to the music drifting up from the bottom of the mines. Ixa'takans were known for their pipes and drums, he supposed it was only logical that the same thrumming musical ability that always seemed to be hopeful and determined could also express despair.
"Hey, boy, aren't you going to see to that?" a gruff voice demanded, shaking him out of his brooding.
"Of course, sir." he replied, saluting before reluctant steps took him across the metal mesh walkway, heading for the main elevator down.
"Make sure you kill whichever one it is, and smash the pipes." was called after him.
The soldier resolutely kept his shoulders from sagging.
It had been a week since he'd started, and he'd finally been moved up from record-keeping on the list of daily chores. But to be honest, the ex hunter wasn't certain that it was a step that he particularly liked... cattle keeper. James ran the gloved fingers of one hand through his inky black hair, pushing the strands back along his scalp in a new habit as he headed down a flight of stairs, winding his way gradually down to the holding areas. The onyx hair, ever stubborn, flopped back into his face.
Too soon for his comfort, he stood flat-footed on the lowest level of Moonstone Mountain. He glared upwards a moment, delaying himself, before turning his attention back to the level he was on. The Ixa'takans were huddled around in thick groups on the dirt floor, bright eyes watching him warily.
"As you know," James said softly, "if you don't give up whoever was playing, I'll have to start killing you."
Some of them blinked, but none of them moved or spoke. Bright, gleaming eyes continued to stare at him from a sea of dusky skin and dark hair.
The Ixa'takans were a proud people, he reflected, moved more by their beliefs and their rituals than by material possessions. Still, they too were foolish... their own king had called Grendel down on their heads to try and drive the Valuans away all those years ago.
"Fools." James murmured, drawing his military saber and leveling it against the nearest dark neck. "I ask only this last time, before I begin. Which?"
They said nothing, did nothing, only watched as the previously-unstained blade lurched forward, slashed to the side. Two men fell, the first in two parts, second gasping before his sword ended his life in one final, deliberate stroke. What guilt he felt, he felt only as James. Or, at least, that's what he told himself... over and over, fiercer and fiercer. The Ixa'takans were foolish, they deserved nothing from him.
"The next pair loses a limb," he lifted the sword, angling the long, sharp blade expertly, "each."
"Hoi, James, man." a voice broke into his stare-down with the Ixa'takans over the bodies, "They didn't tell us you were such a cold son of a bitch. Wot've you been doing, studying Admiral Ramirez?" and a hand dropped, stupidly, to his shoulder. It was a good thing the other soldier had given him plenty of warning that he was there, else the man would have joined the other two in silence upon the floor.
As it was, the blade twitched slightly in his hand, and his grip tightened.
"Of course not." he lowered the sword, producing a cloth from his recruit uniform to clean it with. Which part or both he was denying was up to the guard to decide as he sheathed the blade. Well, even in Esperanza he hadn't faked a bubbly personality... in fact there had been very little faking there at all. He'd only had to hide his identity, not his predisposition against idle chatter.
"Try not to kill the entire work force over a pair of pipes, eh? Anyway." the guard was steering him out of the area and chatting as though nothing at all was uncommon in a decapitated and a run-through pair of Ixa'takans on the ground. "We're all heading out to catch sky-fish later, you coming with?"
"...I suppose." James replied, annoyed. The soldiers treated the Ixa'takans as the cattle they were, and there he found no fault. However, their entire attitude about it was abhorrent. The human race was not supposed to be put into slavery, it was supposed to be in remolding. There was a line there, a thin one, and he felt that Moonstone Mine had long since cheerfully danced across it. Not only that, but they disregarded the regulations against going out and fishing for themselves, using it--as he had noticed--as currency amongst themselves. Quite illegal.
The memory of starvation in the streets and drunken lechers in the bar resurfaced unbidden, and he felt for only a second that with or without the new Armada's heavy hand... the world was doomed to destroy itself. Then, came the memory of Ben, cut down by his adored older brother...
As if reading his mind, the guard next to him broke into chatter once more.
"Hey, did ya hear the news? We've got another Admiral."
"Another..."
"Yep, fourth Admiral Wren. They've already started forming up his fleet... can't imagine why we still have a fleet for each Admiral though. It's not like there's countries to capture or pirates to kill anymore eh? I think they just do stuff like this for something to do."
"..." James considered the news, mind spinning. The same Wren? It wasn't that common of a name...
"He's coming to inspect the mines in a few weeks, I hear." the words left a wash of dread in the ex hunter, he knew how that man inspected. Not to mention that his identity was no longer a secret to the blond who had so casually executed his brother. "So, we'll see how full of crap he is then, eh? Well, we'll come get you after mess, got the boat an' all."
A solid, too-familiar whap to his shoulder, and the guard marched off along a side tunnel, leaving James feeling sick and apprehensive with his thoughts.
Later at mess, he barely touched his food.
Not to say that he was ever a heavy eater, as even in these times of 'peace' he remained thin. Toned muscle and tendon, he carefully ignored any comments overheard about his 'girlish' figure.
He was a weapon, he would remain in top shape... only his temper had dulled over the last five years of Soltis reign. James--or rather, Ramirez in this case--had... mellowed in his reactions, matured into his role of Admiral. There was still that fiery spark there when it came to the idea of anyone going against his Lord, but, it was rarely called into play anymore.
His efficiency apparently made him an odd sort of recruit, however. Especially as he still looked a good ten years younger than he really was, even more so with the blackened hair. And unfortunately, people still found him magnetically fascinating... which made his role as the ex bounty hunter all the more difficult.
James bowed his head over his food, picking at it with his fork and contemplating how to go about his plan this evening. He had decided what to do with his share of the fish they would net, and it had nothing to do with trading to the other soldiers of the mountain. He wouldn't help them make a currency of the stuff, and tossing it into deep sky seemed like too much of a waste.
The trickiest part, he decided, would be in cooking it all. The sky fish of this day and age were in incredible plenty without fishermen, merchants, or pirates, so he knew there was sure to be a lot.
Magic, he decided. It was crude, but it would be effective. It wasn't like the Ixa'takans would be particularly picky about it.
This settled on, James went back to trying not to think about 'Admiral' Wren and all that this development implied. He was going to need a bit of parchment and a quill for this fish plan, just in case, and he left mess early to ready his backup plan.
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Skies of Arcadia Legends belongs to someone else.
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.
Never steal if you value your spleen.