TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It takes him some time to catch his breath, amidst his racing heart. Amidst the ghostly haze dancing in his eyes. Amidst the stink of cigarette smoke.

One deep breath in. One deep breath out. He picks himself up. He checks his shirt collar, feels the slight scratch in the fabric. He walks past his audience to get changed.

“I’m not done talking with her yet. That was only our first try.”

*********************************************************

Bold talk for someone who didn’t know if he’d get a second try.

It goes the same as the first. Almost the same. Word-for-word, the same. The only difference is that the sheep with his finger on the button knows the entire script, and hopes with all his heart that she doesn’t miss her lines.

He’s never been so relieved to have an Assassin leap at him. She doesn’t remember. There’s still a chance.

“You know, you’re right.” 20022 adds from the doorway. “This was worth ruining another perfectly good shirt for.”

*********************************************************

He makes full use of any drawing board and piece of scrap paper he can get his hands on. He’s got plans to make. Each attempt, a radically new approach to the conversation, tailor-made to supply as much new information as possible. Does she prefer a more clinical style of emergency protocol, the two of them navigating a flowchart together? Does she want some more urgency, to match her energy? Should he talk first, or should she? Could he actually invite her to discuss the matter over tea?

As soon as he finishes each attempt, he’s off to write down everything he can remember, and begin work on designing his next attempt. Even with carte blanche, even with no other guests on board to compete with for supplies, he writes in his smallest hand, uses both sides, and carefully annotates important points to simplify future references.

This was one route he thought he might have to take.

Lying in the corner of the coffin’s room is a sheet of metal and a sheet of paper. A carving tool might have been nice for the metal, but perilous to bring into a room with an Assassin, and possibly extraneous anyway. A simple, but quite fragile pen sufficed for the paper.

He’d left some space by the sign he’d written, big enough for a second sign. It would have been nice to collect her mark - undeniably her mark, delivered in a hand that only she could replicate - every time the two of them talked. Proof that they had talked. Something to even the scales, just a little.

It was one route he thought he could take. He has a better use for the paper, now.

*********************************************************

Did you know? That when the need is great, and velocity greater, a sheep can skid the full length of a carpeted room and still hit the wall hard enough to smart?

“Did it almost get you that time, or was that all your own doing?” 20022 scans the room, idly guestimating distances. “If so, an impressive standing long jump. Well done.”

Did you also know? That the door to this room could be easily unlocked from the outside?

Perhaps the scales were unbalanced in his favor. Perhaps that made the whole situation just…balanced? Is that what happened when an injustice meets unfair scales? It was keeping him alive, and he was rather grateful for that. If it weren’t for this, this, troublesome crystal device, he would’ve been dead on the first attempt. It was the only reason he had a hope, instead of a coffin with a dead girl inside.

He studiously ignores the voice reminding him that said hope had yet to manifest, and his stacks of notes were growing ever-higher.

*********************************************************

If you asked him, this was a rather self-defeating way to make an Assassin.

Imagine if he had been working for the Architect. Imagine if this was a trap. She emerges, as if from a dream, her last memory that of ripping into the Architect. She recognizes - and of course she recognizes, why wouldn’t she? - that she is aboard one of the Architect’s shuttles. She is in a room, alone, with a figure she doesn’t recognize, but who immediately pledges with a solemn oath not to harm her, and to help her.

If you asked him, the most sensible approach would be to cooperate. If you are, in fact, the deadliest person in just about any given room, then why rush? Wait. Observe. See what the lay of the land is. See who these people say they are, and then watch what they do. Figure out if the room is trapped, figure out how many people are aboard the ship, figure out if there’s a cannon pointed at the room, and once you know what’s going on, then you can stab to your heart’s content. What’s the point in attacking right away? If there were external observers, if there was an airlock waiting to open, if there was that cannon…

All valid points. For all the good they did right now. They made the process of redecorating, again, a little more bearable, but little else besides.

Maybe it was easier to think about someone else’s foolishness so he could delay thinking about his own. Additional curtains hadn’t done it. Changing rooms hadn’t done it. Neither had changing the colors on the wall, dampening the noise of the ship leaking in through the door, or any of a dozen other tasteful modifications. He would run out of ideas here eventually.

Maybe by then, he’d have thought of something new to say to her. Something that could get around the insurmountable wall of the Architect’s survival, to see if she could even be let out while he still lived.

No way to know unless he could talk to her. No way to talk to her unless he tried again.

*********************************************************

He retreats, at last, to the kitchen. To a land of warm ovens and comforting scents. To a place of familiar routine and steady activity. Where his most pressing need could be met; the food had gone cold. It will be a while before his next attempt, with no real way to bring it here any faster. Not if she was going to get a nice meal, when next she woke up.

He’d found a solution.

It might be a little early to call it a solution when he hadn’t even tried it yet, but he’d spent so long dancing around the edges of it, he didn’t know what else it could be. The problem was the Architect was still alive. When he got down to it, that’s why every attempt so far had failed. Something in her brain, the way she was made, refused to let her do anything other than pursue her mission if there was even the slightest chance it was left incomplete. If she earnestly believed that she’d succeeded, then she would have no reason to kill anyone here. She would stand down, enough to have a conversation with her.

Under the circumstances, it would be easy to set up. Every time she wakes up, she’s waking up for the first time, and he’s seeing her honest reaction. Suppose he set up a party, in her honor. Have enough people on hand to congratulate her, unprompted. Iterate on the decorations and level of initial cheering until she’s surprised and delighted instead of spooked and stabbing. She’d wake up to the perfect party, tailor-made just for her, celebrating her great achievement, and thrown by someone who wants only to wake her up and bring her home. How could she refuse a chat then?

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t know she’d seen this party a hundred times before. She couldn’t know she’d met him a hundred times more. When she shares a victory dinner prepared just for her, and he asks for her help in getting her out of the coffin, she couldn’t know every time she’d refused. She’d only know this one moment he’d arranged for her to say yes.

Not that he hadn’t lied before, or made judicious use of the crystal device to find a way to get to know her. But those were different. He’d dodged, he’d avoided, he’d tastefully sidestepped the dangerous truth, hoping there was some level of uncertainty regarding her mission she was willing to accept. Some common ground they could both stand on, and speak to each other about. He’d not escalated to outright deception. He’d not judged her too far gone to reason with, and played with her head to plumb the depths of her heart.

An injustice meeting unfair scales. He could use that power to find a way to save her. He can say that he’s setting things right.

No one here could disagree.

Breathless Dead

He does not react. Not in the ways she is looking for, more than enough in the ways she will notice. A fallen teacup is not a gunshot. A reaching hand is not a guard dog twenty-three paces behind you. A reaching hand is not throwing a knife or vaulting over the table. A fallen teacup will not irreparably damage the carpet. He made sure of that. He notices, and he does not react. He is looking for something else.

“Maybe. I repeat: I was a chef.” And there’s more he could try to say, but he doesn’t. There’s a button he could press, and his finger hovers on it in readiness, but he doesn’t. “Please have patience. And please be still. I repeat: I mean you no harm. I want to help you. I need your help to get you back safely.”

He does not slip out of the snappy protocol rhythm. A prayer envelops it instead.

“Please."

Breathless Dead

Don’t falter. Don’t speak too quickly. Don’t linger on the treasure trove of information she just revealed. Don’t forget a word of it. Don’t relax the finger on the button. Don’t let a knuckle show white.

One hoof in front of the other. The guns will fire when they will. And he will put one hoof in front of the other.

“Independent individual, no government post. Between jobs. Formerly a chef. Crew recovered you from a frozen chunk of Architect’s station, floating through space.” She can draw plenty from that information. Yet her hands still move without telegraphing reason, and they constantly threaten to slip from his eyes. Don’t stop. Don’t lose the rhythm. “Please have patience. More to share. Information truncated to not overwhelm. Unsure of how esoteric would leave your mental state.”

Breathless Dead

She isn't in obvious pain.

She isn't in obvious distress.

She isn't trying to kill him.

Three knots unclench, in order.

"No no, I'm not Lord Hades. I'm-" Wait, does he look like Lord Hades to her? Wait, does he sound like Lord Hades to her? Wait, hang on, possibilities, oh dear-

“Of course things go wrong. It’s learning.” The ancient craftsman scoffs. “Legend tells of a proud mind who was cursed to have all their experiments succeed on the first try. They were the most pitiable fool in all the land, overflowing with groundbreaking results but with none of the knowledge necessary to explain any of it. Forced to watch as others filled in the lines around their work, and so gained all the real credit.”

He leans in close. He always leans in close, when it’s important. Dolce had never figured out if it was to ensure the wisdom could not be stolen by unworthy ears, or to ensure the student would focus with utmost attention, but he was certain if he asked the craftsman would lean in close to give the answer. “The quality of a mind is not in its discoveries or its successes, but in the length and breadth of its emergency protocols. For every step is a mistake imagined, or survived.”

There was, admittedly, too much for Dolce of Beri to imagine every single possibility. But he had imagined some, and memorized a thing or two in advance. He gathers himself up, and recites.

"I mean you no harm. I want to help you. As best as I know, you're not dead. And I am not Lord Hades; my name is Dolce. I swear all this is true on Hermes and Hestia." The oath, he had left flexible. Hermes sounded right for her, and Hestia felt right with him. “You, or a version of you, has been frozen in stasis due to a terrible disaster. This stasis is stable; time is not a factor. I brought you here with an esoteric; exact workings unknown, delicate, and necessary to maintain stable stasis. Trying to get you back safely, will need your help.” After the litany comes the deep breath, the natural pause.

So that’s why the craftsman had cut all those extra words from his directions. It felt…snappier? Quicker, to say and to understand. Less words, less overwhelming in a crisis.

He hopes the pilgrim remembers the sound of a good emergency protocol. He hopes it sounds familiar.

Breathless Dead

So it comes to this. Alone in a room with a miraculous box containing the galaxy's most deadliest, most perfect killer, and he has to invite her over from another reality to try and get to know her.

Finally, the world makes sense.

They even let him have his choice of room. The shuttle's practically empty; the three of them are the only passengers, after all. He's settled on one of the spare rooms. Nothing as ostentatious as a luxury VIP suite, but a nicely-apportioned room, the sort that an officer or mid-ranking guest might use. Comfortable, without being overwhelming. Soft carpeting, like fresh grass. The furniture itself is in the Azura style, all sweeping curves with hardly a sharp edge in sight, ideal for his purposes. A pity he doesn't need most of it. A low table is the biggest thing he needs. Hardly a thought passes between his ears as he hauls away the extraneous pieces, one by one, to the neighboring room.

A room with just a table looks less welcoming and more barren, though. But you’d be surprised the difference a little tasteful decorating can make. On each side of the table, he lays out a nest of cushions of varying sizes, enough that anyone could make themselves comfortable. Wall hangings are out. Lamps would be nice, but the room already has its own lighting, and any additional lighting could be a blunt object in potentia. Or a concealed knife. Small, thin, soft; harmless is the order of the day. For both their sakes. With some paper-folding and patience, he produces chains of flowers and intricate, multicolored sculptures. With gauzy silk, he fashions curtains for texture and color rather than concealment. It isn’t much, but he doesn’t need much to make a room comfortable.

Then there’s the matter of food. It’s never good to be too hasty when deciding on a menu, or its presentation. For as useful as hospitality had been in recent days, it made a poor first impression to seem like he was binding his guest with it automatically. No, the food here, sadly, may not be touched. But it would be smelled. Doesn’t that make all the difference in the world, sometimes? Imagine walking into a bakery without the smell of freshly-baked bread to greet you. Horrible. Now here, there should be nothing overwhelming or overpowering. A nice, pleasant backdrop, to be sampled if she likes. Or not. Perhaps she won’t be hungry, and that’d be. Fine.

He frowns, halfway through considering the shuttle’s larder. One question tumbles through his thoughts like a pebble bouncing down a hillside.

When you’re pulled in from another reality, would it also bring over whatever you’d eaten? Or would you always arrive completely starving?

And the avalanche follows close behind.

If you were someplace cold before you were pulled over, would you be cold when you arrived? If you were in the middle of a fight, would your system still be flush with adrenaline? Would your heart still race with fear? Would you experience anything in transit? Would it be different every time? Time. What about time? Would you be gone from…wherever it was you came from, for as long as you were here? Would you remember what you were doing? Would you remember your time here? Would the original person share any of the perspective, the memories, the feelings? Would they experience both at the same time-

Questions. Questions. Questions. Questions without end. Questions without answer. Questions send him pacing around the room. Questions make him consider tearing it all down and starting over from scratch. Several times.

Once, he inspects the coffin. The cutters aren’t, strictly speaking, built into the walls of the coffin itself. Rather, they’ve been (expertly) bolted on to the sides, and if he had to guess, they also make use of whatever bit of Hermetic expertise keeps her asleep. It wouldn’t be impossible to remove. If there’s room enough for a Diodekoi and a coffin in the device, then there certainly was room for a sheep. He could get some answers. He could learn what she will need when she arrives. He could also awaken a bio-engineered killing machine without knowing the first thing about her.

Gingerly, carefully, his hooves find purchase on the face of the coffin, and he hauls himself up to the crystal-encrusted viewport at eye level. All he sees is bone and claw. Not even a silhouette he’s familiar with.

He leaves the cutter alone.

He decides on a hearty stew, spiced with those ingredients least likely to offend a sensitive palate.

He adds a board, affixed to the wall behind where he stands. He writes in giant letters. He writes in ink that contrasts sharply with the surrounding colors. He will not have to speak it first. He will not have to shout over her, if she is screaming.

Say ‘LAKKOS’ to leave here immediately

The only furniture is a low table; too low to conceal anything, no sharp edges. The material will break before a body does, and will not break into jagged pieces. The room is decorated with silken curtains that can conceal nothing, not even where the fabric bunches up, and paper origami fashioned with no possibility of secret hiding places. He carries no weapons, or badge of office. Simple clothes. Pockets empty.

Alone in a room with a miraculous box containing the galaxy's most deadliest, most perfect killer.

There is more he could do. His heart lies buried beneath the onrushing wall of questions. But to care for every eventuality would, ironically, be so overwhelming to her that it would leave other possible needs unmet. There’s only so much he can do.

His heart skips a beat when he pushes the button.

Breathless Dead

“........................................huh.”

It turns out there is no amount of training, no amount of present peril, that can quite withstand the shock of suddenly being offered a free Assassin to take home with you. True, he had just prayed for her, but he was well resigned to holding a quiet, forlorn hope for some distant future, and only wished for some small token of comfort in the meanwhile.

This sort of thing happened, sometimes, in the stories. Somebody makes a prayer, a god appears, and they choose to make an entirely different offer instead. Does this mean he has some god’s attention? For what, exactly? He’s hardly done anything recently, beyond fill out paperwork, sit on a shuttle, and follow strict walking directions. Odd, definitely odd. And a little worrying. Because…he musn’t know he musn’t know he mustn’t know well, it just is.

“That is. Quite the offer.” He looks to 20022. He looks past 20022. He looks to the Emissary, still lost in relief. No one here is a friend he can rely on. The decision is his.

But no matter the peril, this much is true; Dolce is a sensible sheep.

“Well, I did say I don’t know very much about Assassins,” he continues, speaking directly to the glowing eye. “Other than the job title, and that I’d really rather not be killed by one, if I can help it. Not just me, I also wouldn’t like it if she tried to kill other people along the way. So, you see…” He wrestles with various degrees of unstoppable, comparative safety, and the difference in scale between a sheep and a machine intelligence, before finally shaking his wooly head. “Oh, let me put it like this: Is there a way to keep that from happening? At least a little reliably?”

It’s not a yes. But he is taking a seat at the table (metaphorically, the real one is being disassembled as they speak) and shows no sign of leaving just yet.

Yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s risky. Yes, he doesn’t expect an easy answer here. But what else can he do? It’s no good holding a wish in your heart, and then balking when the gods offer to grant it beyond your wildest hopes.

So. He’s at least got to ask. It’s the sensible thing to do.

Breathless Dead

Dolce waits placidly as the Emissary clatters across the floor towards him at maximum speeds. Not yet. His hooves remain grounded. His legs stand ready for the one step necessary to prevent being bowled over. Not yet. His spine remains properly straight as he skids to a stop in front of him. Not yet. The Emissary begs for his life. Frantically he pleads, pouring words out as fast as he can think them, asking Dolce - Dolce, of Beri, when once he was the Architect - for the privilege of simply going with him.

There is a pause. The Emissary doesn’t need to breathe. His thoughts and his hearts run too fast to continue. His metal hands grasp at the air. And his metal body completely blocks 20022’s line of sight.

Now.

Now, Dolce's calm mask melts into the weary, but earnest smile, glowing until it wrinkles his nose and lights up his eyes. “It would be no trouble at all. If there are no objections,” he says of the Architect, who would have kicked the Emissary out personally if not for the divine repercussions, and lack of feet. “Then of course, you may come with me.”

Please, Emissary, do not take it too personally, that he kept you in suspense. You are not safe. He is not safe. There is no reason for him to refuse your claim, and 20022 has an. Opinion, of him, that would make it more surprising if he turned you down. But 20022 does not need to read the message in this smile; it is meant just for you. There’s been enough trouble this day, you ought to have this gift without fear of how it may be used against you.

You have nothing to fear from me. I would have asked you to join us if you had stayed silent.

Breathless Dead

Ah.

Dolce is nodding. Slowly. Wonderful thing, a nod. All at once, it tells a room you understand, you’re thinking, and you’re going to talk, but not yet. Not yet. Give him a little time, please. He will give you a good answer. Just give him a little time. Please.

He heard every syllable, every brush of air that passed 20022’s lips. Intonations and emphasis pile up alongside carefully smoothed expressions. This raw material, he systematically tears to pieces, cataloging every bit of data he can wring out. If he works hard enough, he'll find meaning. He'll find reason. He'll find everything he missed. The first time. Every time. And. And. And. And. Not yet. Put it in a box. Set it on the shelf. Later. He’ll get to that later. He knows it’s important, but there’s no time. Not now. Later. He promises. He’s got more important things to worry about.

He stands in the seat of power of the second highest-ranking individual in all the Skies. He is bound by oaths, a labyrinth of corridors and sealed doors, an army of guards, a horde of drones, and more besides. Dolce of Beri wields neither power nor influence. He’s got…well, he’s got the hope that when he leaves here, someone will remember to give him back his little sword, and whatever else he happened to be carrying in his bags today.

He. He has. He had. He’s not got…

No one here is a friend. At least, not a friend he can rely on.

He is not safe. He may not be safe for quite some time.

Dolce is not nodding. He lifts his head the correct amount to indicate both attention and humility. His hands remain folded. He speaks in a voice beaten into his tongue.

“Thank you, but that doesn’t seem sensible, given the circumstances. I’m sure I can find some small way to make myself useful in a time of crisis.”

He is a sensible sheep. Thank goodness for that, sensible sheep are well-known to be helpful, nonthreatening, and inoffensive. You will find no better follower in all the galaxy. Through Poisidon’s storms and Zeus’ thunder, they will put one hoof in front of the other, and they won’t give a lick of complaint or question. They’ll find a way to roll up their sleeves and muddle on through, somehow. 20022 may collect his voice, and search for the fear that brought this lost lamb to heel, but he may not recognize the shape of it.

Dolce is not safe. Somewhere in the universe, on an Imperial warship, rides safety. Rides home.

He has to live. He has to muddle his way back, whether it’s under the nose of 20022 or from a cafe in Beri with two windows.

It’s the only sensible thing to do.

Breathless Dead

Was that necessary? Was that really necessary? Adding in the little personal address at the end? Now he has to say something back. He was falling to pieces a moment ago. The news is…he has to know, doesn’t he? He can’t not know what that means, to him. How can he say it so casually? The same way he can ask him to make a polite response, now that he’s been lightly addressed. The words carved into his bones spring to his lips. His voice is warring to stay neutral, and warring where to go from there. “Thank you. I’ll-”

You’ll like him.

Dolce freezes.

“Why should I be meeting a Regional Director? I’m not part of the Service.”

20022 is watching him. The Royal Architect is passively watching him. The Emissary is watching nothing. There is one door, to his right, currently closed. The room contains a shack, an X carved on the floor, a ramshackle table and chairs, food, water, fire, on the table, several patches of torn floor. Nothing within arm’s reach of anyone but the Emissary. Nothing between him and anyone else. Apertures for drones cannot be seen. He hears them in the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. There must be many. The buzzing is constant. They are not moving in.

He is standing with his hooves shoulder-width apart. His hands are clasped together, at his waist. He is leaning neither forward nor back. He is not moving. He is looking at 20022. He is speaking.

He is not safe.

“...why did you bring me here in the first place?”

Breathless Dead

He listens. He raises his head, when asked. Somewhere in the proceedings, he takes a seat on the shining floor. (A risk. A hunch. How long has it been, since someone did not stand on ceremony and remained amicable? No one but 20022 is here to see, and if the Great Lord does not object, then what room does he have to complain about decorum?) He listens, and he learns, of temples, of assassins, of Biomancers, of the life of the Royal Architect, who is second only to the Shah in the Endless Azure Skies.

Before the talk is done, his hand strays from his lap, and gently pets the floor beside him. He touches the polished gold as if it were a friend’s shoulder. The Royal Architect is not the whole station, his concept of body and self must be much different than his own. This much, he knows. But perhaps the Royal Architect also knows that he knows, and that his options are rather limited here. How else can Dolce of Beri tell a digital mind that he sees the fear that grips his ancient heart? Can he say as such, in what few words he has? Can one so small offer any help against a prison of the mighty? The Architect may see this humble offering of sympathy, and take some small comfort when Dolce presses no further on his point of hospitality.

He wouldn’t be right. But he wouldn’t be entirely wrong, either. There is just more than one monster trapped here.

Can you feel him down there, Diodekoi? No, probably not. To be frank, he hopes you don’t feel anything, haven’t felt anything for a long, long time. Better to sleep, and dream of someplace better than here, than to be awake for every moment of your fate. What one god works, no other god may unwork, but perhaps, Hera, there could be room for a warm, peaceful dream? And if she dreams not, then somehow, let her feel this gentle touch through countless layers of ice, bone, and metal. Let her know that someone knows she is there, and wishes it were not so.

Thus run his silent prayers, when a voice snaps his full attention to the present.

“Decommissioning?” At once he is on his hooves. At once he is trembling to hold himself still. “My, my apologies, I, no one gave me any reports. Who’s to be decommissioned? Who’s in revolt? We left so suddenly, I didn’t see - is everyone,” The moment he touches the idea, a pit of dread opens in his stomach, and all his thoughts cling desperately to keep from being sucked into an abyss. He wills his throat to loosen, and his tongue to speak coherently. “Are they okay?”