1: Lady in Gold

Pret Deavos looked down on the ballroom from his high balcony, watching the nobility below mix and mingle. From down there, on ground level, the throng of people looked random, disorganised, but from his vantage point Pret could see that the patrons all met and swivelled and parted in an elaborate social dance, different groups of important families and their orbiting attendants, those of lower status swinging past briefly before looping around to pass a different congregation. The women wore flowing gowns of all colours that stopped just short of the ankle, as was the current fashion. Some also had a high collar, a cole, that covered their right cheek and ear, but these were becoming less and less common. Their counterparts we bedecked in dark, tight-fitting vests with voluminous sleeves that proved useful for holding personal items. Pret preferred to have less fabric around his arms and so his sleeves extended only to his elbows; enough to hold and small personal effects, but short enough to still have a full range of movement of his arms, should he need it. He hoped he would not.

The patrons continued to dance and talk, presided over by the Duchess and her husband, who sat on a raised dais directly below the balcony. One of the large double doors opened, allowing the pooled light to spill out into the night, shadows dancing over the gardens and marble statues that surrounded the ballroom. Pret caught a glimpse of a man with a spear raised, frozen mid-step. It was a likeness of the Duchess’ husband, on the day he routed the Southern Lord. As if to balance the light escaping the doors, an ebony-haired woman stepped inside. Her golden gown rose from her toes to her nose, the cole covering the entire right side of her face and slanting down to obscure even part of her left cheek. The door closed behind her and Pret could see her inhale deeply, slowly, and then set off into the crowd. Something in his gut twinged and he felt at his belt unconsciously to make sure he still had his sword and pistol.

Turning to Marc, the uniformed man beside him, Pret murmured, “Have someone follow the Lady in gold who just arrived. Something doesn’t feel right.” Marc nodded and moved quickly down the stairs to floor level. Pret turned his focus back to the ballroom, trying to locate the woman… but couldn’t. He scanned back and forth, but saw only dresses of orange or lime or perhaps yellow, but none the burnished gold of the newest Lady. His eyes flicked down in alarm to the Duchess, his heart beating faster, but the High Lady seemed unperturbed, laughing to the Lady sitting to her right. His hand again moved to his pistol—to find the holster empty. He looked down, grabbing at his sword, but the scabbard was vacant of steel too. He heard a polite cough and spun around to see the golden-garbed Lady leaning against the wall, his sword resting lazily in her right hand and his pistol held steadily in her left, pointed towards him. He tensed to lunge at her but she cocked the pistol, shaking her head.

“I was expecting more from the Captain of the Guard.” She said, the words sliding from a mouth hidden behind the wide cole. Her one visible eye was a deep, dark purple that seemed to overlap itself, the colour looping and sinking beneath and around her pupil. She lifted the sword, letting it slice slowly through the air. The barrel of the pistol never wavered. “You men are all so brutish, so heavy-handed. You don’t even notice when a lighter touch is used.”

“How did you get past Marc?” Pret growled.

The Lady’s visible eyebrow creased in mock concern. “Oh dear, that wasn’t the man you sent to look after me, was it? I’m afraid he won’t be waking up tonight. Whether he wakes at all… well, that’s up to what you do now. You see, he somehow swallowed a lethal dose of the Taint. However, I happen to have a dose of the cure here.” She pulled a thin vial filled with a swirling translucent liquid from the back of her cole.

Pret froze. If what she said was true… No one would have any of the cure, not this far from the Rift. And if Marc was truly Tainted and left unattended to, the entire nobility in attendance would be in danger. “For all I know, you’re lying.” He said, hating his voice for cracking.

The Lady cocked her head, her long black hair sweeping past her shoulders, and asked, “Can you take that chance?”

Before Pret could respond, she lobbed the vial toward the stairwell and sprinted for the balcony railing. Letting out a roar born of indecision and regret, Pret leapt for the vial.

United We Stand

Puffs of red-brown dirt, kicked up by heavy boots. Drops of spittle flying from Peterson’s mouth, his chapped lips ejecting orders. The steady thumpthump thumpthump of my heartbeat, sending adrenaline pulsing through my body, heightening my senses, slowing down the world to a bare crawl. 

    The saliva hit the ground and I ducked through the mud brick entrance into the room behind Rogers, the dusty walls veined with cracks born of heat and age. I raised the gun to rest against my shoulder as I swept from in front to the right, the crosshairs passing over the ragged green couch, hunched in the corner of the room, over the hanging picture of a dark-skinned man wearing long pants and a woman wearing a dark blue burqa, reaching the small wooden oaken? table occupying the corner to my right. 
    Clear. Rogers echoes my call and the rest of the squad floods through the door as one creature. United We Stand, the mantra echoes in my mind. Heroes of War.
   My boot lifts from the ground and I swing back to face the door on the other side of the room. My foot reaches the apex of its step and begins its downward descent but is cut off by the muted crack of gunfire. Beside me, Rogers grunts and jerks and a hole explodes in the back of his shirt. I twist mid-stride, my sights crossing the room couchpicturetable in a blur to look at the rest of the squad, look behind the rest of my squad, in time to see Smith stumble and James spasm and Peterson’s head explode in a red mist, spewing grey matter across those closest to him. Stewart and Leigh and I are unscathed. My heart does a double-skip thumpthumpthump and sends more adrenaline to all corners of my body. I glimpse a hostile and squeeze the trigger, feeling the barrel kick back onetwothree and seeing the black-clad man start to fall, his own weapon spraying bullets as his muscles convulse. 
    United We Stand.
    I drop to one knee to make myself less of a target and Leigh does the same, ducking into the corner with the table. Stewart is still turning to see if there are any more hostiles when the rat-at-at sends three slugs into him, two to the chest and one to the face, tearing out his grey-green eyes.
    Heroes of War.
    I see the second man but and fire onetwothree again but Rogers has already nailed him from behind me. I glance over to him tablepicturecouch and see him clutching his side, rivulets of red running through his pale white fingers. I’m still looking his way when a boot kicks open the door behind him, shards of wood spiralling from the point of impact. I blink instinctively as a splinter floats past my face, bringing my gun around too late to save Rogers from the point-blank shot to the head. My finger squeezes onetwothree and the man jerks, sliding to the side to allow another black-clad man access who falls onetwo-click. 
    A moment passes, my brain frozen, before I catch up. One of the rounds is jammed between the firing chamber and the round still trying to load. 
    Gun jam:
1. Rip out mag
2. Rack slide
3. Lever with knife
4. Insert mag
5. Rack slide
6. Fire
    I thumb the release and pull hard, feeling the magazine grip and then slide out, then drop it. The mag falls as I reach up to the slide, pulling it back to try to engage the ejector and kick out the cartridge still lodged in the firing chamber. The mag strikes the dirt, kicking up dust, and gunfire rings out from Leigh’s corner. 
    United We Stand.
    The cartridge sticks in the chamber and I dive behind the door, seeing another man coming from the corridor beyond. He fires a shot that catches my thigh, sending white-hot flames of pain licking up and down my leg. I cry out even before I’ve hit the ground, rolling until I hit the clay wall and pulling out my knife to prise the cartridge out. Leigh faces away from me, rifle pointed outside, exchanging fire with someone out of my sight. I hear footsteps coming from the corridor and call to him and he turns my way in time to receive a face full of buckshot from a shotgun.
    Heroes of War.
    The cartridge flicks out, jumping through the red-brown dust that my leap disturbed. I reach down for another magazine but it catches in its pocket for a moment. The cartridge lands next to Rogers’ body, sinking into the sand that his blood now had soaked. The magazine finally pulls free and I slam it into my gun just as the man Leigh was firing at rounded the corner. I rack the slide and squeeze onetwothree at the same time as he fires, a line of fire burning through my stomach and up to my ribcage. 
    United We Stand.
    I cough up blood from my shredded lungs as the shotgunner rounds the door. I manage to squeeze off onetwothree another burst of fire, but my aim is off and the slugs punch through his kneecap, crimson filling the air. He cries out and I can see his finger whitening as it tightens on the trigger of his shotgun even as I squeeze again. The firing pin clicks and slides forward, striking the bullet in the chamber of my gun just after a burst of light explodes from the end of the shotgun, sending buckshot hurtling towards me. 
    Heroes of—

Façade

The late afternoon sun crawled in through the blinds, congealing in puddles of liquid gold on the wooden floor. These small slivers of light were the only form of illumination in the otherwise dark house. A loud clack echoed through the empty home, signalling the teenager’s return from school.  Tim stepped into the hall, the laughter of his friends following him until the heavy door thudded shut. The smile lingered on his face as he called out to the cloying emptiness, but there was no one to hear him.

He kicked off his shoes and padded through the drifting motes of dust to the blinds, closing them to shut out the harsh, judging light. The floorboards were cool underfoot as he reached up to his face, undoing the rough straps and clasps of thought and concentration that held his mask of confidence in place. The ceramic mask let out a pneumatic sigh as it came away from his head, cracked from the strain of a day’s use, the smile still frozen in place. He placed it gently, almost apprehensively, on the mahogany table, the shadow covering a whorl in the old wood. On contact with the dark tabletop it fractured, tiny crevices like spiderwebs dancing across its porcelain surface. The wastewater-grey thing inhabiting Tim’s body let out a tired breath as his features assumed a practiced neutrality. It was the expression of someone neither joyous nor tortured. The look of someone floating somewhere far away.

On the table, the mask groaned and collapsed in on itself. Fragments of false confidence and shards of rehearsed happiness slowly broke down, dripping from the table in teardrops of manufactured levity, colliding with the lacquered floorboards with a soft plink.

The greyness consumed a small, poorly prepared meal, the bitterness leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The inside of his stomach had become a cavernous hollow, hungering for something that could not be sated by any meal. It was a familiar feeling now, an unwanted companion. The constant ache of a phantom limb.

Plink.

The hollow roiled uneasily through his intestines, demanding some tribute but giving no indication as to what it desired. The greyness wandered into the living room and turned on the TV, watching without seeing the group of cartoon people as they discussed animals or houses or something equally trivial, the sounds ricocheting off his eardrums and back out into space. The drilling emptiness in his stomach churned, spurting needle-like ridges that grated at his innards. His tongue rubbed the inside of his cheeks, tasting blood and dirt.

Plink.

The greyness quickly grew restless and began to browse through a book from the squat coffee table, breathing it in. The smell of dust and mustiness. The slight roughness of the thin pages, familiar to him on an almost fundamental level.

Plink.

Within minutes his eyes had begun to slide over the words, his numbed brain reducing them to incomprehensible lines and shapes. The greyness no longer truly held any hope that these activities would enthral him or stall the hollowness, but he went through the motions regardless. It was the physical manifestation of the impatient, irritating feeling to go and do something. It could be getting some food or going for a run or yelling and screaming as loud as he could, just to tell the world hello, I am still here, and I am alive. But of course it was never any of these things. It was just an itch he couldn’t scratch. It had become something of a game; he would find menial activities to while away the time and in return the hollowness would continue to grow.

Eventually, the rest of his family got home. The greyness scooped up what remained of the mask and affixed it to his face, gluing together the ten thousand shards of glass and tears. He was tired, though, and the façade sometimes slipped, earning him worried looks that were quickly dismissed by the oft-rehearsed phrase, “I’m just a bit tired”. After dinner, the greyness retreated to his room, a safe haven from social expectations, a lair in which to lick his wounds. It smelled of books. Sleep. Three-day-old dirty laundry. Safe smells.

The lights began to go out in the house, signalling to the greyness that it was time to rest, to build up the energy required for tomorrow. The phantasmal cold came, seeping through the blankets that the greyness had piled around himself, coating his body in a sheet of acidic frost that complemented the empty pain in his stomach, wearing away his defences until all that remained was the bleached centre of loneliness and self-loathing. The core shivered from the imagined cold, pointlessly pulling the blankets closer and huddling beneath them until he fell asleep to visions of his own incompetency.

When morning came, the core regenerated its protective layer, no longer refuse grey but a thicker congealed ash colour. After a few minutes, the ceramic mask was back, the façade reconstructed, the cheery smile fixed in place once more amidst images of merriment etched in the brightest hues.

The mask that would keep the coldness away.

At least for one more day.

City

    The night air chilled the two people standing on top of the building, despite their long clothes. They stood in silence, overlooking the city they jointly despised. A gas mask hung from the neck of one of them, while the other wore a long, thin scabbard.
    “Look at this place.” The one with the mask around his neck spoke. “It’s beautiful. A beautiful fuckin’ cesspit of corruption. I can’t wait for it to burn.” He spat off the edge of the roof, counting the seconds until it hit the ground. He gave up after four, the droplet of saliva shrinking from sight as it fell to the earth far, far below. 
    “Reckon they’ll catch us?” It was her first time, unlike the other rebel. 
    He laughed, his lips peeling back like a wolf’s snarl. “Catch? Not a chance. They know it, too. If they get us, we’ll be dead on the ground before you can say a thing. These bastards’ll be shootin’ to kill.” He mimed firing a machine gun, the movement making the flamethrower by his side swing on its strap. “They sure as hell won’t be expecting you, though. I doubt you’ll have to worry about too much”
    The girl smiled, absentmindedly fingering the handle of her sword. The wind blew stronger, and they both hugged their coats tighter to combat the cold as they waited for the signal.
    “They don’t even know who I am. The only thing they have is the police sketch of my mask.” He took a swig from the flask on his belt. “They caught me once, right back at the start. Sat me down in a room, flooded the air and made me breathe. They didn’t know who I was, though. Didn’t have my mask back then, and they’ve never made the connection between me and him. Besides, I didn’t look half so pretty back then.” He smiled again, the muscles in his face pulling at the shiny scar tissue that covered half of his face. How he’d kept vision in his right eye, she had no idea. 
    “Yeah, they told me about that. They all thought you died in the explosion.”
    “Well, for four minutes I technically did.”
    They fell back into silence, looking over the glittering lights of the city. He was right. It was beautiful.
    As she watched, the upper stories of a building in the distance erupted into flame, spewing concrete and glass in all directions. Moments later, the sound of the explosion reached them and the man’s grin grew wider.
    “There’s our cue.” He turned to her, putting on the gas mask. “Remember, get in and out as fast as you can. We need you for the smarts. Leave the real fun stuff to me.” Somehow, she could still feel smiling through the mask.
    She nodded, adrenaline coursing through her veins, fastening the smile to her face and turning it slightly manic. 
    “Alright then. Let’s watch this city burn!” With a howl, the man hurled himself off the building, opening his arms and letting the air fill his wingsuit and carry him to the building opposite. The girl waited a moment longer before doing the same, her heart beating fast enough to explode when she leapt into the empty space, looking down at the ground, so far away, and feeling a laugh born of excitement and terror bubble up through her throat as the wingsuit finally caught the air and carried her across the divide. She crashed through a window, narrowly missing the concrete support strut inside as she rolled to absorb the impact on the floor, drawing her sword as she stood. As the sword left the scabbard, the flint engaged and spat fire onto the blade, engulfing it in moments. She ran from the room and saw the other rebel, who nodded to her, laughing raucously as his flamethrower spewed fire into a room she couldn’t see. She turned towards the stairwell, reaching the door just as a man in uniform burst through, pointing his gun at her. She didn’t hesitate as her flaming sword sliced through the air towards him.

    This piece was jointly inspired by the song "City", by Hollywood Undead, and by this picture: http://88grzes.deviantart.com/art/Fire-raiser-102469091 . Check out the rest of the art, they're awesome.

Blue

The eyes are blue, speckled with black. They shine eerily bright in the fading light, twin pools of arctic water in a face ice-white. The lips, slightly parted, are painted the same colour as the road, concealing the paleness underneath. The clothes are torn and scorched, gradually turning grey by the gently falling ash that dances and twirls like burnt snowflakes to the eagerly awaiting ground. The whisper of the wind sighing through the streets is barely audible over the ringing in their ears. Every step crunches and every crunch sounds like a slowly burning fire that crackled and consumed and spread instantly and effortlessly. Buildings once white are blackened, cars red and blue turned into hollow husks, burning carcasses of giant beasts, skeletons of what was. The air feels warm and the ground feels warmer, even through rubber-soled shoes. Everything tastes faintly of screaming and despair and breathing through your nose doesn’t help. There were clouds, but they have since fled, choosing to spend their vigil watching over someplace less dismal. In their absence the heavens are empty but for the ash, not even the sun to be seen. The sky is blue, speckled with black. 

Romulus

Romulus

The evening sun shone through the high windows, suffusing the room with a soft crimson glow. Lanterns hung on the wall, just now being lit by a short woman with eyes like sapphires and at least half a smile at all times. The sound of laughter and relaxed conversation mingled with the sunset, punctuated occasionally by a yell of excitement or the clinking of cups. Groups of men and women formed, merged and separated across the tables in the room in waves of conversation and cheer, the sounds breaking against Romulus’ ears gently and consistently.

Romulus and his companions rose another mug to their success and drank deeply, drops sometimes spilling free from the ceramic and falling to the stones below. Guffaws and giggles followed, usually accompanied by a solid clap on the back. Romulus laughed with them, his head beginning to spin from all the round before. He looked around at the grins of his friends, their bodies relaxed and carefree as they ordered more drinks. This, right here, was a room removed from time and troubles, where nothing could go wrong, nothing could be wrong. 

Romulus felt like crying.

For a moment, when Sander lifted his mug, Romulus could see the baton glinting in his hand. Aime shifted in her seat and he could see her twisting her body into the kick. If he looked down, he could still see the body on the floor, in the dirt, twisted and broken. He looked up, seeing Sander’s eyes on him and laughed, accepting the drink and throwing it back. His smile felt like a disease, something corrupt that had crawled onto his face while he slept and taken up residence without his permission. 

Someone yelled a few tables over and it sounded like a cry for help. The young duster had yelled like that, for what felt like hours. They’d always been told that dusters were savages with only two states: placid or angry. This duster had definitely been angry, but the tears that glinted in the torchlight had to have been from sadness, hadn’t they? Romulus didn’t know if anyone else had even seen them. Surely if they had, they wouldn’t be out drinking now, would they?

Romulus threw back another drink. A seeping dampness on his chest let him know that more had spilled than the mug before. He didn’t care, and laughed along with the others. Their grins looked predatory now, twisted grimaces that were all teeth and malice. Romulus shook the image out of his head and fished out his money to buy the next round. 

The sun had set a while ago, and the only light was from the flickering green lanterns. Someone walked past one and a looming shadow crossed the room, making everything just a little bit darker until they moved on. Romulus left the table before the drinks arrived, saying that he needed some air. The door kept moving to the left but he eventually made it outside, under the stars. Using the wall to prop himself up, Romulus walked around the side of the building, not feeling the chill of the night. The alley was unlit and he stumbled more than once before finally collapsing, sitting with his back to the wall. From inside he could still hear laughter, muffled by the bricks between them. 

Romulus leaned forward and retched. Cheers sounded from inside, as if congratulating him. His stomach heaved a few more times and then was still. He pressed his head back against the cold wall, feeling a bit of stone dig into his skull. He swallowed, trying fruitlessly to rid his mouth of the taste of bile. It was between his teeth now. His eyes stung and he felt tears run down his face. His body shook, the shaking not connected to the cold. 

He could hear the young duster shouting, yelling, pleading with them to stop, but they didn’t. The body crunched under his boot, snapped under his baton. The woman was dead but they kept going, just kept going to make sure and the duster was crying and screaming and Romulus might have been too, he couldn’t remember.

He leant forward again, feeling his stomach begin to rise once more. Inside, the crowd laughed and drank and celebrated their success.

Another little something from The Fifth Citadel.

These are really just to give me snapshots of different characters at different moments in time. Spoilers: this is a sad moment.