A week has passed since the day of the attack. Roman is no closer to getting Ion home since last time, but at least now he's getting some of his good deeds back. A little trip down memory lane.
Chapter Eleven - Accolades and Serenades
With the exception of a very angry call from Mabel—livid, understandably, that she learned about the shooting from the news a day after instead from her own brother—the days following the attack had been completely and utterly anticlimactic.
Not trying to be smart; he really meant that in the best way possible.
Whether on the national level or the dregs of gangsters, Roman's political prediction has once again been proven to be near-prophetic. At least that's what the media keeps saying.
The other gangs and families had indeed offered support, going as far as marking Woods and her co-conspirators for death with a hefty bounty on their heads. There were no more shootouts or assaults, raids, and carbombing—only a hunt. A silent, near-bloodless hunt throughout the whole metropolitan area that was immediate and fruitful. Some already wore concrete shoes or slept in barrels; but no trace of the snake herself yet. There were also rumours about the brewing situation down south, as the Ligerians caught wind of the plausible participation that some of their more ambitious counterparts had.
Either way, Roman was confident that come next week Bonnie Woods will be no more. Death or exile. Preferably the former.
All in all, the situation quickly returned to normal. More safe, at least. But that didn't stop Hei and Lav from insisting that everyone should stick together for a while longer, just in case. And who was Roman to refuse an executive suite, room service, and a paid holiday courtesy of the NLP for his heroic action.
"Do you haveee…" she trailed off, squinting at her hand of cards, "any fours?"
"Go fish," replied the boy, sounding slightly less bored than usual.
"Goeesh!"
The younger boy practically slammed his array of cards on the table in a mistaken belief of victory.
"Ion, for the third time, that's not how you play!"
He smiled at the shenanigans that unfolded the next table over.
Roman felt that the little staycation was good for the kids. Isaiah seemed—whether out of his own volition or an attempt to curry favour after his illegal purchases—more willing to play nice with the twins and Ion. Well, nice was just Isaiah-speak for "tolerating" people more, but Roman and Neo welcomed the little change. After all, a twelve year old boy had all the right to act his age.
Holiday ends today though, at least for Roman.
Duty sort of called: the New Labour Party will be holding a press conference to give him an accolade, in recognition of his bravery as a public servant in the face of danger. Neo was a little cranky that he was the only one getting an award. Half joking, half serious. But he managed to defuse the situation by promising her a seaside ice cream date later. Practically perked her right up.
Admittedly they haven't had the time to meet in a while, but sometimes the woman makes it difficult for Roman to remember that he was the younger one in this relationship.
"Well, I better get going before the post-lunch rush hour starts," he declared, putting on his suit jacket. "Really hope this press conference won't last long."
"Ya goin' to the bar after, right?" asked Lavender. "Go by Anyyston through Almond-on-the-ave. Forddllech is under some road work, and hoo-wee the traffic was unbearable."
"Wait, seriously? When did that happen?"
"Yesterday," replied Hei, gaze remaining on his book. "We went out to get dinner. Ended up just walking to the place."
"Don't drink too much…"
Roman smiled, giving Neo a quick peck on the lips. He felt a little tug on his trousers before he could even start walking: it was none other than Ion. Indigo eyes peered up. Concerned. It was almost as if the boy strained his neck with how much it had to tilt up.
"Loma come back?"
One other thing he found out in the week or so was that Ion had a way with wriggling into people's hearts. Maybe just Roman's specifically, but saying that made him feel better and less easy.
"Of course I will." Roman kneeled to give the boy a hug. "I'll be back when you wake up tomorrow, okay?"
Only a little, tiny hum came in response. What Roman can only assume as acknowledgement.
"All right." Giving the boy a pat on the head, Roman stood back up. A little nod to the other adults; a farewell to the twins; a reminder to his ward: "Isaiah, behave."
"Why are you singling me out?!"
(-S.o.T-)
244 square metres of space backing the Gyleth River. Interchanging lines of patterns of bricks continued as the basis of the building, only interrupted whenever clay curved along yellow-tinted windows. Six storeys high. A glass dome in the centre and its supporting beams seemed out of place, a sign of recent post-construction renovation. The HQ of New Labour, named after one of its original pioneers, Ieuan Kerdie, was a rather humble thing. At the very least when compared with the Progressives or Liberals.
Actually, scratch that. Compared to the former's phallus tower of sky-sore and the latter's palace of drab concrete beige, Kerdie Building was definitely humble. Eye catching.
He's gone on a tangent again.
Thanks to the suggestions, Roman arrived before the press conference had begun.
That said, a lot of mass has gathered in front of the NLP headquarters: from media to supporters and others. Almost the entire block was cordoned off by the Met. He can imagine how jam-packed the main street must be, so Roman had shown his driver through a, relatively, quieter back entrance. The NLPs own security manned this checkpoint, and they let the car through after seeing that he was inside.
From basement parking straight up to the lobby, the office was busy with last-minute preparations. Shouts and orders; an intern nearly crashed into Roman; familiar faces went back and fro like barely functional clockwork. In their defence it's been a while since the party got this much publicity. A front-page picture in most newspapers of one of your promising new members titled "Lougher, Legman: Labour!" would do that. Much more effective than talking about commodity taxes.
Roman particularly liked the double entendre with 'Legman'. He wondered how long Tristan took to come up with it.
"And here is the man of the hour, everyone!" boomed a voice loud enough to interrupt the rush. Most stopped to look. "Good to see you're finally here, Roman!"
Graying green hair slicked to a comb, the sides and back thinned to a buzz cut. A brother-in-arms from a different time. Such jovial smile graced his face, almost child-like, even, as he approached Roman with his entourage behind. The sizeable lizard tail he had swayed with his walk. A red handkerchief, specifically in the NLP's shade, contrasted the white and black of his shirt and tie; some may say a far too simple of an outfit for a man of his position, but he'll only laugh.
This is Barett Dryyfen, leader of the New Labour Party.
Roman returned the man's smile in hand, extending a hand. "Mr. Dryyfen, sir."
"Roman, Roman. You are a gift that keeps on giving, my boy." Barett began shaking his hand. "You know that I have had high expectations of you since day one, but this was beyond even me."
He chuckled in response. "Sir, my captain once told me that no matter how long a man's been out of the marines, the marines will never leave the man."
"Aye, I reckon your headman knew what he was talking about." Barett joined in with his own laugh. "Well, boyo, you ready for the spotlights?"
Roman smiled, starting to walk besides Barett. "All eyes on Torchwick."
"As it should be with what you have done!" Barett snapped his finger. "Well, our main man is here; let us start the show!"
The conference room had been a different sort of hectic, at least comparably, to the outside. A near immediate uproar when the doors opened and the two men entered. Not a wave of muddled, unintelligible questions, but instead the clicks of shutters and flashes that flooded an otherwise packed room. It seems the press were acting on their best behaviour today. Either that or Barett managed to handpick who from which could come.
At least Tristan was here. The young man knew Roman's best angles.
"You heard about Verna, right, lad?"
The sudden question took Roman out of his publicity basking. Still keeping up the smile, "Verna Breynwyn? Yes. Unfortunate that she has to retire early because of health. Why do you ask?" He had a feeling that he knew where this was going.
"Indeed. It's a shame that. You know, that woman would've been party leader instead of me if she hadn't been so stubborn about being the boots on the ground." Barett shook his head. "Well, anyway. Her retirement means that the Party Forum Officer position is empty. I was thinking that you might be up for the job. You've bloody well proven that you alone can do what twenty of us together could."
Oh yeah, this was going where he thought.
"Besides," the party leader continued, "if the wind continues to blow your sails, you might be able to run for MP in the next election… What do you say, boyo?"
Roman didn't even need to think about it. "Well, when do I start, sir?"
The man laughed, giving Roman a pat on the back. They continued towards the stage, greeting and shaking hands with those in the aisle of seats. Roman stood back on the stage as Barett took the main podium and began addressing the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Friends. You've heard my introduction countless times already, I'm sure you're already bored of it." He let the room laugh before continuing. "I thank you all for coming here today. This… momentous day. "The day for the city. The day for the NLP. The day for one of us.
"Who had no obligation to do what he did. The right man, with the right skills, in the right place, at the right time. A man who went above and beyond!" A pause. That casualness the man had been exuding since the moment he approached Roman continued, but next to it was also a very thick authority and charisma. Something to be seen, not told. "Not only saving dozens of lives— alongside his partner, of course," he quickly added, causing Roman to smile, "But once again, doing great service for King and country.
"Ladies and gentlemen… without further ado, someone who I am honoured to call friend: Roman Torchwick!"
Smile and wave, Torchwick.
Smile and wave.
(-S.o.T-)
It was a new day, then and there at Hill 336. But there was nothing new at Hill 336.
There, splayed from one end of the horizon to the other, was the same mustard landscapes of flats and dunes. A small patch of green surrounding an oasis interrupted the boorish palette some four clicks away to the north. Arguably, there was something new today, here, in absolutely stunning and gorgeous and beautiful Vacuo: a dust storm.
Somewhat of a local specialty and signature. Somewhat of an acquired taste as well.
Sergeant Torchwick never acquired that taste.
"You better not be bloody asleep when on watch, boy," a voice barked out, almost amused. It was a wonder how he managed to register the words through the violent wind.
Without turning back to look: "No, Captain, sir. Reporting that we're under attack by fucking sand."
"The crown doesn't pay you to fight the climate, Sergeant." The voice continued, sitting against the peak of the sandhill besides Roman. "Hold your fire or you'll be paying for your bullets yourself."
Roman smiled, hidden by the scarf that covered his head entire. "Aye, sir."
"Damn sand. Can't even stargaze…"
The captain wore the same fatigues as Roman did; the scarf that covered the head entire as Roman did, only crimson in colour; uniform from head to toe as Romand did, bar for his own custom weapon of rifle-spear mechashifter, kept in its compact form. Even with the face covering, Roman could tell that the captain was as frustrated as he was for not being able to smoke without inhaling handfuls of dust—he could make out the silvery moon glint of the captain's eyes even through the dusty goggles.
"What is it, Torchwick?" demanded the captain.
"Nothing, sir," replied Roman, jerking his head towards the small fortified encampment of the 144th Assault Pioneers. "Shouldn't you be getting some shut-eye, sir?"
"With this damn wind howling?" the captain scoffed. "Fat bloody chance. And it's not like I can smoke or read a damn book either, so I thought that we might as well annoy one another."
"You could always annoy the other sentries, sir."
"Nope," he replied, popping the "p".
"'Nope'?"
"No one's as big of a piece of shit as you are, Torchwick."
Roman shook his head. "Thank you, sir."
"My pleasure. Now, for my favourite icebreaker: you got a girl back home."
He snorted. No dust, thankfully. "Is that a statement or a question, sir?"
"Of course it's a statement, you daft brat." The captain gave Roman a hit on the shoulder. "Everyone's got someone back home."
The back and forth continued. It was neither a first nor—Roman seriously doubts—the last. They might've practically won the war already, but with how things are, they now have to stick around and keep the peace. This constantly feckless heart-to-heart of theirs will be around some time longer.
"You remember my sister, right?"
"Sir, for the love of god, the idea of having you as an in-law turns a man to misery."
"Well, all things considered, you're competent and trustworthy." The captain quickly trailed off. "I might've thought about it if you were slightly younger and significantly less of a scumbag, but that's not it, you idiot. Listen first." He sighed, rubbing some of the sand off his goggles before continuing. "The universe has a strange way with doing things…
"I always despised the thought of joining the military, yet here I am. Picked me up right off Beacon and now, only a few years later, a captain." The captain sounded… not melancholic, but perhaps longing for something. "Job pays well. Damn amazing benefits. Fun, admittedly—at times," he was quick to add. "It makes sure that my sister can live a comfortable life and then some. But at the same time, I haven't even seen her in two years.
"She's fine, mind you." He turned back to Roman. "Letters and so forth. But I can't help but gawk at the irony; here I am fighting a war in a god-forsaken sand hell so that my sister can live well. Yet at the same time I've left her all alone when I'm supposed to be there for her."
"Hell of a catch, then," commented Roman.
"The worst there is," the captain replied.
"Instead of it doing things in a strange way, what if it just have a real fucked up sense."
"Fucked up understanding?"
"And humour while we're at it," Roman agreed. "Take a step back, look around your life… I think that's the conclusion a lot of people will come up with."
The captain hummed. "Maybe that crook brain of yours is onto something, Rome…"
A comfortable silence fell between the two. Roman remain watchful over the crest of the hill and his captain leaned back beside him. The usual biting cold breeze replaced by a violent whirlwind that threw specs of sands as if unbelievably small shards of glass. He could barely make out which dunes were being moved, but all he was too certain about is the wind that blew them east.
"Hey, Roman."
"Yes, sir?"
"If anything happens to me… take care of my sister. You and the lads."
Roman laughed, shaking his head. "Don't worry, captain. You don't die easy."
Roman basked with the eastern winds pushing on him: dusty and salty. There, far past the horizon, was something that felt as if a lifetime ago, as if a planet away. With a sad smile, he poured the rest of his whiskey into the ocean before making his way back to the bar.
Music and alcohol accompanied the chatter of men and women, some in uniforms while most wore civilians. Different ranks and different styles. Despite that, each one of them had two things in common.
They were all 144th Assault Pioneers;
They were all Royal Marines.
Roman went past his comrades; his friends; brothers and sisters of lead and sweat. Chatting, drinking, laughing. He made way to one of the bar's taller walls covered by an array of photos and notes and decors of sentimental value. Not only from those outside 144th, but also from beyond their time. Unframed fading polaroids and writings sapped out of ink.
But one stood from the others. Roman had to slightly bend down to get a better look. It laid on its special place, encased in glass. A red Royal Marine beret laid behind an otherwise standard-issue bayonet except it's silvered guard. Hanging above the display were two framed pictures: first was of the whole company before their deployment to Vacuo; the second was of their commanding officer, both the reason of today's celebration and the fact that they're here in mostly one piece.
It was a picture taken during the deployment. After a particularly intense ambush, if memory served right. One of a stocky man with spiky red and black hair, the aviators he had on only hid half the smugness of his smirk.
On its brass plating was engraved: Captain Garnet Rose. Lion Amongst Men. Avenged.
"The universe's fucked after all, sir," Roman whispered, waiting an answer that will never come. He smiled. "Ura…"
"Everyone! Put out your smokes!" a voice bellowed from the other side of the room. Turning around, Roman saw ex-Sergeant Crowley hauling a blonde girl over his head. "The ladies—and gentleman—of the hour have arrived!"
A round of cheer erupted. Trailing behind Crowley was a man and a woman; blond, red ravenette, respectively. The former seemingly still not used to the marine's roudiness. Some of them approached to greet the late arrivals, and the two were more than willing to chit chat back.
"Kloma!" a little voice almost shrieked. The little girl on top of Crowley's shoulder clapping in excitement at Roman. "Kloma! Kloma!"
He shook his head. Chuckling, Roman approached the circle of people.
"Hello there, little dragon." With a huff and shriek of joy, Crowley handed her to Roman. "Good god, how much have you grown since we last met? What's your secret?" Roman poked the little girl's side. "Tell me. Tell me!"
Once again she laughed. Trying to swat away the fingers that tickled her. Stammering nonsense that no doubt made sense for those her age.
"Hello, Roman," a new voice greeted. It was the red ravenette from before.
"Hello Summer." Roman pulled the young woman into a light hug, minding the bulging abdomen. Turning to her spouse, he did the same. "And you too, Tai. How are you?
"I'm good, Rome. Thanks."
Roman couldn't help but chuckle when pulling away, eyes landing on the bags under the blond's eyes.
"You don't look like it, blondie," he snarked. "My god. Take it easy on your husband, Summer. He looks like he just went on three nightwatches in a row."
"Hey! We're as sleep-deprived as each other!" the young woman defended.
Taiyang laughed in response. "We are. Yang's been a bit uppity this week."
"Noo…" Roman turned back to the little girl he was carrying, poking her cheek. "No way. You've been good haven't you, Yang?"
"Good, good!" she giggled, rubbing her thumbs together.
"Oi!" a new voice raised from across the room. It was Roy waving them over. Sat around a table with Donovan and a few others. "What are you four whispering about over there? Come sit!"
"Well, speaking about uppity…" Handing Yang over back to her father, Roman ushered the group towards the vacant seats. With a little smile, he asked Summer: "How about the little girl in there? Uppity also?"
"The mother's more uppity, really…"
That earned him a hit on the shoulder.
Huffing, Summer placed a hand on her belly and smiled. "She's doing great. Just a bit more, now."
Roman nodded. "You two thought of names yet?"
"Ruby," she didn't ponder. It seems like it was set on stone. "Maybe Topaz or Citrine, if she gets Tai's hair."
"Bright shining gem. Just like her uncle."
Summer turned to him, nodding with a smile. Roman gave her a little squeeze on the shoulder.
"We're all proud of you, flower."
Universe; life. Strange indeed.
If only I was this organised back when a hundred of you guys were following this story along. I can only imagine what the discussion would be like. But, oh well, it's my own fault in the long run. I'll write this damn thing even if there's only one fella who reads it.
Now we're truly at the tail end of this arc. One more chapter to go, and then things will (hopefully) start to pick up.
Next chapter out on 1 October 2023.
Thanks for reading! And 'till next time, stay content!