NationStates Jolt Archive

This is a continuation of the Chains of Pride Thread in International Incidents. It can be located here. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=112884&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=0)

The black Marchant transport howled through the sky, engines pulsing a soft blue as the big shuttle clawed along outside the atmosphere. The Lieutenant commanding it dozed as it followed it's preprogrammed flight path, flight computer automatically redirecting it's path around various bits of junk as it covered the distance between the Britmattian capital, Royesse, and Lloyd Island, home of the RB MilInt Service.
A tone sounded and the lieutenant leaned forward and keyed the intercom "Sire, we're starting our descent now, we'll be on field in about 3 minutes." He leaned back and began guiding the 'craft down.

Looking back over his shoulder at the black shuttle Owen shook his head. He'd never ridden one before, the experience had more than justified the massive R&D cost. Smooth, comfortable and not at all the tractor crossing concrete blocks experience of the transports he'd ridden till his recent accession to Kingship. He looked to the edge of the landing field, where a Captain in full uniform waited, saluting him.
Owen ambled across to the tall, prematurely balding, sandy-haired captain. He recognised the man from a PsychOps debriefing not all that long ago. "Hello Bren, hows life?"
The Captain flushed "M,Majesty, good to see you again. Er if you'll just follow this way?" he scuttled ahead of Owen, who followed, looking ahead to the familiar concrete entrance sheltering the card-controlled door, which lead into the main section of the Lloyd Island building. Most of the facility was underground of course, it was the home of the intelligence service after all.
Owen shrugged and strolled after the Captain, this sort of panic had happened more than once since his accession to the throne. A King was a lot more overawing than any Major, Commander of Special Forces or not.
He continued following the Captain as that worthy passcarded and thumb printed them ever deeper into the bowels of the building, which never quite lost the sense of watchfulness. Maybe it was just the thought of all that earth overhead depressing him. That or the cameras and hardfaced men with slung G36s even in this most secure environment. No matter.
Eventually the corridor he'd been following Bren down for quite some time began to tilt upward until they reached a door marked "Re-Education Section" with a list of who and what were allowed in. The Captain smiled uneasily. "Sorry Ow, your Majesty! but my clearance doesn't extend to here. I'll be waiting when you come back to lead you to your shuttle."
Owen nodded "Ok Bren. I might be a while, so I'll get someone to page you." He placed his thumb on the doorlook and a machine voice spoke "Subject DNA Owen Warwick, Clearance 00." The door hissed open and Owen stepped through.

He was standing in a long corridor of reversed glass. The people behind the glass were entirely visible to him, but they couldn't see him.
He strolled down the corridor, and the pattern was the same, men and women wearing PsychOps shoulder flashes, or visitors passcards, talking intently to pretty women with pointed ears and identical faces.
Some of the rooms were empty, some were full as non-clones demonstrated things, expounded on ideas in the..classrooms, he supposed was the best term.
Owen continued walking and viewing the rooms, noticing one of the rooms was a salon/dress makers, the women, and one man working in it turning out as differentiated clones as you could like.
Also noticeable, as the corridor continued the rooms got more and more normal, and more and more open to the sky, glass roofed and elven architecture predominating.
At last Owen ran out of corridor. The structure was now totally above ground and about as elven as you could get without stealing bits of Vinyatirion and moving them. The last room was screened, and the door marked 'Project Leader's Office'. Owen shrugged, this was obviously his destination.
He opened the door and stepped through, immediately noticing the empty desk.
"Damn." No administrator. He frowned and started plotting a Royal tantrum, but was interupted by a breathy, female voice from behind him.
"The administrator went looking for someone sir, I'm sure she won't be a moment." Owen spun around, he'd not even heard the breathing of whoever it was behind him.
A wide eyed clone, with raven-black hair, looked at him. "I'm sorry I startled you." Surgically recoloured eyes looked at him, almost impercebtibly twinkling.
Owen tried to gather his dignity. He was a King after all. "Think nothing of it. It's good for me to jump now and then, keeps me limber. And who might you be?"
The elf smiled "Well the administrator says I'm her Prize Pupil, but I chose my own name from this book.." she said, offering the thick volume to Owen. He gently took it and flipped to the cover "The Lord of The Rings, by Frodo Baggins. Interesting. What's it about?"
The elf smiled "My people. And yours. And a King of Men. Many, many things. War, and beauty. Sadness and song. I like it. It makes me feel..realler."
Owen handed the book back "I'm sure you're real enough my lady. And,"
The door opened again and a portly, frizzy-haired redheaded woman trundled in already speaking "Arwen my dear, I'm afraid his Maj, oh my." She stopped talking, noticing her grinning King. "Hello Owen.."
Owen however wasn't grinning at her startlement. Arrrwen. Such a name...

OOC Anyone who has an interest in writing about a deprogrammed clone/or someone working on deprogramming them is welcome to hop in. I need *some* elven psychologists working while I deal with Owen. :)

[Taggity, elf deprogramming, oh yes, I plan on doing lots of that...]

La Salon du Chaveau was, as usual, busy. The forty eight customers it had to create individual self images for were women first, clones second. This meant that everything had to be just so. Fair enough, considering the modifications that were made with makeup and skill would be made permanant with scalpel and care.
The surgery however, was in the future for this mornings group. They had other things to worry about, such as the only man in the room, Sergio, the hair stylist, having a minor breakdown over well..."Darlings! The paucity of materials! I simply cannot do you justice in this slum!" he said, flicking a perfectly manicured hand at the well equipped salon. The elven girls, huddled together, eyes large, looked on as Sergio paraded around the salon, hands flapping, nose high.
The manicurist and beautician, used to Sergio after long years working with him simply guided the girls to their seats and started to gently work on the idea of looking how they wanted to look..

Jenny Sadler, the frizzy haired Project Admin, watched carefully from the corridor which carefully wound around the studio. She smiled. Sergio's histrionics were gradually bringing the girls out of their shells. Fifty years of indoctrination. Fifty years of no sensations other than that given by faceless torturers. Well. That was how Jenny thought of them at least. The girls with whom least progress had been made still thought of them as "Master but Not". Those in the next stage on, had, through the interventions of Arwen, transferred their loyalties to Owen. Jenny wasn't sure if she approved, the King was hardly likely to abuse their loyalty, but...she didn't want them calling anyone master.
She moved down the corridor. The group had been divided into small "families" of four. They'd been divided along how independent they'd been immediately after waking up. The most vigourous eight were already on trial visits to the outside world. Well, as much as you could get on Lloyd Island.
Jenny smiled to herself. The girls, because inspite of having been born when Jenny herself was a schoolgirl, that is what they were at the core, were more fun than the PsychOps head had had in decades. Well apart from Owen in his earlier days. He'd been a noted prankster and had played Merry Hell within the almost monastic community of Lloyd.
She continued walking down the hall, looking at her charges. The closer she got to her office the more animated the faces became.
She stepped into the office, pulled her chair back and sat down, starting on the electronic paperwork even this project seemed to generate.
The day wore on, work progressed. Gradually the lights dimmed.
Jenny yawned and stood. She left her office and walked quietly to the garden dome. She peeked in and smiled. The same as every night, unable to deny a genetic imperative, the girls were looking at the night sky. Peace was clear on every face..

Owen moodily paced around his office. The spartan but valuable furnishings of his uncle had suited him when he moved in, but at present he was wishing they'd been cheap and nasty so he'd have something to break.
The slave de-programming project was continuing, but they'd started to hit several nasty mental blocks embedded deeply into the minds of the unfortunate clones. The psychologists were finding the blocks fascinating, the reports Owen had been perusing had echoed with a sort of disgusted awe that anyone would emplace things like this in a sentient mind.
This was not, however, what was frustrating Owen. He trusted the PsychOps, and the foreign aides he'd acquired. They'd work through whatever tricks the "programmers" could throw at him.
What was frustrating Owen was the fact he couldn't send the fleet to level the place that had spawned the kind of person who did this. Or rather he could, but wasn't really keen on the war it'd kick off.
Which was making him exceedingly angry. He gave up on the reports, snatched up his sword from where it'd been hanging on his chair, flung the door open, then slammed it behind him.
He stalked down the hallway, heavy wood richly decorated with paintings of past Kings and Dukes. Those few staff in the hallway blanched and hotfooted it out of his path. Britmattian Kings weren't supposed to hit servants, but Owen looked in the mood to start.
Eventually the glowering King reached the practice salon, only to find it deserted, his coming having been noticed, no one wanted to practice with him in his present mood. He snarled and hauled out a practice dummy.
Dumping it in the middle of the room he hurled his scabbard at the wall, enjoying the satisfying "thump!".
Then with a whirling movement he smashed the dummy's head clean off. Hacking and swearing he settled down to dismember the unfortunate mannequin. At last it wasn't more than splinters and Owen was panting, even his enviable fitness pushed by a combination of rage and exercise.
He didn't feel any better. In fact now he just felt bloody drained instead of angry. He retrieved his scabbard, cursed at the now dull edge of his sword and stalked back to his office, ignoring the frightened looks coming from offices along the way.
He hung the sword back on his chair, and then flopped into it himself, swinging booted feet onto his desk. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a packet of jerky, slit the packaging with his boot knife, selected a piece and started to chew.
His officer door opened and Erik Bathame's head poked around it. The younger man, recently returned from a sojourn in a consulate in some bumf*ck nation had been a lot quieter since his return, but was still most likely to volunteer for stupid jobs. Like talking an enraged monarch down.
"Er Owen..um."
"You can come in Erik, I'm not going to bloody knife you. Sit man!"
The Bathamian scuttled inside the office, pulling up the visitor's chair. He stared at his King for a few moments. Owen continued chewing.
"What do you want Erik? I'm not really in the mood for company, cousin."
Erik scratched his recently grown Bathame-style beard "You wanted to be reminded my King, the PsychOps head was due here at five with a progress report."
Owen checked his chrono. 5.18. "Oh f*ck. Erik, sprint down there and tell her I'll be there in a moment."
Erik got to his feet "Yes my King." He nodded and spun out of the room.
Owen sighed and got to his feet. Today had been crap. Now to go and get more bad news from Jenny. BAH!

Jenny Sadler, sixty two years old, head of Britmattian Psychological Operations, noted painter and sometime surrogate mother to 48 elven clones, looked at the paintings adorning the room she was comfortably seated in. Damn, these are expensive. Originals or copies, nothing this good comes cheap. And they complain about my budget!
The door to the thickly wallpapered room slammed open and a young officer darted in and saluted. "Ma'am, the King is on his way Ma'am!" then he darted out again.
Jenny blinked mildly. The King was running late, but that was no reason for that young officer to look as worried as he did. She calmly went back to perusing the art, exclaiming to herself over particular works. She'd nearly finished when the door opened again and Owen stepped through.
Jenny smiled, then noticed the scowl Owen seemed to trying to rearrange into a smile himself. "Something wrong Sire?"
He waved a hand in a negative. "No. You have a report for me?"
Jenny smiled. "Yes! I've got loads of progress to report. I was talking to Ivan Collins, you know, our tech liason for the HegPol colony? I was saying that the main problem with our deprogramming is that it would take so long that all the original psychologists would be dead before we had them completely back to normal."
Owen leaned forward, grey eyes intent. "Go on."
"Well he suggested we involve some of their E.I. Compared to us, they live thousands of years in a day so time wasn't an issue. They perused the records of what we'd been doing, and we then put the more advanced girls into the constructs the E.Is built for us. They came out, well..normal. So we tried with the rest as well. 36 of 48 have passed so far. The E.Is are continuing work on the rest, but we won't have any results on them for some time." Jenny leaned back, smiling broadly.
Owen grinned back, "Jenny, you've outdone yourself. In fact, yes. Baroness Jenny of Lloyd has a good ring to it yes? Haha! Oh and I thought you'd have bad news. Brilliant stuff." The smiling monarch bounded to his feet. Jenny, still seated, grinned up. "Yes, now all that's left is finding the girls employment. I'll get back to you on that in a few days.."

<Britmattian CentGov Building, Western Standard Time 00.28>

Owen, leaning back in his chair, finally finished dictating the last parts of the progress report on the clones to the voxbox in his terminal.
Hands linked behind his head, Owen ran through the security protocols to transmit the reports to the Menelmacari, stating his name and clearance at the requisite times. Finally finished, he leaned forward, opened a drawer and removed an identical packet of jerky to last time. Again the bootknife came into play.
Owen chewed reflectively, staring blankly into space. The re-education project was over. They'd had all the success they were going to have. 42 of 48 clones had come out clean. The last six had either been so deeply programmed, or had the sort of personality that needed a Master, that they were unlikely to be normalised in Owen's lifetime. Owen shuddered at the thought of actively needing a master.
So. Currently the King was staring into space wondering what you do with 6 sex slaves and 42 college educated young women who'd had no formative experiences outside the intelligence service.
Still chewing reflectively Owen ambled over to the small, woodpanelled refridgerator built into the wall. He stooped over, opened it and pulled out a bottle of well aged scotch. He poured two fingers worth into the glass stored on it's own shelf in the fridge and ambled back to his chair. Alternating chewing with the occassional sip from his glass he mentally ran through possibilities.
Let's see, the majority seem to have a gift for working with people, and an interest in politics. Hmmm..the diplomatic service will need a boost in size..yes. Elves who're loyal to me, and the nation, as opposed to some sort of racial loyalty, who also avoid the reaction human ambassadors get...ah. Yes..
Owen leaned forward and opened the list of names, swiftly moving those who hadn't had specificly requested careers to basic diplomatic training. He frowned. Arwen was on the list of those who'd chosen careers, Jenny had personally approved her choice of career too. He backtracked down the file list "Secretary? What? I.." He scowled. Must talk with Jenny tomorrow about that. I'd intended to make Arwen the UnderAmbassador to Menelmacar. Owen lost track in the memory of eyes that seemed to engender starlight of their own accord.
He shook himself. No. Arwen is a citizen, not a daydream. He went back to carefully checking the skills, capabilities and earned qualifications of his charges against the open slots for government and Gondor Massiv Industries jobs...

<Britmattian CentGov Building, Western Standard Time 04.36>

Master Sergeant Fain Cloudmallet carefully opened the door to his sovereign's office. Faintly, the sound of breathing reached the dwarvish Utlǻnning and he smiled behind an impressive mustache. He quietly padded over to where Owen was slumped over his desk. Without visible effort the hugely muscled sergeant lifted his King clear of the desk and padded out of the room, headed for the King's quarters in the western wing of the building.

<Monarch's Suite, RB CentGov Building, Royesse. 13.06 Western Standard Time.>
Owen, standing leant over the sink in his bathroom rubbed at his face and turned bleary eyes at his reflection. "Yech."
He began going through the motions of cleaning himself up, muttering about the necessity of shaving.
Absently going through the various parts of waking up he was shirtless and covered in shaving foam when a knock on the door came. "Owen, are you decent?" the voice, deep and roughened by a Dwarven burr, belonged to Fain Cloudmallet.
Owen shrugged "Enough Fain, what is it?"
The door opened and Fain, uniform immaculately pressed, beard braided moved through. "Ah Sire, you've got visitors. Baroness Sadler and a secretary." Owen, glaring intently at his reflection as he shaved muttered a "Send them in" and went back to concentrating on not slicing his nose off. He vaguely picked up two people walking in and sitting on the sides of his personal spabath, but the mirror was foggy, their images unclear.
"Jenny?"
"My King."
"Ah good. Did you get the job list I sent you?"
One of the blurred reflections nodded "Yes Sire. They're all very excited, but for Arwen. She's puzzled as to why you froze her choice. As am I to be honest..?"
Owen growled "Arwen is no secretary Jenny. I will not have her serving some buffoon who's likely to make passes at her everytime she takes a deep breath. She" This diatribe was interuptted by Jenny.
"Speaking of which, I, and everyone else, have decided you need a secretary yourself, you can't handle everything. Your uncle tried that and it aged him before his time."
"So you're going to foist some hundred and ten year old dwarvish woman with a foot long beard on me is that it? And don't try and distract me from what I was saying, Arwen will not be a bloody secretary while I am King."
"Why shouldn't I be?" This statement, delivered in Arwen's breathy voice nearly cost the King his nose. He dropped his razor and spun around.
Dressed in a sober business suit the darkhaired, blue eyed elfwoman was sitting on the side of his sauna, eyeing him intently, smiling slightly.
Owen blinked. "B,b,because I was going to make you UnderAmbassador to Menelmacar! P,p,please Arwen, it's a much more prestigous job, much better paid too, you deser"
"But I want to be your secretary." The elfwoman continued smiling at Owen, swinging one sensibly shoed foot.
Owen flat out goggled "Ma,ma, My secretary? Me?"
Jenny giggled "So how do you like your hundred and ten year old dwarf now Owen? Beard long enough?"

Tag

OOC Holy shit, a driveby tag :shock: Anyway, on with the story.

*frrchip, frrchip*
Owen looked up from the report he'd been hiding behind all morning and had intended to be hiding behind all afternoon too. Arwen, new desk securely wedged by the door of Owen's office, had just returned from lunch, which'd been spent with the other secretarys in the small courtyard outside the window behind Owen. She'd removed a small bust of some famous figure from the nation's past from the table it had rested on in a corner of the office, unnoticed since Owen's predecessor's day. She'd replaced the bust with a small wooden box and was carefully settling a large circle of black plastic on top of it.
Owen watched all this carefully, just peeking over the top of the report held in front of his face. Arwen dropped a small, pointed stick onto the black circle and took her seat. The sound which'd attracted Owen's attention sounded again, and music slowly started to spill from the box.
He blinked. It didn't look like any discplayer he'd ever seen.
"Arwen?"
"Yes Majesty?" She smiled at him happily.
"Er..what is that? And I've said, call me Owen." Owen, asked, staring down at the report, the picture of distracted thought. If the picture of distracted thought means strenously avoiding eyecontact of course.
Arwen dimpled "It's a 'record player' Majesty, I went shopping with the girls yesterday to fit out my flat, and we found this brilliant little secondhand shop, this was there, it's wonderful don't you think?"
The singer, a male baritone that almost had a smile to it rhapsodised in an unfamiliar accent "When you walk in a dream, but you know you're not dreamin, signoré, s'cusa me but you see, back in old Napoli that's amoré.."
Owen shuffled his papers, still not looking up. "It's very um," he frantically scrabbled for a word other than "romantic" Inappropriate dolt, she's not for youl!. "Uhh, picturesque. Yes, picturesque."
Arwen unleashed another smile, nearly killing Owen. "Thank you Majesty."
Owen fervently cursed Jenny Sadler under his breath, along with the Sraizoni and KMI. He settled down, finally signing off on the report, trying to stifle the jealousy that "the girls" got to wander about the place with Arwen. He hauled another report out and went to work on it.

Later

"WHUMMMMM!" The knife vibrated dead centre on the dartboard.
"And then she bloody smiles at me and goes back to work!"
Another knife hurtled down the range, sinking hilt-deep beside the first.
"I mean honest to Eru! It's like she's been sent specifically to torment me!"
Owen stamped over to a cabinet set in the side of the airy, spacious room and hauled out another knife, then stumped back over to the white line drawn on the floor, demarcating the throw zone.
The tall, wiry, bearded redheaded man he'd been addressing took a pull from the goblet he was holding. Drops of burgundy hung in his mustache as he spoke "Well..what's the big problem? She's a nice girl, the people won't mind who the hell you date and she's a citizen, not a foreigner so no divided loyalties."
Owen flung the knife he'd been tossing from hand to hand downrange and stalked back to the cabinet. He picked a wicked looking francisca axe out, hefted it two handed, then hurled it down the range, the heavy head smashing into the target in place next to the knifeboard.
"That's exactly the problem Andrew. She's my secretary. And not so long ago she was a thoroughly indoctrinated slave. Any moves I make would be taking advantage. And I won't do that." Owen folded his arms and glared at the Commander of the Armed Forces who smiled imperturbily back. Andrew unfolded from his leaning against the wall, reached into the cabinet and pulled out a javelin. He ambled down to the mark, speaking as he did "Have you ever though that maybe, just maybe," His arm came back, then snapped forward, the javelin sailing cleanly down the range, thudding into the target's forehead., "that she likes you?"

<Britmattian CentGov Building, Royesse>

Owen, slumped in his chair, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat, eyed the empty desk next to the door and sighed. It'd been a very quiet week since his discussion with Andrew. He'd refused to discuss it any further with the Duke and left the range shortly after. The week had been spent avoiding the office and brooding.
Arwen had looked paler and more unhappy everytime he'd appeared, and today hadn't arrived at all. He'd also collected some fairly venomous looks from the other secretaries.
Owen stood up and walked across to her desk, which was immaculate, especially compared to his own abandoned one. He flopped down into her chair, disturbing the still air of the office. A faint trace of perfume was present to his senses. He sighed and stood again, turning to her "record player". He flipped through the "records" and "cds", randomly picked one and put it on, then flopped back into the chair.
The singer was a soprano, smooth and mellow. He stared into space, the music bringing images of rainy streets and wistful love. The brooding King glared into the middle distance till a line broke into his reverie.
"Go to her, foolish man...What's the use of having pride, if you don't have her?..." He stared at the record player. Too apt..
He scrambled to his feet and flung the office door open, sprinting down the corridor. Arwen..

Later

Arwen, pyjama and dressing gown clad and puffy-eyed with crying dabbed at her face with a tissue and sniffled. "He won't even look at me Jenny. He looks so unhappy around me, and I don't want to hurt him. I think I might write to my...progenitor, and ask if there's any work for me in Menelmacar, I can't keep hurting Owen like this."
Jenny enfolded her in a hug, managing to encompass the taller elfwoman even with the disparity in height. "I don't know love. You've got to do what you have to do. If things aren't right..well.." she continued the hug.
Arwen started crying again, body-heaving sobs against Jenny's tweed clad shoulder. The frizzy haired psychologist looked down at Arwen and held back tears herself. Poor child, what is WRONG with Owen?!
Both jumped as a hammering came from the front door.
BANGBANGBANG!, The glass in the door audibly shaking in it's frame. Jenny unfolded her arms from Arwen "I'll get it, you're not dressed." Arwen smiled weakly, tears still running down her face.
Jenny walked down the small hallway to the door, opening it carefully.
"Owen!" She gaped. The King, hair tousled, wildeyed, looked like a man on the edge. He was breathing heavily and not tracking.
"Juh, Juh,Jenny..is um Arwen in..I need to talk to her.." Owen looked at his PsychOps head pitiably.
She frowned back "She's in a state Owen, I'll not have you upset her more."
Owen, still gasping for breath "I'll not upset, I swear it, never again."
Jenny took a closer look at her King. His clothes were mudsplattered and torn. "Owen, how did you get here?"
"I ran." The King's breathing normalised.
Jenny gaped again. The CentGov building was thirty kilometres as the raven flew from the flat Arwen lived in. And if Owen said he'd run, then he'd run the whole way.
"I think you'd better come in."
The pale-faced King followed her in.
"Arwen, you've a visitor." Jenny called ahead, walking back into the lounge, Owen almost hiding behind her. The blackhaired elf looked up, her eyes widening, "Owen?"
Owen straightened. "Jenny. Out. I want to talk to Arwen."
Jenny went. You didn't disagree with the King when he spoke like that.
Owen looked down at Arwen, face unreadable. She's been crying..hope I'm not... He moved uneasily, then looked at the expectant faced elfwoman directly, staring into the starlit depths of her eyes.
"I've treated you badly..I.." he broke off. "Could I..I'd like to.." Arwen wiped at her face nervously. Owen picked up the hesitancy and stiffened.
"Arwen, you're the loveliest woman I've ever seen and your smile is like the sun coming up. You make me nervous, at the same time as making me soar. Um. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come for a drink with me, but bugger it." The King knelt before his secretary. "Will you marry me?"
Arwen's smile was indeed like the sun coming up, the room almost lit by it, she nodded "Yes my King!" and then squeaked as she was scooped out of her settee and whirled around by a laughing Owen;
"My Queen!"

The Evening Pinnacle, Wedding Announcements
O. Warwick announces his engagement to A.Lloyd. Friends and Family will be informed of a date for nuptials.

O.O.C Whoooo. :) Incidentally, the song was "She Left on a Monday" by Bic Runga from the beautiful collision album. Thanks for reading.