#Flavian does see him play

[wafflesrock16]

The Bard of Shanxi

I’m battling writers block and started wondering about turian prisoners on Shanxi hearing humans sing. Human voices are unique among the races, you’d imagine. How would an alien ballad sound to a non-human?

Inspired by Orville Peck’s “Kids”

Time had no meaning in this place. Dingy, concrete walls cast the same, gloomy shadows no matter the hour, as the soft buzz of florescent lights chorused overhead.

Bright, steel bars mocked the otherwise moldering, atrophied interior of the building where the turian POWs were kept. The humans had once used this place as a prison for their own kind. It had survived the aerial bombardment and in a sardonic case of irony, now housed those that would have been conquerors.

Flavian limply jangled a shackled wrist for no reason other than to hear the metallic clink the movement caused. He was the only prisoner in this spirits-forsaken cell. No one else in his unit had survived the aquatic ambush. The humans had risen from the reeds and tepid marsh water at sunset, slick with russet colored mud and stinking of decay. How long had they waited in that festering, putrid swamp? They’d been underwater, breathing through hollow reeds for hours, Flavian had later deduced.

His patrol had been taken completely off-guard. The human’s primitive, lead fueled guns could survive the submersion and had worked to deadly effect. Just goes to show a weapon doesn’t have to be advanced to kill, Flavian thought bitterly.

Was it a mercy or a curse that he’d been in the thick brush relieving himself when they attacked? Either way, he’d turned to come face to face with nine guns pointed at his head. And now, he was here. Nothing more to be said of his inglorious capture.

At some point in the day, a human--a tired looking male with brilliant blue eyes--would appear from around the corner of his cell and push a tube of dextro-paste over. Flavian had considered refusing to eat, but death by self-inflicted starvation was hardly worthy martyrdom. He was nobody, anyway; just a solider. A farmer-boy from Taetrus. No prestigious title or family name. A commoner tossed into this political and military shit-show without concern.

A new, sudden sound caught his attention. It sounded like the thrumming of chords that reverberated in the hollowness of the prison. There was a distinct melody to the sound and Flavian realized with surprise that the tired guard must be playing some type of human instrument. He listened with rapt intrigue, the shackles on his wrists forgotten as the steel bars and dismissal, cracked concrete walls faded away.

A deep, smooth voice began to sing. He couldn’t understand the words; translation of the human language wasn’t perfect. Yet. But somehow, the tone filled him with a sense of ineffable sadness. Something was lost, somewhere. On an alien world with an alien sun. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but as the guard’s voice seeped into the still air, he was filled with a deep-rooted longing.

He missed his younger brother and the simpler times of childhood. Dust caked bare feet and blunted talons running through tilled fields. Bird calls in the dusky twilight and the smell of fresh cut cevern grass. Knowing his mother had cooked xemna steak for dinner and the jubilant, enthusiastic race to the table.

The guards voice hit a crescendo. He has a voice like warm whiskey, Flavian thought absently. He’d never heard a human sing. It was comparable to an asari in intonation, but closer to a batarian with the deeper ululation that accompanied some verses. A pleasant voice, he decided.

The song drifted to stop, the guard’s voice an echo clinging to the bars as the chords died away into nothingness.

“Can you sing another one?” Flavian asked into the renewed silence. His voice croaked like a dehydrated amphibian from disuse.

Stupid, he chastised himself when there was no response. He can’t understand you anyway, and you’re a prisoner, not a concert attendee--

The instrument sprang to life in a triumphant strumming of notes that seemed... happy? Optimistic, at least. The guard sang song after song in that melodious, alien voice. Some were solemn, others crisp with excitement and promise. They took Flavian far away from the grey infused prison on a hostile world. Back to home and family and loved ones.

When at last the music stopped for good, the guard peeked around the corner at him. Flavian wasn’t an expert on expressions--let alone human expressions--but the small smile on the guard’s face seemed friendly. Friendlier than anything else he’d experienced here.

Unable to applaud, he rumbled in thanks and bowed his head. When he looked up, the guard had vanished.

He never heard the guard sing again. The next day, a different group of humans, accompanied by three asari in commando leathers released him from his cell and he was accompanied to an asari ship where other freed turian POWs were being treated by a doctor.

The Relay 314 incident was over. Yet, on still nights, back home on Taetrus, Flavian drifted back to Shanxi. Harmony hugging the prison air in a show of compassion he wasn’t sure he’d deserved.

I bet that guard is a famous singer, Flavian thought as the fuzzy film of sleep crept over him. I’d pay to hear him sing. In a happier setting. Maybe one day...

[rcris123]

He thought of Arthur sucking that man off.

He thought of Arthur; how he pinned that outlaw down on the bed. He remembered that look Arthur gave: long, thin strands of auburn hair drawn messily over his face, eyes glossed over, gaze sweet, awed and that mouth let to hang open. Those lips of his, square, yet full when he don’t purse them in a thin line, were quite the sight; in part ‘cause he ain’t seen someone with a mouth that damn pretty, the rest ‘cause it made Sebastian want to shove his cock down it.

But now Sebastian’s lips are ‘round someone else’s girth; he ain’t all that careful, man was moaning hard enough to sound satisfied. For 20$ that’s all he’s getting.

He kept thinking of Arthur. Underneath him. Or above him. It didn’t matter. It felt raw; the way rough and tender Arthur kissed and bitt his neck while Sebastian was still grabbing him by the collar. He wanted that; ‘cause it ain’t making him feel hollow. A body ain’t ever meant much; somehow back then it did.

It was always physical with him; he grabbed Arthur, pulled Arthur, dragged Arthur in – and Arthur pulled him out, touched his wounds... And Arthur fucked him; did it with charm, lifted him up against the wall like he was barely some bag of groceries-

The client cummed in his mouth; Sebastian swallows and pulls away. He’s hard, pants tight; not for this feller thou.

“Ohh—I wish my wife blew like that.” The man was a mess on the bed.

“What a shame...” Sebastian smiles as courtesy.

“Oh, she’s bland, mister. Plainest. But Pop said I gotta take a wife.” Man drags his pants up. “But she’s a nice woman. Wants kids.”

“Mhm...”

He sits up, tone overly sweet: “You ain’t plain, mister.”

Sebastian chuckles: “Don’t get over your head.”

“No no...” He sounded disappointed. “Is just, ye’r pretty. Handsome.”

“Get outta here.” He tries hard to play the flirty banter game, but it ain’t coming out quite as it should.

Why would it matter if Arthur thought he’s handsome...

An odd thought. He lets the man go downstairs first, before he climbs down himself-

“Arthur?...” The cock’s still hard between his legs and it twitches at the thought.

“He got Jack-” Isaac rushes at him; Sebastian pulls away.

Who?

“Valentini.” Arthur completes the sentence. “Valentini got Jack.” That man never sounded as angry.

Sebastian’s face changes to what must be a terrifying grimace, ‘cause Isaac slips away.

“Would you tell me where he lives.”

“You won’t go there.” Sebastian cuts him, harsh. The wounds Stefano gave him were gentle, and the man owns the city.

“Dutch’ll go. And John.” Arthur insisted. “But I need to know-”

“Flavian Street; the big mansion, opposite the park.” And just as Arthur was to pull away, he grabs him by the collar spins him round. “Don’t you get involved in this, you hear- Don’t you dare.”

He knows both Arthur and Isaac at this point and if any of ‘em get involved, either dragged by Dutch or something else Sebastian fears he ain’t gonna see the end of this. Or maybe he will, but not as himself and he ain’t knowing what’s scarier: dying or losing the chance of being someone again.

“And what will you do...” Arthur’s got his own concerns and the 4 other people in the saloon at this time stop to watch.

“Hopefully, my best.” A lie. The thoughts cooking up in his head are all but possibly the worst idea he’s had.

He lets go, but Arthur doesn’t. There’s words behind those lips, but they’re sealed shut so tight he thinks they ain’t ever gonna see the light of day. And somehow, he has a hunch as to what the man wanted to say, and that’s ‘cause they just got up on their feet, and for one day it almost felt hopeful. But fate ain’t about to give Sebastian that. And he dragged this man and his son along with it.

“I’ll make sure you get the boy back.” Sebastian had to say something to break this tension; cock’s gone flacid in the meantime, and still the way Arthur gripped him threatened to have gotten it hard again if the situation were any different. “I’ll see you back at camp.”

And he wished those words were true; the smile was practiced.

 “Why are you here?” One of Stefano’s men almost pointed a gun at him. “Thought you said no.”

“Changed my mind.”

“And you think it works that way.”

Sebastian looks up: there he was, Stefano sitting on the upstairs balcony with what looked like a glass of expensive wine tipped between fingers. Man raises the glass and even though he can’t see that far Sebastian knows he’s grinning, just before he shouts:

“Let him in!”

And in he’s let, then escorted upstairs to Stefano.

“Lucian is right. Why are you here, Sebastian?” The wine is twirled inside the glass before a sip is taken.

“I have a request.” Heart drummed in his chest.

The gulp is audible: “Oh?” Glass is set down. “And what would that be?”

“Erase someone’s bounty.”

Stefano chuckles: “I’m not the government.” And he spares a glance for Sebastian, eyeing him up and down, then returns to admiring the view: “But I can pull some strings.” And then the man sits up: “Just one question, dear old Sebastian. Why? Is it for the same reason that man and his son stood in when I came to see you. I hope you’re aware you’re a terrible liar.”

Sebastian simply had his lips pressed together and his chest out trying not to breathe too loudly or to simply break out in a fit of rage.

“But I’m still curious, what’s it about that outlaw that makes him attractive. I know he runs with Van der Linde. Yes, I have one of those sheep-fucker’s offspring. They came ‘round and asked. You sent them here didn’t you?” Stefano puffs with a grin, presses two fingers to his lips, taps and pins Sebastian, the quiet, stiff, unshaken Sebastian, with another gaze: “But I have to say, this is quite entertaining. You came begging to me. Or well as close to begging as those sealed lips of yours will come to.”

Stefano passes by him, purposefully on the right side so he can tap the shoulder he so much loves to brutalize.

“I’ll play your little game, Sebastian. I’ll look into your little cowboy friend.” And the man draws away, returning to his office, but not before: “Oh, and you’re free to try and escape, but I think you’re smart enough to know you won’t exactly be going out anymore. So make yourself at home, darling.”

 It’s not home, but he lit a cigarette in the middle of the downstairs living, lounged on the couch like he owned the place. Was there mud on his boots? He doesn’t care, they’re on the cushions.

Small steps trot in; Sebastian huffs out the smoke he held in his chest to look over the back of the sofa:

“Sebastian?”

He smiles.

“Hi there, Jack.”

“You came to stay with Papa Valentini too.”

Don’t call him that...

A quick draw of the cigarette: “Yeah...” but he’ll avoid that question: “How’s your reading these days, Jack?”

“Uhhhh...” the kid rolls his eyes back, then they dart across the room: “Will you tell Momma and Uncle Hosea that I don’t like reading? ‘cause I don’t.”

“Isaac likes reading.” Sebastian insists, standing up and coming closer; and by God Isaac tried to make the kid read, told him everything of the Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur, huh?

“Isaac’s different.” Jack pouts. “Isaac’s old.”

“He’s still just a kid.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He still plays with you, doesn’t he?”

“He does...” Jack muses. “But he’s always away. He’s busy with Uncle Arthur and Uncle Dutch. And Papa.” Well John was hardly the parent, but Sebastian knows he loved his son and could bet that the moment he got taken away he raised Hell. That’s a parent’s love.

Sebastian crinkles his nose: “Say, would you like to play with me? We’re gonna surprise Momma with how smart you’ve become, what you say?”

“Yeah!”

 One hour. Two. Three. It gets dark and there keeps being a shiver up his spine and down his arms as if he’s cold, but the air is hot and muggy like it’s always been in St. Denis.

Stefano moved in to sit across from them, legs crossed, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. And Sebastian stiffened, Jack noticed, ‘cause he clutched him harder, while trying to teach him the animals.

Lucian came in at one point: “Signor Valenitni? Dutch van der Linde is back.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jack perked up: “Uncle Dutch!?”

Stefano opens the door and the kid runs out like a dog on the hunt. Sebastian can only watch from inside; he doesn’t want to make it worse for Arthur- and there he was, Isaac in tow. So Stefano asked them for something-

He overhears the conversation:

“Signor Van der Linde, would you by any chance be interested in a social meeting with the upstanding citizens for this city?” He eyes Arthur, even if the man stood ways away, still in the saddle. John had the child in his arms, head pressed to the chest.

And with that Sebastian smells a trap.

That Dutch fell face first into: “O’course.”

They leave; Sebastian’s left alone with Stefano; a pang hollows his guts and a shiver runs up his spine.

Stefano lets Lucian close the door behind him: “I’m really curious to see what your little cowboy does at the ball when he sees you~”

A deep breath in to gather courage: “Then wait and see.”

“Oh, seems you’ve gotten cocky?”

“I do bite.”

Stefano hums almost as if aroused: “I’d love to see that, darling.”

 He never penetrated Stefano, or have it the other way around, but the man fucked Sebastian in more ways; other ways. The downstairs bedroom with the red sheets, always stained and smelling of blood; his blood. Man was sick, always asking the same thing: half dressed, cutting himself up, moaning in pain, because it got him hard. And he saw Stefano come completely undone in those days ‘till that party.

It might have looked like the work of a doctor, precise and clean: a long line stretched down the middle of his chest, above the bone and only the bone, with the purpose of drawing blood and looking pretty. It fucking hurt. He bent on his elbows shuddering, while Stefano pleased himself, snapping shots to the wet sound of masturbation. Sebastian hated it. Other times it was bearable ‘cause he got to get away. Now he’s here; no escaping. Yet. And Stefano strung him up, tied his feet, bound his hands, stabbed his shoulder, bruised his knuckles, his knees, his face, cut his lips, his temples.

He went numb; jaw, limbs trembling without even wanting to, vision blurring, head emptying and his self feeling entirely detached from the body just so he couldn’t feel it anymore.

But he thought, all those endless hours he thought of a way to get the fuck out of this place. There’s going to be a party and Stefano’s gonna get him there just to entertain some sick idea of a tragedy like he was some British Monarch. And Stefano sure as hell ain’t Shakespeare so Sebastian could be his Romeo or Macbeth.

He’s gonna get out. He thought of it long and hard and it had to work.

 He was still bruised when Stefano handed him the suit he was to wear; a top hat as well to hide the marks on his face. But it wouldn’t matter much. Lucian ain’t seen when Sebastian slipped a knife underneath the seam of his pants, that he then dangled loosely by a string attached to the suspenders. It grazed his leg, but he didn’t care. Jaw was clenched from all other pains; some more cuts ain’t mattering.

And in one more sloppy act Stefano left his precious camera idle and Sebastian free for barely a moment-

Sebastian was brought to the balcony at the Mayor’s house, along with other friends of his that he only spoke in Italian with. Sebastian didn’t understand much, but whenever one of them or ever Stefano for that matter tried to talk English to him he would reply in Spanish. He was brought up American but his Daddy taught him his mother tongue.

“Ah, there they are, the angry cowboys~” Stefano was most pleased with himself. It hurt biting that lip like he did but he couldn’t look at Arthur’s expression as he came onto the balcony.

Still he looked; the confusion, the betrayed, the heartache, then the flame that lit up when the man pursed his lips. Dutch only spared Sebastian a distrustful look before going on to converse with Dutch.

It’s small steps: from Arthur, from Sebastian. Arthur lights a cigar, lips wrapped around the girth while hands look for a light. The hat probably hid his face well enough that it’s only now, more upclose that Arthur finally notices the cuts and bruises, and his features slack then draw together even angrier.

Sebastian puts a hand on his free wrist- don’t he do anything rash.

But it ain’t seeming like Arthur was intending to. Instead he fumed in silence watching Stefano introduce the profiles of the St. Denis high society: the Mayor, Alberto Fussar, Evelyn Miller, Rains Fall. The way Stefano talked, as if he owned the universe of this city had even Dutch speechless, features slacked, offended.

“Maybe one day you’ll kill him for me-”

“We ain’t paid killers as such...”

“Oh, I am sorry-” Stefano wasn’t as openly amused now; the dark grin slipped in. “But you do need money don’t you.”

Arthur drew in a sharp breath.

“Yes.” Dutch said.

“It’s a setup...” Arthur said it on a sigh, a whisper, to Sebastian. And he wanted to say more but lips fell shut.

“You didn’t hear it from me but there’s plenty cash at the trolley station.” Stefano keeping musing to Dutch, drawing him in. “But do enjoy your party, fine gentlemen.”

Stefano draws closer in to the pair of them, arranging his gloves as if they slipped- Sebastian lets go, leaning in for barely a moment:

“Me encargaré de esto.” He knew Arthur didn’t understand a thing, but he’s hoping that’s enough to put the man’s mind a bit at ease

“Arthur!” Dutch beacons, and Arthur follows diligently downstairs, one more stolen look.

He’s sore when moving so he doesn’t do much of it; he’s waiting for the fireworks. For now he watches Arthur from the balcony, he slips into the crowd, to gather information, same as Dutch, Hosea and that Bill.

And there’s the fireworks. A glance at Stefano, before Sebastian heads down the stairs

“Sebastian.” The man’s voice is stern, scolding, maybe even frightening.

Something compels him to smile and pretend he didn’t understand: “¿Perdóneme?” And he keeps descending, step rigorous.

It’s loud and crowded; Stefano comes after him himself, fists clenched. That camera he pocketed is taken out right when he knew that the man’ll see it, walking towards the dock, where the crowd’s thinned. He hears Stefano calling him out, walking harsher.

As much as his torn body lets him Sebastian jumps in the boat docked there, untied the rope, but doesn’t depart yet, until he’s sure Stefano’s one foot away. Camera is dangled above the water.

“You think that’s a threat? I can always get a new one-”

Oops. Sebastian drops it, and it sinks to the depths of the lake.

“You seem pretty threatened.” Stefano puffs his chest out, jaw clenched. “Come on in.”

“Sebastian-” Teeth clatter onto each other and Stefano jumps on the boat.

With all the strength he has Sebastian pushes the boat off the shore and starts rowing. Stefano falls down, from the sound of it like it’ll leave a bruise. But he ain’t caring. No he ain’t caring at all. Sebastian keeps rowing as hard as he can. One short glance at the people of the party: they ain’t looking.

One hand slides under his pants to grab the knife, just as Stefano, bare handed and filled with rage stumbles up and forwards to strangle him. Sebastian’s numb to the pain, to the fact that he sliced up his own thigh lifting the weapon.

It’s swift, harsh, filled with hate. One short grunt from him.

Blade sticks clean into the skull, poking right underneath the jaw. Stefano goes numb with barely a wheeze. Eyes stare blankly forward as the body slumps on top of him.

Sebastian can breathe again; shakes the hands that pinned him off himself, blood gushes onto him, onto the boat. It’s warm and tastes like fucking revenge; it’s sweet and salty like expensive caramels. Rows are take back into his arms and keeps on traversing the lake. The throbbing of his torn thigh starting at last to sting. The fireworks die down not long after.

Body’s thrown in the swamp.

And Sebastian should row back to the mansion. Maybe he can still meet up with Arthur... and the rest-

That’s the shore there. Not much further to row-

He can’t walk. He can’t get out of the boat; falls face first in the mud just by the side of the road.

A coach stops. He recognizes those voices. Ah... here’s hoping...

[mechagalaxy]

Nay or Slay!

Politics in the Society of Cogwork Planets were a democracy, sort of.  There were houses for the people, and houses for the nobles, but “The People’s House” was owned more or less lock stock and gunbarrel by the major corporate cartels, and the Noble Houses by the equally rich, equally avaricious Great Houses.  What rights you had theoretically were practically as easy to rely on as you were close to one of those great power blocks.

 There was a vote in the Lower House, a vote organized by me,  Lividius Drussis, to forbid the challenging of elected delegates on matters of the vote on the floor.  In a speech on the house floor I had dared to say;

“No more will the votes of the Cogwork free citizens be stolen from them by the hired murderers of the cartels, outright pirates, or those cast out of the warrior clans as unworthy of their far famed ranks.  Let the votes be cast out of the members sense of duty to their citizens, not out of fear of the cartel’s hired killers!”

 I didn’t expect the vote to pass without a challenge.  The rules as existed meant that if I was challenged, he could choose to defend himself in his Nephillax “Freedom’s Voice”, and none who had challenged him in that had ever known victory.  Of course I hadn’t had to use it in years, and technology had passed him by in the years he had been fighting in the legislature, not on the battlefield.  My own mecha didn’t boast anything higher than the 75 tons that was the limit of technology in his day, and the highered killers of the cartels boasted nothing under 90 tons in their brute squads.  He couldn’t win a straight up fight as the challenger, he must wait until challenged, and face them on equal terms in 40tonners.

 There was a data disk waiting for him in his office, sitting on his blotter.  His security system was clearly compromised, again. Well, at least it wasn’t a bomb. He slid it into his reader and went bone white, it was a bomb, and a nuclear one at that.  Pictures of his daughter, away at the Cogwork Science Academy, except these pictures had her in an interrogation chair, jacked into an Illyrian Pain Simulator.  Vasily “The Butcher” Karkarov smiled sweetly from the table beside her, a remote in his hands.

“Rat teebya veedet, tovarich!”  He laughed “Although you may not be as happy to see me as you are to see your little flower here, nyet?”  He laughed again, and put the Pain Simulator remote down carefully. “You will be challenging me, as the leader of the Nay or Slay vote faction, to battle for the vote on the floor.  If you meet me, unlimited, I will have your proxy for the “Nay” vote, and should you chance to live, or die, you will know your daughter goes free.  Should you stand upon your principals, well, I hear Drake pays top dollar for first rate bodies that are ready for one of his clone brains.  He has been working so hard to get rid of those clone identifiers, but gene tests keep catching them.  Brain transplants are an elegant work around nyet?”

 The response took no thought at all, it was, after all, the motto of his own house.  Not a great noble house, but a house with an ancient tradition of service. Message [To Vasily Karkarovich, Representative of Talbus Arms. I challenge you for your vote in the matter of proposition CXXIV.  To the victor goes the proxy in the named matter.  Oh and one final word. “Cave ab ira vir honestus” (beware the anger of an honest man)]

 I summoned my assistant. “Prepare Sic Semper Tyrannus, I have challenged Vasily Karkov for his vote.  Oh and change our security company, it seems they have been bought out by Talbus Arms again.  So tiresome” Dana, my assistant went pale, which considering her almost perfect onyx complexion was rather difficult, and stammered.

“But chief, he has you by about ten levels, and his machine is one of the prototype Reapers, it has guns on there that have previously only been mounted as Space Based anti starship weapons!!  I know you used to be quite a pilot, twenty years and twenty pounds ago, but Sic Semper Tyranus is a Dilophos, and its even more out of its league than you are!”

 I toyed with my desk paperweight, my daughter had made it for me in sixth grade, it was a purple glass paperweight with radiating filaments inside that fluoresced like my machine.  No, it didn’t matter what the odds were, I had to finish this.  For her.  I smiled and squeezed Dana’s shoulder, let her think this was a ploy, not a farce and a suicide.  Let her think I was still a champion of democracy, not a corpse simply deciding who got to be dead on a slab, me or my daughter.

 The challenge day dawned and my tech and I were arguing. “Look this is what I want, Betrus Processors for my targeting, as I need to hit him.  I know I can get more critical with the Enhanced Senses, but he’s too hard to hit in the first place.  Now the Chassis, I want all my Hercules fibers yanked out, there is no one to fork anyway, and the damage I do can hardly make a difference.  Put in the Wheeled Feet, I need the dodge and speed. Likewise, niodes are not going to save me now, just stock me full of Parallel Relays, I just need to fire first. Healing and damage stacking, even laser boosting aren’t going to make a difference.  He is twice my armour, has way more weapons, and does more damage with them.  If it makes you feel better, you can load any shields you want. I mean, if he hits, its not going to matter anyway”

 Cestus was an old gladiator, won his freedom fighting in the sands as a captured pirate, and never looked back.  Served my house loyally since we brought him in the day he won his rudus, he didn’t like admitting we were outclassed.  He looked at my weapons, and nodded grimly.  He had yanked some of my best damage weapons out, and swapped in some old friends.  Not the most damaging weapons out there, but among the most deadly.

“Aye boss, if ye canna out fight the bastard, at least you can kill him.  Or die trying” I admit, I could have done without the last part, but gladiators lose all sense of propriety when it comes do dying on the sands, which he figured I was on my way to do.

 I stepped out onto the sands and my Dilo (Sic Semper Tyranus) remembered it well, blazing purple and scarlet, it strutted like a warbird across the sands, as the holo screens above the crowds showed my killing Inferno’s, Buchis, other Dilophos, Sever; the kings of the day.  I felt a seismic shiver through the ground, it actually shook as the Reaper “Free Trade” stepped onto the field.  Raising cannon arms, he roared through external speakers, and fireworks shot from his shield emitters, like a cloak of golden glory. The crowd roared to see him, as visions of his breaking, stomping on, tearing apart, every challenger that ever faced him played across the screen.  He spun up his cannons and swung them into line against me.

Oh juicy.  He reads like almost entirely Orcus Wheel, decent speed, more cannon damage, not that he needs it, the force screens on the dome would be lucky to stop what passes through me.  Still, I was a touch faster.  Would it be enough.

 “What his your vote dog, are you going to give it to me here now, or die?  It is NAY OR SLAY”  Karkarov’s booming laughter was what my bill was all about, fear taking our democracy away. Screw that.

 I charged a Flavian Spear and drove a line of glass across the sand in front of him. “Cross it and die.  Surrender, and live.  I will have your aye vote, or your eye teeth, I don’t much care which”  They were good words, if I have to have last ones, these will do.

 He stepped forward across the line, his heavy arms swinging in opposition to his legs. Knowing the mass of those cannon arms, I cued my Dilophos to use our wheeled feet to slide the opposite direction, and his arms couldn’t reverse the traverse fast enough.  A line of Juggernaut slugs chased us half way around him, but stopped before my shields caught more than the dispensing shoe off his sabot rounds.  My own Flavian Spear punched through his shields, but missed his hull.  The distortion from those damned shields made that wall of mecha harder to hit than you would think.

 Again his shots rang out, but my planting my claw and reversing meant that his torso twist anticipating my sprint was caught going the wrong way, and his swinging arm fought the momentum of his turning torso and ended up putting the rounds over my left amour pauldron, tearing off a shield emitter but missing my hull altogether.

 Planting myself low, I thrust out my left weapon pod, and a scream of pure cyan hellfire slammed into the shields above his mecha’s heart.  43 points of armour that little beam would cost you, before my Dilo boosted it to twice its natural power, but still his stacked laser shields drank up the armour tearing fury of it without even coming close to overload.  His machine stutter stepped as the slow effect of the wave disruption caught up to his machine, and he almost tipped over as the torso slowing put it out of time with the arm and leg motions.

 Blue lighting played across the hull as the disruptive energy from my Galaxy Eye played over him, and bright flashes from inside the hull argued that the capacitor banks that drove his rail guns were not handling the disruption well.  Explosion after explosion shook his machine, below the armour, where the massive plates trapped the explosion, and blew engines, gyros, ammunition bins, rather than punching through the massive armour to vent outside. The machine fell onto its back, flames bursting from every joint.  Critical Kill

 I walked my Dilo over, and looked down into his face, raising my Dilo’s claw, I drove it down through the canopy.  The holo screens flashed my mecha’s name, and my enemies sentence Sic Semper Tyrannus, thus always to tyrants. I raised my weapon pods to the sky and screamed my defiance. “YOU WANT MY VOTE?  THE VOTE IS AYE!  GALAXY EYE!”

 Another day for democracy at Cogwork port.

John T Mainer 28840