Alright, this took me awhile to write. AP English sucks more an I anticipated. I didn't consider that rather than learn useful writing skills we'd be doing nothing but poetry analysis and that the class would be full of annoying people who interpret everything to mean that the writer is depressed. I'm going to pretend that I don't totally hate it because I've got a few friends in the class and they make it quasi-bearable and they like the class. Anywho, this was originally supposed to be one chapter, but it was getting too long so I split it into two parts, one with Rai and Omi, and one with Kim and Min. The next part should be coming soonish and then things will really get rolling.
Spadefire: I know. Out of all the wacky dragons, Layla is my favorite too. Thanks for the review! :^)
Disclaimer: I'm actually done with this. Nothing is going to happen if I don't so what's the point?
Cadet Greenberg Receives Career Advice
Cadet Greenberg paced his room, each measured click of his heels a part of a well thought out message: S.O.S. He'd been aboard the Hamish for one week and he was already starting to go crazy. They were currently floating just off the coast of China, not three hundred miles from a squadron of ships assigned to tracking the most dangerous rebel group in the Empire, and they were just floating here, not doing much of anything. The most excitement they were likely to see was the prisoner transfer later, and even then, that was going to be an ordeal.
Making matters worse, they were dealing with the Tennant. Captains Jones and Damara had this weird friendly rivalry, one upmanship thing going on, so the transfer would be conducted with all the associated formality and decorum. Thusly, he actually had to be there. That would mean Cadet Tyler would see him, and then she would blab to the rest of the class about his assignment, and then they would laugh at him. They would laugh at how the great Omi Greenberg had been reduced to the Hamish, a crazy inventor's pet ship.
His communicator buzzed, breaking his thoughts. He picked it up from his footlocker and read the message. "507 at 1300 hours. Be on the top deck in twenty for briefing." Shit. He thought he would have more than an hour until the transfer. And only twenty minutes to get into his dress uniform, make himself look presentable, mentally prepare, and cross the ship.
With a well practiced motion, he flipped the latch on his footlocker and started pulling it apart in his quest for the familiar hunter green cotton blend with gold piping of his dress uniform. He hadn't thought to take care when packing, he hadn't thought he would need to care about his appearance on the Hamish. It was supposed to be the place good officers went to die, not prisoner transfers where you had to be presentable. After a couple heartwrenching moments where he thought he'd forgotten his uniform in his fit of justified fury, he pulled the familiar fabric from the bottom of the trunk.
He made quick work of changing and upon noting the remaining time, pulled his boots on, scuff marks and all, and ran from his quarters, still buttoning his high-necked shirt. He could still make it if he hurried.
He darted across thin metal bridges, glowing blue with the light from the generators, and through dark bronze corridors, careful to avoid a pair of arguing mechanists, then up a set of spiral stairs to the polished wood top deck and across to Captain Damara.
The Captain was a tall, well built man with almost effortless perfect posture and thick, salt and pepper, slicked back hair. Despite his command of a lesser ship, his uniform was always spotless and his boots were so shiny you could see your reflection on his calves if you were so inclined. His personal grooming was likewise immaculate, Omi could not recall ever seeing him with so much as a single hair out of place. His meticulously polished ceremonial sabre gleamed in the sun, casting darting spots of bright light across the mahogany deck.
"Cadet," he said, his voice cutting just as sharply as his sabre. "You're late."
"I apologize for my tardiness," he said, maintaining eye contact. It would not do to show weakness. Captain Damara was a personable man, with a preoccupation for punctuality, but he was still a Captain in the Imperial Air Force. While Cadet Greenberg may have hated his assignment, he still fully recognized the importance of Captain Damara's opinion of him. "I make no excuses, it was my fault entirely."
"Your future career may depend entirely on being there before your competition," he said, his sharp tone softening a bit. "Remember that."
"I will do my best," he replied, bowing his head respectfully.
Captain Damara proceeded to lecture him on procedure and decorum and warned him about this particular prisoner. He'd apparently been caught up in one of the larger rebel groups, the Silver Dragons, not the most wanted group, but certainly up there, and had a history of ill conceived escape attempts, robbery, and assault. However, just like anything involving the Hamish, it wasn't nearly as exciting as it sounded. Sure, the prisoner was a thug, but that was all. It wasn't like they took a rebel leader. They had a stupid teenager, caught stealing artifacts from a small-time noble's manor. He hadn't even taken anything valuable, just some shitty old coin.
It's all going to be over in a few minutes anyway, he thought. He wasn't sure yet if he was thinking about the transfer or his reputation. There was no way the transfer could end well for him. For a few minutes, he stood at the railing, staring at the Tennant growing bigger in the distance. He remembered the last time he'd been on the top deck of a ship in flight, the field trip to the Resplendent, it'd been so beautiful, all the clouds laid out before him like a wide open white sea, the sun shining behind him, creating waves of shadow. The wonder he felt then had been replaced with a growing sense of dread. Nothing good would come out of this ship.
As it came within docking distance Captain Damara gestured for him to join him at the edge of the gangplank. He scurried across the top deck and did his best to straighten his uniform a little more. For a moment, he took his eyes off the guard across from him and turned to look at the contingent from the Tennant. Coming across the gangplank were Cadet Tyler and Captain Jones, followed by a decile of their guards, in the middle of which was the prisoner.
He had a dumbfounded look on his face, like he'd never seen sunlight before and was having a tough time making sense of it all. As they grew closer, he saw the prisoner start to breath heavy, as if he were having a panic attack. He looked a little older than he was, he would assume somewhere between eighteen and twenty, rangy build, dark skin, scruffy hair, dirty clothes, and patchy stubble. He looked pretty much like your standard issue gangster, dirty, disorganized, unkempt, absolutely revolting.
The Captains met at the edge of the gangplank, crossed sabres, and with the swords crossed, exchanged the prisoner's paperwork. Captain Jones nodded her head and took Captain Damara's place beside Omi and Captain Damara received the prisoner's chain from one of the guards. The guard bowed, the Captain motioned for him to rise and then turned and started to lead the prisoner towards the stairwell aboard the Hamish.
However, as the prisoner set foot on the top deck, the strangest thing happened. Cadet Greenberg made eye contact with the convict, his deep emerald eyes grew wide in shock. The boy muttered in a voice so soft you'd think he'd been silent the whole time, "No. No. This can't be..." then, the prisoner tipped his head back and laughed. It was a raucous, mad laugh, echoing throughout the sky. As he laughed, the prisoner sank to his knees, every now and then a word escaping his mad laughter. Never more than a quick word or phrase, "Dojo," "Kimiko,", "Clay," "I can't believe he..." before succumbing again to his insanity.
The guards watched the prisoner intently as his fit wound down into quiet sobs and, finally, stunned silence. One of the guards from the Tennant lifted him to his feet and he plodded along behind Captain Damara, his eyes glazed and his expression vacant.
What disturbed Omi most was not the dead look on the prisoner's face, not the mad laugh, not the muttering, but the unshakable feeling that he knew the boy.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been there. His life was now measured in bananas and pudding cups and dinnerware thrown when Mr. King thought he was being annoying. Spoons and bowls meant it was the morning "oatmeal," and forks or knives were for whatever they were passing off as dinner, mugs or plates were anytime missiles. He had to admit that for a crazy, emaciated man, he had a good throwing arm and stellar aim. Although for the low threshold for annoyance, it may very well have been through practice. Still, through all the boredom and thrown plates, he made good use of his time.
First, he'd noticed his condition. He was by no means out of shape, but compared to how he remembered himself, almost entirely lean, toned muscle, he was off. To remedy this, he'd started working out to the fullest extent his chain,and bad shoulder allowed. That led to Mr. King throwing things, claiming first, that it was annoying the crap out of him and that their captors weren't feeding them well enough to build muscle. Of course, he took the spoons in stride and the advice with a grain of salt, this was a madman who divided his time between sleeping, snarking, and pacing.
Secondly, he finally figured out what was going on. After the blast, Chase had captured him, planted false memories in his head via black magic voodoo, suppressed his wind powers with the same voodoo, and tossed him in a cell with either a dedicated actor or a crazy person. He was more inclined to think crazy person. He just needed to figure out how he was getting out of here and Dragon Dude was toast. Warm, buttery toast that lands butter side down and disappointed everybody in the kitchen.
More than anything else though, he wished he knew what was going on with the others. If Chase had taken them, he hoped that they weren't subject to this. It was bad enough that he had to suppress fake memories, he didn't want to know what Chase had cooked up for the rest of them. Still, he hoped they were free. If they were, he wanted them to leave him be, but he wouldn't object to a rescue.
His cellmate actually had good escape ideas. As he claimed, after one notable attempt, that was the reason they only gave him transfer prisoners as cell mates. Otherwise, they might be there long enough to allow for a viable escape. He told Raimundo parts of his latest scheme, but he hadn't quite finished it yet and didn't trust him enough not to blab to the guards. Of course, Raimundo didn't trust him either. He was either insane or working for Chase, neither option made him an ideal escape partner. Still, his ideas sounded good.
Once he got by the whole, probably working for the enemy and throws things thing, Mr. King really probably wasn't that bad a cell mate. He kept to himself when he wasn't snarking, he was at the very least interesting to talk to, even if some of his stories about his days as a genius, billionaire, playboy, jetsetter sounded completely ridiculous, and while he could tell the man didn't believe his stories about being Dragon of the Wind, he humored them. That alone made it easier to concentrate on those memories.
He got up of his cot and dodged a plate turned frisbee before dropping to the floor for a series of pushups. He needed the physical activity to keep his mind off his captivity and powerlessness and on his escape. He had the beginnings of a plan. The other day a knife skittered under his cot after he'd apparently been especially annoying and the guard thankfully came to collect their silverware when his cellmate was asleep so he could convince the man that they'd only received one knife between them It now resided under his matress. Now, he just needed to wait until one of the guards got a little too close. It wasn't a very big blade, nothing like his swords, but it was enough to do damage in the right hands. His hands. Then it would just be a matter of getting the keys to his handcuff and it was time for iguana toast.
Judging from the now familiar metallic grinding sound of the dead bolt sliding free far ahead of schedule, he might just get his chance now. He reached under the springs and closed his fingers around the cool metal handle. Light flooded the cell as the guard entered. He shot to his feet, careful to keep the knife behind his back, out of sight of the guard. He came closer, Raimundo wasn't sure if the clinking and sparkling of keys were real or imagined.
"Alright temp," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Time for your transfer." He reminded himself that it was all an act. No matter what happened, there wouldn't actually be a "prisoner transfer." At the very worst, he would be put in solitary confinement or something.
Although perhaps it would be best to edit his plans now, because if it his chain was unlocked and he kept the knife hidden on his person, he could get much farther into Chase's citadel before he needed to use it and call undue attention to himself. He quickly shoved it into the waistband of his prison issue pants. That was another thing he was going to make Chase pay for. There would be many glorious kneecappings to be had over the ugly green cotton things.
The man unlocked the chain at the wall and led him out of the cell, ignoring Mr. King's only half joking complaints that he should be released for good behavior. As he left the cell, he noted that the smooth coppery metal of the dungeon hallways looked nothing like any part of Chase's rock fortress he'd ever seen before. That didn't concern him though. The citadel was huge, there were sure to be places he'd never seen before. This was just a part of the citadel.
They walked further along the corridors, ignoring the heckling from the other prisoners and up a set of spiral stairs that creaked and moaned with every step they took. For some reason, his breath came in short bursts and he almost felt nervous. He knew he could take anybody in Chase's guard, he shouldn't have been nervous. This wasn't going to be that bad. When they tried to put him in the new cell, or took him to Chase, or whatever, he'd pull his knife and everything would be fine. He would then rejoin his friends and go back to the temple and hunt down the wu. Everything would be just fine.
Still, the knife blade burned cold against his back.
Then they reached the top of the stairs. The only thing in the world seemed to be the rush of wind and a sea of cloud before them. Not the parallel of green clad soldiers, not the wooden deck polished to a mirror-like shine, not the strange vessel just on the other side of a wooden plank, nothing but wind and cloud. His guard handed his chain off to a dark woman, it's silvery links gleaming in the sunlight, and she led him across the plank. He followed her, but didn't really. His body went along, but his mind was back at the temple, watching it crumble and fade to white around him.
As he came back from his ethereal journey, they reached the other ship, tower, castle in the sky, whatever it was, and he saw a sight that stopped his heart. Standing in a group of soldiers, still barely shoulder high on the shortest of them, head shining like a beacon, was Omi. When he made eye contact with the boy, he knew. The boy didn't recognize him. His best friend didn't know he was, the kid had been like one of his little brothers and now nothing. Nothing.
His life had been for nothing. The last three years of his life, nothing. Winning showdowns, saving the world, nothing more than a half-remembered delusional dream.
So I really want reviews on this chapter because I've got a couple of questions for you guys. First off, do you want me to continue with this fic? If so, what would you like to see from it? Is there anything about this fic that isn't working and how should I fix it? Anyway, leave me a review anyway because I like reviews and they're awesome.