RE: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 3: Deluge]
01-16-2018, 03:35 AM
Hours ago.
Night drew on. Black rain and yellow streetlights. The clouds had rolled in thick tonight, turning drizzle into downpour.
They’d taken him here, to the heart of the city, where the drains still drained and the lights still lit and the elite slept in their manses. His cart had been pulled by four horses and escorted by fifty blue-coated bobbies. They’d taken him to the brick-and-concrete fortress they called Headquarters, and with horses and heavy chains and a great deal of sweating and swearing had dragged him into the thoroughly waterproofed stables adjoining it. Then they left him.
Hours passed. Unseen stars wheeled high above. Arokht lay like a beached whale, a sad motionless lump. He listened to the sound of dripping water, rain washing over the roof, the hum and hiss of his failing armor. He listened to his thoughts, circling endlessly in his head.
Then footsteps. Tapping on tiles. The creak of a door opening. Yellow light flooded in, silhouetting two figures: a man, somewhat short and slovenly, his blue uniform thrown on creased and half-unbuttoned; the other a taller woman, dressed in yellow brocades that were once fine but were now fraying and fading.
The woman halted in the doorway. “That’s it?” she asked.
The man stepped through without breaking stride. “This is it, madam,” he said.
“What… what is it supposed to be?” asked the woman.
“Madam, I don’t know any more than you,” said the man. He stopped, kneeling, next to Arokht’s head. Looking down at him.
“Then find out,” snapped the woman.
The first gave the second a brief glance, a flash of sudden disgust breaking through the deference. He knocked on Arokht’s helmet. “Hello there,” he said, brightly, sarcastically. “Could you let us know exactly what you are and where you’re from?”
And Arokht’s head twisted an inch, and said in a voice as deep as mountains, “Arokht. Orsha-navra-teurekt 22874. Field… director echelon 2.”
The man fell backwards. The woman jumped. Arokht felt a brief spark of amusement.
“It talks!” yelped the woman.
“You can talk?” said the man.
“You asked,” grunted Arokht.
The man snorted. Giant metal machine falls out of the sky and crushes an apartment, of course it can talk. Talking would be the least outlandish thing about it. Even if its every word seemed an effort.
The machine -- Arokht -- shifted. The woman started, almost ready to bolt. Arokht struggled to rise on limbs as thick around as trees. His joints whined and sparked. Upright, he would be as tall as three of the man. Taller, even.
He faltered and fell to an uneven crouch. He knew how he looked. His armor bore a hundred signs of damage, some patchily repaired, some repairs damaged again. On the ground, the man stared at him in equal parts awe and analysis. Studying every inch of his wounds. Building the story in his head.
“What are you, then?” he asked, rising. His speech accelerated. “Are you manned? You sound like a military man. Who built you -- the Muscovites? Nahemia? How did you get here?”
Arokht growled at him. “Too many questions. Answer me. Identify yourself.”
The man blinked, and then chuckled. Holding a conversation with some sort of foreign war machine! “Sorry. I forgot myself. You have the honor of knowing Sir Gautier Lamarre, chief of the Fort St. Alban Gendarmerie for the foreseeable future.” He waved in the direction of the woman. “And that --”
“Don’t give it our names!” she hissed.
“-- that is the Honorable M. Adelina LaRouche, who needs no further introduction.”
Authority. Aristocracy. Familiar things. Arokht seized on them like lifelines in his whirlpool of self-doubt and self-hate.
“So,” says Gautier. “What about you? Arokht, is it?”
“I was… I am a soldier,” says Arokht. “Of the Iceworld Order.”
“Ice world?” asks Gautier. “I’m not familiar with an Order. Are you an Arctican, then -- or did Arctica collapse, finally? Forgive me, word travels slowly here. All our news is sourced from the Diplomatic Building day-to-day, and sometimes the censors get -- ”
Arokht grunted. “Too many questions. Doesn’t matter. You… tell me. Now. Where is this? Why did you help me?”
Gautier folded his arms, frowning, contemplative. “Well…” he began.
Gautier’s voice was made for monologues, though the woman, this M. Adelina, interjected or corrected him at certain points. Arokht listened. Arokht listened to the news of the coming war with the meticulous attention of a born soldier at a briefing. He listened to the plight of sad, drenched Fort St. Alban, the port city positioned strategically to benefit from trade between two Great Powers that no longer traded. And he learned about the rain. The Drown. The end of the city and everyone in it. A downpour like no other, come to wash them all away. It was only a few days away. Less than a week, if the forecasts were accurate.
“Then why help me?” Arokht asked.
“Because it’s what we do,” said Gautier, with a strange bitter smile. “And because…” He looked at Adelina, still standing in the doorway. “Because you’re something new. Because if you came in, that means we might be able to get out. To escape the end. How did you get here? If you’re an Arctican, you’re very far from home. Did your Order send you?”
Arokht’s massive bulk shifted. Gautier suddenly had the feeling that somewhere inside that great metal head, Arokht was baring his teeth.
“No,” said Arokht.
“Ah,” said Gautier. More questions queued for space on his tongue, waiting to be released. They included then who did, and how can we get out of here, then, but these were not questions to push on a foreign war machine on the end of its rope. He looked at the ground, hands in his pockets.
“It said it was a soldier,” said Adelina.
Gautier looked up at her. So did Arokht.
“If it’s not here on orders,” she said. “Whose orders is it following?”
Arokht looked at her a moment longer, then almost seemed to sag in his armor.
“No orders,” he said. “I have nothing. I...”
Gautier looked at Adelina. Adelina looked at Gautier. Something in both of their minds went click. It was a gear labeled with the words “the riots are getting out of hand” and “here’s a soldier without a cause” and “we need all the help we can get.”
“Just while you’re here, then,” said Gautier. “How would you feel about working with us?”
Night drew on. Black rain and yellow streetlights. The clouds had rolled in thick tonight, turning drizzle into downpour.
They’d taken him here, to the heart of the city, where the drains still drained and the lights still lit and the elite slept in their manses. His cart had been pulled by four horses and escorted by fifty blue-coated bobbies. They’d taken him to the brick-and-concrete fortress they called Headquarters, and with horses and heavy chains and a great deal of sweating and swearing had dragged him into the thoroughly waterproofed stables adjoining it. Then they left him.
Hours passed. Unseen stars wheeled high above. Arokht lay like a beached whale, a sad motionless lump. He listened to the sound of dripping water, rain washing over the roof, the hum and hiss of his failing armor. He listened to his thoughts, circling endlessly in his head.
Then footsteps. Tapping on tiles. The creak of a door opening. Yellow light flooded in, silhouetting two figures: a man, somewhat short and slovenly, his blue uniform thrown on creased and half-unbuttoned; the other a taller woman, dressed in yellow brocades that were once fine but were now fraying and fading.
The woman halted in the doorway. “That’s it?” she asked.
The man stepped through without breaking stride. “This is it, madam,” he said.
“What… what is it supposed to be?” asked the woman.
“Madam, I don’t know any more than you,” said the man. He stopped, kneeling, next to Arokht’s head. Looking down at him.
“Then find out,” snapped the woman.
The first gave the second a brief glance, a flash of sudden disgust breaking through the deference. He knocked on Arokht’s helmet. “Hello there,” he said, brightly, sarcastically. “Could you let us know exactly what you are and where you’re from?”
And Arokht’s head twisted an inch, and said in a voice as deep as mountains, “Arokht. Orsha-navra-teurekt 22874. Field… director echelon 2.”
The man fell backwards. The woman jumped. Arokht felt a brief spark of amusement.
“It talks!” yelped the woman.
“You can talk?” said the man.
“You asked,” grunted Arokht.
The man snorted. Giant metal machine falls out of the sky and crushes an apartment, of course it can talk. Talking would be the least outlandish thing about it. Even if its every word seemed an effort.
The machine -- Arokht -- shifted. The woman started, almost ready to bolt. Arokht struggled to rise on limbs as thick around as trees. His joints whined and sparked. Upright, he would be as tall as three of the man. Taller, even.
He faltered and fell to an uneven crouch. He knew how he looked. His armor bore a hundred signs of damage, some patchily repaired, some repairs damaged again. On the ground, the man stared at him in equal parts awe and analysis. Studying every inch of his wounds. Building the story in his head.
“What are you, then?” he asked, rising. His speech accelerated. “Are you manned? You sound like a military man. Who built you -- the Muscovites? Nahemia? How did you get here?”
Arokht growled at him. “Too many questions. Answer me. Identify yourself.”
The man blinked, and then chuckled. Holding a conversation with some sort of foreign war machine! “Sorry. I forgot myself. You have the honor of knowing Sir Gautier Lamarre, chief of the Fort St. Alban Gendarmerie for the foreseeable future.” He waved in the direction of the woman. “And that --”
“Don’t give it our names!” she hissed.
“-- that is the Honorable M. Adelina LaRouche, who needs no further introduction.”
Authority. Aristocracy. Familiar things. Arokht seized on them like lifelines in his whirlpool of self-doubt and self-hate.
“So,” says Gautier. “What about you? Arokht, is it?”
“I was… I am a soldier,” says Arokht. “Of the Iceworld Order.”
“Ice world?” asks Gautier. “I’m not familiar with an Order. Are you an Arctican, then -- or did Arctica collapse, finally? Forgive me, word travels slowly here. All our news is sourced from the Diplomatic Building day-to-day, and sometimes the censors get -- ”
Arokht grunted. “Too many questions. Doesn’t matter. You… tell me. Now. Where is this? Why did you help me?”
Gautier folded his arms, frowning, contemplative. “Well…” he began.
Gautier’s voice was made for monologues, though the woman, this M. Adelina, interjected or corrected him at certain points. Arokht listened. Arokht listened to the news of the coming war with the meticulous attention of a born soldier at a briefing. He listened to the plight of sad, drenched Fort St. Alban, the port city positioned strategically to benefit from trade between two Great Powers that no longer traded. And he learned about the rain. The Drown. The end of the city and everyone in it. A downpour like no other, come to wash them all away. It was only a few days away. Less than a week, if the forecasts were accurate.
“Then why help me?” Arokht asked.
“Because it’s what we do,” said Gautier, with a strange bitter smile. “And because…” He looked at Adelina, still standing in the doorway. “Because you’re something new. Because if you came in, that means we might be able to get out. To escape the end. How did you get here? If you’re an Arctican, you’re very far from home. Did your Order send you?”
Arokht’s massive bulk shifted. Gautier suddenly had the feeling that somewhere inside that great metal head, Arokht was baring his teeth.
“No,” said Arokht.
“Ah,” said Gautier. More questions queued for space on his tongue, waiting to be released. They included then who did, and how can we get out of here, then, but these were not questions to push on a foreign war machine on the end of its rope. He looked at the ground, hands in his pockets.
“It said it was a soldier,” said Adelina.
Gautier looked up at her. So did Arokht.
“If it’s not here on orders,” she said. “Whose orders is it following?”
Arokht looked at her a moment longer, then almost seemed to sag in his armor.
“No orders,” he said. “I have nothing. I...”
Gautier looked at Adelina. Adelina looked at Gautier. Something in both of their minds went click. It was a gear labeled with the words “the riots are getting out of hand” and “here’s a soldier without a cause” and “we need all the help we can get.”
“Just while you’re here, then,” said Gautier. “How would you feel about working with us?”