Death of the Author

by CZena

The author finds out that internet fanfiction-writing ineviteably results in egotistical power-fantasy, self-insert silliness. The author then finds out they're not egotistical enough and didn't give themselves nearly enough power...Or perhaps gave too much. Battletech self-insert that hopefully defies some of the genre conventions while living up to others. It's practice.

2. Chapter 2 - Death World

Small power the Word has, and can afford us
Not half so many Priviledges as the Sword has!

-The Power (or Dominion) of the Sword, ballad from the English Civil War

I should have known better than to tempt fate.

"Right up here if you would, my lady. Lord Bar-Dyness is awaiting you." The slave says, holding a hand out to the stairwell as he bows and scrapes away.

Lucky bastard. Sure he was someone's property who was constantly at their beck-and-call. But he didn't have to haul himself up a bunch of stairs most of the way drunk to talk to Tortuga's big bad boss-man. What was the point of having any power if I couldn't use it to do what I wanted when I wanted to?

I take the first step and have to pause to catch my bearings. It's going to be a long venture up. Apparently it was too much to hope for a pirate to spring for an elevator?

I only trip once, and only have to crawl my way up a few of the steps on my hands-and-knees before reaching the top. I'm fully-upright by the time I'm in view of the other Captains, and try my best to drop my face into the mask it needs to be to keep from revealing anything.

Particularly how I'm somewhere in-between terrified and ragingly pissed-off at the moment. All I want to do is pound drinks until it's a politely late-enough time for me to leave and go to the new, fancy mansion I've won. Then I can clean the blood off my skin, snuggle into a pillow and go to sleep. These chucklefucks are in the way of that!

"Dame Murderess Extraordinaire. Welcome to the Brotherhood."

The words have no greeting to them. If anything, they're a mockery.

With short-cropped blonde hair, a firm chin, and a well-trimmed beard, Kalvin Bar-Dyness could almost be handsome in a Nordic, Viking sort of way. With those and his barrel-chest, he looks like he belongs in a bad historical trivid wearing a horned helmet and screaming about the need to pillage—which I suppose is oddly appropriate, really, considering his job. But the ridiculous clash between all that and his Franco-sounding accent puts me off almost as much as the fact he's, technically, got authority over me. Neither is a situation I can put up with for long!

Bar-Dyness sits at the center of a short row of the other pirate-lords who serve him. 'Sir Scourge' and 'Dame Felicity'—Morgan Chebourg and Felicia Juima—sit closest, sporting the same flat stares on their faces. Other than them, most of the others make a point of not paying me any mind and pretending to be distracted by their own affairs or the revelry going on below. All except for Lord Cornelius Mason who, at his spot at the very end of the row from Bar-Dyness, regards me with open disgust. But, then, from what Gronley has told me, he always sports that look. He used to be a slave. Serving alongside his betters and former masters undoubtedly keeps him perpetually angry.

"Lord Bar-Dyness." I greet back, carefully annunciating the words. I attempt a slight bow despite how much it makes my teeth clench in barely-restrained fury. When I dip my head forward the world spins until I jerk it back up.

The prick didn't even deserve that much. But to live, I'll make the concession for now.

"I must say, Sir Black was one of my best enforcers. His loss does not exactly fill me with confidence." The pirate Lord growls.

"I think I contritabued—contributed—to Gronley's success as one of his lieutenants." I answer, cursing myself as I stumble. "I'm sure the company underneath me will be just as profitable to you and I as it was for you and Gronley."

Ha! As if I was going to share a single C-Bill or slave with Bar-Dyness!

…For that matter, as if I was going to turn pirate. There were more profitable—and, just as importantly, safe—ways for me to make a fortune after I got away from here.

Bar-Dyness' eyes narrow into slits as he stares at me. Unsure what to do or how to answer I stay still, keeping my own eyes safely on the bridge of his nose. I don't know why he's so bent out of shape. I'd won fair-and-square! All I want is to be left alone so I could get the hell out of here!

"Perhaps." Bar-Dyness leans forward, one hand coming up underneath his chin, "I suppose that is for us to find out over the next few years. If you did well underneath Gronley, I expect you will do well underneath me as well. And when you do well for me, I'll see to it you do well for yourself. As the Code of the Brotherhood requires."

Screw this guy and his expectation I'll do jack-shit for him!

The silence extends long enough that I realize he expects an answer rather than the stare I'm giving him.

"Of course." I say.

Bar-Dyness holds his position for another heartbeat before leaning back into his seat, something almost like a smile coming to his face. "Good. I always appreciate it when we can reach an understanding. Congratulations on your victory." The man gives me a dismissive wave with the front of his hand, "You may go. I'm sure you're of mind to celebrate. Drink. Fuck. Celebrate your new position, 'Dame Murderess Extraordinaire'."

I should be pleased at the early opportunity to get the hell away from him. Instead I have to stomp down on a half-dozen comebacks I'm tempted to spit into his smug face. With another forced bow, I carefully turn myself around and ready myself for the adventure down the stairs.

"Oh, and Miss Trevaline?" Bar-Dyness says just as I begin to take the first step, "You would be well-served to remember that your future and further advancement is from now on dependent on killing when and how I want you to. Understand?"

I turn my head so I can look back at him over the shoulder that's still soaked in Gronley's blood, and I can't hold back a toothy grin at the slickness that rubs against my chin. "Of course I understand, Lord."

I carry-on down the stairs.

Of course I understand. I just don't care. There's no future I care about here! My fortune, advancement, and future lie elsewhere.

Things happen for the next few hours as the celebration goes on, but I can't really focus on any of it. When it wears out its immediate use reminding the pirates around me of my victory, and at the soonest opportunity that comes to pilfer a semi-clean rag, I manage to use some vodka and a cloth to scrub my face and arm somewhat clean of Gronley's blood. My clothes are less receptive to the attempt, and I only manage to spread the stain over most of the right-side of the simple black blouse I'm wearing trying to wipe it up.

It's surprising how similar the resignation to just losing the shirt is to the times I've gutted or dressed out a deer and spilled blood on what I was wearing. Or, if I give it another moment's thought instead of immediately recoiling from the memories, to the previous experiences I have of killing people. There's even the same oily, sticky feeling lingering on my hands from where the blood hasn't quite been washed free. On the bright side, I don't have to deal with the body any further. That's what the slaves are for.

The thoughts make me uncomfortable, so I spend much of the rest of the party drowning them under a comforting haze of alcohol that makes it all much less concerning. I'm distinctly aware I probably shouldn't, but the drinks are free. Free! I'd be a fool to turn down free, even if they're shitty.

Nothing else over the course of the evening is important or life-threatening enough to get through to me. Or perhaps none of it is important enough to get past Arthur. Whatever his personal failings, the man does an effective enough job encouraging along any passers-by with his own glare that I barely have to acknowledge them, much less actually interact. There are congratulations from some of the men who've already placed themselves under my command or from representatives of the smaller cabals on Tortuga Gronley did business with. A few others make it past Arthur only to throw barbs and insults at me before retreating with challenging glares at the man. A handful of scum express interest in working for or with me once I draw up my Articles and they know what they're in for.

I'm not really present for any of it and muddle through it all on auto-pilot as I down my drinks. Everything I might feel or think by the procession is drowned out by panic, aggravation at Bar-Dyness, and a slowly dawning realization that I'm going to have to figure all this out by myself. It's only the knowledge of how dangerous it might be if I show any of that panic or fear—and the free booze—that lets me keep the façade of cold detachment up.

That façade starts to crack very quickly. It starts slowly enough—tears welling up in my eyes for no reason that I have to conceal or wipe-away behind yawns or exaggerated flips of my hair. My palms begin to clam up with what feels like miniature rivers of sweat, and not even squeezing the glass, the hilt of one of the swords, or the grip of the pistol at my waist can force down the shakes that run through them seemingly at random. I have to hold back the urge to drape myself over the table I'm at and fall asleep just to have some kind of break from trying to properly play my part.

I had years of practice on Earth putting on a sociable face no matter how I felt and, if necessary, play-acting friendliness to drunks and dickheads of every stripe when they were just below the level of obnoxious that made them deserve a kick in the ass out of the bar. I could swing that kind of service-with-a-fake-smile shit for entire evenings. But to save myself the danger of ever losing tips I'd never developed a proper resting bitch face. 31st-century me, thankfully, had never needed to worry about such niceties and has plenty of experience with one that I can draw on. But there's only so far that copy-catting can go.

People tip better when they're happy with you, and I'm used to making people happy. Pirates obey better when they're terrified of you, and I'm used to being terrifying. The two feelings seem to collide with one another and cancel each other out entirely so that I'm left feeling as pleasing as a punch in the face and at the same time about as terrifying as a kitten playing with a ball of yarn.

But if I break down crying like I kind of want to, I'm definitely not going to have any terror attached to my name. Thankfully all it takes is a few whispered words to Arthur and draining a final rocks-glass of rum to get going. Few of the other scumbags who've already put themselves in the same corner as 'Lady Death' come with me—the drinks and the whores are both provided by Bar-Dyness tonight, and they're more than happy to take advantage no matter their loyalties. I should be doing the same thing, if for no other reason than to assure the pirate king of my controllability.

There is a tradition to these things on Tortuga. A person can take whatever they can get, and there's no obligation to give any of it back, but there is an unspoken rule that once one has reached the Council of the Damned, they won't try to take much more—a kind of warped 'honor among thieves' that lets the oldest, most powerful thieves retire and pass their positions along to chosen successors instead of ending up dead like Gronley. Not taking advantage of every bit of Bar-Dyness' 'generosity' in whores and drink, especially when he'd reminded me of it, could be taken by the pirate-lord as a rejection of that standard.

I worry. But after my last few drinks I'm having a hard time keeping my feet properly underneath me and everything I want to keep contained properly locked-up inside me. If I dragged someone into a private room, it was going to involve less sexual position and moaning on my part and much more fetal position and crying. Bar-Dyness hearing about that from one of his slaves would probably be worse than any offense he took if I left early…Probably.

In total, marching out of Bar-Dyness' mansion after a few hours as if I'm bored with the party seems the better option. The crowd has already thinned somewhat, though the passed-out bodies on the ground make it just as difficult to navigate across the floor of the Governor's Mansion as it was when everyone was standing and pressed together. Some of the bodies are supposed to be 'my' men. A full two-dozen accompanied me to the mansion earlier in the day. I'm leaving with only five following in my wake.

Good help is hard to find. The jumpship's crew might be a little more reliable, but I'm probably going to have to end up replacing every pirate underneath me…After I'd gotten everything from them I could, of course.

I exit the mansion, and am greeted by a gust of cool air that helps me set aside the nervousness and the thoughts both. After hours spent inside smelling other people, the alcohol on their breath, and what my brain insists is the lingering smell of blood on my own body, the wind coming down off the mountains is a godsend. Besides making it the most defensible location in the area, Bar-Dyness' mansion being sited at the head of the small valley Raider's Roost is in means it also doesn't suffer nearly as much from the stench that the 'city' puts out from the combination of water-treatment facility, industrial processing centers, and simple human waste it's built on—both metaphorical and literal.

"Any particular destination, Dame Murderess Extraordinaire?" One of Bar-Dyness' slaves asks as I and my entourage descend the bright-white, marble steps at the front of the mansion. He somehow manages to keep a straight face through the ridiculous title.

I start to half-sarcastically, half-seriously say 'home', but I'll break over the word if I try to say it. For both of me, that place is too far away to bring up so casually.

"The late Captain Gronley's manor east of town." I say after a moment's hesitation. I load myself into the rusting-out rickshaw he's standing in front of, and turn to the men following me. "You all can feel free to go on back in. Get some bitches and bourbon while the getting's good, eh?"

It's almost heartwarming how they universally hesitate in the face of the order and the too-small transport. Some even momentarily look like they're going to refuse, or at least put up a bit of a verbal resistance. But the promise of poon and partying visibly wins out over whatever concern they might have for me, and most of them turn and make their way back towards the mansion. Only Arthur and one other follow me into the rear of the vehicle, taking up positions on either side of me and killing any prospect of shoulder room.

It would be touching if I didn't have the knowledge they were both murderous, near-psychopaths towards others floating in the back of my mind. Arthur in particular, how much I'm thankful he's present beside me clashes with what I know of how he relaxes. I carefully ignore the issue as best I can.

As the rickshaw sputters into motion, I realize their presence also kills any chance I might've had to change my mind as to where the thing was going without looking silly. The prospect of an actual bed rather than the bunk that waited for me in the Union-class dropship I have been living in for the last years dragged the answer of going to Gronley's manor out of me when the slave had asked. I hadn't considered it also meant I'd have to deal with the man's stuff. Including his own batch of slaves. Slaves that now belong to me.

So on top of being a murderer, now I'm a slave-owner. Great. That put a bunch of expenses onto the balance sheet immediately.

I settle back into the seat as we move, finally feeling like it won't be the prelude to a messy death if I relax slightly, and I'm desperately in need of doing so. I'm still not comfortable at all. The padding of the seat is worn-through and a metal bar stabs into the right side of my butt every time the little vehicle goes over a rough patch of road. Arthur and the other guard's shoulders push into me with every bobble, and the pair of swords on my belt require me to sit with an awkward hitch in my hips that, combined with my thoughts and the way my vision floats in-and-out of focus, prevents me from calming down completely. But it's still so much better than earlier.

Ignoring the slaves…Gronley's mansion was closer, and it belonged to me now just as much as his sword or the jumpship out in space. Word of the changeover would have spread, Arthur would have seen to that if nothing else. The thought of sleeping in someone's house mere hours after killing them floats at the edge of my mind, though. I feel vaguely concerned by the idea, but more-so at my own lack of horror at it than anything else.

Maybe I just don't want to humor the thoughts in the back of my mind which take a very base pleasure in the idea.

—I could sleep in what had been his bed. With one, or more, of what had been his slaves, even! Maybe there had been a favorite? One he treated better than the rest?—

—I could burn his clothes, keepsakes, and anything else worthless in the antechamber while I danced naked around the fire and got even more fucked-up off of what had been his booze!—

—I could throw the same slaves I'd slept with off the roof just to prove to the rest of them that I would. That I could! That they, like everything else there, belonged to me now and that I would do whatever I liked with my things! That I could do what I liked with all of it because now it was mine! All Mine!—

After hours swallowing back the exact same urge, the thoughts feel like they're about to finally, blissfully, push me over the edge. I bring one hand up to hold my hair back and curl across Arthur's legs so when I puke it'll go out onto the dirt path below, for the moment ignoring the sword-hilt that digs into my side and the screaming pain of protest that comes from my bruised abdomen.

I stare at dirt and mud that steadily passes by.

Nothing happens. I wish it would. Beyond just making my stomach feel better, it might make me feel better about myself.

"Ma'am?" The guard on the opposite side of me asks, voice straddling the line between concern and fear. He's afraid of me puking. If it wasn't so satisfying, it'd be scary.

Arthur is apparently too stunned to speak, either by what he probably sees as a bizarre act or, more likely, because my tits are sandwiched against the top of his knees. The man's a good second, for a pirate, but he has his weaknesses. I probably intimidate him enough that, unlike his other conquests he'd probably ask before trying anything, and I am older than he's usually interested in. But I wasn't really certain of that and certainly don't want him getting the idea it is even a possibility.

I heave, as much to buy myself a moment's thought as to try and encourage myself to puke, but still nothing happens. If I stay where I am too much longer, I might actually end up falling asleep half-draped over the man despite how uncomfortable it is and how awkward it would be. That'd be more than embarrassing.

Even if the slave in front of me hadn't been there, it wasn't like the other two were anywhere near trustworthy. With the slave, and the likely threat of him reporting my behavior to Bar-Dyness, I need to come up with something to justify the display of weakness.

I lean back up after inspiration strikes. Staring straight ahead, I bring my right hand across my abdomen so it can rest on one of the swords. I probably won't have to use it, but it makes me feel better and it's the best I can do since gripping the pistol like I really want to do won't look right with my excuse.

"Female problems."

Instantaneously, further questions are cut short and even the possibility of further comment is killed. There's almost something comforting about the exchange—it makes everything around me seem more real. Because even in this crapsack, dystopian future that comes from a fricken' tabletop game, the men are hilariously predictable.

The rickshaw drops down from the elevated rise Bar-Dyness' mansion is sited atop and into Tortuga's 'capital city', for all the description is worth. Raider's Roost more closely resembles a kind of cross between the oil boom-towns of North Dakota I worked in and pictures I've seen of Brazilian favelas back on Earth more than it does any kind of 'real' city. Every kind of construction material imaginable is in use somewhere, and appearances are obviously the last thing on anybody's mind. Simple gunmetal-gray sheets of ferrocarbide that reflect the sunlight and can barely be looked at directly seem to be a popular choice. Some of the more fashion-conscious homeowners and businesses have apparently decided to paint their particular patch of hell in whatever coat of paint was available to them, leading to a patchwork quilt of other colors across the city's skyline that almost hurts the eyes to look at.

There's only two small spots of relief from either of the visual assaults. On the south end of the city furthest away from me, the Quonset huts arrayed around the refineries have long since lost any ability to reflect the sunlight in a losing battle against rust and are otherwise undecorated. Closer to the center of town, Mason's section of the town is arranged in something that approaches order. There, flat gray and simple white dominate instead of the patchwork of colors seen elsewhere. Everyone has their oddities. Mason's bizarre attachment to appearances is the least weird thing about the former slave turned pirate.

There is no 'Now Entering' sign when we go from the outskirts into Raider's Roost. No suburbs that gradually transform into bustling downtown streets. Nothing like that at all. Instead, there's a modest ditch where a pair of crosses with bodies tied to them greets us. 'Disloyal slaves' the placards hanging from them read in a half-dozen languages including the mashed-together creole of French and English that is common on the planet.

They're the most obvious of a small pile of bodies gathered there, though the only ones that seem to be 'official'. Most of the others thrown about the depression they are in merely lay rotting on the ground, dragged there by someone after most likely being murdered for whatever was in their pockets when they were walking around.

As the rickshaw slowly motors its way into the city-proper, the continued presence of occasional other bodies on the side of the road makes it clear that not everyone bothers to drag their victims or family-members to the outskirts. Raider's Roost produced a lot of bodies. A few were slaves who tried to escape and couldn't survive the city. A good deal more were people from the outlying settlements and mining-towns on Tortuga who were perpetually drawn in to try and gain a spot on a crew and couldn't survive the work they had to do for the lesser gangs to prove themselves competent. It meant there were always suckers coming into town the factories could take advantage of, always a steady stream of semi-competent thugs signing-on with actual raiding crews, and the only downside was some dead people nobody really cared about anyways. People were easy to replace.

Only two neighborhoods in Raider's Roost didn't produce enough bodies to fill the gutters on a regular basis. Mason's Borough—and it was still dangerous despite the slave-born pirate-lord attempting to maintain some semblance of control over it—and The Warrens. But The Warrens didn't really count. They still produced the bodies, the occupants just had a habit of eating them just as quickly as they were produced.

I can't help but wonder where Gronley's body will wind up. Hopefully he gets unceremoniously dumped in The Warrens alongside the rest of the trash. I can only pray the bastard's remain don't give anyone there a stomach-ache!

I spend the rest of the trip through the city trying not to think about cannibalism and trying to get myself to feel bad for the man's fate. I'm not successful at either one. Somehow, I feel worse about that fact than I do killing him. You are supposed to feel something more than satisfaction when you killed someone, weren't you? Even if they deserved it? Books and movies always had people puking or crying over it. I couldn't find any urge for either one inside me—at least not for Gronley. My stomach was twisting itself apart and I was barely holding back tears for myself and my own situation, but the man I'd killed was something that kept slipping away as unimportant until I caught myself and forced my thoughts back to it.

"Hmm. Finally cleared out those trees on the approach so there are clear lanes of fire. The guy might have been an incompetent, but you could always trust him to listen real close when it was his own skin on the line." Arthur complains as we exit the city and begin the approach to my newly-earned mansion. It's probably the closest thing to a eulogy Gronley's going to get from either of us.

At least it's not a lie like anything else good said about the man would have been. The approaches to the three-story fortress-compound he'd made his base at have been clear-cut and flattened so that the walls are the second-most most imposing thing for kilometers around. They're only beaten out by the upper half of the Quickdraw 'Mech Gronley had piloted that peeks out over the top of them from its position parked just in front of the top-floor's balcony.

I stare. Despite realizing where I am, it's still a mindfuck to see something that half my brain insists belongs on the cover-art of a sci-fi book.

Son of a bitch.

I can't think much else as we slowly bounce closer. Compared to the much-larger Banshee BattleMech I drive and that is currently sitting inside a dropship at the landing pads, Gronley's machine isn't all that impressive. But this one's right in front of my eyes right now, watching-over the compound and a small expanse of fields around it.

Noticing those fields forces me to notice the people working in them. Despite part of me being raised in a rural slice of hell-on-earth on 20th-century Terra, I have no idea what the plants are that they're picking through—where I'd grown up mixing up some bathtub meth had been a more popular and profitable pastime than actually growing crops. That doesn't stop me from noticing that the workers are dressed in stuff that's closer to rags than clothes as they work. They're watched-over by men with very wicked-looking rifles cradled in their arms that are wrapped in a grab-bag of different uniform styles that have been dyed-over with the same flat-white color of my cloak, the color of 'Lady Death's Watch'.

Slaves and their guards.

MY slaves and MY guards.

The only reason I don't shudder is because the men on either side of me are close enough to notice. 'Good guys wear white' my ass! I'm one bad, bad bitch.

The sentiment might hold more weight if I didn't think it with so much pride.

"The late Captain Gronley's manor." The slave driving the rickshaw says dramatically as the little vehicle bounces through an archway in the compound's wall and stops at the base of the stairs into the centermost building. He hops out and bows to me, "Now belonging to the great Lady Death, Dame Murderess Extraordinaire, Captain Paula Trevaline, of course."

Arthur and the other guard who came with me jump out quickly enough and make for the mansion that this time I can shudder, though I can't pin down if it's out of disgust or pleasure. Fear is not something I'm used to hearing in other people's voices when they speak to me. But at the moment it's the best damn tool I've got. Briefly entertaining as it might be, trying to shoot my way off the planet through every pirate who tried to stop me probably wasn't going to get me too far.

The way the slave keeps himself bent-over at the waist and visibly-trembles as I get out of the rickshaw makes it worse…Or perhaps better. If he's terrified of me, he's less likely to do anything to hurt me. It'd be better for me if everyone on Tortuga—in the universe even!—felt the same way.

I stare down at the driver's back for a heartbeat. You don't 'thank' slaves, and you certainly don't tip them. I don't know how to help him. I can't help him. I can barely help myself at the moment, and I have bigger problems, anyways. Problems he can't even fathom! This is one of those cases where it is firmly and solidly not my problem.

Besides, he's only a slave.

I turn without a word and follow Arthur and the other guard in a retreat towards the mansion. I'd be gone soon enough. Just had to get a proper crew together and burn out for the other side of the universe so I can find my sister. Then, with a firm base of sanity to start from, maybe I can start to do something. Make myself some money, futz with the future, all that shit. There's nothing I can do for this slave. Anything I did do would just cause problems, either for me or for him. Best to leave him be. He knew what he was doing, at least! I don't.

The trip up the stairs to the front door of my new mansion feels like it takes an exceptionally long time. Part of it is how much I just want to close my eyes and the buzz of pain my upper body sounds-out with each step I take. Another part is the fact I'm still a little wobbly from drinking and still in shock over the fact I'm stepping into a house—a plantation—that I own.

Most of it is a lingering feeling of simultaneous shame and pride. Gronley had dozens of slaves here at the estate alone, and even more working at the mines. They represent more wealth and power than I've ever had in my life!

I want to keep it! I earned it!

I redouble my pace towards the entrance, drowning the thought out with the noise of my footfalls and a mental reminder that I have bigger concerns than even my own wants. Chief among them that if I walk in like I am now, the slaves and my guards are going to see their boss crying like a little bitch because of the pain from what are really rather minor injuries. I can't show weakness like that. They'd fear me less, and I had to use that fear.

The back of my hand isn't as good for drying my eyes as a tissue would be, but it works. I hate to admit it, but one good thing about my utter lack of care for my own skin, face, or appearance is that there is no makeup to worry about ruining. I've a tattooed nightmare for a face that's straight out of an 80s cartoon, but at least it's an au natural nightmare! Besides the tattoo, of course.

It doesn't really make me feel better, but the forced humor in the thought still helps me stop the tears.

Swinging open the thick, double-doors at the front of the mansion requires a good deal of effort. Trying not to let the bone-crushing fatigue that's settling in over my body and my mind show, I walk into an entryway that looks like it'd be more at home in a high-class hotel than anything else. Real wooden paneling on the walls is partially-covered by yard-long paintings in gold-inlaid metal frames, and a pair of painfully-white stairwells curl around the corners of the room to an overhanging balcony on the second floor. If not for the dozen men and women at the center of the room who are on their hands and knees before me and Arthur leaning against the wall at my side, I could almost have mistaken it for the lobby of a swanky hotel.

"Welcome home, Lady Death. It is my honor to welcome you for the first time to your manor."

The man at the head of the group of bowing servants doesn't rise from his knees as he speaks. Instead, through a complicated contortion that looks wildly uncomfortable in the stiff, ill-fitting clothes he's in, he brings his shoulders and head up while keeping the rest of his body mostly-prone.

In the brief few minutes that follow Tornori de Gastocoui, the head of the household slaves, establishes himself as a man I can only classify as the most annoying suck-up I've ever encountered. Compliments towards my appearance that I know are bullshit because I have fucking eyes that can see, equally-BS praise of my prowess in combat against his 'former master', and a cherry of how inadequate Gronley was as a master all pour from him in an almost-unending stream. Arthur quirks an eyebrow at me over the antics, and for not the first time I feel a mild bbut awkward sense of comradery with the pervert. Unwilling to put up with Gastocoui any more than I have to, I demur from his offers of a tour of the grounds or an introduction to the rest of the 'house staff' in favor of immediately retiring to the master bedroom.

"Very good, My Lady, very good. An excellent decision, if I may say so. One of the first things I did upon hearing of your Ladyship's ascension was begin clearing the former master's room in preparation for your…"

Arthur, to an awkward feeling of relief on my part, and the still-speaking Gastocoui, to my aggravation, both follow me as I march up the stairs and leave the house staff behind. Gastocoui spends the entire trip up the stairs humble-bragging his way through a story of how he'd told other slaves to do this-and-that to prepare for me. It would almost be comical if he were just a little better at hiding how much of it was pure brown-nosing bullshit on his part meant to make himself look as good as he could get away with. There was always someone else referenced that he could blame if I interrupted him to voice my displeasure. Always someone he'd told to do something instead of anything he'd done himself. Always a scapegoat for his actions he might offer up. All wrapped in compliments and obedient rhetoric.

It is ridiculous. I own him. I don't have to put up with this!

It takes me a few dozen steps on the plush, red carpet of the second floor before I realize I'm stroking my thumb across the grip of my pistol and that Gastocoui has gone very quiet and very pale. It was so much better. I really should have thought of it before!

The silence that comes is a blessed relief until we reach the door to the master bedroom. I try to excuse myself from both him and Arthur with a simple nod that won't require I break that wonderful quiet. How in the world am I even supposed to think with a toad like that constantly croaking in my ear?

"Would her Ladyship like me to bring any of the staff up for her enjoyment?" Gastocoui asks, more to Arthur than to me. There's a desperate, pleading tone to his voice. As if he's trying to find something I'll offer approval towards him for.

Or maybe it was just a habit he'd picked up dealing with Gronley before me.

I force my hand to loosen from the sudden death-grip it's taken on my pistol.

"Send someone with fresh clothes and breakfast at sunup." I growl in place of what I really want to do to make sure the toad doesn't bother me again.

I'm struck once again by an earlier craving.

"French toast." I say with all the finality of a death sentence as I step in and slam the door closed in Gastocoui's face.

After a few seconds of staring at the wood that now separates me from the insanity, I throw the lock into place before twisting around and collapsing back against the door for support. I'm a second too-slow, and my knees give out as I'm leaning back. I have to frantically adjust the pair of scabbards on my belt so they don't get in the way, and my body slides down the entryway like jello until I plop onto my butt.

The hilts of both swords are pressed into the edge of my stomach, the barrel of the pistol is contorted against my thigh, I can't make out a thing in the room through vision that's quickly gone waterlogged, and my chest still hurts. But I'm finally alone and, at least to a certain extent, safe.

After so long fighting it back, I let myself descend into a very good cry. Streams of tears, sobs about as dignified as those a child would make, and snot bubbles bursting with self-pity make me an absolute mess. I try clicking my heels together again, this time with the appropriate words. I don't know if I really want it to work if my sister actually is somewhere on the other side of the galaxy and there's so much I might do to profit off my sudden knowledge of the future here and I have so much stuff just sitting around me right now owned by me waiting for me to enjoy it, but I'm also selfish and cowardly enough to try.

It's no more effective now than it had been earlier.

Maybe instead of taking just his life, his sword, and everything else, I should have taken Gronley's boots! Dorothy had been wearing the shoes of the first person she'd killed in Oz when she'd returned home. Maybe that's how the magic worked?

It's an odd feeling, laughing through tears. One of those things you don't actually think is even physically possible until you feel salty water from your eyes drop into your mouth as you chuckle. Considerably worse is the salt-tinged snot that also drops in just behind the tears, and the laughter quickly abandons me as I try to cough the taste out. In place of the laughter, I settle on sullen mental bitching at life, the universe, and everything. At some point after I regain enough strength to get up I cross-over to the bed so I can grab one of the pillows and scream into it.

I should have thought things through a little better! If I'd sent for one of the slaves for 'entertainment' I could have just screamed normally and blamed them on the slave. I would've needed to dispose of it so no one found out, but that wouldn't have been very hard when it was one of mine anyways.

How easily that thought occurs to me sets me back to square one of the crying. It's both completely correct and horribly wrong at the same time, and my head hurts trying to puzzle it out.

I'm not sure how long I stand there being absolutely worthless. Judging by how wet the fabric of the pillow is with tears and mucus when I'm cogent enough to notice that kind of thing again; it's a considerable bit of time. I use a dry patch on the case to rub my face as clean as I can, and unsure what else to do toss it to the side. I'll have someone deal with it later.

There are still bits of dried blood all along my right side, and my clothes are filthy. I want a shower. Just as much or more I want to go to sleep. At the same time, now that I'm here I'm realizing the only thing that separates me from a house full of slaves and pirate-lackeys is a locked door, and both would have their own reason to try and kill me. I stare at the bed, trying to come up with some course of action that doesn't risk me coming down overnight with a terminal case of being murdered.

I spend an embarrassingly long amount of time with absolutely nothing coming to mind. It's halfway tempting to say 'fuck it' and collapse into bed anyways.

I'm inordinately proud when I come up with the idea of sleeping in Gronley's 'Mech. Bundling up an armful of blankets and pillows from the bed, I stumble my way out onto the balcony of the master bedroom while removing most of my clothes and using them to scrub myself free of remaining blood as best I can. The swords and my pistol get piled atop the small bundle of cloth and down temptation that's in my arms. Balancing my way across the thin two-by-four-and-plywood bridge that connects the 'Mech to the terrace, I lean forward so the machine can recognize the sword's security allowance for me, and cycle the lever that controls the Quickdraw's cockpit-entrance.

Dumping blankets, pillow, and weapons in before me, I practically collapse face-first into the machine, bouncing off the piloting-couch as I do. I close and lock the door behind me, and then enjoy a moment of sprawled relaxation across my makeshift bed. A toe activates the air-circulator, one hand lazily adjust the swords so they're resting in the crook of my arms on top the blanket, and the other situates the pistol atop the right-hand control-panel where I can immediately reach it from where I'm lying.

It's not nearly as comfortable as the bed would have been. I have to curl myself up considerably, and my feet hang off a few centimeters. The cockpit smells like a gym-sock that's been rolled through a field of dead skunks, too. But here, wrapped inside a bundle of blankets coddled inside 60 tons of armored monstrosity with a whole range of ways to kill people at my fingertips, I'm as safe as I can be—at least until I have the chance to get more blankets, another gun or two, and trade-out the Quickdraw for my 95-ton Banshee.

My eyes close, but I can't help but wonder if there are going to be nightmares? In all the stories I've read if killing someone doesn't spur-on a puking fit or some kind of tearful self-reflection that isn't just the self-pity I've been indulging in for the last who-knows-how-long, there are usually nightmares to make up for it.

Sleep comes quickly.

There are no nightmares. Nothing drags me out of my peaceful sleep in a cold sweat and I don't fall for an eternity before waking-up in the middle of another swordfight. I sleep like a baby.