NationStates Jolt Archive

“Good evening, Mr Andrews!”

Todd tried not to notice the exceptionally chirpy elevator operator. It was hard, given that he had a twenty story vertical ride. It would be so easy, he thought, simply to snap the boys neck. Then he’d never have to inane chatter about the weather, the boy’s love interest, or God knows what else. But he couldn’t; rather, he shouldn’t. Morality still applied to him.

The boy only got a gruff grunt and a teneral tip in reply to his farewell, but it was enough. A teneral could buy him a dozen comics down at the drug store, a ticket to one of IanCorp’s moving picture shows, or a third of an admittance to a baseball game. Todd could remember a time, all those years ago, where a copper teneral would have made his entire week. Now he was swimming in gold.

It was a long trip from the streets of Fort Jackson to the front office of the Westerton Motor-Car Company. And, Todd remembered as he closed the door and settled into a chair, he’d never have made it without a few special gifts. Across the room, a pot of tea put itself on.

How far away those days in Assington seemed! It had been but - what? - fourteen years ago now. Fourteen years since a young Todd Andrews stood shivering in a dank cave with three total strangers; fourteen years since he’d discovered the great gifts lurking within his frail body.

Fourteen years since he’d met Yumi. With a resounding crash, his teacup - which had floated halfway from the kitchen to his armchair without incident - fell to the ground. Todd paid it no mind; that was just why he employed a housekeeper. He curled up into a ball in the armchair with great tears welling up into his eyes. Todd had always prided himself on his self-control; there was just one person in the whole world who could break him down like this.

Except she’s not on this world anymore. She left you. She left forever.

----

“Are we to Point Seahorse yet?” Captain Lord William Clayburgh’s voice was cracked and ragged. In the gloomy twilight, Fort Jackson’s lights twinkled.

“Another minute.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Louis Parious, his third lieutenant, sounded equally harried. Commander Parious, his blue and gold Noropian badge painfully obvious, was leaned over the navigator’s station. The first lieutenant had retired to Tuesday turret’s command center some time ago. His Iansislean Majesty’s Ship Gurney plowed through the dark waters of Troobodia Bay at an easy eighteen knots.

Just ahead of them, Cape Jackson loomed. The Northern Straits seemed to be only a dozen or so miles wide before the jagged peaks of Sentry Island rose from the sea. Lord William knew the Strait was more than twenty seven miles across, but from here he could bridge the gap with his pinky. He had read somewhere that sand was piling up on the north shore of the Tharian Arm. Over time, the Southern Straits would vanish completely. And then the sand, with nowhere to go but north, would slowly connect Sentry Island and Cape Jackson. After than, Troobodia Bay would be nothing but a vast, salty lake. The commerce of the Shield would dry up, and the Empire would collapse. In time.

“Point Seahorse, five seconds!”

Clayburgh bent over the pipe. He hesitated one brief second - this is what their Lordships want...

“Shoot.”

----

That’s funny thought Todd. Look at that flash! Almost like lightening - but it’s too early in the year for a storm. I wonder...

And then, with a murderous scream, nineteen hundred pounds of high explosive shell slammed into Todd’s apartment building.

Tag... seems interesting.

((Interesting. Taggishness? Or was this just a one post thing?))

((And so it begins? *tag while Jeff calls the Intel agencies* :P ))

((Thanks for the interest! This is the first installment of a sub-story in a larger plot - there will be future posts, but probably little chance for interaction. :())

EDIT:

((And so it begins? *tag while Jeff calls the Intel agencies* ))

[4-year-old]Maaaaaaay-be :P[/4-year-old]

EDIT AGAIN:

Oh yeah, news reports and that like are fully welcomed. The full scope of what happened will be better outlined in the next post. In case you're wondering about intelligence, Iansisle's counter-intel is routinely out-witted by seven year olds ;)

((Pretty explosions... that's right, all you Shield people! Distract yourselves! Don't watch me, none of you can trust each other!))

((Little interaction? Awww... still, well-written.))

((And so it begins? *tag while Jeff calls the Intel agencies* ))

[4-year-old]Maaaaaaay-be :P[/4-year-old]

EDIT AGAIN:

Oh yeah, news reports and that like are fully welcomed. The full scope of what happened will be better outlined in the next post. In case you're wondering about intelligence, Iansisle's counter-intel is routinely out-witted by seven year olds ;)

((Heh heh heh))

(( by 7-year-olds... you mean they've gotten better!?!?! :shock: :P ))

[code:1:f182724dfc]In the Name of Her Imperial Highness Malissa Black, by the Grace of God Kaiserin of the Divine Imperium of Novar Ohan

FROM: Roanian Intelligence Assembling Service Operative #2472, Empire of the Shield section

TO: Commander 'X'

Recent events in the shield have a likelihood of expanding and causing Ianisle to turn in on itself, distracting itself from other matters.

In my humble opinion, there will not be a better time for the Divine Imperium to annex the western coast of the former United States of America.[/code:1:f182724dfc]

“Look at that - ‘e’s movin’!”

“Dear God - this rubble has to be from the fifteenth story, at least! How could anyone have survived?”

Todd heard two voices above him, one male and one female. He couldn’t see anything except light - brilliant light. He couldn’t smell anything but smoke; he couldn’t taste anything besides blood; he couldn’t feel anything except pain. With a painful effort, he reached out and fumbled after their presence. The male he found at once; within a heartbeat, Todd knew everything he did; felt everything he did; Todd’s mind and that man’s were one. Then he reached out for the woman - but he couldn’t grasp her mind. It was like trying to catch smoke in a jar; for every tiny bit he got, a hundred thousand times as much escaped.

“Can you speak?”

“We can’ leave ‘im ‘ere. We’ve to get ‘im down to the doc soon as we can.”

“Of course. Hold on, friend.”

“Yumi,” Todd spluttered, reaching in the direction of the woman’s voice.

“He’s delirious, Tom. We’ve got to get him on morphine as soon as we can.”

“Right - I’m ready when y’are. Ready? ‘Eave!”

Todd allowed them to carry him from the wreckage of what had once been among the tallest buildings in Fort Jackson. Along the way, he grabbed information from the minds of people who had it. Slowly but surely the puzzle fit into place - a navy vessel, a battleship, the Gurney, had opened fire of Fort Jackson for more than an hour; two hours; an hour and a half. The effort that took exhausted him and he slipped back into a troubled, painful sleep.

----

On board the Gurney, Captain Lord William Clayburgh held a lighter up to his orders. Slowly, the paper crinkled and burned. Its flames danced in the confined cabin.

TO: Commander, HIMS Gurney

You are now required to bombard with main battery the city of FORT JACKSON for no less than one hour. Special attention is to be paid to the buildings of the Westerton Motor-Car Company. Cause as much collateral damage as possible. Then sail to join Admiral RICE in the South Pacific. Destroy these orders.

Fail not in this Task at your Peril.

That done, Lord William pulled out his service pistol. It was a fine gun, a Camstol Mk. XIV semi-automatic. The barrel tasted vaguely like a fork.

----

“A what!?” Commander Samuel McCoy couldn’t seem to believe his ears.

“A mutiny. On the Gurney,” repeated Captain Sir James Solomon Redford. “They’ve bombarded Fort Jackson - God knows why - and turned south around the cape. We have a cruiser shadowing them, but Gurney fired upon them. They’ve signaled intent to put into Ryansisle and surrender to the Golden Quarry. We’re the only heavy unit that has a chance of stopping them.”

“Are their Lordships mad?!” demanded McCoy. “I mean, Princess is a fine ship and all, but she’s hardly even finished working up! Half the systems don’t work and we haven’t even tested the engines in rough water!”

“But if they’ve killed the captain and the officers, they’ll have a hell of a time running the ship,” replied James. “These aren’t the old days - Gurney’s every bit of complex a ship as Princie.”

“I suppose - but they’ve also got a two day head start and a lot more motivation.”

“Motivation? All we have to do is let the crew see that - ” he nodded at the still-burning wreckage that had once been one of the Shield’s great cities “- and they’ll break their backs to catch up with the mutineers and dispense some of the King's justice.”

((Heh heh heh))

(( by 7-year-olds... you mean they've gotten better!?!?! :shock: :P ))

((Well, we couldn't very well get worse! Some day, God willing, we hope to be able to outwit ten years olds. But those days are far away, far indeed. ;)))

ego-bump!

((we couldn't very well get worse! Some day, God willing, we hope to be able to outwit ten years olds. But those days are far away, far indeed. ;)))

((Whoa! 10-year-olds? Aiming high indeed! Can't wait to see what happens next! When would this be happening in regards to the swearing in?))

((afterwards by some time..call it a month or two. Can't post now - so sleepy :())

((ooc: Sorry about not posting anything yesterday. I was too tired to string much more than a sentence or two together. In other news, I've decided to split up the two story lines of this thread for now; this post is just about Todd.))

Todd could smell death. It hung in the air like thick smoke, permeating every orifice and overloading every sense. He turned and coughed slightly.

“The doctor said you were in a coma,” said a familiar female voice. Todd couldn’t say anything in reply. “You’ve been out for twenty three hours. Harry didn’t think you’d pull through.”

“Yumi?” asked Todd in a half whisper.

“That’s odd. You said the same thing last night. What does it mean?”

Now Todd was fully awake. He didn’t recognize his surroundings; it was evidently a hospital of some sort. But it was hideously disgusting; blood splattered the walls, men and women lay groaning in every direction. Ever since Celeborne stepped in to help develop Iansisle’s medical infrastructure, Todd had come to expect a certain level of modernity in his health care. He didn’t realize, until just now, what a gap there was between the fine centers of RSU or corporate hospitals and the community practices that better than seventy per cent of the Commonwealth’s population relied upon.

Todd decided to answer the woman’s question with one of his own. “Who are you?”

She laughed. “Your guardian angel, of course!” He didn’t laugh. “I’m the one who drug you from the burning wreckage of your condominium building to safety. Well, Harry and I, that is. I don’t suppose you remember any of that?”

He did. With a concentrated effort, Todd focused his mental energy on connecting with the woman. “Like smoke in a bottle,” he whispered after the briefest second. The effort exhausted him, and he collapsed back on his grungy pillow.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Todd’s voice was getting stronger already. “I remember it all very clearly. Thank you. But what I really wanted to know is your name.”

“My name? Jane. And you?”

“Andrews - er, Todd Andrews.”

“Well, Todd, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he agreed. A few seconds of silence passed between them.

“Maybe you’d care to tell me what ‘Yumi’ means now? You’ve said it twice. Once, you were probably just delirious. Twice...”

“Just someone I used to know when I was a kid,” Todd tried his best to convey that this wasn’t a comfortable subject. It was hard relying solely on vocal inflection to add emphasis to his words, but every time he tried to look at, much less alter, Jane’s mind, he was frustrated and exhausted.

“One of these folks?” Jane was holding up an old photograph. It was Todd, Yumi, Kerrik, and Jimmy from back in the day. “I thought it was a little odd, a bigwig having photographs of outlanders lying about.”

“It wasn’t lying about; it was in my dresser drawer,” snapped Todd peevishly.

“So he is!” cried Jane in triumph. “Or she, I suppose.” Jane studied Todd’s expression, then looked back at the picture. “She, is it? An old love? A crush?”

“Look, can we talk about something else?”

“Of course. I’m sorry; didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Well, you did a damn good job of it!”

“Y’know, no one’s making me stay here! I could be out looking for more victims and leave you alone!”

“Fine, fine! Christ almighty! Let’s just change the subject, all right?”

“All right. So, what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know; anything besides her.”

“Let’s talk about you, then, Todd Andrews. Who are you?”

“What?”

“I mean, I found you in one of the city’s nicest districts. You’re someone important in the Company, judging by your furniture...”

“It’s awfully rude to poke about in another’s belongings,” groused Todd. She paid him no heed.

“...but you don’t look, or really sound, like someone weaned on a silver spoon. What’s your story?”

Todd hesitated a second before starting. He couldn’t mention his powers; that much was certain. “I grew up here in Fort Jackson; my father worked at the plant...”

“A manager?”

“An assembly line worker. Please, you asked about me, and now I’m trying to tell you.”

“Sorry.”

“I stayed in school, got a scholarship to RSU, and was hired by the company when I got back. Then I just sort of worked my way up.”

“Oh, please.” Jane looked disgusted.

“What?”

“Will you quit it with this Horatio Alger crap? Do you really expect me to believe that a boy from the slums can even get in to Royal Standard University, much less make it to the top ranks of Westerton before they turn thirty?”

“I did it,” replied Todd. Their conversation was interrupted by a loud, wailing scream from somewhere else. Both were too busy glaring at each other to take any notice.

“Right, through your indomitable force of will and all that. Look, Todd, nobody makes it out of the slums unless they have outside help.” Jane sighed and levered herself up from the side of the bed. “I was really hoping you might be different.” She tossed the photograph - Todd noticed for the first time that the frame was cracked and the picture slightly charred - onto his chest face down. “I have to go. I’ll be back in eight or nine hours in case you’re ready to tell the truth.” And she walked out of the makeshift hospital.

((dooooh! I'm becoming increasingly more unhappy with the server!))

((a midday bump while I work on the next bit!))

((Oh now the forum gets snitty again... *picks up crowbar again* Forum, don't force me to club you like a baby seal... ))

((dooooh! I'm becoming increasingly more unhappy with the server!))

((OOooooooohhh!!! That waskilly forum!! It needs an attitude adjustment :P ))

((ah, too bad! One more and you could have replied in triplicate! :P

As long as I've got your attention, should I do the final landing approach to Lyone in the other thread? I wasn't sure if you wanted to skip ahead to that or do something else first.))

((Sounds like a plan to me. And it doesn't take much to get my attention, all you usually need to do is throw something at me ;) ))

“Still no response to our messages?” Commander Marcus Sommers rubbed his face in consternation. Life on HIMS Gurney had been nothing but a struggle ever since Captain Lord William Clayburgh shot himself. Sommers had fought desperately to keep the exact nature of Clayburgh’s death a secret - it wouldn’t do to have the crew know an RIN officer committed suicide - but even that had backfired. Some lower deck idiot had heard the shot; now the prevailing rumor was that Sommers had killed Clayburgh to ascend to the captaincy, and was trying to cover up the murder.

Which might make a lot of sense, had Sommers wanted to be captain at all. He did, of course, but certainly not of this ship! Ten days out of Ianapalis; seven months out of the builder’s yard, and already Gurney was cursed. Her first mission had been to murder thousands of Iansislean citizens in cold blood; her first captain had fallen on his own sword; and her second captain was accused of murder. Now, she was being chased by one of her own sister ships, who neither offered nor accepted any explication.

“Commander Princess Royal demands we heave to and prepare for boarding party. He also claims to be working with the Admiralty’s full approval.”

“And the other ship?”

“The Ryan? Steaming straight at us. He insists we follow him into the Gradula Estuary - to surrender.”

“None of this makes any sense,” breathed Sommers softly. He wasn’t particularly worried about the Ryan - the Golden Quarry had tried this sort of trick before; it always turned out to be a bluff. The Imperial Ryansislean Navy consisted of a few rusted patrol boats and a single ancient heavy cruiser. Nothing that could seriously threaten one of His Majesty’s battleships. But Princess Royal! - was Redford mad? Not likely; he and Sommers had served together before, and J.S. Redford certainly didn’t seem the insane type.

----

“Are they responding?” Sir James Redford asked.

“Negative, sir. Commander Gurney, who claims to be one M.T. Sommers, acting in place of Lord William, continues to ask what our orders are.”

“Sommers,” whispered Redford.

“The book has him listed as the first lieutenant.”

“I know Marcus Sommers personally,” snapped James, before taking a deep breath. Yelling at the wireless officer for doing his job wouldn’t do one lick of good.

“They’re only twenty nautical miles from Ryansislean waters,” warned the radranger operator.

“Send a message to Gurney - tell them, er, ‘Jack, Alice, Geoffrey, and.’”

“And..?” asked the confused man.

“Just send it!”

-----

“Message from Princess Royal, sir - ‘Jack, Alice, Geoffrey, and.’” The man’s voice was obviously confused.

“And Carol,” replied Sommers in a heartbeat. “By God, that is James Redford! Helm, prepare to heave to.”

“Sir, what about the Ryan?”

“What about him, Mr Quaide? They’d have as luck shooting doughnuts at us as bullets. The Emperor is welcome to posture all he wants, but one of His Majesty’s ships won’t waste time on him. All right, helm, execute!”

-----

“Gurney’s acknowledged!” exclaimed the wireless operator.

“Of course she has,” replied Redford. “Those are Sommers’ children. Take us in, if you please.”

He left unspoken his questions; why the hell would Marcus Sommers be in command if there had been a mutiny?

-----

“Now, Mr Quaide,” started Sommers, “I want you to -” Sommers glanced around. “Did anyone see where Mr Quaide got off to?” Of course no one had - they were all too busy with the task of stopping a 40,000 ton battleship.

Mr Quaide was even at that moment down in his cramped cabin, pulling up the mattress. It hadn’t been easy hiding 10,000 pounds on a warship, but his employer insisted, and had the resources to make it possible. Not that Quaide ever planned to use it; what he was sleeping on was just a precaution in case Clayburgh proved obstinate.

Quaide worked for nearly fifteen minutes, pulling out this screw and that, pushing this button and that. Every minute drew HIMS Princess Royal and the Ryansislean ship that much closer. At last, everything was ready. He pushed a specially made button. Strange that it should be so easy.

Thirty seconds.

Quaide heard a knock on his cabin door. He didn’t bother moving.

Twenty seconds.

Reminded of his family, Sommer pulled out a photograph of his wife and children. He smiled briefly, replaced it, and asked again why no one had located Mr Quaide yet. Hadn’t they checked his cabin?

Ten seconds.

James Redford put down his binoculars. Gurney, now just seven miles away, was like his own command a beautiful ship, even if she was wet in high seas.

Three

Quaide pulled out a large golden cross he kept on a chain around his neck and kissed it gently. “sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix.”

Two

“nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus, sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.”

One

“Amen.”

The Antananarivo Project had been anything but a waste of generals. HIMS Gurney vanished in a sixteen kiloton blast.

(bump while I work on the next section!)

The Antananarivo Project had been anything but a waste of generals. HIMS Gurney vanished in a sixteen kiloton blast.

(( :? Hmmm... :shock: You didn't... *reads again* yep, you did. ))

(( :? Hmmm... :shock: You didn't... *reads again* yep, you did. ))

((Damn straight I did! Do you know how many lemurs we had to blow up or irradiate to make those bombs? We darn well plan to use them! ;)))

Redford had never seen so many patients in a ship’s sick bay before, not even after the most heated and ferocious battle. They lined Princess Royal’s facilities, from one end to the other.

“Three hundred and sixty three,” said Dr Balmes solemnly. His arms were coated by dried blood. “I’ve already lost five, and it looks like I’ll be losing several more. Three after serious injuries and two...well.”

“Well? Who were they?”

“Brown and Walsh, sir. The divers. I’ve never seen anything like it, not in my entire career.”

“What do you mean, ‘never’?” asked Redford sharply.

“Captain,” continued Balmes, his voice now a whisper “I’ve been a ship’s surgeon for damn near twenty years. I’ve lost men to the yellow fever; I’ve treated scurvy, cholera, and the bubonic plague; I’ve pulled bullets from screaming men; I’ve amputated every limb imaginable.” He removed his glasses and wiped his brow. The swipe left his forehead a pinkish color. “But I’ve never seen two men brought up here unconscious just to have them die four hours later! And as for....Captain, are you all right?”

The last question was justified. James had been resting with a hand against the bulkhead and was now blinking. “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, fighting down the bile. “You were saying?”

“The rest aren’t much better. I’m doing what I can for them, but most of the time that’s just a glass of laudanum and a cigarette.” Across the room, a man screamed as a surgical saw bit into his arm. “I almost prefer the physical injuries,” sighed Balmes, “at least I know what to do for them.”

“And the Ryan?” asked James.

“Over there. I’m surprised, actually. When they brought him here, he was bleeding profusely - and without clotting - vomiting, nauseous, unable to speak, shaking, and any other number of things. But he’s been doing pretty well for the last hour or so. He keeps saying something in Spanish; I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Across the room, James could clearly see the Ryansislean. His olive features were much different from the average Shieldian tars lying about him. There had only been one survivor from that Ryansislean vessel, which had been much closer to the blast than Princess Royal. He had to survive - Brown and Walsh had already given their lives for his. James could just hear the man’s voice, which was contesting the groans of the sick and the wails of the injured.

“He wants a priest,” said James, “He wants his Last Rites.”

“He’ll need them, if he keeps shouting like that,” muttered Balmes. “I’ve told him to sit quietly, but he never listens.”

“He doesn’t listen because he can’t understand,” snapped James.

“Do you speak Spanish, Captain?”

“Not really; a few words I’ve picked up to amuse Hell Bovine ambassadors at parties.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell him for me?”

“I...” started James. Then a wave of nausea hit him. He stumbled walking over to the Ryansislean, and turned himself for the door. “I’d better not. Mr...ah, Mr ... Webber wanted to, ah, talk to me about something.”

“Captain,” said Balmes. The doctor was holding his arm now. “I think I’d better lay you down and -”

“No!” insisted James, yanking his arm away. The sudden motion nearly threw him off balance. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the nausea vanished. “Really, I feel fine. Now, please, Mr Webber is expecting me.” He turned and walked out.

Halfway to the wardroom, someone came up to his elbow. James didn’t recognize the voice, and couldn’t be bothered to look.

“Mr Firth wants to know if you plan to run at this speed all the way to Ianapalis, sir.”

“Faster, if he can do it for me.”

“That’s just it, sir. Mr Firth wanted to let you know that the engines are running hot already. The pumps are also just balancing out the water we’re taking in - if even one goes off line, we’ll be in a right fix. He wants you to slow down and make repairs first, sir.”

“Later,” said James with a wave of his hand. “Later.” Suddenly, the nausea was back. He crashed sideways into the bulkhead.

“Sir?” asked the nameless, faceless rating.

James couldn’t hear him. The bile was back, and try as he might, he couldn’t keep it down this time. He vomited on the deck, and didn’t stop. His stomach was empty, and still it came up, ceaselessly. He tried to protest as am orderly came to take him to his cabin, but he couldn’t.

((a rare middle of the day bump - maybe some new people will be able to see this ;)))

((I'm still loving it, keep up the great writing.))

((I'm still loving it, keep up the great writing.))

((Thank you, sir, and I will! However, there has to be a brief break for now while I wait on the results of another thread that might affect this one.

Not, of course, that a break means I'll stop bumping this in the hopes of a slight ego-boost! :P))

((hah! Bet you thought I'd forgotten about Todd, didn't you? ;)))

His left arm was in a splint. It was broken. Not that anyone had bothered to tell Todd that, of course, but he’d long ago gotten over any moral compunctions he might have had about plucking information from other people’s minds. There were still times when he felt like an absolute peeping tom, but they were few and far between. Some people had skill working with their hands; they became carpenters. Some people had skill working with their brains; they became scientists. He had skill working with other people’s minds; he used it to advance worker’s rights in whatever way he could.

Not that it mattered anymore. Marcus Westerton was dead - one of the doctors here had personally closed the car mogul’s eye lids - and the Motor-Car Company was destroyed. All that really mattered now was survival. And yet, he picked up such astounding emotions from those around him! Nurses on their way to change IVs or bandage wounds spared him a dirty look. Doctors gave him a malicious thought while their surgical saws cut into the infected limbs of the wounded. Orderlies, hauling the bodies of the dead and the parts of the dismembered out back, wished that Todd hadn’t been one of the lucky ones.

They were all mad. Their anger didn’t have any direct outlet - they couldn’t very well project their hate onto a naval vessel some five hundred miles away! - and so they hated him. Hated the memory of Marcus Westerton and his enterprise. Hated the mad King Alexander, safe in his castle overlooking the city, and the young arrogant Prince Regent. Hated Shadoran. Hated everything.

Todd had dealt with negative emotions being directed at him before. People had been jealous, angry, vengeful, and insubordinate before. But he’d never seen such raw hatred. This had been building up for some time, silently fomenting in secret unionist meetings and on the assembly line floor. Now that energy was released, and it had nowhere to flow but on the management of Westerton and the government of Weshield that had failed them at the slightest provocation.

Weshield’s government had fled into the hills and still hadn’t returned; neither Alexander nor the Prince Regent had made a single public appearance; and the civil servants had vanished seeming overnight, leading to the cessation of all basic services, from the mail to the fire department to the hospitals. Skilled peoples - the doctors who couldn’t get permission to save their patients’ lives, the firemen whose directors had fled the city, or the maintenance people who couldn’t get authorization to help people trapped under piles of rubble - had banded together to help each other and the people of Fort Jackson.

Todd was one of the last representations they had of the quintessential non-producer. He had no talents - he couldn’t haul heavy rubble, couldn’t apply a proper bandage, couldn’t haul someone from a burning building, couldn’t send for help from outside, couldn’t do anything. And yet, in just two years with the Company’s management, he’d made more money than most of them would in a lifetime. And they hated him for it.

He swung his feet over the side of his blood-stained cot and dropped them to the floor. No one tried to stop him. His legs didn’t want to listen to his brain. They wobbled dangerously as he rested his weight on them. One nurse shot him a dirty look from across the room. With a deep sigh of concentration, Todd propped himself up mentally. Every step he took across the room gave his muscles more and more strength, and by the time he reached the door, he was completely under his own power. A good thing, too - the mental exhaustion of half-levitating himself sapped his body much faster than conventional locomotion.

Todd had never been much good at telekinetic tricks; not like Kerrik, Yumi, or Jimmy had. His power had always been in his ability to manipulate minds, not matter. Still, when he was at full strength, Todd could fly about on nothing but mental power for hours and hours; he’d done so several times. But now, with his physical body limping, his mind was too. Even his telepathic powers, which usually didn’t even require the slightest bit of concentration, were a struggle to use.

The makeshift hospital was on the corner of Midland and Twin Peaks, not far from where Todd’s condo had been. This area had been hit hard. While other parts of Fort Jackson were relatively untouched, his neighborhood had been flattened. Here and there, some façade still stood like a tombstone, but the vast majority of the buildings were just rubble. Here was the Midland Post Office. Its flag pole had toppled over from some near miss. Three flags still clung to the skeletal remain: the red-and-white Cross of St Patrick, emblem of the Iansislean Commonwealth; the green-and-blue Adien Cross, flag of the Empire of the Shield, and the white-and-black lyre flag of Weshield.

The Weshieldian banner was a field of white. Thin strips of black outlined the shape of a lyre in the top left, the center of which was also white. But when the flagpole had toppled, it had apparently killed a woman. Her expression was that of pain; the back of her head was a ruined mess. She hadn’t died at once when the heavy metal post crushed her skull; she had apparently paced about, probably screaming, if the necessary parts to do so were still intact, and then collapsed on the lyre flag. Her thick arterial blood stained the banner a dark red; nearly all except the Lyre of Weshield itself. Todd stood considering the frightful scene for several minutes.

“Dead?” asked a familiar female voice suddenly. Todd hadn’t sensed her coming up; he never sensed anything.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing out of the hospital?” Jane’s voice had genuine concern in it. Todd wondered, given the horrific carnage at their feet, how she could change subjects and tone quite so rapidly.

“Shouldn’t we - ” he started, pointing down at the dead woman, “Bury her? Say something?” Todd didn’t know any prayers.

“I’m sorry,” said Jane, and she actually sounded like it. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just...well, I’ve seen a lot of stuff like this the last few days. Your first corpse?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know any prayers.” Jane leaned over and closed the woman’s eyes.

“Neither do I.”

“Well, let’s see; I’m sure God wouldn’t mind us improvising something. Um, Lord, I - we didn’t know this woman, but I’m sure she had a family - father, mother, husband, siblings - who loved her. For their sake, I ask You to forgive any sins she may have committed and, like all the victims of the shelling, admit her to heaven. Amen.”

“Amen,” repeated Todd. It seemed the proper thing to do.

“That didn’t sound too stupid, did it?” asked Jill, looking over at him.

“I don’t think so. But I don’t know anything about religion.”

“You know, it’s funny. A week ago, I never thought I’d have any use for God or the church.”

“A lot can change in a week.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I don’t think so,” sighed Todd. “Just - an observation.”

“Yeah, well. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so defensive.”

“Quite all right.” They stood together considering the flagpole and the corpse for a couple seconds.

“Am I to take it that you’ve wandered from bed because you’re ready to share with me now?” asked Jane suddenly. She looked over at him with intense brown eyes.

“Well,” replied Todd, “I’ve been thinking about it. But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“You’ll keep my secret, no matter what.”

“Oh!” she laughed triumphantly. “So that’s it, then! Bribery - no, that wouldn’t work. Extortion?” She watched his expression. “Not extortion? Certainly you don’t mean...murder!?”

“Of course not!” he snapped. “Stop guessing, or I won’t tell you!”

“Right, right, sorry.”

“Do you promise to keep the secret, no matter what?”

“I don’t see why it would matter. Westerton and the Fort Jackson police are both gone. We’ve all got a clean slate, terrible as that is.”

“Look, this doesn’t involve Westerton or the police. You just have to promise me, all right?”

“Do you hear that?” Jane whirled around suddenly towards the wreckage of the post office. Todd heard it indeed - it was a little girl crying. Jane didn’t wait for his confirmation, though; she set off in a sprint after the noise. Todd followed close behind.

“There’s a little girl trapped down there!” she exclaimed. “Look!”

Todd saw the girl. She was pretty deep down; it would take hours to dig her out by themselves. And no one else was around.

“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll get you out,” Jane was saying. “Todd, help me dig! for Christ’s sake!”

“Jill,” he replied, “I need you to promise me.”

“Promise me what?” she cried, exasperated.

“That you would never tell. That you’ll keep my secret.”

“Damn it, Todd, I don’t care right now! Just help me get her out!”

“Please, Jane,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I can get her out - you just need to promise me first.”

“All right!” she snapped, brushing off his hand. “I promise! Now help me dig!”

But Todd didn’t do that. The girl shouted in pain as a heavy steel girder that had been lying across her crushed leg lifted off. Jane stared at it, scarcely believing her eyes. Slowly, every obstacle moving itself out of her way, the girl floated up towards the surface. Todd put her down next to Jane. With one final thought, he wiped the girl’s short term memory. And then he collapsed.

http://img78.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/shieldflaglyre.jpg
Bloody Lyre of Weshield courtesy of Free Outer Eugenia

((I'm getting a broken link on this end, Ians. You sure you set that up right? It's coming along nicely...

BTW, I spent quite some time on that tm last night, so I'm going to have to assume you're now actively seeking a war... :wink:

Nah, I wouldn't do that to you. Nice writing, and I'm wondering where this will lead.))

((heh, as a matter of fact, I just sent off your reply. ;) I've been working on the TG on and off last since this morning; sorry if it's a little disjointed and about the long response time. I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off today.

As for the flag...huh. Dunno what the problem might be. You can see it on my country's website, under the flag section (I hope!).

As for the leading...I'm still not sure. Depends mainly on how other RPs with Lark develop right now.))

EDIT: Oh, and by the way, is there a new post from you in the masquerade thread? The thing lists you as the last poster, but I couldn't see one for the life of me.

((an ego bump while I work out what's coming next))