Story 11 / Collection 5: The distance between us
Smoke and fire.
As Murdoch watched from within the steel walls of Mendel the repairs being done to the Archangel, he could not help but be astounded by the damage sustained by the ship.
Their enemy was indeed formidable. So this was what their ex-second-in-command was capable of when given free rein.
If this was what it was like going up against the Dominion, he hoped—however tiny the chances his hopes would be realised—they would not cross paths again with that ship for the rest of the war.
He sat down on the bench behind him and pulled out a cigarette when he heard someone call him. He knew the voice, but it was much rougher than he was used to hearing.
"Can I have one?"
It did not sound like a question.
Murdoch glanced upwards to see their blue-haired helmsman sitting down next to him. His complexion was an ashen colour that matched his evidently irritated mood, and his eyes were dark and distant, as though he was focused but only somewhere in the depths of his mind. His demeanour made it impossible for Murdoch to connect this person in front of him to the usually cool and composed Arnold Neumann that he knew.
He basically looked fucking terrible.
Having to fight his previous superior now as an enemy must be taking a toll on him. Murdoch was not about to reject someone who seemed to be hovering between wanting to murder someone and trying to hold back a breakdown. He opened up his packet of cigarettes and held it to him. "I thought you didn't smoke?"
Arnold took one without looking at him. "I don't."
Murdoch lived life long enough to know that when a person who did not smoke asked for a cigarette, it only meant things were grim. He handed Arnold his lighter and watched him; the way he ran his thumb across the metal wheel—frustratedly, impatiently, having to try a few times before managing to get a steady flame from the device—confirmed his guess.
"It's that bad, huh?"
Arnold drew in a long, deep breath through the cigarette, and exhaled in an infuriated huff, as though trying to drive out both the smoke and his pent up anger in one go.
"The leader of Blue Cosmos himself is on that ship."
"You mean the Muruta Azrael?"
He did not reply, and Murdoch knew to take it as a silent affirmation.
He was not sure what a big shot like Azrael was doing in the frontlines, but it for sure was not good news.
Azrael himself was not good news.
If one believed the rumours—and they all painted the same picture—there was not a single positive thing about this man.
On the surface, he seemed to have it all. He was a man from a powerful family, owner of a military corporate empire, and the charismatic leader of the Blue Cosmos, with a reputation of being ingenious, ideological, and pleasantly charming.
But the truth was, most people in the military and political spheres on both sides of the war tended to believe the talk in the shadows, that he was an extremist warmonger who wanted the annihilation of the coordinators, and was possibly even the one person who set the war in motion.
"What do you think he's doing out here in the wild?" Murdoch asked cautiously.
"It has to be something worth his time and the risk. By the looks of it they were aiming for the Freedom."
"Damn. Well," Murdoch said with an optimistic tone, an attempt to lighten up the mood, "the kid's good, he'll manage."
"She almost had him."
For a moment, Murdoch paused to process his shock.
"Damn." He then repeated, this time defeatedly. He watched Arnold inhale and exhale through his cigarette once more, the greyish-white smoke clouding him for a brief moment. When his face emerged from the haze again, he had an expression that Murdoch could not read, but there was one thing he was sure of—the captain of the Dominion was definitely the only thing that occupied Arnold's thoughts now.
"I wonder what's going on in Lieutenant Badgiruel's mind," Murdoch mused aloud, then muttering something about whether she was still just a lieutenant if she was now made the captain of a ship.
There was neither an agreement nor a correction from Arnold, and so Murdoch continued, letting his wandering thoughts run free as unfiltered blabber to occupy the lull between them.
"She's an enemy now, but it doesn't mean I wish her ill. Azrael for sure is a dangerous man. He sits at the centre of the military-industrial complex, you gotta be ruthless to operate in those circles. God knows what kinds of questionable things they do in the name of winning this war. Heard that his private life is messy too. He's married and has kids and all that, but you know, men in those high places play a different game, right? Not sure how much of it is real, but as the saying goes, 'Where there's smoke there's fire'. There's gotta be some truth in it."
For a moment Murdoch wondered if he was talking too much—this conversation seemed a bit lopsided—and he paused, assuming a reply would come at some point. A vapid stillness filled the air as Murdoch waited; seconds turned into minutes until it became clear that the awkwardly long and heavily sullen silence that fell between them was not for the deliberation of a response. He turned to steal a glance at his companion, and deduced—with great regret—that his running mouth had just made things a multifold worse than before.
The expression currently on Arnold's face had Murdoch very unsettled.
For the longest time, Murdoch had known him to be someone who never lost his composure. He may grouch at the ridiculous requests often thrown his way, or occasionally be caught with a stupefied face by events outside of his expectations, yet even through all the chaos and peril, 'panic' was a word Murdoch had not even once associated Arnold with.
As of this moment, that was history.
It was not the violent, blind frenzy one would automatically expect, but there was no doubt it was panic in Arnold's eyes—a deep and paralysing fear, internalised and quietly holding his body hostage—and Murdoch felt like he was watching a small fire simmering in an enclosed space void of oxygen, dreading the very possible and imminent backdraft that would drag everyone around it into its ruinous flames and fumes.
As much as there were questions that he wanted to ask, Murdoch had an inkling the answers were intimate truths locked away in a case that he had no right to be crudely prying open. Any misstep could be the spark that ignited the explosion, and he vehemently refused to become a knowing culprit.
He kept his mouth tightly shut, and sat with Arnold in dead silence.
Side story: The devil in the blue suit
Fllay followed Natarle closely as she headed towards the medical bay to check on their three pilots.
If she was honest, Fllay was not particularly sure what else to do anyway; she had just been taken onboard, and although this ship was almost identical to the Archangel, it felt completely foreign to her. Then instantly she was sent to the blond man in a blue suit, who took the 'key' Creuset gave her with a sneer that seemed to say she was no longer of any use, a tool to be discarded any moment. Even though she knew she had no right to do so, she could not help but latch on to Natarle now; being near her was the only way to feel safe.
Fllay could not believe how much things have changed—or had she changed? In the days of the Archangel, she had disliked Natarle for reasons she could not even recall now. Maybe she thought the dark-haired woman was too cold, or maybe it was just her general state of mind back then, and everything and everyone rubbed her the wrong way. But coming to the Dominion, she realised for the first time that Natarle had a soft side and a kind heart that she had never seen before, and was willing to show it to her when she needed it the most. In a ship full of indifferent people, from a woman who used her hardheartedness like a weapon, this kindness was rare and precious and all Fllay had now. So when Natarle had offered for her to wait in her room, she instead opted to go with her to see the pilots, despite Natarle advising against it.
When they arrived at the medical bay, Fllay saw why Natarle suggested she not come with her. When the doors opened, the first thing that entered her vision was two boys of similar age as her—one with mint green hair and the other bright orange, both dressed in pilot suits—lying in their beds, curled up and groaning in what seemed like excruciating pain. The conditions that they were in were clearly abnormal. They were squirming, sweating all over and struggling to breathe; she had seen the worst of Kira's episodes after battles, but it was not even close to this.
There was a third pilot who sported key lime-green hair and seemed to be the oldest of the three, watching them from his spot next to the wall with a deep frown that indicated he too had well enough experience with what his comrades were going through right now. He eyed Natarle briefly as soon as she entered the room, then looked away again.
"Have they been treated yet?" Natarle questioned the medical team, and when they replied negatively, she pressed on, "What are you waiting for?"
"The Director hasn't given any instructions yet," one of the medics replied in a cold tone that shocked Fllay; why was it necessary to be given instructions to treat people who were obviously suffering?
"Do it now," Natarle commanded in a manner that Fllay suspected this was not the first time she made this request, and the way the medic was unmoved by her authority seemed to confirmed Fllay's suspicions. The inaction of the medical team angered Natarle. "How many times do I have to repeat this? We're in a warzone and we don't know what's coming next! Just do as I say, I'll take responsibility if the Director has an issue with it!"
The team members exchanged looks before making their move, albeit with apparent reluctance, and Fllay stood next to Natarle as she scrutinised their work down to the last step, only relaxing after she watched them leave the room. She then sat down on one of the empty beds, and waited patiently for the pilots' conditions to improve; the concern that filled her amethyst eyes told Fllay that Natarle gave the order not out of a tactical need, but rather due to sympathy for the pilots.
Fllay quietly thought to herself that Natarle was surprisingly not penurious when it came to showing compassion, albeit not always in the most obvious ways.
The pilot who was by the wall all this time finally moved away from his position and stood next to the bed where Natarle sat. The expression on his face confused Fllay—there seemed to be appreciation, but at the same time an inner struggle to disagree with her.
"You can't keep overriding the Director like this. He doesn't like it when people challenge him."
Natarle sighed. "That's not something for you to worry about."
"I keep telling you, he's not one to let things go easily. Just don't piss him off to the point where he sees the need to fuck you up in order to teach you a lesson." His face was filled with a mix of impatience and worry when he spoke, but then settled back into one of feigned indifference when it was clear he had not been able to change his captain's mind. He then turned his attention to Fllay.
"Is this the hostage I brought back?"
Natarle nodded, and took a quick glance at Fllay as she introduced them. "She's Fllay Allster. Allster, this is Ensign Orga Sabnak; he's the one who secured your pod and brought you here."
Fllay pulled back a little the instant they looked at each other, slightly frightened by the way he stared at her; he had a harshness in him that made Fllay think of wild dogs, yet he did not seem hostile towards her. If anything, it seemed like there was a hint of pity in his gaze.
When his words came, it sounded more like a friendly warning. "I told the captain the same thing. Be careful of the Director. Don't cross him; he's dangerous."
Fllay looked towards Natarle; the troubled expression on her face told Fllay that Orga was speaking the truth. She turned back to Orga, and watched his brows furrow at her in a judgemental frown as though he thought she did not believe him. He gave one final warning.
"That man is the devil himself."
[Prompt title 6: 煙草 / Cigarette]
Author's note
I read it on Twitter/X and don't know what the source is, but someone said apparently Azrael was married? And had children? I'm so curious and I just wish I could read more about this setting… If anyone knows anything about it please let me know :)
