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Jessel Thorne lifted his head after staring at the tips of his boots for what felt like an eternity. His eyes took in the frame of the door to Lissandra Maxson's room, then glanced around tentatively at the guardsmen standing on opposite ends of the hall. Even if they were looking the other way, his partner was still watching him through the eyes of the security cameras.
His visits were no secret, that much was clear.
"Ah, what the hell..." The judge unlocked the door and entered Lissandra's chamber.
The lights were off, but there was enough of Elysion shining through the window to illuminate the rest of the room. Jessel could make out the dark shapes of the furniture around him to navigate through the wide spaces, and see the silhouette of the bed where the woman, their political prisoner, was lying ever so peacefully. But she wasn't asleep. Her head turned ever so slightly on the pillow, and she looked at him expectantly.
"Jessel?"
He closed the door behind him and drew closer to the edge of the bed, as he'd done many times in the past year. The judge wasn't wearing his armor or uniform, just a casual shirt with his district pattern cargo pants and combat boots. Lissandra propped herself on one elbow, watching him remove his belt along with his holstered sidearm. Jessel rolled it up into a small bundle and set it down on the nightstand.
Lissandra knew what was about to happen, but she didn't resist. Life as a prisoner had its good days, but was boring for the most part. Agonizingly boring. Having someone to talk to, to interact with, made her stay in that golden cage bearable. He didn't have to do it, he could've just been like the others. They hated her, could've treated her just the same as anyone from Tartarus if it weren't for the significance of her last name. But Jessel was different, he'd been... kind to her.
Jessel crawled on top of her and reached out to touch her neck. The cold steel of his cybernetic hand sent shivers down Lissandra's spine, but she stifled the ill feeling rising up her gut as she lay back among the soft sheets. He wasn't going to hurt her, she could count on that much.
"Hey there, Liz. Still having trouble sleeping?" The judge whispered as his lips gently brushed against her ear.
"Yeah." She whispered back, fumbling in the dark to undo the buttons on her shirt. "But now that you're here, I think I'll feel a whole lot better soon."
Her proximity anklet pressed painfully against her heel when she moved to wiggle out of her pants, and Lissandra growled irately. The thing was large, cumbersome, and a constant reminder of her severely limited freedom. She hated it, more than she hated the confines of her cell. "Can I get rid of this thing? It's been bugging the hell out of me all week."
"Sorry, no can do. Besides..." Jessel grinned, "I like seeing you in shackles."
"You're weird."
The two had themselves some uninterrupted fun for the next hour, much to the amusement of the security teams spying on them through the security cameras. As long as the judge didn't go too far, what he and the prisoner shared would be allowed to run its course. And if there was a pregnancy involved, it was just another child to be contributed to the Dominion. The High Marshal chose Jessel Thorne to undertake this assignment because, aside from the fact that judges held all the power and resources necessary to complete their tasks, Jessel had just the right skills to get under people's skin. If measured by a Vit-o-matic Tester, it would undoubtedly point out his higher-than-average charisma.
His mission was to turn Lissandra Maxson into a loyal citizen of the Dominion. It wouldn't happen overnight, and definitely not within a year. But if he got her to trust him, and by extension trust the new world order, he would've succeeded in his mission.
Jessel spooned in against the woman's back and pulled the sheets over them. Lissandra, exhausted from their exertions, had fallen still and silent in his arms. Once, she wouldn't have let him touch her. Now, she wouldn't sleep without it. He was making progress, and he was proud of his work.
The judge soaked up the warmth of her skin, smelled the gentle fragrance of her hair, and admired the tattoo adorning the nape of her lovely neck. It depicted three intricate gears surrounding a double-edged sword, with the words 'chalybe aeternum' inscribed on a fluttering banner woven artistically across the formation. More tattoos were found further down, the symbols of the Brotherhood, around her right leg. There, the words 'Ad Victoriam' covered a generous part of her outer thigh.
She'd marked herself as a reminder of where she came from. Lost Hills created a people who had the same ambitions and drive as the Dominion. Their methods were questionable, irrational even, but they managed to survive the apocalypse. They were missing something. In a way, meeting the Dominion gave them the spark to improve themselves. And as they are slowly absorbed into their new society, their identity stripped away to make room for true nationalistic zeal, the Brotherhood would at last achieve their manifest destiny. They won't see it that way, not at first, but they will in time.
"Jessel, will you help my people in Tartarus?" Lissandra whispered.
So far, things were going relatively well for the penal colony. Warden Knox was toeing the line set up by the judges, but his handling of the prisoners seemed to be fair so far. The temptation to cross that line was still there, there was no doubt about it. That's what Jessel's team was there for, just to ensure that the High Marshal's great project of acclimatization worked.
"I'll do what I can." The judge replied, pulling her tighter to his chest. "Take comfort in knowing that the Dominion recognizes their value. Time will heal the wounds we inflicted on each other, it always does. The hate will not last."
"That is all I ask." The woman sighed, "Thank you."
After all that's happened, Lissandra still couldn't sleep. She lay awake throughout the night, trapped in Jessel's embrace. Her mind was occupied with too many things, she didn't even notice the horrid snarl of her lover snoring behind her. Her gaze drifted lazily across the walls, through the dim stream of moonlight pouring out of the cracks of the window shutters, then finally to the glinting piece sticking out of the rolled holster sitting on top of the nightstand.
Lissandra's eyes widened as an idea formed in her head.
The Dominion took everything from her, including her freedom. Uprooted from all she'd known, like the Indians of old, broken down into a million pieces just to be put back together in a shape so alien she wouldn't recognize herself. Now she'd given up what was left of her dignity by sleeping with one of their own. And all that just to buy a little favor from the judge, to keep her people alive. She wondered what was stopping her from doing something dangerous, something reckless. All she had to do was slide out of Jessel's arms, grab the gun and make a run for it.
She contemplated for a moment about the judge himself. Could she do it? Could she bring herself to kill him too?
The woman never got her answer, her planning phase was short-lived. The gentle hum of the Sentinel drone from the far corner of the room reached Lissandra's ears, and a quick glance in its direction made her think twice about carrying out her ill-fated attempt. The drone was watching her, ready to defend its master. She wouldn't get within two paces of the judge's gun before it painted the walls and floor with her guts.
Suddenly she was back to it, that same feeling of resignation that caused her to settle in to her golden cage. The spark of rebellion, of her desire to escape, was gone as quickly as it had come. She would never be free of this place.
Lissandra closed her eyes and let the tears spill down her cheeks.
Little John Jackson awoke to the cramped clutches of the old couch, and he sat up slowly as the aged leather stuck tight to his skin after soaking up the sweat from the other night's ministrations. They had to settle for the couch as their combined weight, not to mention the range of frenetic activities they performed therein, broke the bed. John insisted that the Dove's Nest was using cheap wood for their furniture, with some fancy varnish to make it look pretty. Regardless, he had a great time although he didn't get that much sleep.
Molly had gone up and dressed herself ahead of him. She was in the washroom, preparing for her day, while John was struggling to get himself into his pants. Like the women in his life, his clothes were always tighter before he worked his way in, then all of a sudden they fit him like a glove. But with Molly, it wasn't just a brief fling. He had plans, and he wanted to play it for keeps.
After his pants came the belt, then the shirt, then his socks. Snowball eyed him from the spot he'd picked out next to the threshold, watching in silence as the man looked everywhere for the missing better half of his pair of boots.
"Now where the hell's my damn shoe?" John muttered.
The dog lifted his head at his master's plight, crept through the underside of the collapsed bed, and brought out the aforementioned half. Snowball's tail wagged happily after seeing John's satisfied smirk, and he let out a soft whine to beg for his reward.
"Good boy." Little John patted him on the shoulder. "We'll have breakfast soon, although don't count on me spoiling you for another steak, y'hear?"
His belly was grumbling, demanding to be sated. For a man of his size, John possessed a giant's appetite. Molly finished with her morning wash and rejoined him on the couch. The other night, she'd been a mess of tangled hair, hearty laughter with the wildness of an untamed mare. Come the morn, she was back to her beautiful, powdered and neatly ironed-out self. The flamboyant colors and fancy tassels of her ruffled dress, with those long legs covered in black silk stockings, set his desires aflame.
John had a giant's appetite, and that didn't limit itself to food alone.
"You done and made me the happiest gal in all a'Four Seasons, sugar." Molly drawled as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, looking on with sparkling wide eyes into John's adoring face. "All those years lost between us, consider them all forgotten."
She closed her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her forehead, "Do you need to leave town so soon?"
John shrugged, "The train's still undergoing repairs, and it ain't due to be done for a couple more days. Why you askin'?"
"Well..." Molly was hesitant to reveal the reason behind her question, but after a few short words of encouragement from Little John, she soon spilled the beans. "Reese Dolarhyde made me an offer to come to Salvación and work as a maid for his sister Lily. I want you to know that I plan on accepting."
John wasn't surprised that her employer went ahead and did the same as he always did with his favorites in the brothel. Molly was a hard worker, a good and pretty one too. From what he heard about Lily Dolarhyde, the little flower of her clan, she was never spared the best. The Dolarhydes were pretty stuck up, but that didn't mean they were all bad people. Not to John's knowledge anyhow. If Molly was headed up there, she was just going to be a maid- not a courtesan. "That's great news, Molly! I'm glad things are lookin' up for you."
"Oh... I thought you weren't gonna like what I had to say."
"Now why wouldn't I like the thought of my gal getting a ticket to the high life?"
"I know, I know." Molly giggled sheepishly, "Was silly of me to think that way. I just thought you'd hate the idea of me being so far away from you, is all. Salvación is a long way from the tracks. We won't be able to see each other so often."
John lovingly stroked her neck, making her shiver as his rough fingers clashed with the softness of her skin. "Darlin', you're happy and I want you to stay happy. Go to Salvación, get comfy with them stuck up Hightownies. I'll find you there, and I'm gonna make sure your nights never get lonely."
"You mean that, sugar?"
"Cross my heart."
Molly gave him a peck on the cheek and she bounced up off the couch, "Well goodness me, you just made my day! I'll go on down an' tell Mr. Dolarhyde."
Sensing her excitement, Snowball started bouncing himself and was tempted to chase after Molly when she trotted off downstairs. John told him to heel, they were heading elsewhere. "Come, boy. Let's make a quick stop at the market."
The Dove's Nest was coming back to life after a brief period of inactivity. The barkeep, the innkeeper, the waiters and waitresses, the whores and the establishment muscle, had all a good night's sleep. Now, it was time to get back to work.
The barkeep, with all his lovely assistants, started grabbing shot glasses and filling them up with moonshine or top-shelf whiskey once the patrons started pouring in through the doors. The innkeeper started listing names and assigning rooms, right after the feisty daughters of sin lassoed their prey and reeled them in for a few hours of passion. The muscle, big and burly thugs hired by Mr. Reese Dolarhyde to keep the riffraff from mishandling the merchandise or causing an unneeded stir, stood at attention behind and in front of the entrances.
The man himself, Reese Dolarhyde, rarely left his office which was situated above the floor where the game tables and stage were located. It offered an unobstructed view of everything; from the dancers that came to provide the customers a good show, to every table where the chips, cards and dice were dealt with the flick of a man's wrist. He had cameras in places where his office couldn't quite be as well, for the owner above all else enjoyed watching his customers have their way with the merchandise.
"Mr. Jackson!"
Little John winced as he was stopped from making the last step off the staircase. Almost as if on cue, Dolarhyde's men surrounded the giant. Every one of them had the same brand of nastiness on them. Though Dolarhyde required they wash up regularly to keep the civility of his establishment on point, there was always a hint of disgust, some greasiness in their composure that turned away any goodwill. Beneath the brim of their hats were the snarling lips of rabid dogs, and the eyes of lecherous coyotes.
John knew what kind of men they were. They weren't wont to touch the workers of the place or the girls, nor did they harm the patrons any more than they were told to, but they were sure as hell were savage towards those who crossed the big boss. In his case, he'd gone and broke something that he hadn't paid up for.
"Thinking of running off without paying for damages?" Reese Dolarhyde descended from up on high, the heels of his boots knocking loud against the wooden stairs. "Now that sort of thing is ungentlemanly of you."
Reese Dolarhyde was a tall and thin balding man with the constitution of a leafless sapling. Wide spectacles sat on the crooked bridge of his nose, which barely covered the tiny shrewd eyes that seemed to peer into the world through the constricting lens of a microscope. Like all people who hailed from Hightown Salvación, Reese wore his money on his suit. The metaphor wasn't quite lost on anyone, for the rich could pay for their gold and silver to adorn every piece of their suits to advertise their wealth to the world. The threads were made of silk, the finish trimmed with gold, even some of his teeth were capped in silver.
Little John knew he could take on those men. He'd done it before, he wouldn't be a Railsplitter if he hadn't. Still, he wasn't about to make himself an enemy of the Dolarhydes just for a lousy bed. "Alright, ya got me. How much do I owe you?"
Dolarhyde got his caps, and John was told to leave. They weren't going to ban him from the Nest forever, although John had little reason to return now that Molly was headed elsewhere, but he wasn't allowed to come back until things were a bit more squared between him and Reese.
It suited John just fine. He didn't have to say goodbye to Molly. She was going to use his train to get to Salvación, so he could at least get to bring her there himself.
He headed over to the market before the sun got too high up in the sky. As always, in the hot Texan days, the heat and dust made for nasty killers. The noise and bustle led him to the center of Summertown. Long ropes and rusted cables stretched above the marketplace like the strands of a web, hoisting aloft giant tarps of canvas to shield the people from the harrowing glare of the sun. Arranged in the same weblike manner, stalls peddling all manner of goods were erected all around. Vendors and hawkers beckoned to potential customers, proudly displaying their affordable produce, commonly striking the stark contrast between them and the expensive shops in Salvación.
The great and old water tower, which predated Summertown, stood in the middle of the square. Beneath its rickety steel beams, which swayed dangerously and groaned from the blowing of the winds, was the auction house. This place wasn't Four Seasons turf, it was owned by a private organization whose roots reached far away down South, some bunch of traders called the House of Commerce.
In the auction house, there was a particular brand of merchandise sold, one that should've remained buried and forgotten when the Old World dealt away with it. Alas, with the advent of the nuclear apocalypse, civilization took more than a couple of steps back.
The House dealt with slaves, and have been for some time.
While the practice was overall frowned upon, people looked the other way when the merchandise involved captured raiders and all other unsavory characters plucked from the Wasteland. Excused as some form of punishment, fitting enough for scum, Four Seasons tolerated the operations of the House. But as far as Little John was concerned, they weren't going to stain his tracks. They'd approached him with offers, to help facilitate the transport of chems and slaves, before. John turned them all down, and reiterated his refusal when they insisted- at gunpoint.
As much as he hated raiders, he hated slavers a whole lot more. People mocked the Jacksons for being a little bit more of the moral side of society, but they were proud of the distinction.
"Morning, Johnny!" An ammo peddler greeted the giant as he approached the stall. The peddler, a short man with a funny warhawk hairdo and belts upon belts of 5.56's wrapped around his tiny body, opened up some old cases for Little John to pick through. "Nice ta see ya in town. Got some stuff to trade with me?"
"Not this time, Jed." John scrutinized each round for some .44's, tossing aside the bent ones and setting aside the good ones. "All I have are pure caps, no stuff for trade."
Jedediah Swallow was always on the lookout for the leftovers in Little John's cargo. Because the peddler offered so many discounts in exchange for the opportunity to pick through the best of the lot, John often looked the other way as Jed pilfered the goods to be sold the next day.
"Hey, check it out." Jed whispered as though preparing to deal with some illicit material. The peddler brought out a shiny bronze-colored coin with a silver border, and placed it in his friend's palm.
John squinted at the intricate symbols pressed into the metal. On one side was half the head of some serious old man he'd never known or met before, and the other depicted the head of a bald eagle. The number ten was inscribed on either side, indicating that it was some form of currency from some distant country. "The hell is that?"
"It's a deck."
"A what?"
"A deck!" Jed explained excitedly, "Y'know, deck? Dee-cees, Dominion credits?"
"I'll be right honest, Jed." John laughed, "Ya lost me."
"This coin's the stuff folks down South use to buy stuff. Come on, you've heard about the Dominion same as anyone in Summertown! And the way I figured, they don't use caps down there either."
"Now what kind of people would turn down caps for that thing?"
"You kidding?" Jed snatched the coin out of John's hand, surprised at his skepticism. "That's real silver on the border! Real value in their shit, now that's the kind of people who're probably riding high like the folks in Hightown!"
John shook his head, "I heard the stories, and I don't believe a word of it. The Dominion's a myth, some Wasteland legend a kook high on med-x dreamed up from a bad trip."
"Oh yeah?" Jed challenged, "Then how come them Housey-boys got so much of their stuff to sell? Where'd the guns come from? The other fancy and high-tech shit they got? Them myths got some substance on 'em, I'd say they're pretty real."
John sighed and pressed a bag of caps in the peddler's hands, "Believe what ya wanna believe, Jed. Take my damn caps and leave me the hell out of it."
The Dominion Brotherhood War was the latest talk of the town, but from the way it sounded to most people in Four Seasons it was the stuff of fairytales. Airships that could cut mountains in half, war machines that could walk like men, and armies so large they could outnumber the Four Seasons population a hundred times over. No one has ever dared to venture out into the wilderness to find out for themselves, no one cared enough to try. There were enough things to worry about in the home counties. The only living proof that there were other communities besides Four Seasons was the House of Commerce, who claimed to have come from the Southlands.
As far as John was concerned, the House best returned to their lands and never came back. Their trade was affecting Four Seasons, and not in a good way.
After making his purchases, and feeling very light on caps, he headed for the workshop to check on his rig. But on the way there, he had to make another pass near the auction house. He didn't think much about walking that route, he just felt like it was the shortest way through.
He spotted the men and boys lined up in a single row on stage, ready to be bid on like horses fresh out of the ranch. The auctioneer started small, pitting each customer's money against the other. The slaves were the pick of the crop, all strong and healthy. Curiously, there weren't any women or girls for sale. John's ears were quick to pick up on the rumors running around the crowd. The Crowes already purchased them right off the trucks and hauled them off for Salvación, to work the hydroponics farms or to simply warm their beds.
Disgusted, John doubled his pace before he lost his temper.
"Five hundred, I got five hundred! Do I hear five-fifty? Five-fifty from the gentleman with the ragged beanie!"
John was running now, running with his eyes staring straight ahead but unseeing.
"Number 23 sold at six hundred, now moving to Number 24! Starting bid at one hundred!"
Suddenly, some guy came out of nowhere and got in John's path. The gentleman in him told him to pump the brakes a little, apologize and move on. The bruiser in him, which spoke the loudest, told him to keep moving. He listened to the latter, and John would later debate whether or not he did the right thing.
The man he knocked to the ground was Simon Crowe. A short Napoleon 5'6, dark haired with dark skin, Italian-Irish cocky bastard with the signature hair-trigger Crowe temper to match. Not the nastiest in the clan, but nasty enough that the tough guys of Summertown ought to steer clear from.
John wasn't a tough guy from Summertown, so the Crowes didn't scare him.
"Porca puttana!" Simon exploded as he shot out of the dirt, "You fucking blind, man?"
The little guy was all up in his face, his hot breath stinking of cheap booze and salty cunt. He was way too close to keep things civil, the heat was terrible, and John simply wasn't feeling apologetic. Not to a Crowe. "I got eyes alright, and I see a cockroach looking right up at me. Get outta my face 'fore I squish ya." There were more guys coming, all of them were Crowe thugs and they were drawing on him, but John didn't care. His blood was boiling, narrowing his vision till all he could see was little Simon.
Simon was reaching for the gun hanging by his hip, a .357 SW Model 13. Powerful gun, not exactly the type for a quick-draw but it had a nasty bite. John had his own shooting iron nestled snugly under his shoulder, too far up to pull out quick enough. The double-barreled shotgun was out of the question, but he did have his knife tucked behind him.
Simon's red face grew pale all of a sudden as the tip of John's blade rammed between his teeth and poked ever so painfully at the roof of his mouth.
"Go ahead, pard." John twisted the knife a bit, making Simon whimper. "Reach for yer piece, I fuckin' dare ya. Before them thugs of yours open up on me, I'd be driving Miss Bowie right into yer fuckin' skull. We'd both be dead men, that what you want?"
Fear beats rage most times, and Simon figured it was a terribly hot but beautiful summer day. He still had money to make, food to eat, whores to fuck, and all the best chems right out of the House's stock to shoot himself up with. There was no need for the blade to mess all that up. Right before someone went to get the sheriff, Simon motioned for his men to lower their guns. He was still fuming, but he figured he'd get Little John for that one day soon.
"Vaffanculo, Little John." He spat his blood on the ground, "You'd better look over your shoulder from now on, you hear?"
That wasn't going to be the last time they'd see each other, but John welcomed the danger. All of it, just to rub some dirt on the Crowes, and he was feeling damn proud of himself.
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