TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The room is too clean.

What a funny thought to have. What a funny problem to have. But there you have it. The room’s too clean. The, colors, and the layout, the, you can’t hear anything in here. He can hardly hear Contribution breathing, and he’s right next to him. There ought to be more here. It’s all wrong. It can’t be this clean. It shouldn’t.

He’s got to keep moving. That’s important. He’s not to be still. Nothing good comes of staying still. How far is it to the floor? He feels around blindly with his dangling hoof, and sooner or later he finds solid ground. Sooner or later, he’s standing, and he’s clinging to Contribution’s thin arm. One hoof up. One hoof down. In front of the other. Keep moving. That’s important.

He feels a gentle tug. He stops. He’s still holding Contribution’s arm. Contribution isn’t moving. He tugs, on purpose this time. “Come,” somebody says, and it might be him. “You ought to get cleaned up too.”

There are enough showers. There’s an open one, right next to his. One hoof in front of the other, he walks Contribution to it. And the Summerkind keeps moving, all the way into the stall. All the way until the door is closed behind him. And Dolce keeps moving, all the way into his stall. Until the door closes. Until the water runs down his face, and he realizes he might’ve ought to have taken off his clothes.

Here, at least, there’s the sound of water. There’s the feel of steam. There’s the muffled rush of water from Contribution’s shower next door. There’s something here. It’s not too clean here.

He breathes. In. Feel the water running down his face. Feel the warmth clouding all around him. Out. Hear the patter of water on his horns. Hear the faint shudder of his own breath. And repeat. He remembers, it’s important to keep breathing, slow and steady, after…after.

It’d helped the Privateers to hear that. When they came back. Those who came back. He never knew how to say it, exactly. Every way sounded wrong. He did his best. He’s doing his best. He’s breathing, and that’s important, and. Even if no one would notice the extra moisture in this downpour. He has to keep moving.

So he sets his clothes aside. So he picks out the shrapnel. So he makes a lather, and washes one arm, the other, then his face, like he does every morning. Today. Today he’ll skip the conditioner. One day won’t harm much. Wool is durable stuff. So long as he keeps moving. He has to keep moving.

His ears flick. He still hears Contribution’s shower running.

He can stay a few minutes longer. He can rinse off a little more thoroughly.

Breathless Dead

Dolce is listening. He is in friendless territory without a map. It would be extremely unwise to take an honest, helpful suggestion, and throw it straight into the rubbish without giving it due consideration. So he gives the idea its due consideration. The rubbish bin will still be there. Waiting.

So: Utilize careful language and plausibly deniable turns of phrase to…snipe at your boss? To tear them down where they can’t notice you? To take the sting you feel and turn it on someone else? Sounds like quite the pleasant place to work. Ruled over by a miserable boss, and spending your days cursing them where you won’t be noticed, stewing bitterly in the pain they’ve caused you. What good does that do anyone? What good does that do you?

…and on the subject of ideal worlds, would the Crystal Knight have her position if this was one? Would 20022?

Fair point. All the wishful thinking in the world would not change his position, or who he was to be working with. All the subtle digs in the world wouldn’t do it either. It stung to even consider. For whatever else he could say about the Crystal Knight, he never actually wanted to hurt her. Not for spite. Not for what she’d done to him. But if anything he’d rather say to her was just wishful thinking, then, well, he’s got to say and be something. Spy vibes! To be avoided!

Was this all part of the expected job? Did everyone here expect him to use his words so dishonestly? Signaling. Communication. Collaborating without speaking. Searching for allies without asking. It’s, urgh, unnatural.

“Hat in hand.”

Or. Was it?

Did it have to be hurtful?

“Isn’t that rather difficult? It’s easier to joke and be clever when you’re feeling happy and among friends. You know-” An explosion shook the entire shuttle. “Safe. But when you’re angry and hurt, it’s harder to steer because you’re against the tide, not with it. How do you keep your head?”

Breathless Dead

Dolce doesn’t panic. This, too, is obedience and observation. He knows the ways of listening to a houseguest, and discerning the ways they like to be treated that differ from the usual manners.

Haven’t had to do it in a long time. Slightly difficult circumstances to do it in. Dolce doesn’t panic.

“Oh. Dear. That’s not the impression I was looking to give at all.” He replies in a low, strained whisper that 20022 has no hope of spotting. Which may make the spy accusations yet more credible. Hrm. “My apologies, I may have over-prepared a tad for this assignment.”

It made sense, in a way. Whether in the Manor or the Service, the work was the same; take care of the busywork necessary for others to live and work comfortably. Only, an Empire was quite a bit larger than a Manor. An Empire needed its inhabitants to, well, do things on occasion. Which required a degree less invisibility.

…which meant a workforce, created, to do difficult and thankless tasks, to be fought and scorned as they did those tasks, and to live in a constant state of exasperation and irritation at the ones they were meant to be helping.

“I.” A practiced tension stole over him, smothering and absorbing the very emotion he needed. And still he felt relief at hearing no tremor in his voice. “I don’t suppose you have any tips for being…’lowkey mad’, do you?”

Breathless Dead

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

He spent those days sick.

No room in the shuttle was spared. Everywhere he went, he could hear them. Every viewport he passed, he closed. It never ceased. It never stayed the same. One, continuous riot, composed of a thousand boiling horrors. A crushing wall of violence, and his ears could pick out the bumps in the mortar. Remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He washes his hands, again.

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

Ask 20022 what to expect when the airlock opens, and 20022 will stir his tea, sniff it gingerly, and add just a splash more honey to the brew. Request a briefing on 20022’s mission, and the protocols of first contact with Biomancer General Liquid Bronze, and 20022 will smile, and 20022 will fetch the slides.

20022 answers every useful question asked of him, to the fullest. 20022 did not say it would be two days. Maybe members of the Service are to ask wisely. Maybe 20022 is still angry. How does he focus on the sheep inside the shuttle and ignore the death outside the shuttle? Dolce does not ask him.

He had only two days to prepare for this moment.

It is the first time he remembers waking. Previously, awake and asleep sounded the same. Now, there is only silence. Now, the only sounds are the ones he remembers. Within the hour, he is expected by 20022’s side, and he is not to be violently ill. Two days. It is time.

The Summerkind find a sheep of a different hue behind and beside their guest. He is dressed in what clothes have been provided him; simple formalwear, not as nice as 20022’s uniform, by a few noticeable degrees. He observes them. He observes his superior. His gaze is attentive, but dull. Docile. Obedient.

They do not see the lioness standing behind him. He does not see the lioness standing behind him, because his eyes are set forward, always. But he hears her. He hears the soft whisper, the dampening of her voice that somehow leaves all its warmth and power intact. His ears tingle, waiting for the breath to steal over them that must be coming as she reminds him. “Go along. Be obedient. Observe. There is too much wrong here. You cannot help them right now. Survive this; there is nothing more you can do.”

He inclines his head deferentially, that not a speck of undeserved praise may fall on him. “My apologies for the confusion; I am a new hire, studying under and assisting 20022. I have yet to earn a number. My name is Dolce.”

When he looks up, all he can see are bloodied knuckles.

”Be obedient. Observe. Nothing more.”

Breathless Dead

To the Royal Architect,

I will tell you everything I have learned, everything I have done, and what I now plan to do since I have left your home, by the name of Zeus whose hospitality you invoked.

Please do read this entire letter first.

I was able to converse with the Assassin, after much difficulty. Her wish was that even some small part of her could live, without the curse written into her bones. Which is why her severed head is currently living in my spare closet. She could not give a clear timeframe as to when it would regenerate a new body. Apparently this sort of thing hasn’t come up before. I fear her makers would have built a countermeasure if it had.

Now comes the bad news. The only way she could speak with me, the only way this process could work, was if her mission was not disrupted by it. She could bend the rules of her curse so far, but no further. Afterwards, I was to launch the coffin back to you. I have enclosed with this letter my best approximation of our position and time when I did so. After the warp you kindly gave us, I imagine she will have a long, long, long journey.

Which brings me to the discovery: She has no name upon her bones. Only a title. I suspect that many of the Assassins sent after you are made in the same fashion.

I have until she completes her journey back to you. In that time, I will search for a place where you can continue your mission, with something better than polite knives from those around you. If I can manage this, then when she wakes at last, she will be of no danger to you. No Assassin that has been born will be of danger to you. And your colleagues may find other, more relevant friends to send their gifts to.

I think, should we find such a place, that your work would be all the better for it.

I won’t ask you to not defend yourself, should it come to it. I ask only for patience. We have time, and I will be making offerings for her safety, but also for a long voyage. I wish both of you to live. This is the only way I know how to make it so. All I ask is the chance to try.

If you discern any changes to the coffin, please let me know. I will keep you updated on my search.

Faithfully,

Dolce, formerly of Beri

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

Vasilly,

I am okay. I am unharmed. I am in no imminent peril.

I am sorry I could not write you any sooner. I am sorry for quite a bit more besides.

I left Beri, thinking only of taking a short trip, just a few days, with the other sheep who is often with Mayor Kaspar. 20022 is his name, by the way. He had told me of some opportunities in the civil service, and, you remember our talks? About the Skies? I was wondering…well, I was wondering quite a bit, but mainly, I wanted to know if I could help Beri beyond running our little cafe. I wanted to know if I could help everyone on Bitemark.

We met the Crystal Knight.

(Here, there is an uncharacteristic scribble. Words written, then taken back, but too much had been said already to start anew.)

The Royal Architect was coming to mine the planet. We were to get everyone out of the way, to safety. She wanted the ship in the sea. The Royal Architect was not going to wait for everyone to get clear of the peninsula.

I thought there must be something I could do. I thought I could get 20022 to see how…monstrous a thing this was.

I couldn’t do anything.

What little I thought to do was seen, and overridden. And most of my days were spent

I was so happy to hear that everyone got out safely. There is a prayer, apparently, of Mars, that tells you that sort of thing. We saw another ship come down, and then nothing after that. But you all got out. You all got out, in the end.

I am sorry. Please. Tell Mosaic I am sorry. For everything.

I was onboard the Slitted, at the time. Something happened, and the ship was damaged. 20022 and I were busy with the escape, and neither of us could do a thing. I couldn’t slip away, and we both left on one of the escape pods. We were gone, I think, before your ship took off.

Much has happened since then. We visited the Royal Architect. He gave us a shuttle, and he warped us rather far across the galaxy, somehow. He sent with us a slightly damaged machine intelligence, and an Assassin frozen in a coffin. He didn’t want either of them anymore, and they didn’t seem particularly happy to stay with him. There’s too much to write for one letter, so expect a second one shortly.

But 20022. I have told him I want nothing to do with a Service that allows such things to happen. He refuses to listen to me. Despite what we’ve been through together, he acts as though he hasn’t heard me at all. He wishes me to stay. He wishes me to join the Service, and if I were to give him a firmer rejection, then he will leave me behind the next chance he gets. At first I thought he was upset because I kept him from doing anything when the Slitted was attacked. Now, I am not so sure. I don’t understand him. I don’t know how he can pretend this is good.

We are headed, I think, to try and stop you. But that means we are getting closer to you, and that is better than any planet he could leave me on, so I suppose it is working out alright.

I will write more. And I will wait for your letters. I will keep them close to me, always. Maybe I will sew a little pocket in my vest? They do those in the stories, sometimes. It seems a sensible idea. I will keep your letters close by, and whenever I want to hear your voice, I will read them.

And I promise I will do a better job of things than I did on Bitemark. I promise.

All of my love, and always yours,

Dolce

Breathless Dead

To not help with the beheading is to make her drive a knife through her own flesh without another soul to help carry that weight. So he offers to man the controls. The sound is remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He will remember that.

To not help with the paperwork is to demand she perfectly execute the bureaucratic maneuver that will decide her fate while her own blood dries on her sleeves. So he offers his eyes to her cause. The forms are exacting, yet fewer than he would have expected. This is what it takes to end a life. He will remember that.

She did not ask for his help. She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and willing to do whatever it takes to live. No part of this would have been too much for her, or else she would have asked. But Dolce has seen far too many people suffering, people whose names and voices he knew, and he could not even offer his presence. Just sympathies, thrown from a distance. If there’s opportunity and means to lend to a hand, he will take that opportunity, as those do not happen as often as you might think or like.

To not say goodbye is unthinkable.

“Take care.” He offers his hand, without hesitation, hiding the exhaustion creeping through him “I will make offerings for a safe flight.”

Her smile as she clasps his hand is answer enough. She knows what she will wake to. She knows not if she would rather be the severed head. She is grateful, perhaps, that she has no choice in the matter.

Does she know the choice he will face, when her coffin drifts into the distance? He hopes she does. It would feel like a trick, otherwise. As it stands, he sends an Assassin back from whence she came, to her unfinished business and a target who ought not to die like this. He cannot sit back and pretend that what happens to the Royal Architect is none of-

Grief seizes a thought, and flings it to the fore.

“...the name on your bones is the Royal Architect, yes?” He pauses, still holding her hand. “That was the name on all of the forms we signed. There was never an actual name. Just a title. So, is that what’s written on your bones as well?”

Something in his voice gives her pause. She closes her eyes, concentrates, and nods. “I have never seen the full nature of my curse. But as far as I can tell, yes, that is the name.”

Of course. Of course it was. “I though it was strange that Artemis would permit a contract with no name. But a title is good enough here. There is no one else who can do the Royal Architect’s job. He is the only one that title can apply to, because he is irreplaceable. The contract will never target anyone else, so it’s as good as a name, and much easier to come by, I imagine.”

“Indeed. Much, much easier. But why should it matter what name I bear?”

“Please, correct me if I am wrong…” It was an idea so foolish, it had no business being said. But was it really the most foolish thing he’d done all day? “But if the Royal Architect were to abdicate his position and leave the Skies entirely by the time you wake, would that not nullify the contract?”

The only sound in the hangar was the faint crackling of crystal energy. Not even breath stirred the air. “You realize,” she says, gently. “That such a thing would be tantamount to the fall of the Skies themselves? That such a contingency was not accounted for, because it would mean far grander disasters were at hand?” She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and desperate, desperate to live.

Does she see the thin thread of hope he clings to?

“Yes. Yes, I don’t know exactly how it would happen. But,” he lays his other hand gently over hers, and squeezes lightly. “I would really rather no one else get killed.”

Breathless Dead

It takes him time. Forgive him, Assassin, but he needs time. Would that manners permitted him a piece of her scrap paper and a pencil! It is much, much harder envisioning all this, while watching her, while watching his heartbeat, while watching his posture, while tracking the seconds it’s been since she stopped speaking. Time. Give him time!

“That…that would work. As far as I can understand it, anyway.” It still leaves her - that is, the her talking with him right now, not the her in the coffin, nor the her whose head will grow a new her, oh dear, this was complicated - tied to a body whose bones bear a curse. But she was calm now. They were talking now. And they could work with that. For now.

His hand trembles.

“Please, you have no need to beg.” He continues to watch her, all of her. In the periphery, his own arm extends bit by bit, mechanically clicking through the motions. Each jerk closer winds his chest tighter. A great, invisible vise crushes in his shoulders. When he touches her hand, her fingers will close around his. She is going to bring her hand up, and down, some polite number of times. Her grip will not tighten. Her claws will not lengthen. His skin will not be pierced. His body will not be thrown. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. “I will walk with you; I want you to live, too.”

It doesn’t feel good to say it. It’s certainly his fault.

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?"