TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It’s remarkable, the way she can hold her hand out to an unmoving sheep that makes him look like the awkward one.

“My apologies, I’ve had to be on highest alert to keep from getting killed all this day.” Even now, his pulse quickens and his body prepares to leap, on instinct, seeing her hand move closer. Guilt tugs at him, its shadow crossing his face. “It will take me a little time to warm to the idea.”

This is the second first impression she has given him. She first appeared as a pilgrim of the Hermetics, so alight with wonder that she would beg questions of Hades before concerning herself with her shades’ fate. Now she appears as a regal creature out of timeless myth, gracious and perilous in her bearing. It is a little unfair that he knows the both of her. He can’t stop from wondering where her heart lies between the two.

“Because you’re right; this will only work if we trust each other. Beyond right now, I have to trust that you won’t kill me, you have to trust I’m not fooling you for my own ends. And that has to start somewhere.” It may have already started. She has extended her hand. His thumb remains on the button. "It's an oath, yes? Or maybe something written in you?"

She gives a slight dip of her head. No more need be said about it.

"I thought it might be. You don't sound like someone who's stuck and despairing. You’ve given this quite a bit of thought." It might’ve been easier if she was simply trapped in her own head. Some problems can be solved with a nice chat over a cup of tea. Had he really thought this one would be so easy? Or was that just a desperate prayer for a bit of good news?

He frowns, and takes his own time to think. She is gracious enough to give it to him. “If it were only me...I've been in some fights before, and what happens there is the realm of Mars. Artemis is a much different matter. Clear, direct, and laid out. A name is signed, and there must be blood. I've never had a hand in a hunt before. It won't be my hand on the knife, but it will be my hand that sets it loose, and my heart that must live with the consequences. Just as it would have to live with you trapped in that coffin."

Either may prove too much for him to bear. She knows his story. She knows the price of breaking here. No more need be said about it.

“Knowing all that,” his free hand rises above the tabletop. Just a smidge. His fingers cannot decide whether to curl open or pull back. “Is this what you would ask of me?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 4 + 4 + 3 = 11. Can Dolce trust her with his heart? He also Forges a Bond with her.]

Breathless Dead

The key turns in the lock. The door opens. He is careful not to rush. He is more careful not to delay. Though the wait was necessary, he has made her wait long enough. He sits down across from her, hands where she can see them. He wears a shirt with barely a tear in the collar.

"Let me start at the beginning of my journey. It isn't a long story, but it will explain everything I know..."

It isn't the only story he could tell and, to be honest, it may not even be the wisest. A much shorter rundown of who he is and how she got to be here might be all that is necessary to share. Who knows? Maybe Assassins think Synnefo who can't stomach the Service are failures and cowards. If he has learned one thing today, it is that he truly does not know anything about assassins, and what little he does know is probably wrong and liable to get himself almost killed. Why would he assume a Deodekoi would be unaware of her powers and mission? What myth made him think that? It was a silly idea, in hindsight.

Wise or not, she deserves to know who she's dealing with if she's to have any say in what happens next.

So he tells her of a chef who wanted something better, and failed to find it in civic service. He tells her of a miracle snatching hope from certain tragedy, and his small part which ended in a polite loss of freedom. When he approaches the subject of his visit with the Architect, he checks in a few times to see how she is doing, and if he needs to abridge events any further for her sake. However the news is delivered, he tells her of an assassin who was thwarted and imprisoned, then delivered into the hands of a chef. He tells her how they have spoken before - and runs a finger along his collar - but this is the first conversation they've been able to have. He tells her she won't remember any of this. He tells her he has no way to prove any of that.

"I want to help get you out of there, but I don't know how to do that without you trying to kill me." And he speaks of it with no accusation or judgment. There really is no offense taken. "I'd also really rather you didn't kill anyone else?"

Breathless Dead

20022!

He makes you wait. There is much to do, after all, and his process is as closed to you as his thoughts.

Is this pettiness? The silence? It's not efficiency, that's for certain. Oh, you don't step on each other's hooves, but neither is there any synergy to speak of. You could have taken that pot off the burner, rather than Dolce having to step swiftly across the kitchen to get it himself, and yet nothing burns. Tantrum or habit, you've nothing else better to do. You can wait. You can observe.

You observe his mouth drawn tightly. You observe him set dishes down sharply, then wince at the noise. You observe his nose twitch, twitch, twitch as he thinks. When the spread is all but complete, he speaks at last.

"She will not be used against liquid bronze."

And you observe, as he turns to leave, his anger was not directed at you.

Assassin!

I'm sorry, I don't have a better name to call you by.

One moment, you're killing the architect. The next, you wake up alone in a well-lit room.

I know your blood is up. I know your mind is racing. I don't know what you're feeling right now, and I'm not going to hazard any guesses. I'm just going to tell you what you see, and a little of what might happen next. You might notice things in a different order, and that's okay. Go at your own pace.

You're in a room on the Architect's shuttle. One of the grand suites, in a non-standard configuration. Much of the furniture and trappings have been removed. The beds still there though. It's large, much larger than you, and comfortable. It will break if you hit it. Nothing else will happen if you do.

No one is here. No one is in the hallway immediately outside. If you can tell, and maybe you can, the nearest person is some ways down the hall, waiting. You will hear their their footsteps if they approach, but they do not, no matter what you do. The door is locked. It will make noise if it is unlocked. You are alone, and unbothered.

There is a low table before you. There is a stack of blank paper, and a pen. Take notes, draw, rip them to shreds, crush it to dust, do with them what you will. They are offered freely.

Also on the table is a generous spread of food. Freshly made. A variety of tastes, a variety of spices, chosen carefully that the smell is inviting without being overwhelming, without any two dishes clashing. There is no invitation, nor any indication of place settings. The food is there, offered freely to anyone who will take it, and such an open and vague offer cannot be considered binding hospitality. Eat, if you like.

There is a coffin, with you inside it. There is a strange device attached to it. There is a note affixed to the device, asking you to please not tamper with it, as that is how you are standing in two places at once.

"I will explain when I return. It will be some time. I will knock before I enter." Signed, Dolce, and a little drawing of a Synnefo holding a heart.

The room is, save for the coffin, yours. Do with it what you will. Take your time. Work out what you have to. Enjoy the food, or don't. But this much I promise you: As your attention tries to claw its way back to your mission, it will find this room frictionless. It will be given no data. It will be given no targets. It will be given no fuel. It will only have the memory of the Architect breaking beneath your claws to sustain itself, and memory dulls as familiarity grows.

Some time much, much, much later, there are steps down the hall, and a knock on the door.

"This is Dolce. May I come in?"

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.