"Morality is just the attitudes we adopt towards those we personally dislike."
- Theodore Lambcroft, 24th President of the United States of Antegria

A/N: If you're enjoying the story so far, please consider writing a review!

ACT II

CHAPTER 18

THE ANTEGRIEN DREAM

X782

How does one define "freedom"?

It's a convoluted concept, a subject of bitter debate and nostalgia, a topic of profound argument for those who claim to cherish and protect it. Entire wars have been fought in this controversial term's name. Men have bled and died, kicked and punched, sacrificed a part of their souls for a privileged, select few that would scoff at the thought of doing the same thing in return.

That isn't patriotism. That isn't freedom. It's oppression.

Slavery was abolished in Antegria over a century ago, but just because your wrists and ankles aren't clasped in a set of irons doesn't necessarily mean you're free.

Respect your flag, respect your women, and respect your father, lessons any growing boy should adhere to in the lands we've come to recognize as the United States. Lessons that were designed to shape you into a functioning, model citizen. Lessons that were meant to bring forth joy and contentment.

Lessons that young Johannes Bolton had crumpled up and tossed aside like trash.

He could care less about the flag, he only saw a handful of uses for women, and he sure as fuck wouldn't bow before the drunken carcass he called a father. No… "father" would imply the existence of some kind of familiar bond, some sort of ancestral union, he was nothing but a fleshy sack of shit Jack happened to share a dose of blood with.

Loyalty, in our country's mind, is to keep your mouth shut, do what you're told, and pay your fucking taxes. They want us fat and lazy, slaving away in farms and iron mills, working borderline criminal wages for those who possessed a greater understanding of how the system truly worked.

Jack found it amusing, pathetic, that the Antegrien people thought themselves "free" simply because they were born Antegrien. They're all slaves to the system, in one way or the other, they just don't realize it. Liberty isn't earned, it's taken. Johannes would pity them if he could muster the compassion to do so, the world didn't have a goddamn clue what they were missing out on…

… and of how delicious true independence could prove to be.

The carnivorous teenager gnawed and chewed, ripped and thrashed, slicing at skin and bone alike with unnatural strength in an effort to savour every last drop, his darkened tongue soaking in the essence of life itself.

It was intriguing how creative the homeless could get when deciding on a place to buckle down and take refuge for a tiresome, chilly night. Anywhere from under grimy bridges, in the drainage systems, or, in this case, a moonlit alleyway, staining the walls. Jack wasn't doing the city a solid, but he wasn't doing it a disservice, either. After all, who was going to pay any mind to one less rotting bum at the soup kitchen?

The boy grimaced as he tore his now crimson fangs from the shredded neck of his victim. B positive… an exceptionally sour and tasteless meal… it was unsatisfying. These drifters were starving, exhausted, and shot up to the gills with opium, easy to hunt, and easy to off, but that was about it.

He wanted more. He wanted better.

Bolton growled like a cornered animal, leering over his handiwork in volatile agitation. There was no way this scene could pass as a traditional murder, he, yet again, grew careless, left far too much in the hands of instinct. This should have been cleaner, much, much cleaner.

Even the most prolific of serial killers would lose their breakfast stumbling across what little fourteen-year-old Jack-Jack had done. The victim, six, maybe seven decades old, now seemed more akin to the result of some twisted science experiment than a functional human being.

Guts, intestines, and a variety of other organs most wouldn't even know the name of littered the chiseled concrete below, decorating the lonely passageway in an all too familiar shade of red. His neck was practically destroyed, masticated beyond any and all reasonable repair. And an arm, which was handled a bit more roughly than Johannes intended, was absent, laying forgotten to the side as if it were an unwanted rag doll.

"Why so serious, my boy?" the voice cooed in a deceitfully soothing manner. "That nobody was further down the food chain. It was weak, it deserved to die."

Deserved? Why? The only thing this guy was guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "It's nothing, Mother… nothing at all." Johannes wrung his knuckles. "But what happens when the local militia stumbles across this? It'll be front-page news in every port, every city, folks'll be afraid to go out at night. Not good."

Draclana's simmering chuckle echoed violently throughout the vast, empty caverns of his mind. "Militia? Adorable. What are they going to do, shoot you? How arrogantly and typically human. This is why we go from town to town, my boy, there's no need for such excessive worrying."

"Bellany keeps telling me to smarten up, to pick up after myself. I don't want to force the government's hand… I… I don't…"

"Bellany is a fanatical twit," she boomed, "all those Sisters are. Who, precisely, are you oh so concerned about? Some fictitious boogeyman who might slit your throat as you sleep?"

Johannes ground his teeth in frustration. "There's Natsu Dragneel, from across the sea. He could burn this shithole clean off the map, Mother. He's older. He's… stronger."

For a brief, agonizing moment, there was no answer.

"When I return to this pitiful excuse for a civilization, when I proceed to rewrite the very laws of truth and reality, to usher in a new dawn of perfection, there will be one, and only one, Dragon Slayer standing proudly by my side, ensuring all goes according to plan…"

A rupture of ominous, startling wind howled throughout the alleyway.

"... I'm just not entirely certain if it's going to be you."

And so, as the boy was left alone, temper flaring and belly unsatisfied, he disappeared once more into the cold, desolate shadows, hoping to vent his frustrations on yet another unsuspecting victim. Twas a harsh life, but it was all he had the pleasure of knowing.

Blood. Blood and glory. If this wasn't the Antegrien Dream, Jack didn't know what was.

"The Southern extremist going by the code name "Rayne Clover" has been active since at least X788, and is the presumed mastermind behind the recent springtail infestation in Akane. She is now considered a person of military interest and a threat to Fioren public security. I can assure you, the Bolton Corporation has a significant role to play and will not allow this brazen act of terror to go unchallenged."

"Mr. Bolton! Mr. Bolton! Do you believe the Elvarans are fighting a morally ambiguous war against Arlon Rainfall? Do you believe these actions are justified?"

"Terrorism has no nationality or religion," the oligarch replied, his accented voice reverberating off the pillars of HQ's flamboyant meeting hall, "if you want real change, do it within the bounds of the law. We need to strike first and kill this uprising in its crib."

"Will New Everton deploy troops to support the Admiralty's war effort?"

"Two thousand 7th Legionnaires. There're no men or women living more qualified for the job."

More questions, more hand raising, more torment. How Crenshaw gets through all these press conferences without shooting anyone, the businessman would never know. They're always probing you, barking over each other, hooting and hollering over topics only they deem to be of any real importance, it's a narcissist's personal nightmare.

"Do you condemn the mass hangings of elvish farmers and merchants?"

"Jack, do you still intend on consolidating power in Crocus?"

"Will Fairy Tail be joining your forces in Port Ryhard?"

"The company," Bolton snarled from the podium, hoping to be heard over the endless storm of journalists and their vexing inquiries, "will always prioritize serving the interests of the people. These elvish fellows, as unfortunate as it may be, are in direct conflict with those interests. Three Roses, one way or the other, will be dealt with. Now, that's all I really have time for today, thanks."

Calling the environment strenuous to a Dragon Slayer's overly sensitive hearing would be a grievous understatement. Johannes had to bite back the urge to requip a fresh set of earplugs as he beelined swiftly to the exit, his contingent of advisors and bodyguards trailing closely behind.

As if the witches' occasional rambling wasn't enough, his mind was driven to the brink of insanity as some of the more eager occupants in the crowd attempted to halt him with a few hasty, last-second talking points, which were slowly drowned out as the towering double doors closed abruptly behind him.

Jack let out a heavy sigh the moment he was free from the public's view, his hands twitching in agitation as if he wanted to wrap them around some poor bastard's throat. Know when people say "I hate Mondays"? Well, recently, every day has been a fucking Monday.

Who knew that orchestrating an immoral, armed conflict between a magnitude of clashing factions would have so much politics involved? When was the last time he even had a drink? Eight, maybe nine days? He couldn't risk a dull in his senses, Fiore's future ruler needed to look sharp, unmoving, prepared to act.

"We can reschedule your eight o'clock, sir," one of his guys, he couldn't be troubled to remember who, butt in, "evidently you're in need of a break."

"I'm fine," Johannes quipped, dragging his feet down the almost deserted hallway back to the office he rarely bothered to visit, "now, inform General Washington, I want a full report on all that Pergrandian silver. Five Southern Wolves are dead, I want to know by who."

"The 7th Legion claims it was Vulcans, sir."

"Yeah, that's nice and all, but I want to hear the truth. Rune Knights are saying there was magic involved. If some Robin Hood's trying to fuck me, I want his name and I want his head. Get me in a room with her."

"Of course, sir."

"And send word to Makarov Dreyar I'll be popping in for a spell."

The assistant, while still portraying a mask of professionalism, raised an eyebrow in genuine concern. "You're going to Magnolia? Now?"

"Sure, why not?" Black Jack shrugged. "That a crime?"

"The Nobility would sleep better if you stayed behind your desk, Mr. President. Fiore knows of the resources and manpower you're contributing to the Rainfall campaign, we need you here, we need you safe. Perhaps it would be more practical to write a letter?"

"I want to show a united front. Tell Crenshaw I won't be sticking around HQ for long. Those dumbass Fairies aren't afraid to get their hands dirty, what kind of king shies away from a war he talked himself into?"

Reluctantly, his subordinate nodded.

"You should listen to the man," another voice, low and deep, chimed in, "if you're faced with a difficult situation, seek the tongue of no one but Johannes Bolton."

A warrior, tall and stern, leaned back patiently against a swath of gilded wallpaper as Jack and his associates turned briskly around the corner. Sharper than he looked and far more dangerous than he appeared, a dark-gray military coat concealed the bulk of the soldier's domineering form, the thin, sharpened tip of a longsword poking out near its fringe.

"Kiss ass. Howdy, Noda," Bolton exclaimed, an unnerving grin slithering across his freshly curious lips, "or, should I say, Major?"

He stood tall and saluted. "It's an honour, sir, I will be eternally grateful for your openhanded recommendation to my superiors. Yoren and Renbrook send their regards."

"Hm. I'm sure they do."

It was clear this wasn't just another friendly visit. As if there wasn't enough to agonize over as it is.

"May I borrow you for a moment, Mr. President? In private? I bring news of an… urgent matter."

The aristocrat turned to his posse observing wearily from behind. "Denzel, Holloway, wait for me up ahead. The rest of you, start making tracks."

All of them were quick to do as they were told, like a pack of well-trained dogs. In a swift manner of seconds, Earth Land's wealthiest Antegrien and the newly promoted officer found themselves completely and utterly alone.

"We haven't had the chance to check up on you," the Major began, lowering his volume to a cautious whisper, "High Command was concerned that Salamander might have ripped you limb from flaming limb. You are healthy, yes?"

"I'm not some infant who needs to suck on his mother's tits, Noda, if I wanted to be fawned over, I'd pay one of my brothels a visit. Oh, and speaking of brothels, how the hell did Mermaid Heel get brought into this diplomatic shitstorm?"

"Pure happenstance. They were working a job nearby and honed in on Akane the moment that damn wall came up. Kagura Mikazuchi ambushed a patrol of Rainfall's soldiers, and, after a bit of… persuasion, had them singing like canaries. If we didn't get to her before she got to the Council, there's a very good chance our sailor friends would be deemed enemies of the new Fiore, your Fiore."

"You scrambled her noggin?" Johannes asked.

"Staff Sergeant Renbrook's specialty. As far as that refined lady's concerned, the only foes she faced that evening weren't even human. It was an unexpected gratuity, having such a well-known witness on our side of the stand only adds to the facade, no? You have to admit, the girl tells a good story."

The oligarch's dark blue irises narrowed ferociously in a beam of glimmering sunlight that peered through a nearby window. "And that story's not going to change anytime soon, right? Memory spells are messy, unreliable, prone to alteration."

"You needn't worry. We're professionals, sir."

"Hm. I needn't worry, eh?" Jack folded his arms and tapped the sole of his boot against the chiseled flooring in devious contemplation. "Arlon and those Mermaids… I wonder…"

"They're not who I'm losing rest over, Mr. Bolton. The ice mage survived an up-and-personal encounter with the Lord Admiral himself. He's recovering, and quickly… too quickly."

"The HRS Fearless was flying the Three Roses, not the Sea Serpent, we have all the proof we could ever want, Fullbuster doesn't have shit."

Major Noda stiffened at the other man's blatant show of apathy. "His guildmates will believe him. They'll be furious, turning their swords and tempers on the wrong end of the battlefield. Then what?"

"Fairy Tail knows that path wouldn't get them anywhere. No legal guild or nobleman has the stones to back them up against the Admiralty, especially based on half-witted conspiracy theories. Makarov simply isn't in the position to do anything to Arlon."

"Yet we still expect them to kill elvish guerrillas in Arlon's name?"

"No," the brunet snapped, "we can expect them to kill elvish guerrillas in their country's name, but I see your point. Tell you what, boyo, if Snow Cone turns out to be the liability you suspect he is, I'll deal with him. Actually… screw Magnolia, that can wait. There's some big conference in Seabreeze comin' up, isn't there?"

"Aye, two days from now. Mermaid Heel guildhall. So many topics, so little time."

"Their whiskey tastes like piss and the air reeks of seaweed, but at least the women aren't half bad to look at. I'm sure that samurai broad would be ecstatic to see me again."

"Last I checked, you weren't invited, sir."

"Please, when am I ever? The company's got connections on both sides, I'll be seen as a neutral party, play mediator and douse the flames, or, fan them, if necessary. Let's give the Serpents and Mermaids someone else to spit at aside from each other. The more say we have on what happens beyond the Stormwall, the better."

The hardened officer grimaced. "You aren't flying solo again, are you?"

"I'll let a few of your boys tag along, strictly for appearances, of course. You have your orders, Major, protect Richmond. If there's nothing else-"

"Dragneel's blood."

Johannes Bolton blinked, unsure he heard him correctly, craning his neck in an unmistakable sign of agitation. "Excuse me?"

"In the 7th Legion, we don't bitch, we do as we are told. We don't hesitate, we don't question, but please, sir, I have to know. What are you doing with Dragneel's blood? What experiment? What magic?"

"Oh, just taking it down to the shop, hoping to trade it in for some mind your own fucking business. You're right, you are a soldier, probably the smartest damn soldier I've ever laid my self-serving eyes on, so don't sweat the small stuff, Noda. Save your brain cells for when they're actually needed."

Major Noda gave no hint of anger, discouragement, or disbelief, only a vague, perplexing emotion Jack couldn't bring himself to decipher.

The secrecy of the Chemical B Program would remain concealed, even to those considered his finest and most trusted. There was no other way.

As expected of a true professional, the warrior didn't hiss, lash out, or argue, only responding with a quick and somewhat stiff military salute before taking his leave, the clank of his heavy iron armour fading into the distant nothingness of New Everton Headquarters.

Johannes forced back a scowl.

Fairy Tail, Mermaid Heel, the Royal Family, the Rainfall Admiralty, the Magic Council, for an Antegrien that claims to hold honesty in such high regard, there were an awful lot of folks being lied to.

But you know how the saying goes, how can you tell when a politician's lying?

His lips are moving.

CONNOR THE POET PRESENTS...

DANCE OF DRAGONS
A FAIRY TAIL FANFICTION