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{ I don't know where this came from. Nowhere, I guess. It's a short original story that I'm splitting up into parts because I honestly can't deal with it all at once, and I doubt anyone else would be able to either.
There's going to be drama, action, angst, angst, more angst, politics, gore, and drama, not exactly in that order.
Well ... enjoy. }
The soft scrape of the match against the matchbook broke the silence of the small attic in the same way that the tiny flame that followed pierced through the grey-black gloom. The light flickered, was brought to the tip of a cigarette, then snuffed out as abruptly as it had been lit. The glow was now eating away at the dirty white cigarette, an insignificant dot of light in the darkness.
"You better be a damn good actress if you want to pull this off."
The voice that had spoken was young, masculine, cynical, and slightly serrated from the constant inhalation of smoke. It was the man who held the cigarette cupped in his hand, addressing the "actress" he was standing over as she kneeled in front of a trunk, her back to him.
He was answered with the rusty creak of the lid as she lifted it up, revealing indistinguishable lumps of fabric. A musty scent of time-stained clothes escaped the chest and drifted along with the dust. The man brought his arm up to his mouth and coughed at the overpowering smell. His companion didn't seem to notice. She gently started sifting through the antique clothes, sparing him a short, unreadable glance over her shoulder, noting the cigarette between his fingers before she turned around again.
"That poison's gonna kill you one day."
Andrik Brenova laughed lightly and tipped his head back, bringing the cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. He breathed out, and a roiling stream of smoke mixed with the freezing winter air.
"I'll die with a smile, Sejira, just like you. But for now, our poisons make excellent painkillers."
Sejira Lenqou hesitated angrily for a moment; Andrik saw her shoulders tense. A few bits of ash broke away from the end of his cigarette like fragments of charred feathers. He knew the work painkiller had burnt her. She'd surely turn around-
But she only said tersely, "Speak for yourself."
Andrik ran the pad of his thumb over the smooth cylinder of his preferred poison, coursing with welcome heat. He tried to focus on that, instead of what he was about to say to the dark-haired woman in front of him.
"C'mon Sejira. Everyone knows you support the resistance to kill your guilt."
Sejira was infamous for avoiding these kinds of topics, and while she and Andrik were on good terms, he didn't want to go off on this mission without bringing this conversation up at least once. But, as expected, she didn't answer.
Out of the ruffled sleeve of an ancient, once-white dress, she withdrew a lightweight handgun from its peculiar hiding place. Next came a small, beat-up box with the two coveted clips rattling inside. This she kept. The firearm was tossed over her shoulder, but it didn't clatter to the floorboards; Andrik had caught it neatly in his left hand. That was why he was entrusted with this precious rarity instead of her, because though Sejira would have liked to be the one shooting, she couldn't deny that he was the better marksman of the two.
Replacing the dress, Sejira closed and locked the trunk once more, standing up to face him.
"You remember how to use that thing?"
Her partner snorted derisively. "We haven't been on Prohibition that long."
Nearly eleven months, Sejira thought with distaste, since civilians had been forcibly banned from owning weapons by the military-controlled government. Ten months since the construction of the ghettos and the formation of the black market that had provided them with the shotgun in the first place. Eight months since the arrests. Seven months since the formation of the resistance.
Three months since the Mullanero genocide.
Now, the Blackbird resistance planned liberation of prisoner barracks 27V.
Silently, Sejira walked past Andrik and down the creaking wooden stairs, belatedly pursued by her still-smoking partner.
"Get dressed quick. We have forty minutes to look haughty and rich."
An hour later, Andrik and Sejira, looking properly haughty and rich, ascended up the carved stone stairs of a lordling's house, linked arm and arm. Sejira's smile was pretty and polite, and not immediately recognizable as being strained. And if her grip on Andrik's arm tightened ever-so-slightly as they entered the manse, well, no one noticed but he.
Inside, the gilded hall was packed with wealthy, well-dressed people, laughing and talking and gossiping. The noisy murmur of a hundred different conversations was accompanied by the click of hard boots and the whisper of satin gowns across the mahogany floor. Sejira herself was wearing a stiff green dress, and her usually course brown hair was combed and twisted up at the top of her head. Andrik, dressed just as stiffly in formal wear complete with a necktie, thought that all the green she was wearing looked particularly good in contrast to her dark skin. But, he knew better than to mention this to her.
"Ah! Lord Andrew! Lady Selena! Wonderful that you could make it!"
Andrik felt Sejira's gloved hands tighten almost convulsively on his forearm as a booming voice rang out from behind them. He flexed his abused arm in a silent plea and turned about, facing the tall, balding gentleman striding towards them.
"Why, Lord Devon, you didn't think my wife and I would really miss out on your annual banquet?" Andrik said pleasantly, composing his features. A quick glance at his "wife" showed that she was under control again as well.
"Yes, yes, we can't let those blasted crows ruin everything, now can we? I heard they contrived to blow up a fortress at the border just last week. Made coming and going terrible. Half my guests had to stay home." Lord Devon frowned mildly, looking around at his crowded hall with comic disappointment lining his ruddy features.
"I hear the Blackbirds are gaining support underground," Andrik remarked after a short pause, not even daring to glance at Sejira; she had been part of that particular mission. In response, Devon rapped his silver-tipped cane against his tasseled boot and shook his head irritably.
"The Government will take care of them soon enough. I can't comprehend why they're going through all this trouble just to help out some ragged Mulls. My dear lady, what do you think of all this nonsense?" He suddenly asked Sejira. Andrik held his breath.
Sejira, who had been standing there with a demurely bowed head, now looked up with a sweet smile, her dark eyes wide and innocent. "Why, my lord, a woman like me could never begin to follow the game of politics. No, I leave that to my husband." And here she turned toward Andrik lovingly. "I do hope that the benevolent Government will see to the Blackbirds and the Mullaneros they protect in due time."
Lord Devon bowed, then tapped his cane against the floor loudly.
"My lords and ladies!" he called, his voice piercing easily through the crowd. "Pray join me now in the Dining Hall for our banquet tonight!"
As the herd of people made their way to the far end of the reception hall, Andrik finally dared to look down at Sejira, whose smile did not reach her eyes.
"Just a little while longer," he muttered, as they followed behind. "Damn, I could do with a smoke."
"Did you know that Lord Avoro was arrested?-"
"Surely not, Lady Willow! Whyever for?-"
"Would you be so kind as to pass me the aubergines, there's a dear-"
"That is a most becoming hat, Lord Williams-"
"The Iron Squad found Avoro hiding a group of Mulleranos in his attic. Six of them, to be exact, and it's even rumoured that he had contact with the Blackbirds-"
Such was the muddled talk that ran, like a noisy brook, along the length of the vast table, covered in a gold-trimmed white cloth and heaped with delicacies on silver platters.
Between generous forkfuls of food, the conversation ranged far and wide, and even Andrik's keen ears were having a hard time making it all out. Beside him, Sejira sat pretending to be enjoying a bowl of some creamy kind of soup, engaging only in sparse pleasantries and not initiating any conversations of her own. That was good, though: there was so telling what would come out of her mouth if she eventually lost control. No; silent, she played her part well.
It was Andrik, after all, who was the conversationalist in this marriage.
"There's also a rumour going around that the Lieutenant Emperor himself is part Mullerano. Some say he hated his family, and that's why he urged along the Emperor to start rounding them up." This was what Andrik supplied, addressing the more politically active diners around him.
"Good riddance to them, that's what I say, in any case," offered his neighbor, nodding his head in a self-important manner. His tone implied that he was often the last word on most topics. But as the medallions on his shoulder proclaimed him as a high-ranking military man, this was hardly surprising. "Any creature with red eyes has to be some kind of demon, and aside from that, those Mulls may look human, but mark my words: there's something sinful about them underneath."
"Such a comfort the Government is dealing with the problem, after all these years. It was tearing at my nerves to have my little ones attending school with them."
Feigning sudden interest in the state of his napkin, Andrik groped under the tablecloth to find Sejira's hand, which was trembling with anger. He gave it a quick, warning squeeze, then turned back to his neighbors.
Still smiling politely, he carefully surveyed his fellow diners, absentmindedly picking at his mutton. After so generously distributing the wine bottle around, he was sure that the colonel across from him was cheerfully drunk.
"Colonial Dyer, I've been hearing that a new Mull camp has recently been built. Is there any truth to this?"
Dyer gulped down his current swallow of wine and eyed Andrik with heavy-lidded blue eyes.
"Eh? Why do you want to know, Lord Andrew? You're not in the military business," he demanded with surprising sobriety.
Damn. I should have waited until he'd finished draining that glass....
"Oh, Colonial, the camp isn't too close by us, is it?" a light voice suddenly twittered from the direction of Sejira's chair. Momentarily unable to school his shock, Andrik looked about to see Sejira leaning over her untouched soup, hands clasped in a most ladylike manner. Her brown eyes were soft, scared, and beseeching, as she dazzled Dyer with her most flattering gaze. To Andrik's continued shock, Dyer seemed to visibly warm to this silly creature whom Andrik had once believed was his partner.
"It gives me such a fright, to think of a whole camp of those demons so close to home. Of course," and here Sejira smiled gently- admiringly, "I know good leaders such as yourself will keep us safe, but still...."
The Colonial smiled absently, goodly drunk afterall. "Why, lady, there's nothing to fear. The camp is built in a remote valley, several miles north of Verdenshae. Barrack Twenty-seven Vee is far enough away from you to give you no cause to alarm."
"Oh, thank you colonel. Such a peace of mind you've brought me!"
That's my girl.
Four hours later, Andrik watched Sejira, sitting opposite him in their private carriage, methodically taking apart and maintenancing their all-important gun. Despite having been locked in an attic trunk for several weeks, the gun needed no attention; however, Sejira said she needed something to keep her hands occupied, and he had relented, gratefully settling back in the padded seat and bringing a fresh-lit cigarette to his lips. The carriage was not only provided by the richer members of the resistance, but it was also driven by a Blackbird as well, and with the thick curtains shielding the outside world from view, they had no fear of being spied on. Luckily, the safe-house they were traveling to was on roads that were, as of yet, not patrolled by the Iron Squad.
"Must you smoke that in here?"
Andrik glanced at Sejira, her brown hair all but escaped from its knot, her gloves carelessly thrown on the floor with her heels, her hands deft and steady on the gun. This was the Sejira he knew, not the pretty, polite thing dressed in gowns and manners.
"Since you ask, yes."
She shot him a look of distaste, lips pursed. He ignored this. She had never approved of his smoking, and he had learned from early experience that there was no use arguing with her about it. "You did good tonight, Sejira," he said, lowering his cigarette. She didn't look up. Of course.
"All part of my painkiller, Andrik," she said bitterly, putting the gun back together. "Or, is it poison still?"
Andrik tried to smile, but quickly gave up: it was fake, and would only make things worse. "Poison, Sejira."
He tipped his head back and blew out a stream of grey smoke, watching as it coalesced into the rocking shadows of the carriage's ceiling, coiling in on itself like a snake eating its own tail. He closed his eyes, his voice low.
"It's not a painkiller until the hurt is at its worst."
There's going to be drama, action, angst, angst, more angst, politics, gore, and drama, not exactly in that order.
Well ... enjoy. }
The soft scrape of the match against the matchbook broke the silence of the small attic in the same way that the tiny flame that followed pierced through the grey-black gloom. The light flickered, was brought to the tip of a cigarette, then snuffed out as abruptly as it had been lit. The glow was now eating away at the dirty white cigarette, an insignificant dot of light in the darkness.
"You better be a damn good actress if you want to pull this off."
The voice that had spoken was young, masculine, cynical, and slightly serrated from the constant inhalation of smoke. It was the man who held the cigarette cupped in his hand, addressing the "actress" he was standing over as she kneeled in front of a trunk, her back to him.
He was answered with the rusty creak of the lid as she lifted it up, revealing indistinguishable lumps of fabric. A musty scent of time-stained clothes escaped the chest and drifted along with the dust. The man brought his arm up to his mouth and coughed at the overpowering smell. His companion didn't seem to notice. She gently started sifting through the antique clothes, sparing him a short, unreadable glance over her shoulder, noting the cigarette between his fingers before she turned around again.
"That poison's gonna kill you one day."
Andrik Brenova laughed lightly and tipped his head back, bringing the cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. He breathed out, and a roiling stream of smoke mixed with the freezing winter air.
"I'll die with a smile, Sejira, just like you. But for now, our poisons make excellent painkillers."
Sejira Lenqou hesitated angrily for a moment; Andrik saw her shoulders tense. A few bits of ash broke away from the end of his cigarette like fragments of charred feathers. He knew the work painkiller had burnt her. She'd surely turn around-
But she only said tersely, "Speak for yourself."
Andrik ran the pad of his thumb over the smooth cylinder of his preferred poison, coursing with welcome heat. He tried to focus on that, instead of what he was about to say to the dark-haired woman in front of him.
"C'mon Sejira. Everyone knows you support the resistance to kill your guilt."
Sejira was infamous for avoiding these kinds of topics, and while she and Andrik were on good terms, he didn't want to go off on this mission without bringing this conversation up at least once. But, as expected, she didn't answer.
Out of the ruffled sleeve of an ancient, once-white dress, she withdrew a lightweight handgun from its peculiar hiding place. Next came a small, beat-up box with the two coveted clips rattling inside. This she kept. The firearm was tossed over her shoulder, but it didn't clatter to the floorboards; Andrik had caught it neatly in his left hand. That was why he was entrusted with this precious rarity instead of her, because though Sejira would have liked to be the one shooting, she couldn't deny that he was the better marksman of the two.
Replacing the dress, Sejira closed and locked the trunk once more, standing up to face him.
"You remember how to use that thing?"
Her partner snorted derisively. "We haven't been on Prohibition that long."
Nearly eleven months, Sejira thought with distaste, since civilians had been forcibly banned from owning weapons by the military-controlled government. Ten months since the construction of the ghettos and the formation of the black market that had provided them with the shotgun in the first place. Eight months since the arrests. Seven months since the formation of the resistance.
Three months since the Mullanero genocide.
Now, the Blackbird resistance planned liberation of prisoner barracks 27V.
Silently, Sejira walked past Andrik and down the creaking wooden stairs, belatedly pursued by her still-smoking partner.
"Get dressed quick. We have forty minutes to look haughty and rich."
An hour later, Andrik and Sejira, looking properly haughty and rich, ascended up the carved stone stairs of a lordling's house, linked arm and arm. Sejira's smile was pretty and polite, and not immediately recognizable as being strained. And if her grip on Andrik's arm tightened ever-so-slightly as they entered the manse, well, no one noticed but he.
Inside, the gilded hall was packed with wealthy, well-dressed people, laughing and talking and gossiping. The noisy murmur of a hundred different conversations was accompanied by the click of hard boots and the whisper of satin gowns across the mahogany floor. Sejira herself was wearing a stiff green dress, and her usually course brown hair was combed and twisted up at the top of her head. Andrik, dressed just as stiffly in formal wear complete with a necktie, thought that all the green she was wearing looked particularly good in contrast to her dark skin. But, he knew better than to mention this to her.
"Ah! Lord Andrew! Lady Selena! Wonderful that you could make it!"
Andrik felt Sejira's gloved hands tighten almost convulsively on his forearm as a booming voice rang out from behind them. He flexed his abused arm in a silent plea and turned about, facing the tall, balding gentleman striding towards them.
"Why, Lord Devon, you didn't think my wife and I would really miss out on your annual banquet?" Andrik said pleasantly, composing his features. A quick glance at his "wife" showed that she was under control again as well.
"Yes, yes, we can't let those blasted crows ruin everything, now can we? I heard they contrived to blow up a fortress at the border just last week. Made coming and going terrible. Half my guests had to stay home." Lord Devon frowned mildly, looking around at his crowded hall with comic disappointment lining his ruddy features.
"I hear the Blackbirds are gaining support underground," Andrik remarked after a short pause, not even daring to glance at Sejira; she had been part of that particular mission. In response, Devon rapped his silver-tipped cane against his tasseled boot and shook his head irritably.
"The Government will take care of them soon enough. I can't comprehend why they're going through all this trouble just to help out some ragged Mulls. My dear lady, what do you think of all this nonsense?" He suddenly asked Sejira. Andrik held his breath.
Sejira, who had been standing there with a demurely bowed head, now looked up with a sweet smile, her dark eyes wide and innocent. "Why, my lord, a woman like me could never begin to follow the game of politics. No, I leave that to my husband." And here she turned toward Andrik lovingly. "I do hope that the benevolent Government will see to the Blackbirds and the Mullaneros they protect in due time."
Lord Devon bowed, then tapped his cane against the floor loudly.
"My lords and ladies!" he called, his voice piercing easily through the crowd. "Pray join me now in the Dining Hall for our banquet tonight!"
As the herd of people made their way to the far end of the reception hall, Andrik finally dared to look down at Sejira, whose smile did not reach her eyes.
"Just a little while longer," he muttered, as they followed behind. "Damn, I could do with a smoke."
"Did you know that Lord Avoro was arrested?-"
"Surely not, Lady Willow! Whyever for?-"
"Would you be so kind as to pass me the aubergines, there's a dear-"
"That is a most becoming hat, Lord Williams-"
"The Iron Squad found Avoro hiding a group of Mulleranos in his attic. Six of them, to be exact, and it's even rumoured that he had contact with the Blackbirds-"
Such was the muddled talk that ran, like a noisy brook, along the length of the vast table, covered in a gold-trimmed white cloth and heaped with delicacies on silver platters.
Between generous forkfuls of food, the conversation ranged far and wide, and even Andrik's keen ears were having a hard time making it all out. Beside him, Sejira sat pretending to be enjoying a bowl of some creamy kind of soup, engaging only in sparse pleasantries and not initiating any conversations of her own. That was good, though: there was so telling what would come out of her mouth if she eventually lost control. No; silent, she played her part well.
It was Andrik, after all, who was the conversationalist in this marriage.
"There's also a rumour going around that the Lieutenant Emperor himself is part Mullerano. Some say he hated his family, and that's why he urged along the Emperor to start rounding them up." This was what Andrik supplied, addressing the more politically active diners around him.
"Good riddance to them, that's what I say, in any case," offered his neighbor, nodding his head in a self-important manner. His tone implied that he was often the last word on most topics. But as the medallions on his shoulder proclaimed him as a high-ranking military man, this was hardly surprising. "Any creature with red eyes has to be some kind of demon, and aside from that, those Mulls may look human, but mark my words: there's something sinful about them underneath."
"Such a comfort the Government is dealing with the problem, after all these years. It was tearing at my nerves to have my little ones attending school with them."
Feigning sudden interest in the state of his napkin, Andrik groped under the tablecloth to find Sejira's hand, which was trembling with anger. He gave it a quick, warning squeeze, then turned back to his neighbors.
Still smiling politely, he carefully surveyed his fellow diners, absentmindedly picking at his mutton. After so generously distributing the wine bottle around, he was sure that the colonel across from him was cheerfully drunk.
"Colonial Dyer, I've been hearing that a new Mull camp has recently been built. Is there any truth to this?"
Dyer gulped down his current swallow of wine and eyed Andrik with heavy-lidded blue eyes.
"Eh? Why do you want to know, Lord Andrew? You're not in the military business," he demanded with surprising sobriety.
Damn. I should have waited until he'd finished draining that glass....
"Oh, Colonial, the camp isn't too close by us, is it?" a light voice suddenly twittered from the direction of Sejira's chair. Momentarily unable to school his shock, Andrik looked about to see Sejira leaning over her untouched soup, hands clasped in a most ladylike manner. Her brown eyes were soft, scared, and beseeching, as she dazzled Dyer with her most flattering gaze. To Andrik's continued shock, Dyer seemed to visibly warm to this silly creature whom Andrik had once believed was his partner.
"It gives me such a fright, to think of a whole camp of those demons so close to home. Of course," and here Sejira smiled gently- admiringly, "I know good leaders such as yourself will keep us safe, but still...."
The Colonial smiled absently, goodly drunk afterall. "Why, lady, there's nothing to fear. The camp is built in a remote valley, several miles north of Verdenshae. Barrack Twenty-seven Vee is far enough away from you to give you no cause to alarm."
"Oh, thank you colonel. Such a peace of mind you've brought me!"
That's my girl.
Four hours later, Andrik watched Sejira, sitting opposite him in their private carriage, methodically taking apart and maintenancing their all-important gun. Despite having been locked in an attic trunk for several weeks, the gun needed no attention; however, Sejira said she needed something to keep her hands occupied, and he had relented, gratefully settling back in the padded seat and bringing a fresh-lit cigarette to his lips. The carriage was not only provided by the richer members of the resistance, but it was also driven by a Blackbird as well, and with the thick curtains shielding the outside world from view, they had no fear of being spied on. Luckily, the safe-house they were traveling to was on roads that were, as of yet, not patrolled by the Iron Squad.
"Must you smoke that in here?"
Andrik glanced at Sejira, her brown hair all but escaped from its knot, her gloves carelessly thrown on the floor with her heels, her hands deft and steady on the gun. This was the Sejira he knew, not the pretty, polite thing dressed in gowns and manners.
"Since you ask, yes."
She shot him a look of distaste, lips pursed. He ignored this. She had never approved of his smoking, and he had learned from early experience that there was no use arguing with her about it. "You did good tonight, Sejira," he said, lowering his cigarette. She didn't look up. Of course.
"All part of my painkiller, Andrik," she said bitterly, putting the gun back together. "Or, is it poison still?"
Andrik tried to smile, but quickly gave up: it was fake, and would only make things worse. "Poison, Sejira."
He tipped his head back and blew out a stream of grey smoke, watching as it coalesced into the rocking shadows of the carriage's ceiling, coiling in on itself like a snake eating its own tail. He closed his eyes, his voice low.
"It's not a painkiller until the hurt is at its worst."
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