Spirit of the West

Interlude

Edward Theodore Monroe, a second son, of a second son, of a Cajun farmer. A loyal brother, a faithful son and only one of a dozen great-grandchildren; is what he'd like to think of himself at least. He stood to inherit nothing from his family, except for his mothers' wit and his fathers' grit. He wanted far more in the world. He was clever, too clever for his home, so he left the swamps of his family's Bayou. He learned his numbers and letters, then made a life for himself as a journalist in Naulins City.

The humid, muggy atmosphere of Louisiana is a far cry from now. He would have preferred the blanket of heat to the cold cell he was trapped in now. The lifeless stone chilled his kneeling legs. The burlap bag, uncomfortable and maddeningly irritating, was the only thing keeping him warm. It insulated his head with his stale breath, keeping his head comparatively warm to the chilling breeze. His muscles ached from how he shivered, nothing but rags protected his body.

He had suspicions on where he was being held. It was the height of summer, so he must be at least north of the Gulf. Even though most of the north can be warm this time of year it seemed to be nighttime. This didn't bode well, for the last he remembered, he was in Naulins.

He feared that the state had him imprisoned, so for what cause? He held no one in enmity and he hoped no one did so to him.

He heard echoed steps coming up behind him and then a swoosh. His darkened sight went completely blind. His head was in a numb haze and he saw stars. A sharp pinching kept him from opening his eyes. Before he could recover a second swing brought him to unconsciousness.

"Ed! Ed, come on you'll miss them!", a young girl's voice called out to him.

"Uhh, what?", he mumbled, rubbing the stars from his eyes. "Rosalie?", he asked. Where was he? Was he back home? Edward couldn't remember anything. Nothing from moments ago, nothing from a day ago not anything from the past week. What was going on?

"'Duhhhh. What?' That's what you sound like. The hippos of course! It's a migratin' season for them! Swimming south for the winter."

He stood up from the soft grass of his grandpa's farmstead. He looked around and found all around him his extended family, only his younger sister paid him any mind. Everyone else was making their way to the water's edge. He shook his head and followed anyway. He smirked as his fool of a sister made a face at him while sprinting ahead. He stood by his sister as they watched the fat forms of Mississippi Hippos swimming south for the season. It was a yearly occurrence that marked the passing of summer, which also usually meant a barbecue.

They would move south to Florida to avoid the cold winter waters. Although nearly everyone who lived along the banks of the Mighty Mississippi, can witness the procession of water-beasts, the Monroe Bayou was known throughout the county to hold the busiest hippo migration routes. The imposing but swift forms floated along by the hundreds. He'd not seen such a herd since he left the Bayou. He blinked, not realising tears were flowing, not knowing why.

His little sister leaned forward to have a closer look, ever curious. This was familiar to Ed and he felt compelled to grab her arm. Before he could move, however, it happened. She slipped and he knew ahead of time. She hit her head on a branch as she fell. The combined commotion of her and his family's subsequent panic attracted a bull.

A hungry beast, a protective parent, a dumb animal. It didn't matter, he knew back then and reliving it now, he know what will happen. Just like before, Ed was too cowardly. Rather than frantically scrambling down to her sister, as his other family members fruitlessly attempted, Ed froze. He cried boiling tears as he was paralysed by the unfolding horror. Curdling screams rang out as her sister fell into a whirlpool of a maw, of the growing bull. His world began to sink down that black void and with it so too did his consciousness leave.

Edward lived a comfortable if not stagnant life. He hadn't made a name for himself enough to attract any trouble from anyone. Some unlucky correspondents of his managed to piss off the wrong sorts. The Mafia, the Military, the Parties and others he'd rather not name. He even lost contact with his colleague, Galloway, whose most disparaging article was against an elementary school, of all things. All over some tiff about his son's grades. Galloway went missing for a day before a fisherman found him belly-up. What could Galloway have possibly done to get whacked?

Journalism was a lucrative, if not a fatal business. He found that half of the letters he's received were 'anonymous tips'. Slander, real or not, that was already written for them and only required the journalist to be used as a pen writer. Usually, those were written by 'Media Managers' for those who were a bit too well to do. Edward ignored all of them, sticking to the low-risk stories. When he had truly no choice but to write about someone with even an ounce of influence, he brown-nosed hard enough to tickle their lungs. A stain on his dignity, but better a bootlicker than dead.

He opened one of many small spirit cabinets in his home. He took a swig of something old looking. He savoured it for a moment, then looked at the label. It was his grandfather's vintage Scotch, genuine Nova Scotian. He missed his family. His father would never fish with him again. His mother wouldn't be there to give him a comforting hug. And he couldn't bear to even look at the once vibrant now lulled eyes of his sister. He downed enough spirit to get him sufficiently buzzed, perhaps more so, his eyes drifting into a drunken nap. Perhaps some sleep would take him away from the fetid squalor he now made of his life.

Edward woke up with a bloody sneeze, followed by an even bloodier coughing fit. Further confusion added to his suffering as a sack kept his blood pooled along his neck. He couldn't see where he was but he felt his hands cuffed behind him to the chair he sat on.

He struggled against the restraints. Making a hell of a lot of noise and rubbing his wrists raw. A kick to the gut sent him flying, but the twine around his neck kept him from falling back. How had he not noticed that?

"The 'Frog-Lickers' waking up, eh?", a gruff voice said, punctuated by a punch to gut.

"I saw you snooping around, outside yard time. I didn't recognise you, but a prisoner or civvie, you had no right to be here at night.", he continued. A hand yanked the covering off his face, the pool spit and blood falling to the floor. Through a swollen eye, Ed looked at his captor. He would have been nothing to be afraid of, under normal circumstances, an overweight sweaty man in uniform. From what he'd guess, he was a Prison Warden.

"You're going to tell me who sent you here and how you broke in, this deep into my facility.", he said, waving his nightstick to Ed's face. Ed was fearful but accepted his own helplessness. He didn't care what they would do to him at this point. He spat blood out as far as he could, barely reaching the Warden's boot. Both defiance and to clear his mouth.

Despite Ed's failure to dirty him, his pudgy face went red and he wound his arm back. Before the swing could connect a frantic knocking on the door cut him off, surprising both prisoner and Warden. In a huff, he waddled over.

"Who's there? Mullen, I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed.", said the Warden. "You had better-", the rotund Warden cut himself off. He made a grunt like a hogling.

"Sir! I'm sorry... I wasn't expecting you. I'm in no shape to receive you.", he offered weakly.

'No shape to receive anyone!', thought Ed, too weak to turn his head to watch.

"Is this prison not operating at the Federal Governments' pleasure? For what reason am I to be barred here, Mr Warden?", a baritone voice cut him off. without being given a chance to answer for himself, Ed heard the Warden being slapped away. Although he didn't witness it, hearing such gave Ed a much needed catharsis.

"This wouldn't do at all. All this effort to bring you here only for a sadist with a badge to interject.", the newcomer said. Ed's eyes still swollen, he could only make out a tall figure in purple, before he nodded off to Nod.

"Where... where am I?", Ed asked, bleary-eyed. He jolted as if waking up from a falling dream.

"I'm sorry Mr Monroe, are you alright? You seemed distressed just now?", asked the man across from Ed.

Ed shook his head, stars in his eyes. He could feel his blood returning to normal and his vision was his again. He looked to his surroundings and saw not a horrid nightmare nor smelled the dank prison cell. He was instead in the bright, luxurious salon of a state official. His eyes were dazzled by lamp lights refracting in crystal furnishings.

He turned his head to out the window and realised he must have been somewhere in Gotham State. The smooth, curved Sagrada Architecture of the skyscrapers gave such away. A style rediscovered and pioneered by the recent Nuyorican migrants. Not to mention the Statue of Lady Liberty herself, who stood watch over the Hudson. When and how had he come to Liberty City?

He gripped his leather seating and looked again to the source of the voice. His interviewee? His mouth went dry in a second. Long braided hair, all purple clothing and height that towered over men, even while sitting. It was the President.

"Are you well Mr Monroe? Should I call for the Doctor?", asked the President, concern in his voice. Ed looked away, those eyes. He couldn't bear to look into them any longer than he should. The strange heterochromia of the President's family were infamous, each eye had two colours split vertically. Ed's interviewed back-country pagans who swore on their gods that those eyes could curse a man, that they've cursed thousands of men. That wasn't untrue but he always argued that the men behind those eyes were the ones who waged those wars. Wars that consumed generations. He never thought much of those comments until now.

It was something else though. Less of anecdotes from strangers but more of something personal that made it difficult to look at the man.

"My apologies Mr President. I've seemed to have suffered from a fit.", said Ed. That must have been it. Ed was unsure, but that explanation made sense to him at that moment.

"A fit you say? Are you sure we shouldn't call for a doctor then?", the President offered. He waved his hand over a small bell on a table. Was to summon help into the room perhaps? In fact, why were President and him alone in the room at all? Ed thought the Secret Service never left his presence.

"That would probably be for the best, although I think I'm doing better. May I ask where we are?"

"Where you are? It must have been a terrible fit for you to forget where you've been. You're my guest here in the Hotel Attraction."

"Do you feel comfortable continuing your questions, Mr Monroe?"

"Yes, I'm fine now. Let's continue where we left off..."

"You were telling me why the incarceration rates of Gotham State are higher than anywhere else in the country. Even higher compared to the Megalopolis of Boston."

What was he even saying? He acknowledged that these strings of words were coming from his mouth but he couldn't understand them or their context.

"Normally, rebuttals to why Gotham has more prisoners would be that Gothamites simply commit more crime, but..."

"No, it's never that simple, is it? One contributing factor is the Cosa Nostra. The Cipriannis lead the Gothamite Familias now, as did the Leones before them, the Sindaccos before them, the Forellis before them and the Falcones before them."

"What is it that attracted these Familias to Liberty City then?"

"Attracted? That makes it sound as if these organisations were a recent migration to the Gotham Metro. The average Gothamite is no more capable of committing a crime than any citizen. They are not the result of Gothamite hot-bloodedness nor the result of their culture but are unfortunately a bygone holdover from the Third Republic."

"The Familias drive the incarceration up by a magnitude of a thousand. This wouldn't have been the case for the Gotham Metro-State if not for the policies of my ancestor, Valentine Maxon."

"Your namesake?"

"My Imperial Ancestor, Emperor Lucas 'the Usurper' of Brazil, took his fathers to name as his Clan Name. It was only right, considering Valentine fought to place him on that throne. Thus he came to be known as Lucas MacValentine Maxon."

"As the centuries passed, our family was overlooked by the electors of the throne and retired to Sao Paolo, by then we were known by Valentine-Maxon. My family's reentry to American politics only came after the Tripartite Civil War, in my parent's generation."

"Valentine is part of my surname. It is no more my namesake than Monroe is for you."

"Valentine is loved by a third of the country and is despised by the rest. For all the good he did in his lifetime, he ultimately prolonged the Dictatorial Era that his predecessors before him started."

"He abolished the old feudalism that established itself in the First Republics' absence. But it was all for the practical reason of retaining land to reward to his Veterans."

"Unfortunately, in the wake of his many bureaucratic reforms, the old Maritime Republics were left to develop on their own. The Principlist Philosophy that Valentine adhered to regarded capitalist ventures with a laissez-faire approach."

"Although proven to be efficient and the Burghers were happy to be unmolested, his policies gave rise to aggressive, oftentimes fatal competition."

"The violence was tolerable for many decades but when the focus of the Presidents drifted away from expansion to consolidation, the Trade Skirmishes were slowly outlawed as 'Organised Violence'."

"Then this violence was concentrated around Gotham?"

"Not particularly. The Liberty Penitentiary accommodates more inmates than any other across the country, let alone the Gotham Metro-State."

"It didn't help that many of the Patrician Families of the many Maritime Republics he came across had inherited... certain abilities."

"Pardon? Abilities?"

"Do you know your history? Mr Monroe?"

"Well, I was part of a large farm family from Louisiane, I got my education at-"

"No! That isn't what I asked for. Those are all just the recent frivolities that compelled your march to this very moment."

"Monroe doesn't sound much like a name native to Louisiane? Does it?"

"No, no it's doesn't I suppose."

"You suppose?", said Cesar, a new glint in his eyes.

"No, I don't suppose. It's not native at all."

"Do you know your history?", he repeated.

He daren't look directly at him. His lack of answer confirmed it for the President.

"The Monroes were but one of the hundreds of families, that I settled in our conquered lands. Your earliest ancestor took a Creole widow to wife.", said the President. Ed was confused and thought he misheard. Did the President say he personally settled his ancestors centuries ago? He looked up from his writing back to President Cesar.

As he blinked the room was draped in darkness. Had the buildings' electricity gone off? Ed's hair stood on its end. The man sat before, once gaunt and greying was replaced with an identical man, more youthful with a lion's mane of curled, blonde hair. Ed's eyes scanned him frantically, hoping it was some trick of the light.

To his dismay, nothing changed, despite the lights flickering on once again. The President sat before him was the same in the aged portrait hanging behind the man, President Valentine sat in Cesar's place. Ed let out a squeak of air, meant to be a scream but his lungs found no purchase.

"Ah-ah. Don't interrupt.", said 'Valentine', an impossibly long arm motioned for Ed to keep silent. "The Monroes were of my kin. Not the Clan Maxon but of the Tribe Nogad. We had cousins in common. As well as gifts in common." To punctuate such, 'Valentine' motioned his right hand as if he was a gunslinger. Ed could see a faint, translucent, something spinning on Valentine's finger.

"Can you see?", he punctuated by pointing the 'gun' at Ed. Valentine recognised Ed's focus and fear and took that as answer enough.

"The Word. Do you understand it?", he pressed.

At that phrase, Ed cried out. Clutching at his temple. Feeling as if thorns wrapped around his scalp. He attempted to scratch them off, only managing to scratch his skin off.

"Y-yes, I understand it.", he gritted through his teeth. At that, the President aimed for Ed's foot and the unmistakable bang of a gun sounded. He screamed as a hot pain radiated up his foot. He looked at it, there was no wound and no blood but still, it hurt all the same.

He looked up at the President. He wasn't Valentine now, not quite, but Cesar and Valentine both. They were fading into one another. The room was no longer recognizable as the salon, it was dark. He could perceive nothing beyond the two of them.

"You've proven you could hear me. You parrot what I've told you like a good pupil, but have you comprehended?", said the President. Ed admitted he didn't know what the fuck was happening. He figure that if he said he understood, the ordeal would stop. As if on cue and in response to his internal confession, the President shot again. The pain was now spreading from his left shoulder.

"A cave can echo. A raven can speak. An ape can scream.", he said. A third shot rang and a third pain hit Ed. He wanted to scream like he was told to but he was shot on his tongue. His scream came out as a dirty guttural cough. Imagined blood pulsed out of the imagined wound. The boiling liquid was burning the inside of his throat.

"Understanding is what makes a human. If you cannot understand then you are no better than a beast, no better than a sinner.", he said. Ed cried tears of devastation, he knew if he couldn't understand soon he would die. More than that, he cried for himself, for that especially he was ashamed. He was a sinner, what right had he to try and save himself? His body kept stiff and fought against his will to move. The cowardly aspect of him wanted to fight back to defend himself.

The President stood back, looking at Ed. Brow raised and expected something from him. He kept silent as Ed kept grunting, trying to force his body to move. In contrast to his previous impatience, Cesar let him try to 'understand'. Whatever that meant, he feared he couldn't understand.

As his mind strained and the imaginary 'bleeding' coagulated, he struggled. He didn't even notice his chair starting to rattle. His eyes were closed but he felt arms that weren't his move. He felt another body sit on top of his and how it moved to his command.

He opened his eyes, to see a 'person' stand before him. He looked like a circus freak but didn't matter. With a desperate abandon, he willed the creature before him to attack. Alas, despite his wishes for it to throw the hardest punch of his life, the swing was sluggish. Sadly, the fist just passed right through Cesar.

Ed despaired, crying out again. The swing came down harder and faster but only broke up like smoke on Cesar. The bastard had the balls to look apologetic. Before Ed could swing again his murderer spoke up.

He pressed the now clearly visible revolver at Ed's temple. "How disappointing. I'm sorry.", he said. One last bang sounded. He felt pain no more.

Mr Edward was left frothing at the mouth, convulsing in his bed. Cesar felt it another waste to have brought this Monroe here to Gotham. He could have been of better use as a powerless civilian than an ill-powered corpse. He turned to the other occupant of the room.

"Doctor Denver, time of death?", he asked. Cesar had trusted and could trust in the future, that this man would help on this unsavoury matter.

"3:08 am, Mr President.", Doctor Denver announced, looking to his Rockland made, clockwork timepiece.

"Cause of death?", Cesar asked, giving Denver an expectant look.

"A stroke, Mr President.", without hesitation Doctor Denver answered.

"How unfortunate. Send word to his next of kin. Continue your work here. I shall be off to the Capital.", said Cesar, walking out. His business in Liberty City was concluded. He had a foreign delegation he expected to meet in Boston. He looked to the east. He felt 「Gravity」 tugging at him.

Stand User: Edward-Theodore Monroe

Stand Name: Unknown

Ability: Unknown

Desc: It had the appearance of a thin, humanoid, close combat stand. It couldn't maintain form for long before dissipating into mist.

Limit: Unknown

Range: 0m

Power: E

Speed: D

Range: E

Durability: E

Precision: D

Potential: C

A/N: If you liked this, feel free to follow or favourite. If you got a question or opinion, feel free to tell me. This took a while but I have also been making a series of maps to supplement this story. Those are only 3/14 complete.

Guest1: Is this a copypasta? Is this a response to something I wrote or not?

Guest2: Again, are you the same guest? Is this a copypasta?

Amelia831: The nobles of Planetos would have a lot more violent reaction to any kind of Liberal Democracy. The most the Iron Throne is going to allow is any reform into an Absolute Monarchy.

Just as history has shown, an Industrial Revolution in Westeros would allow the Smallfolk a chance at education and eventually revolution. As they are, they don't know any better. But if they could read and write, then they could see how worse off they are compared to other people. They'll start to question things the nobles and Maesters don't want to be questioned.

The Ironborn would raid but on a small enough scale where Quellon could drop them if they got caught. Quellon is looking for friends wherever he can. Balon wouldn't care at all and will go balls to the wall on these 'Greenlanders'. If or when he comes to power, no one will be saving him from his bullshit.

The Summer Sea pirates and Stepstone Pirates, no one in power cares about them. The Free Cities will cause a fuss if anyone but the pirates claim the territories. Expect American sellswords or 'PMCs' to bust through the figurative walls of Essos.

Guest3: That's a fair assessment. I've seen a few people turned off by that. I don't mind either way. They can write their own story at that point.