Concrete Cracks

The city breathed. She could hear it, ear pressed against the dirty ground. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. At first she thought that there might be some enormous beast under the concrete but no, the city itself was the colossal creature. It murmured to itself, deep and rumbling, in words no one has said but everyone knows. The city breathed. Some people walked past and some of those people looked at her and some of those looks were filled with disgust, disgust at the girl with dirt on her hands and dirt on her dress and now dirt on her cheek, but she paid them no mind. Perhaps they would not look at her if they, too, could hear the city. Perhaps they would anyway. The city breathed. She held her breath to better hear the murmurings of the metropolis and felt its expansive attention turn slowly, inexorably toward her. It whispered three words, and then three more, and she smiled. If any of the clean-cheeked passerbys had stopped to watch her they might have seen what happened, but they were all to busy focusing on their board meetings and barista-made macchiatos, and so no one saw the cracks in the concrete widen just enough to let a girl in a dirty dress slip through, falling away, falling home.


A short piece based off of "The Dirt Whispered", by Rise Against.

2: Assembly of the New World

The room was tense, everyone within stretched nearly to the point of breaking. Seven exceptionally well dressed women and two men sat around the large, ornate wooden table in the centre of the room and one more man stood at the end closest to the door. The nine leaders of the New World and Pret Deavos, Captain of the Guard to the Central Dominion. At that moment, the grey-haired Lady Reyleere of the Far South had her jaw set resolutely against the verbal onslaught of Pret’s own employer, Lady Ashen.

“I’m not entirely aware of how you can be surprised, Lady Reyleere.” Lady Ashen was a heavyset woman whose chin shook when she pounded the table with her fist. “It is no secret that you have long since sought a position in the Central Dominion.”

“I do not deny that; the Far South is a small territory, and I have many daughters who are more than capable of ruling it. But to accuse me of assassination?” Lady Reyleere made a cutting motion with her frail hands. “You go too far.”

Lady Cail of the Florant rested her slender chin on her delicate fingers. “Pardon, Lady Reyleere, but I believe Lady Ashen only accused you of hiring an assassin, not of performing the act yourself. I doubt any of us assembled believe that you would have the strength for such a task—physical or mental.”

“I am more than strong enough to maintain control of my dominion, something not all of us can claim.” Lady Reyleere retorted.

Lady Cail’s face flushed a bright red, but before she could defend herself Lord Kophan spoke up. “Enough with this. We are here to discuss justice and the future of the New World, not fling accusations as children do snowballs.”

The eight other leaders had the sense to look suitably abashed. Lord Kophan may have been a man, but he had ruled the Darklands for thirty years, the closest dominion to the Rift. Anyone who had survived such a time in close proximity to the Taint deserved respect.

“The future indeed.” Lady Ashen spoke first, as was her right as Host of the assembly. “I do not need to tell you all the importance of the Duchess in the Central Dominion. The loss of her cunning and intellect will be sorely felt in the coming years. She was a wise adviser and a loyal friend, and I intend to find whoever hired her assassin and ensure they face justice.”

“Do you expect our help?” Lady Tillen of the Plains asked, her lower jaw jutting forward arrogantly. “After accusing us of employing the assassin ourselves? You have always tested the line of respect, Lady Ashen, but this time you go too far.”

“We are only just recovering from the Fracture, Ladies and Lord.” Lord Weidan simpered. “We are close to reuniting the dominions. We of the Dominions must work together; let us not devolve into opposing territories again. Perhaps we should ask the man who chose not to stop the assassin when he had the chance?”

Lady Reyleere barked a laugh. “A man cautioning against conflict? I never thought I would see the day. Still, you raise a fine point.” She turned to Pret. “Tell us again, Captain. Why did you not apprehend the assassin?”

Pret Deavos ground his teeth. The implication was unfair, but he could not deny the request of a Lady. “The assassin had Tainted my second, Marc. I was forced to decide between preventing a potential outbreak and—”

“And your duty to protect the Duchess?” Lady Tillen interrupted.

Silently seething, Pret was forced to nod in agreement.

“It seems to me, Lady Ashen, that your problem may lie closer to your heart than you think.” Lady Reyleere mused. “And yet you accuse us instead. Perhaps Captain Deavos bears closer inspection?”

“The Captain has served me faithfully for years!” Lady Ashen growled. “I will not have you deflecting the matter.”

“If you cannot bear to consider that your own people could be at fault, how can you trust any of us?” Lord Kophan asked. “Any information we give you could simply be covering our tracks.”

“If you wish for my dominion’s aid, you must first send your Captain away for good.” Lady Tillen demanded.

“You cannot expect me to do this!” Lady Ashen protested.

 “My terms are the same.” Lady Cail nodded, followed by a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Pret felt sweat bead on the back of his neck.

Lady Ashen shook her head vigorously. “I refuse. He has done nothing to deserve this.”

“Then I must retract my dominion from the treaty.” Lady Wicten spoke up.

Lord Weidan let out a cry. “Lady Wicten, you cannot! The New World cannot sustain itself unless we all reunite.”

“I second Lady Wicten’s sentiment.” The corners of Lady Reyleere’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Either the Captain goes, or I do.”

“I—I can’t…” Lady Ashen had turned the colour of her namesake, showing weakness for the first time that night.

“Then I suppose the treaty is off.” Lady Cail drummed her delicate fingers on the table. “And let it be known that it was Lady Ashen who prevented We of the Dominions from getting back together.”

“I will send him away!” Lady Ashen burst out. “He will be sent from the Central Dominion for the duration of the investigation, and should he be found at fault he will be formally discharged from service.”

A pregnant silence followed, finally broken by Lady Tillen. “I find this acceptable. Talk to your people, have them talk to my people, and we shall arrange suitable terms.”

Lord Wicten’s sigh of relief was barely audible under the assorted agreements of the remaining Ladies. Pret released a breath he could not remember holding, feeling his undershirt grip his back, now slick with sweat.

The assembly ended shortly thereafter, leaving the Lady of the Central Dominion alone in the room with her Captain of the Guard.

“I am sorry, Captain.” Lady Ashen sighed.”

“I am sworn to serve you, Lady, and you are sworn to serve the people. Do no apologise for doing that which is best for the New World.”

“You have a house in the Florant, I believe?” Lady Ashen enquired.

Pret nodded. “I can make my own way there, Lady, you need not trouble yourself.”

“Thank you, Captain. I will send you the rest of the details after Lady Tillen and I have negotiated them.”

Pret bowed, recognising the dismissal. His walk back to his quarters was filled not with thoughts of the Florant, however, but the elusive assassin, the Lady in gold.

Licence

Got a couple of posts today to make up for the lack last week. This first one was inspired when I was looking up the difference between 'licence' and 'license'.

The antechamber was spartan and impersonal. Plain white walls with perhaps a hint of blue surrounded two cream armchairs that were as comfortable to sit on as they were plain, deep enough to sit on but not enough to relax. There was no other furniture, no small table with old magazines or television playing the news. A single painting hung opposite the armchairs, a modern art display, whorls of colours on a background white, with perhaps a hint of blue.

Leo alternated having his hands on the arms of the chair or in his lap every few minutes, occasionally checking his watch. He had been fifteen minutes early for his appointment forty minutes ago. He was dressed in a middle-range suit: fancy enough to definitely be formal, casual enough to still be able to talk to people in regular clothes. He had just graduated to alternating the placement of his hands in under a minute when the door to his right opened and a tall, honey-skinned woman stepped out, holding a clipboard at a calculated angle. She wore a suit that was slightly more formal than his and looked down her impressively pointed nose at him.

“Mister Jones?” Her lips pursed as she spoke, making no attempt to hide her distaste.

Leo stood. He wasn’t sure why she had asked. There was no one else it could be.

The woman eyed him up and down for a moment, narrowing her eyes. Finally, she moved to the side and said, “Miss Reave will see you now.”

Leo walked through the door, acutely aware of the daggers she was staring at him. The room beyond was much larger than the waiting room, but it still contained only what it needed to. At the far side of the room was a wooden desk, no larger than the one Leo had at home. On his side of the desk was a chair that looked marginally less comfortable than the one he had been sitting on for the past three quarters of an hour. On the other side was a chair that looked significantly more comfortable, but was unfortunately occupied by a woman with vivid blue eyes and nine fingers, the left pinkie ending at the first knuckle. She sat with her fingers interlaced and resting on a small stack of papers on the table, almost appearing to be in prayer.

“Welcome, Mister Jones.” She said, leaning back slightly and motioning to the chair with one hand. “Please, take a seat.”

Leo obliged, although he didn’t really see much choice. On his way to the chair, he heard the door close behind him with a soft click.

“Mister Jones, I expect you enjoy small talk about as much as I do, so I’ll skip to why we’re here. You application has been reviewed and discussed and the board has decided against issuing you with a Class-A licence. This is partially due to your past demeanour and partially to your skill set, which the board thought was too limited and not quite what they were looking for. However, if you wish to reapply for a Class-B licence, the board feels you would have a much stronger chance to—”

“I don’t want a Class-B licence.” Leo interrupted calmly. “I want a Class-A. If I wanted a Class-B licence, I would have applied for it.”

Miss Reave waited a beat before speaking again. “Mister Jones, I don’t want you to mistake our relationship. I am not your equal. I am high enough above you as to barely consider you a person at all. If you interrupt me again, you will cease to be a person, and will only ever again bother the poor soul who will have to clean that chair. Do we understand each other?”

Leo fought back a sneer and nodded.

“Good.” Miss Reave nodded. “As I was saying, the board feels you would have a better chance applying for a Class-B licence. Do you wish to go through this process now, or would you rather think about it?”

Leo sighed. “Now.”

Miss Reave rifled through the papers on the desk. “Very good. If the board issues you with a Class-B licence, you will be assigned a territory and will be expected to stay within your borders unless otherwise specified. You will have a large degree of freedom, but will be expected to defer to and Class-A licence holders. Do you agree to these terms?”

“I agree.” Leo nodded.

Miss Reave handed Leo a slim booklet and a pen. “In that case, please fill out this questionnaire. You may notice that some of the questions are similar to the Class-A licence form.”

Leo scanned the booklet. “Class-B Licence Application” was written at the top of the first page in clear, bold print. The yellow paper was rougher on one side, but only slightly. Some of the questions were indeed similar to the Class-A form he had filled out the week previous, such as “Have you been convicted of any criminal offences?”, “Would you say that you have difficulty respecting others?” and “How many 10-year-olds do you think you could take in a fight and win?”, but there were a few differences.

When he had finished filling out the form, Leo lay down the pen and passed the paper back to Miss Reave, who had sat silently while he wrote. Her blue eyes flicked rapidly back and forth as she read over his answers, then placed it precisely on the stack of papers.

“Thank you, Mister Jones.” Miss Reave said curtly. Leo heard the door click open behind him. “I will contact you when the board has made its decision.”

Recognising this as a dismissal, Leo nodded and left the room, past the glare the honey-skinned woman was giving him. It’s probably not personal, he thought. Some people just look like that.

He stood in the antechamber until the telltale buzz filled him and closed his eyes to avoid getting motion sick. When he opened them, he was standing on the street beside a nondescript apartment block. A booming sound preceded a shape flashing past him, a man in a tight-fitting red and white outfit carrying a whip. Whiplash. The Class-A licence holder in Leo’s town. Leo scowled, letting flames begin to lick at his hands as he began to walk home.

So I can’t get a Class-A yet, he thought. That’s okay. I can get a Class-B and work my way up from there. In the meantime, though… he let the flames work their way up his arms and trailed his hand along the wall beside him, leaving a ragged line of scorched brick and concrete. He spied a young couple cowering in a corner, still hiding from Whiplash’s passing. In the meantime, I can still have fun.