Draklyne
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Some fanfics I've written for mods. . .If I can find them....
Ah, here they are. And so it begins...
Hostile Freedom
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Halls of Hammerstein
A lamp guttered over the abandoned alleyway. Levitating over the street on a graviton-deflector plate, it gave up for the night as the clock, figuratively speaking of course, struck nine. It swiftly docked itself into its holder for the night. After all, the solar cells lining the top had their limits.
A rat skittered across the newly-darkened alley as I leaned against the wall. A Hammerstein cigar pulsed dully in the dark as breathed in the smoke. Despite being a newly-minted world, Hammerstein's addictive substances were already as good or better than the Old-World products. Nothing like a new solar system to add flavor to a boring plant.
I had been waiting all day for this moment. Now is when the night-life comes alive. Now is when the case would open up, and, more importantly, I could open up some mouths with well-placed credits. Maybe I'd get a few job offers; maybe I'd get a few clues. Either way, paying for a few alcoholics' drinks was profitable, paradoxically.
I made my move towards the bar. Inside, a miasma of heat, beer, and other unnamable substances assaulted my nose. Their siege was in vain. I'd been here before.
I took a seat next to a loud, fat man whose flabs bounced somewhat, even in the high gravity of Hammerstein. He was yapping about some assassination that had taken place in a high-ranking crime organization. A single knife-wound in the base of the skull, into the brains. Scrambled the guy's grey-matter. Interesting. This was my case. More interesting was the fact that it was completely hush-hush, and no one, especially no fat man on the streets was supposed to know about this. It had happened approximately 23 hours ago, too soon to hit the streets. Furthermore, video records had been erased in the attack and there was no evidence of intrusion in the building. Something was going down.
Something big was happening, and a fat man was talking about it animatedly.
I looked at the man's drinking buddy, and drinking buddy he was, without a doubt. He was out cold on the smooth, imported wood, with a small puddle of alcohol and spittle gathering at his mouth. Intuiting that the fat man would be more expressive with a more interested drinking buddy, I ordered a drink and handed it over with a casual, "Really now? That's interesting. Keep going." The fat man positively lit up at the offer and began spouting rumors once more. I'd already heard most of it, but then he got to the interesting part.
"...and the real puzzle," he whispered conspirationally, "is why they hired the killer. After all, they were the-"
A sudden burst of gunfire shattered the relatively familiar sound of drinking, arguing, and laughter. A deadly silence fell over the bar. I cocked my head towards the source of sound, replaying it in my mind. That was a Spitfire assault rifle, commonly handed out to Opanara Marines. The sharp, staccato beat of my younger years was unmistakable.
In the bar, a single word was uttered, in a mix of contempt, awe, and, most prevalently, fear.
"Opanara..."
Then all hell broke loose. A mob suddenly formed out of the confusion and shifted towards the exits. People were trampled underfoot as the raging sea surged towards the doors.
I sighed, still seated. The most tantalizing tidbit of information, snatched from my waiting grasp. Who killed Illian Stuhr? The fat man knew, but the fat man was exiting the building. I rubbed my cigarette between thumb and forefinger, then dropped it into the fat man's drink. It went out with a protesting hiss.
When the Opanaras burst through the door, I was gone. The bar was empty save for a few drunks.
Meanwhile, the detonator I'd placed on the roof ticked down. I held a few grudges. Just a few.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Defense Command
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Plight of the North-West Returners
A sound makes the floor underneath shake like wires strummed on a giant guitar laid across the land, waking the boy. Looking up, he groggily, remembering vaguely that he had fallen asleep in the forest after eating a few berries. Now he tries to find the hand that has brushed the guitar, and looks about. Out beyond the cliff's edge, a flood of stars bob up and down in the afternoon sun, blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he looks closer.
The men that march forward have medallions embroidered into their shoulders that reflect the glaring light of the plains' sun into the quiet forest. Mouth going dry, Edwin scrambles to his feet and runs, running running running, until at the edge of the river where the camp is, he stops, winded.
Gasping in a large breath, he shouts, "Soldiers! Coming quickly!"
A harried old woman sticks her head out of a tent.
"Stupid boy. The Returners are making their rounds. All we'll do is show them our registration and they'll move on."
"No, grand mama, they come from the East! And on their shoulders they carry a metal badge that I didn't recognize."
Sneering, the boy's grandma retracted her head. A few moments later, she emerged, relatively straight for all the years that pulled at her features.
"And how many are they? Can they rival the stars in the sky, or the hairs on your head? Stupid child. No one east of the Great Lady River lived through the cataclyms. An army from the east," she snorted, and added, "Go back to lazing in the forest, as you no doubt were earlier."
"But-" the boy began again, stress making his voice crack. But the old woman just shuffled back into her tent.
Edwin could only wait with growing apprehension as the army crept up on their settlement.
---------------------------------------------------------------
A cluster of pots clank before him as he bends to wash them. Guttural laughter and a kick to his behind sends him sprawling into the water sputtering, half-drowning in the confusion of the moment. Miraculously, only three pots fell into the river with him, which were easy to retrieve. The Prol, which was what they called themselves, who had kicked him laughed again, then said, in a strangely accented English, "Pick them up and clean them. Be quick." Then he spoke a word derisively, and spat. It obviously referred to Edwin and his people, maybe even the main Returners.
Edwin acknowledges him with a nod, but didn't raise his eyes. He had been beaten for less, and had no wish to repeat the experience. Or hear the screams of his grand mama better as she resists. Shamefaced at his own cowardice, he returns to his work under the shade of the forest.
As he picks up the first pot, wind shifts violently, and the leaves about him rustle. With a small *tink*, something lands in his pot. Looking down, he sees...
A berry.
Before him is a bush full of the berries that had put him to sleep.
---------------------------------------------------------------
With growing excitement, Edwin watches as his guard slumps a bit, leaning back against a tree. Yawning widely, the guard corrects his posture, but still leans against the tree. Excitement fading, Edwin watches for several more minutes, but the guard's back never bends or shows signs of exhaustion.
Strange. There is something strange.
A twinge of curiosity sends Edwin slipping out of his pallet, and ghosting toward the guard, eyes darting and heart pounding lest he is caught.
The guards mouth hangs open, his eyes closed, deep in sleep and leaning against the tree. Stifling a peal of laughter, Edwin grabs the soldier's secondary firearm, carved with some strange insignia, and creeps past him into the shadow of the forest, beginning to run. Running, ever running, hiding when patrols make their loud grown-up-in-the-forest noises, and squeezing his fists against the pain of scrapes, cuts and abrasions he has received from the forest. His flight is tracked by no eye other than the creatures of the night.
In the morning, he is at the edges of a North-West Returners' Outpost Settlement. By the afternoon, he is en route to Central Command. By night, the Prol's pistol has been received by NWR's most knowledgable engineers and smiths, along with other urgent reports of "Prol" moving swiftly into the West.
Edwin's plea for the liberation of his settlement is heard, but barely acknowledged in the sudden sea of despair. Settlement after settlement is taken, and Edwin merely heads the list of the unhappy who have gathered to petition aid for their homes.
Edwin's growing desperation affects nothing, as the Prol march ever onward.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Halls of Hammerstein was supposed to be longer, but I never managed to pick it up again.
Ah, here they are. And so it begins...
Hostile Freedom
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Halls of Hammerstein
A lamp guttered over the abandoned alleyway. Levitating over the street on a graviton-deflector plate, it gave up for the night as the clock, figuratively speaking of course, struck nine. It swiftly docked itself into its holder for the night. After all, the solar cells lining the top had their limits.
A rat skittered across the newly-darkened alley as I leaned against the wall. A Hammerstein cigar pulsed dully in the dark as breathed in the smoke. Despite being a newly-minted world, Hammerstein's addictive substances were already as good or better than the Old-World products. Nothing like a new solar system to add flavor to a boring plant.
I had been waiting all day for this moment. Now is when the night-life comes alive. Now is when the case would open up, and, more importantly, I could open up some mouths with well-placed credits. Maybe I'd get a few job offers; maybe I'd get a few clues. Either way, paying for a few alcoholics' drinks was profitable, paradoxically.
I made my move towards the bar. Inside, a miasma of heat, beer, and other unnamable substances assaulted my nose. Their siege was in vain. I'd been here before.
I took a seat next to a loud, fat man whose flabs bounced somewhat, even in the high gravity of Hammerstein. He was yapping about some assassination that had taken place in a high-ranking crime organization. A single knife-wound in the base of the skull, into the brains. Scrambled the guy's grey-matter. Interesting. This was my case. More interesting was the fact that it was completely hush-hush, and no one, especially no fat man on the streets was supposed to know about this. It had happened approximately 23 hours ago, too soon to hit the streets. Furthermore, video records had been erased in the attack and there was no evidence of intrusion in the building. Something was going down.
Something big was happening, and a fat man was talking about it animatedly.
I looked at the man's drinking buddy, and drinking buddy he was, without a doubt. He was out cold on the smooth, imported wood, with a small puddle of alcohol and spittle gathering at his mouth. Intuiting that the fat man would be more expressive with a more interested drinking buddy, I ordered a drink and handed it over with a casual, "Really now? That's interesting. Keep going." The fat man positively lit up at the offer and began spouting rumors once more. I'd already heard most of it, but then he got to the interesting part.
"...and the real puzzle," he whispered conspirationally, "is why they hired the killer. After all, they were the-"
A sudden burst of gunfire shattered the relatively familiar sound of drinking, arguing, and laughter. A deadly silence fell over the bar. I cocked my head towards the source of sound, replaying it in my mind. That was a Spitfire assault rifle, commonly handed out to Opanara Marines. The sharp, staccato beat of my younger years was unmistakable.
In the bar, a single word was uttered, in a mix of contempt, awe, and, most prevalently, fear.
"Opanara..."
Then all hell broke loose. A mob suddenly formed out of the confusion and shifted towards the exits. People were trampled underfoot as the raging sea surged towards the doors.
I sighed, still seated. The most tantalizing tidbit of information, snatched from my waiting grasp. Who killed Illian Stuhr? The fat man knew, but the fat man was exiting the building. I rubbed my cigarette between thumb and forefinger, then dropped it into the fat man's drink. It went out with a protesting hiss.
When the Opanaras burst through the door, I was gone. The bar was empty save for a few drunks.
Meanwhile, the detonator I'd placed on the roof ticked down. I held a few grudges. Just a few.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Defense Command
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Plight of the North-West Returners
A sound makes the floor underneath shake like wires strummed on a giant guitar laid across the land, waking the boy. Looking up, he groggily, remembering vaguely that he had fallen asleep in the forest after eating a few berries. Now he tries to find the hand that has brushed the guitar, and looks about. Out beyond the cliff's edge, a flood of stars bob up and down in the afternoon sun, blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he looks closer.
The men that march forward have medallions embroidered into their shoulders that reflect the glaring light of the plains' sun into the quiet forest. Mouth going dry, Edwin scrambles to his feet and runs, running running running, until at the edge of the river where the camp is, he stops, winded.
Gasping in a large breath, he shouts, "Soldiers! Coming quickly!"
A harried old woman sticks her head out of a tent.
"Stupid boy. The Returners are making their rounds. All we'll do is show them our registration and they'll move on."
"No, grand mama, they come from the East! And on their shoulders they carry a metal badge that I didn't recognize."
Sneering, the boy's grandma retracted her head. A few moments later, she emerged, relatively straight for all the years that pulled at her features.
"And how many are they? Can they rival the stars in the sky, or the hairs on your head? Stupid child. No one east of the Great Lady River lived through the cataclyms. An army from the east," she snorted, and added, "Go back to lazing in the forest, as you no doubt were earlier."
"But-" the boy began again, stress making his voice crack. But the old woman just shuffled back into her tent.
Edwin could only wait with growing apprehension as the army crept up on their settlement.
---------------------------------------------------------------
A cluster of pots clank before him as he bends to wash them. Guttural laughter and a kick to his behind sends him sprawling into the water sputtering, half-drowning in the confusion of the moment. Miraculously, only three pots fell into the river with him, which were easy to retrieve. The Prol, which was what they called themselves, who had kicked him laughed again, then said, in a strangely accented English, "Pick them up and clean them. Be quick." Then he spoke a word derisively, and spat. It obviously referred to Edwin and his people, maybe even the main Returners.
Edwin acknowledges him with a nod, but didn't raise his eyes. He had been beaten for less, and had no wish to repeat the experience. Or hear the screams of his grand mama better as she resists. Shamefaced at his own cowardice, he returns to his work under the shade of the forest.
As he picks up the first pot, wind shifts violently, and the leaves about him rustle. With a small *tink*, something lands in his pot. Looking down, he sees...
A berry.
Before him is a bush full of the berries that had put him to sleep.
---------------------------------------------------------------
With growing excitement, Edwin watches as his guard slumps a bit, leaning back against a tree. Yawning widely, the guard corrects his posture, but still leans against the tree. Excitement fading, Edwin watches for several more minutes, but the guard's back never bends or shows signs of exhaustion.
Strange. There is something strange.
A twinge of curiosity sends Edwin slipping out of his pallet, and ghosting toward the guard, eyes darting and heart pounding lest he is caught.
The guards mouth hangs open, his eyes closed, deep in sleep and leaning against the tree. Stifling a peal of laughter, Edwin grabs the soldier's secondary firearm, carved with some strange insignia, and creeps past him into the shadow of the forest, beginning to run. Running, ever running, hiding when patrols make their loud grown-up-in-the-forest noises, and squeezing his fists against the pain of scrapes, cuts and abrasions he has received from the forest. His flight is tracked by no eye other than the creatures of the night.
In the morning, he is at the edges of a North-West Returners' Outpost Settlement. By the afternoon, he is en route to Central Command. By night, the Prol's pistol has been received by NWR's most knowledgable engineers and smiths, along with other urgent reports of "Prol" moving swiftly into the West.
Edwin's plea for the liberation of his settlement is heard, but barely acknowledged in the sudden sea of despair. Settlement after settlement is taken, and Edwin merely heads the list of the unhappy who have gathered to petition aid for their homes.
Edwin's growing desperation affects nothing, as the Prol march ever onward.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Halls of Hammerstein was supposed to be longer, but I never managed to pick it up again.
