The Twenty-Seventh Day of Dark: 11:00 AM: LOG 0026
Queenstown is as opulent and mind-bogglingly overdone as you'd expected it to be. The streets are paved in the finest artificial marble, and the roads are lined with walls of the finest imported trees and shrubbery. Everything is pristine, orderly, and perfect. It makes you want to shit on the ground just to piss someone off. Or, perhaps, you could chip off the tiniest edge of the natural wood road signs. King's Street. Aristocracy Avenue. Royalty Court. Everything is as pompously maintained as it is named. All the while, perfectly poised members of the highest upper class of the planet parade like the world's most outlandishly ugly peacocks, wearing the finest in cutting-edge fashion and adorned with sparkling jewels and precious metals.
Theoretically, it's a world you could be part of if you were to complete the hit, but you sure as hell aren't interested in this sort of fuckery. You have better things to do with your time than flaunt wealth and spend on frivolous, stupid things that won't matter once you're dead. If anything, you'd invest in changing Alternia and, perhaps, even altering the systems in place on this bullshit planet, too. Of course, you'd still spend on yourself, but that would be secondary to your goals.
Rose and Kanaya split from you and Dave the minute of arrival. Their goal is to scout out the city on foot and in a way leagues faster than you could ever go with Dave.
That means that you get the pleasure of watching Dave. You, a troll with no medical knowledge or training, now get to care for some bullheaded bastard you're technically supposed to be killing. And, beyond that, you're getting more and more pressure from the king to do so. And to do it fast.
It's not as if it's a hard task. It's freezing cold in a vast, winding city, and just leaving Dave alone for a day or so would likely be enough to kill him without any direct involvement. But, you're in too deep. You've gotten yourself into a massive, complex clusterfuck of emotion, and this isn't anything like what you've ever dealt with before. You've never actually gotten this close to a target and, now that you have, you're realizing that you picked what might just be the worst career path possible for you. You're no cold-blooded killer. You're as soft as your stupid brother, albeit (as you like to believe) much less annoying. You're an awful troll, and you're an even worse assassin.
Beyond that, you know where John is. You know that he's alive, being fed, and even being cared for in the royal prison. But you can't just say that. You'd sound suspicious as fuck, and everyone would know you were some sort of spy at that point. You'd be removed from the group you've come to view as your odd, surrogate Human family (plus one troll), and you're not exactly keen on that idea. Sure, the professional within you is in total agreement with the idea. Betray Dave's trust, kill him, and collect your reward. But, then again, the majority of you wants to stay within this cozy, awkward little family.
So, for now, you elect to keep your mouth shut. The king still has use for John, and you're confident the dork won't be in harm's way for quite a while. Until then, you're keeping your mouth shut and your dealt hand hidden from the other players. When it's time to show your cards—be it of your own volition or due to some sort of revelation—you will, but now isn't the time.
A sharp whistle draws you from your thoughts. As your mind crashes like a burning spaceship against the grounds of some foreign planet known as reality, it dawns upon you that Dave has been calling for your aid for the past few minutes. Only now do you recognize it. "Dude, I'm freezing my ass off. My jacket's in my bag. It'd be fucking wonderful if you could help me get it on."
You nod and step forward. After Dave has his left arm in, he pulls his upper body away from the backrest. You wrap the jacket around him, lift his right arm, and gently maneuver it into the sleeve.
A satisfied sigh escapes him as he leans back and readjusts his shades. "Jesus fucking Christ, dude, where'd your brain take off to?"
"Nowhere important," you shrug.
"I can tell," Dave grunts, zipping up the front of his jacket. "It's okay, though. Everyone has those days. Your heart says 'yes' and your brain says 'no, this is too much to deal with today' and it checks the fuck out, right?" As if to reinforce this, he offers you another of his surprisingly strong smacks on the back. "Don't sweat it."
"I'm not," you reply.
"Of course you're not." A shit-eating smirk. As he turns and moves forwards, you follow.
As you reach the edge of the shuttle platform, you're greeted by a stern-faced man in a standard-issue Royal Guard outfit. White gloves, khaki suit, and a brown stripe marked by two white stars on the mandarin collar. He eyes both you and Dave over before asking exactly what you expected him to. "Documentation," he demands.
"Huh?" Dave hums.
"Documentation," repeats the harried guard.
You, meanwhile, react how you've been trained to react. You reach into your pocket, pull out a bottle, and surreptitiously pour it onto your knit gloves. From your other pocket, you produce a blank card—the sort that identification documents are printed on across all Galactic Union planets—and step forward. As you present the card, you grab onto the guard's shoulder and pull him forward, into the wet glove. A few seconds later, the guard drops.
From here, two things happen.
One. You realize that there's no going back. You've irrevocably fucked yourself over, and any benefit you could have reaped from this job is gone. There's no taking back assaulting an official, and you're certain that your certificate of indemnity won't cover this.
Two. Having completely blanked—your mind blocking out most of the reality around you—you sprint.
The Twenty-Seventh of Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0027
In a cold, dark, and completely shitty alley, it dawns upon you that you're cornered. A gate blocks one exit, and an exasperated Dave Strider blocks the other.
"What the hell was that?" he asks, removing his shades. Now, even in the dimming light of the setting sun, you can see how confused he is. "I had fake papers, dude."
You shrug.
"That was some shady fucking shit." Dave folds his arm across his chest and quirks his brow. "I mean, even for a bodyguard, that was—"
"I'm not a bodyguard," you interject. "I…." You pause. Do you really want to say this now? Certainly, there'll be another time to let this news drop. You can throw the grenade later, let it explode in your face, and escape at any time. Now, though? "I'm a criminal. I used to steal shit for a living," you lie.
Dave, to your relief and your disgust, takes the bait as if it's written in the stars. "That's cool," he shrugs. "I'm not judging. I'm a wanted activist, and I may or may not have hired people into hack into the monarchy's systems, so…. Doesn't matter to me."
"Great." You force a smile and nod. "I figured."
"Didn't know you could run that fast," he says, pulling a paper bag from a pocket on the side of his chair. "Anyhow, I got some food. Not much, but it's edible."
"I'm not hungry."
"Fair enough." From the bag, he pulls two sloppy, gross-looking salads. What you're hoping is chicken is spread out on top. "You mind if I eat yours?"
"Knock yourself out."