The city of Kukego bustled with activity in the early morning, the rush of people visible even from high above. The arrival of Arlette’s group generated as large a crowd this time as it had the last, only this time, the soldiers there to greet them looked far less on edge.
Without much ceremony, Sofie, Gabriela, and Arlette were ushered to what appeared to be some sort of guest house near the main administrative quarter and told to wait there. Gabriela had carefully placed Pari’s casket upon a nearby table, set down a large metal box beside it, and they’d settled down to wait while ignoring the dozen or so guards outside.
“Ugh, I can’t believe we have to wear these lame outfits,” Sofie griped, tugging at the thick collar of her traditional Otharian formal clothing. “They’re way too hot for this place. It’s not even summer yet and it’s already sweltering here.”
“Though we’re here on personal business, we are still representatives of Otharia,” Gabriela replied, begrudgingly tugging on a ruffled sleeve with similar distaste. “We have an image to maintain.”
Arlette watched the other two fuss with their ornate dresses with smug amusement. The ostentatious garments practically overflowed with unnecessary frills, ribbons, and other ornaments of current Otharian high fashion. Were she, Arlette, here with the others, she would have had to wear one as well, but she didn’t. That was because ‘Arlette’ was not in the room with them, ‘Khiran’ was.
A disguise that Arlette had donned before leaving the airship, Khiran had long orange hair, pale, freckled skin, and soft blue eyes. Like the others, Khiran wore a thick Otharian dress, but hers was entirely an illusion. That meant she could wear a much more temperature-appropriate outfit underneath. Her true clothes were thin, tight, and short to allow for the largest variety of fake clothes to be layered on top.
“We didn’t when we came here the last time,” Sofie argued.
“That’s because Leo didn’t find out in time to have outfits made for us the last time,” Gabriela pointed out. “You wouldn’t want to throw away all his hard work, would you?”
“Hmph,” Sofie pouted. “I guess. I wouldn’t want to make Leo upset. Poor guy has enough on his plate without us making things more difficult. Still, the sooner I can get out of this, the better. How long do you think they’ll make us wait?”
“How long do you think they’ll make us wait?” Sofie wondered after an hour.
“Probably for a good while,” Arlette replied, her illusory voice lower and huskier than her usual one. She ran a hand through her long, dark orange hair, feeling it transition from the solid of her short real hair to the longer fake locks that covered them. “I bet this is the Chos expressing her displeasure with Lord Ferros over the delay and his... later requests.”
Sofie snorted. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. I wonder how he’s doing right now.”
“Probably dead,” Arlette surmised.
Gabriela shook her head. “No, that...” She looked around at her surroundings, seeming to realize that they were likely not alone. While nobody was in the room, that did not mean that nobody was listening. “...that person wouldn’t risk it, probably. He cared about Pari too much.”
Arlette leaned back on a pile of cushions, letting the soft fur lining caress the back of her neck. “I still can’t believe you willingly went and just talked to... to one of them.”
“I don’t know,” Sofie wondered. “It’s hard to believe, but supposedly he did raise Pari.”
“Even if true, that means nothing,” Arlette countered. “They are not beings that can be just talked to like that. They are avatars of rage and destruction, not conversation partners. Sofie, surely you have not forgotten what happened the day we met?”
“That’s true, I guess. Grandfather was angry too, but he did speak. That other one seemed... different, like it wasn’t even capable of understanding speech, or even sentient thought. It was just a giant killing machine.”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Gabriela replied, running a finger along the metal casket.
“I learned long ago that just because something works doesn’t mean it was ever a good idea,” Arlette said. “I’d very much like the person who pays me to stay alive and not chase after deadly things for no reason, thank you very much.”
“He did have-” Gabriela cut herself off mid-sentence, a sheepish look momentarily passing over her face. “Never mind.”
“What? He had what?” Sofie pressed.
“Nothing,” Gabriela said with a shake of her head. “Forget I said anything.”
“Come on, tell us!”
“Sofie, leave it,” Arlette told her. “Whatever it is, he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
“Fine, whatever,” came the grumpy response. “I’m surprised you’re still so big on the idea of secrets after how much they’ve hurt you, but you do you, I guess.”
“This and that aren’t the same at all,” Arlette stated, feeling a little annoyed at Sofie’s jab.
“How would you know?” the collared girl shot back. “You have no idea what sort of secrets that man might be keeping.”
“Now is not the time or place for any of this,” the woman known as the Monster said with a cowering glare.
Both Arlette and Sofie flinched. Although the shortest of the three, Gabriela knew how to project menace like nobody else when she wanted to.
“Sorry,” they both said at the same time.
“I know you two aren’t getting along too well right now, but at least fake it until we can get back on the ship.”
Appropriately cowed, the two fell silent. Arlette turned her attention momentarily to the nearby metal casket, very similar in design to the one that had held the child immediately after her death. The one difference was that the casket was not sloped like before, as not even a drop of the deadly rainbow blood remained in the girl. It seemed that all of her remaining normal fluids had been removed before recovery and replaced with something more benign. The issue was, the “benign” fluid tinted Pari’s body blue, lending everything a very unsettling appearance. Sofie had said that the girl looked like a “blueberry”, a fruit from her world that Arlette was not very eager to try if it truly looked similar.
Arlette’s hunch proved correct—or at least she thought so—when it took over four hours for the relevant Stragmans to show themselves. The Chos entered with a swagger and a look of eager anticipation. Her eyes immediately fell upon Gabriela, staring at her like a hungry man looked at an exquisite roast just out of reach. She had her massive war club propped up upon her shoulder, as she always did whenever Arlette saw her. Arlette’s gaze flickered momentarily to the one ear atop the Stragman’s head, her mind flashing back for a moment to the battle where the massive woman had lost the other one. Arlette’s mind still boggled at the thought that the Chos had taken on a chimirin-boosted elite warrior and won with wounds so light.
Entering behind her were a dozen guards, each formidable in appearance. While Arlette could tell just from the way they carried themselves that these were experienced and highly capable fighters, their tattoos just made it all the more clear.
Tattoos were always the easiest way to tell a Stragman’s station. Flegs had simple designs that only covered part of the neck, shoulder, and upper arm. Blous took the Fleg patterns and elaborated on them, adding embellishments and detail while also expanding the total area covered to the entire arm. Hono markings were even more complex and spread to the chest.
The Blou tattoos on each of the guards’ strong, fit bodies made an odd comparison to the Hono marking on the man they accompanied, the Chos’s husband General Caprakan Bloodflower and his debilitated form. The man before her today, hobbling forward using a pair of crutches, bore little resemblance to the amiable, pleasant fellow she’d first met the year before. Scars crisscrossed almost every piece of visible skin, seemingly at war with the complex Hono tattoos on his arms and chest. While noticeably thin, there were signs that the man’s body was filling out again, but she could clearly see a difference in the development of his upper body compared to its lower counterpart.
Tehlmar had told her about his sister’s ugly history with the Chos. He’d informed her as best he could about what she’d done to Palebane’s husband, though he hadn’t been too knowledgeable about the details. That was likely all for the best, she figured. Hearing that she had severed all the major tendons in his lower body, rendering him unable to move any part of his legs and feet, was already more than she wanted to know.
The knowledge brought back the memory of beneath the farmhouse just the year prior when she’d done much the same, though only to a single tendon. Still, one was more than enough. After what Sulwyn had tried to do, she didn’t feel much guilt for crippling him for a year or more, but she would never forget the terrified look in his eyes as she did it.
Caprakan Bloodflower’s eyes held none of that terror, but she saw something else within them: a desperate determination, like he was clinging onto the edge of a cliff with everything he had, just fingertips away from disaster. While his time in Drayhadal had been literally torturous, Arlette wondered if his days were now torture of the more figurative variety. While the man was an accomplished Observer, Tehlmar’s sister’s ministrations had robbed him of much of his strength, and in a society where strength was merit, the husband of the leader and strongest person in the nation could not be weak. His current state would be a constant source of shame, both to him, his family, his partner, and the nation as a whole... and there was nothing he could do about it except wait through each seemingly endless season until his body finally returned to normal. Or, he could have himself healed by the last member of the incoming group. Why he chose not to was a mystery, and what that Arlette could only idly wonder at.
Speaking of that last member, Arlette almost didn’t notice his existence until he was just a handful of steps away, a bizarre circumstance given the man’s sheer size. Though large, imposing, and covered with muscles that looked like they could lift a mountain, the man lacked presence. Despite the eye patch over his right eye, the man did not carry himself like a fighter, or at least not like one who still had some fight within him.
Arlette took in the man’s curly graying beard, calm brown eye, and dark tan skin and committed it all to memory. This had to be the Stragman’s Earthling. Before leaving, Blake had instructed her to come to Stragma if his mission to retrieve Pari ended successfully. Her mission was to identify the Earthling here and ascertain what was going on with them. It took only a moment’s glance to know that this man did not enjoy his situation, as he made no attempt to hide his forlorn mood. It would be her next task to ascertain why.
“About time you showed up,” the Chos had the audacity to say. “I hope you have everything you promised.”
“It’s right here,” Gabriela curtly replied, indicating the nearby box.
“And the fight?” the Stragman asked with relish.
“If that is the price, I will do it.”
“Tomorrow evening, at the Champion’s Arena. Until then, I will allow you to roam the city to experience our great culture.” Arlette didn’t believe that for a second. There was no way in hell they would be able to roam freely, at least not without being watched at all times.
Gabriela’s eyes flashed with a hint of malice. “No, you will bring Pari back now, not tomorrow. I already agreed to fight when I don’t really want to. Don’t push me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” the Chos declared, not even batting an eye at the danger coming from across the room. “I am a woman of my word. You shall get what you bargained for. The only stipulation is that I will not allow you to return to your flying machine until after the fight. Can’t have you running off early without paying in full, of course. Assuming, of course, that the rest of your payment is satisfactory?”
Gabriela stepped forward and pushed the large metal box towards the Stragmans, who eyed it with suspicion. “Here it is,” she said. “Lord Ferros could not be here today, but he told me how to use it.”
She picked the box up and set it on its small end so it stood like a dresser and pressed something on the back. The box split open to reveal what looked like a metal cage shaped like a person from the shoulders down hanging from the inside of the box. The cage had two halves, the top half just a handful of thin rods that barely outlined the shape of a human, the bottom half a series of plates overlapping each other in the shape of legs. At the same time, the back—or what she assumed was the back, at least—opened up wide, as if preparing to consume a man whole.
“Get inside,” she told the cripple.
The general and the guards hesitated, and Arlette didn’t blame them. This looked closer to some arcane torture device than something helpful. Still, after a moment and with some assistance, General Bloodflower managed to enter the contraption, putting his arms in first and hanging from the upper part as a guard pushed his dangling legs into their slots.
A moment later, the contraption came alive and closed, stitching together until Arlette couldn’t tell that there’d been an opening at all. The plates on the lower half shifted, sliding in and out, around and between each other as they tightened around the Stragman’s legs, eventually locking in place to form a near-seamless armor encasing the lower body. The upper half tightened as well, though the rods were so thin that the vast majority of his body could still be seen through the large openings.
The box let out a shrill beep and then released Blake’s creation, enclosed Stragman and all, from its clutches. Only Gabriela’s quick hands prevented him from falling smack down on his rear as he wildly and uncontrollably tipped backward. After catching him as he toppled, she dragged him over to a nearby sofa and leaned his back against the side so he was halfway between sitting and lying down.
The Chos rushed over, clearly unhappy with her husband’s state. “I swear, if you hurt him-” she began.
“I’m fine,” he cut in. “It’s just very tight. How is this supposed to work?”
“First, bend both your pinkie fingers to the point that they touch your palms. This puts the legs into ‘Walking Mode’, meaning that the legs will now react to your movements, allowing you to control them,” Gabriela told the general, speaking as if she were reciting instructions memorized—which she clearly was. “When in Walking Mode, each leg is directly controlled by your arm and hand movements.”
She continued for a while, droning on and on. Arlette could almost hear Blake’s voice as she said things like “adaptive input algorithms” and “limited torque capacity”.
“That was... a lot,” Bloodflower remarked when she finally finished.
“Focus for now on just getting the hang of moving your legs as you sit. Experiment and learn. Lord Ferros told me to tell you that the suit will learn and adjust to you as you do the same to it, but it will still be a while before you will be able to stand, let alone walk. ‘Walking is a very complex activity that we all take for granted’ is how he put it.”
The Chos harrumphed, mollified slightly for the moment.
“Now it’s your turn,” Gabriela stated.
“...fine,” Palebane replied, waving, almost shooing, the large eye-patched man forward. “Do it.”
The large Earthling stepped forward, obediently but with a noted lack of urgency or enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Sofie and Arlette undid a latch at the top of the container, letting the top swing on a hinge down and out of the way. This opened the way for them to pull the thin platform upon which Pari’s body rested out of the larger container until Pari’s entire body laid exposed. Though the platform and Pari jutted out well past the edge of the table upon which the container rested, the container had so much weight that even if Arlette had joined Pari, there would have been no worry of it tipping over.
“All ready,” Sofie said to the bearded man. “Thank you very much for doing this, Mister... what was your name?”
The man opened his mouth to speak.
“Hey!” the Chos snapped before he could say anything. “No chit-chat! Get it over with!”
The man’s mouth closed and his lips drew into a line, but he begrudgingly did as ordered. Placing his hands above Pari’s still body, his eyes shifted focusing on something that Arlette could not see. His face scrunched up in effort and he let out a grunt of effort. Nothing happened.
Moments passed as that nothing continued to happen, the room largely silent save the thumps of General Bloodflower’s legs twitching as he experimented with the assistive armor. The large man stood largely still, his eyes now closed. Though the room was relatively cool for Stragma at the current time of day and year, his body had broken out into a heavy sweat.
“Are you trying to make us look bad?” Palebane finally snarled at the Earthling. “What in Ruresni’s name are you trying to pull?”
“It’s... this one’s different,” the man grunted, his deep voice low and tired. “She’s... heavier, far heavier than the others. I’m trying my best but I can barely push her.”
“No excuses!” the Chos shot back. “Just get it done!”
The man sighed and returned to whatever it was he was supposedly doing. He took a deep breath, let out a grunt, and closed his eyes.
More moments passed in silence. Every so often, the man would tremble for a moment and his breathing would become heavier for a little bit, but outside of that, still, nothing changed.
Until suddenly, things did.
Having spent many years as a mercenary, Arlette had witnessed death in a hundred ways, including many deaths much like Pari’s—the bowels are cut, the entrails spill out, and the only question left is how long before the loss of blood finishes the job. This only made the experience of watching somebody un-die that much stranger.
Somebody, the god known as “Grandfather” most likely, had packed the child’s loose intestines back into the torso cavity. Arlette’s mind boggled as those intestines slowly unfurled, splaying out across Pari’s lower body. Blood that had not been present within them began to flow into the large gash as the entrails then reversed course and began to slither back into the little girl’s gut like a mass of writhing worms. Then the large wound started to shrink, the side on Pari’s left closing up and transforming back into spotless skin as it worked its way along the torso towards the initial puncture. Then, the last of it disappeared and it was as if nothing had ever happened to Pari in the first place.
The man let out a large gasp and fell to the floor. He laid there, panting and wheezing, utterly spent.
Meanwhile, Pari’s body inhaled and her eyes flashed open. Before she even had a chance to process what was going on, Sofie swept her up into a crushing hug, blubbering apologies and bawling like an old, sorry drunk at last call.
“Alright, it’s done. Get him out of here,” the Chos told the guards impatiently. She scooped her partner up, eliciting a squawk of protest, as the guards lifted the Earthling up and draped him over their shoulders. As they left, she looked back at Gabriela with fire in her eyes. “Enjoy the sights and get yourself prepared. I won’t be holding back tomorrow. You had better be ready to do the same.”
They left as suddenly as they entered, leaving only Arlette, a scowling Gabriela, a profusely apologetic Sofie, and one extremely perturbed beastkin girl.
Trapped in Sofie’s vise-like embrace, Pari peeked through the gap between her sister’s arm and chest, her eyes taking in what little she could that wasn’t blocked by armpit. She sniffed, taking in the myriad scents of Stragma and Sofie, her tail lashing about with increasing agitation.
Finally, Sofie seemed to catch on to Pari’s discomfort and released her adoptive sibling. Pari’s eyes swept the room and she sniffed deeply again, her brow furrowing in consternation. “Where meat pies go?” she finally asked.
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“Mmmmmm, what is that divine smell?”
Arlette, or rather Khiran, stood in front of a small food stall several blocks from her and her party’s Chos-provided lodgings. After ‘changing’ into simpler clothes better suited for long walks through a hot jungle city and leaving the guest house, it hadn’t taken long for her to end up here. The heavenly sweet, savory, and spicy scent had called to her immediately, almost leading her by the nose right to this very spot.
“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never had prekali before,” the old man replied, skeptically, his large, bushy tail twitching slightly. “Everybody’s eaten prekali. Unless...” He squinted at her, giving her a more thorough inspection.
“You are correct, I’m not from around here,” Arlette informed him, cutting to the chase. She leaned in and twisted to look at the sky, pointing up and away towards a small grey dot visible through the relatively sparse tree cover. “In fact, if you look up, you can see how I arrived right over there.”
The man’s budding suspicion evaporated almost instantly and his eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re one of the people who came from the flying thing!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “First time you all showed up, you did it not even a block from where I’d set up for the day. Best day of business I’ve had in seasons with those crowds!”
“Glad to hear it, though I would have thought you’d have great business always if you’re selling something that smells so scrumptious.”
“Haha, a woman after my own heart! Here, have one on the house, as thanks.” He picked up a flatbread and piled it high with some sort of ground meat and vegetables that she didn’t recognize. After slathering the whole thing with a fruity sauce, also of unknown origin, and handed the completed prekali to Arlette.
She took a bite and let a moan of pleasure work its way out of her food-stuffed mouth. Why couldn’t Otharian food be this good? What even was in it? She decided she didn’t want to know, lest knowing ruin the magic.
“So, I have to admit, this place is a lot more... peaceful and orderly than I expected. I’d heard there’d been some kind of rebellion or something going on here.”
Indeed, everything she’d seen so far of Stragma’s spring city appeared to be a neat, organized, and pleasant place. The buildings, though odd to her eyes with their modular construction designed for easier migration, looked colorful, well-maintained, and clean. People walked the well-swept streets, chattering happily without much concern. All in all, not much different than other wealthier areas in well-run metropolises she’d been to. Had Arlette not already known of what had happened just a season ago, she would never have suspected anything had happened.
The shopkeeper’s face went dark. “Those no-good Shell bastards!” he huffed. “Nearly ruined my business, they did! It’s all that newcomer’s fault! Knew he was trouble from the moment I saw him!”
“Yeah?” she mumbled through another bite. She could see the crotchety man picking up momentum and decided a light touch would be best.
“He disrespected the Chos in front of the entire nation, can you believe it? Then he started up a thrice-damned rebellion! Got all those lowlifes thinking they should be getting what they don’t deserve!” He turned his head and spat on the ground in disgust. The motion revealed something Arlette hadn’t been able to see before from her vantage point: the distinctive patterned tattoo of a Fleg running down the side of his neck.
“Useless, no good weaklings,” he muttered. “They’re a weight on the rest of us, dragging us all down, and suddenly they want handouts?! Bah! Palebane-chos put them all in their place, she did, especially that uppity newcomer. We won’t have to worry about them getting ideas anymore.”
“She put it down all by herself? How did she manage that?” she wondered.
“Don’t know, to be honest. There are rumors, of course, but there’s rumors about everything these days. What matters is that she did it. We’ve all seen her parading that bastard around so the Shells can all see their hero defeated.” He sniffed. “You need to really rub their noses in it so they can understand their role, you see.”
Arlette didn’t see, but she kept that to herself as she shoveled the last of her meal into her maw. She’d never had too strong of an opinion on Stragman society as a whole; their system was their system and she’d always felt like she had no right to judge. What the Fleg wanted, on the other hand, seemed rather excessive.
“Well, thanks for the chat,” she said. “What do you say to one more to take with me?”
“Of course. That will be 14 Skints,” the stingy old bastard replied with his hand extended.
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Arlette idly wandered the streets of Kukego and surveyed the local shops as the day moved into the early afternoon. She burped, decided she was full for now, and tucked the remaining half of her second prekali into a small bag strapped to her side. It had taken her almost a quarter of an hour to convince the miserly codger to take Otharian money, as she had no Stragman coin on her, but eventually they’d come to an agreement. The rest of that hour she’d spent playing tourist and thinking back to the day’s events as she made her way through various neighborhoods.
All in all, Pari had taken the whole “coming back to life in a different country” thing remarkably in stride. One would have expected some crying or panicking, at least, but no, she’d been remarkably calm the whole time. The closest anything had come to that had been the moment Pari had finally realized that Samanta wasn’t there with the rest of them. Their assurances that her friend was safe and sound had been all it took to erase her worries and return her to the blithe young creature she usually was.
Perhaps Arlette should have expected this; the child’s grasp of normalcy was like night and day to that of an average person, and the less Arlette thought about Pari’s danger sense, the better. It stood to reason that being raised by a god would make it hard to worry about such mundane dangers as large beasts or a man with a blade, she reasoned.
Watching your adopted sister die in front of you, on the other hand, had made it hard for Sofie to not worry about everything. When Arlette had left to go walk alone, Gabriela, Sofie, and Pari had been a quarter of an hour into an argument about if it was safe to let the child outside, and she would not have been shocked if they were still arguing about it over an hour later. Predictably, Sofie was overreacting and acting like just stepping outside would cause Pari’s head to fall off. Arlette knew that Sofie would eventually come around to the side of reason, but it would take her some time, and Arlette didn’t care to be around for the whole ordeal. Besides, she had more important things to do today.
There was just one small problem: Arlette was being followed, or at least so she believed. It made sense, of course, that the Stragmans would want to keep tabs on everybody in their little group. She thought that maybe she’d spotted one person tailing her at a distance in the crowded streets, but that was based only on glances out of the corners of her eyes as she’d window shopped, so she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d avoided any active searching. She didn’t want them knowing she knew they were there, if they were actually there.
She’d led her tails around long enough, she decided, as she spotted a public bathhouse several buildings down the street. Public bath culture in Stragma was interesting. Baths were, ostensibly, free. Run by Shells at the behest of the government, the bathhouses were not allowed to charge for entry. Any financial support for them past the seasonal government grants came exclusively from tips provided by the patrons for good service. Supposedly, it had been that way for centuries, but all Arlette cared about at this moment was that it made for the perfect spot to ditch her stalkers.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Walking in, she quickly took a left towards the female changing room. The bathhouse was fairly busy at this time of day, and nobody paid any attention to her as she moseyed into one of the private changing stalls, only to reemerge a heartbeat later a changed woman.
The new Arlette sported deep dark skin, golden slit-pupil eyes, and pitch-black hair that matched both the black fur covering triangular ears and the tail poking out of her traditional Stragman daily attire. The distinctive winding tattoos of a Fleg wound from the sides of her neck down her shoulders to her upper arms. This new identity she called “Parin”, as she was essentially a concept based on Arlette’s estimation of what a grown-up Pari would look like. Always one for detail, Arlette made sure to add in a sheen to her “newly washed and treated” hair, given that Parin had supposedly just finished her time in the baths.
A new patron entered, a woman who seemed very uninterested in changing or bathing. She scanned the entire chamber, looking for something and not finding it. With a curse, she headed quickly for the rear doorway which led to the baths themselves. With no small amount of amusement, Arlette walked right by her on her way towards the entrance and the woman didn’t notice a thing.
Leaving the establishment, Arlette spotted the one man whom she’d initially tagged as possibly following her. He stood near another man, the two of them talking as they watched the bathhouse entrance. Curious, Arlette strained her ears as she walked by them, neither of them batting an eye at her.
“Don’t know why Granta felt the need to rush in after her,” the one said. “There’s only one entrance to this place. All we need to do is watch and wait. The Otharian will come out eventually.”
“I know, right?” the other agreed. “And it’s not like it’s the end of the world if she somehow slipped over the walls or something. We’ll be able to pick her up again, no sweat. She’s a human, she’ll stick out wherever she goes.”
She suppressed a chuckle. She’d stick out wherever she went, would she? She wished the duo luck in their vigil as she continued on her way towards her real destination. Hopefully, they’d be there all day.
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It wasn’t hard for “Parin” to know when she’d arrived at a Shell neighborhood. The drop-off in shelter quality alone told her all she needed to know.
The buildings elsewhere, like by the prekali stall earlier, were modular and made for easy disassembly and transportation; if one looked closely, one could see where the walls fit into the floor, how the ceiling intersected with the walls, etc. Yet, for all of that, those buildings still looked and felt like real, legitimate structures, buildings with a sense of solidity and permanence.
The structures here? Not so much.
Looking around, Arlette saw ramshackle buildings built out of misshapen metal, broken planks of wood, and all manner of other detritus. Those were the lucky ones. Many others were relegated to tents stitched together from patches of worn-out fabric, set up haphazardly on the hard ground. It was almost like this place wasn’t so much a neighborhood as it was an encampment that happened to be located inside a city.
She could feel the eyes of the locals following her as she made her way deeper into the neighborhood. It made sense; Parin was marked as a Fleg, and she was too neat, too clean, too unblemished. She stood out here like a torch in the night.
She fixed this in bits as she continued through the community. Her Fleg tattoos vanished. Her illusory clothes acquired a variety of rips and tears, with large splotches of dirt and mud, while her sword vanished beneath her fake outfit. Her hair grew a bit shorter and became more dirty and disheveled. Soon, nobody paid any more attention to Arlette than they did any other Shell.
A palpable malaise pervaded the neighborhood. Almost every Shell moved as if they’d just spent three days doing punishing physical labor without rest. For all Arlette knew, perhaps they had.
Arlette didn’t know exactly what she was looking for as she walked. Blake wanted information about the Earthling here and his situation, as detailed information as she could get. Since she couldn’t just ask the government, that left her with basically two options.
The first would be to try to find some sort of black market information broker, assuming any existed here. Most cities had one lurking in their underbelly, so the odds were pretty good. The issues were reliability, compensation, and time.
Without actually talking to anybody involved, Arlette would have to just take the broker on their word, which she wasn’t willing to do. If she had to talk to people involved to verify, she might as well just get the information from them in the first place.
That was if she could get any information in the first place. She would have to be able to pay the broker’s hefty price, and she’d had enough trouble paying for prekali.
And that assumed she could even find a broker in the first place! Any person who made a living off of selling secrets wouldn’t last long if easy to locate. That took time, time she didn’t have. Her absence was already pushing things as it was. She had to be back within a few hours. Then she would have to attend the fight tomorrow morning, after which they were going to leave.
That left talking to the other people involved, the Shells, as her only realistic option. She’d hoped to find something by coming here, some sort of lead, but now that she was here, she realized that she didn’t even really know what a lead would look like. And so, she found herself wandering, taking in the misery of the denizens here as she tried to spot something, anything, that she could use.
She didn’t spot anything, but she did hear something. Arlette had nearly crossed the entire large slum, to the point where she could see the line up ahead where the buildings suddenly became more normal again—almost like a treeline on a mountain—when her ears picked up the all-too-familiar sound of flesh impacting flesh followed by a pained grunt. Somebody was getting beaten—rather severely too, from the sound of it.
Arlette followed the sounds behind a nearby shack and peeked around the corner to find two Flegs, each wearing the uniform of the Civil Guard. Most cities had their own City Guard, which was responsible for keeping order both inside and out. Since Stragma was both a city and a nation, the responsibilities were instead split. The Army, Intelligence, and Security forces were responsible for external matters, which left the Civil Guard to handle more mundane issues like murders, theft, and, apparently, beating the utter crap out of Shells.
One of the two guardsmen had the Shell held fast from behind, keeping the thin young man from moving or blocking as the second guardsman drove fist after fist into his torso. Thin vomit covered the Shell’s front. He heaved from each successive blow, though his stomach had to be empty as little more than spit dribbled from his swollen lips on his bruise-covered face.
Finally, the blows stopped and the first guardsman let the Shell drop. He hit the ground like a sack of grain and curled up into a ball as they each kicked him several times for good measure.
“This one was just a warning. If we ever catch you looking at us like that again, we’ll do far worse,” the first guardsman said as the second one spit on the trembling Shell. “Nobody will notice if you just disappear, and even if they do, you know the Guard won’t care enough to try to find you.”
The two turned to leave so Arlette stepped back, blending in with the surroundings.
“You’d think, after all that’s happened, that these fuckers would know where they stand,” the one muttered as they passed.
“Some of them still have hope that their ‘savior’ will return and fix everything,” the other snorted. “Just goes to show, they’re not just weak and pathetic, they’re stupid, too.”
The pair laughed as they continued on their way.
Once Arlette was sure they were gone for good, she emerged from her hiding spot. Though others must have heard what was going on, nobody had come to help, not even after the guardsmen left. As sad as that was, after her walk through here, it didn’t surprise her.
The Shell, a teen with short, round, almost human ears, spotted tan hair, and a thin tan tail, remained huddled on the ground, though he appeared conscious. Arlette reached down and grabbed him by the shoulder, prompting a weak and desperate attempt to wriggle free.
“Hey! Hey!” she barked. “Calm down!”
The Shell looked up at her through his one unswollen eye, seemingly confused at what he saw. Arlette pulled out a small waterskin and lowered it down to his lips and helped prop up his head. “Here, wash out your mouth. Spit it out, don’t swallow.”
The young man did as instructed, which was a good sign. He seemed decently cooperative and his mind didn’t seem too clouded by the beating. Once he had spit, Arlette helped him half-crawl, half-stumble over to a nearby wall, against which he sank to the ground.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
He let out a weak grunt. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You can thank me by answering some questions.”
The Shell tensed as he became wary.
“Relax, I just need some help,” Arlette told him, “and judging by what those goons said, you seem like the type of person who might be able to help me.”
The young man’s puffed lips remained sealed, the distrustful gaze in his one good eye unwavering.
Arlette sighed. “Look, here. You should eat something now that you vomited everything up.” She fished out the bag containing her half-eaten prekali and opened it up. The Shell’s eye lit up as the sweet and savory aroma—still rather delicious-smelling even now—wafted from the opening and into his nostrils. Fishing it out, she held it up in front of him. “I don’t have much, but I’ll give you the rest of this if you cooperate.”
“Who are you?” he asked, still suspicious.
“A friend.”
“You’re not with them?”
“Who, those two assholes? Why would I be involved with those losers?”
“Because you’re not a Shell.”
Arlette held in a sigh. Well, she couldn’t perfectly fake everything. She put on a puzzled and slightly offended look and asked, “Why would you say that?”
“Prekali is expensive. Most of us Shells can only afford maybe one a year,” he told her. “No way you would just give half of one away. Also, you’re too pretty.”
Well, that was what she got for not knowing Stragman commerce better. As for the latter comment, she wasn’t going to even touch the sort of self-esteem issues that would lead to that sort of statement.
“Ah, well, you found me out,” she said with a resigned grin. “I’m not what you think, though. I’m from somewhere far away.”
She removed the illusion around the front of her head, where only he could see, just for a moment.
His eye went wide and he tried, futilely, to scramble back through the wall he leaned against. “M-M-M-Masked-”
Arlette threw her hand over his mouth before he could say anything else. It wouldn’t do for somebody to overhear something like that.
“No, no, look,” she hissed, turning her head and removing the illusion around her ear so he could see the nice, round shape. “I’m a human. How could I be one of them if I’m not an elf?”
The young man paused for a moment as he processed the new information and after a moment Arlette let her hand fall away. She gestured with the prekali. “Are you going to work with me or not?”
Though his eyes still didn’t seem entirely trusting, he reached out and seized the prekali with both of his grubby hands. Before Arlette could even say a word, he began to scarf it down, taking massive bites and chewing faster than a red-bellied tar rat. Within a moment, the prekali had entirely vanished into the young man’s gullet as if it had never existed. His gaze was steady, his decision made.
“What do you want to know?”
“The man with the eye patch who can bring people back to life-”
“Rudra-dora?” the Shell interjected, growing suspicious again.
“Is that his name?”
“You don’t even know that? You really are from far away.”
“What is ‘dora’?” she inquired. “I’ve never heard that honorific before.”
“It’s new.”
“New?”
The Shell looked away for a moment. “We... created it. Us Shells.”
“You Shells just made up an honorific? Can you even do that?”
“Who cares?!” the young man hotly shot back. “Rudra-dora deserves it the most! He’d done more than anybody in all of Stragma!”
“Then what happened to him?” she asked. “I just saw him this morning, and that was a man defeated if I’ve ever seen one. There was no spirit left in him whatsoever.”
“You did?!” he gasped. “Where?!”
“Not important,” she replied, giving him a quick flick of a finger to his forehead. “Answer the question.”
The Shell hung his head. “Sorry, I don’t know. I’m just a nobody. I don’t know what happened.”
“Nothing?”
“The rumors say he was seduced by a foul temptress who led him astray and betrayed him to the Chos, but there’s no way that happened!”
“Who would know the truth?”
“The leaders of the struggle movement would probably know, but they got taken away.”
Damn, her task just kept getting harder. “Where did they get taken?” she pressed.
“Away. Prison.”
“Which prison?” she pushed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t...” He paused for a moment. “Arteka. I was in the crowd when they came for Klataan. One of the guards said something about Arteka. So he, at least, might be there.”
“Where is that?” She’d never heard of the place, but then again, she’d never had reason to learn the name and location of Stragman prisons before.
“It’s by the west stadium,” the young man supplied helpfully.
“Ah, got it,” Arlette stated. “Is there anything more?”
“That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing. Thank you, and try to avoid getting beaten next time, hm?”
She went to turn away, but the Shell’s hands reached out and through her illusion, latching onto her real clothes with a sudden, unexpected strength. “Please, save Rudra-dora!” he begged. “When the Flegs came, they killed so many people and burned so much. They killed my sister and my father. Rudra-dora brought them back for me. Without him, I don’t know what I would have done. Please, we need him. Most people have given up. Please.”
“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do what I can,” she told him as she left. It wasn’t a promise, but in her heart, she had to admit it felt pretty close.
----------------------------------------
Arlette always found it amazing the places you could get inside with an impressive uniform, a stern glare, and an aura of confidence. That was all it had taken for Arlette—or, more accurately, “Intelligence Officer Parin-blou”—to not only get inside Arteka but to have the guards there practically at her beck and call. As the middle caste between Flegs and Honos, a high-ranking Blou could be considered the equivalent of a Lieutenant in an army elsewhere, meaning she had the power needed to boss guards around while not being so high-ranked as to not get their hands dirty like a Hono would be. That was how she found herself within a secure interrogation chamber as two nervous guards led an old man into the room.
“About time,” she snarled, giving the pair a disapproving look. She’d found long ago that if you were pretending to be somebody of authority, acting as if you were in a bad mood meant people usually asked fewer questions and obeyed orders more readily.
“Apologies, sir, but we-“
“Did I ask for excuses?” she growled. The pair trembled as Arlette stared them into the ground. “You have carried out my orders, now leave! I am not to be disturbed during this interrogation. If I am, I trust you know what will happen. Understood?”
The guards disappeared quicker than a half-eaten prekali in the hands of a teenage Shell, leaving her alone with the older man. He looked at her with a mix of worry and acceptance, as if he saw nothing but bad things in his immediate future but was resigned to whatever might happen.
“Sit,” she said.
The room was rather small, with only a small, round table two paces in diameter and a pair of chairs around it. Slowly, achingly, the man lowered himself into the chair by his side. Arlette took the other and studied him for a moment.
The man looked to be perhaps in his late fifties to early sixties, with short gray hair, large ears atop his head shaped like a leaf, and a short, puffy tail that barely protruded from his prison uniform. His yellow prison uniform appeared unwashed and scuffed, and his hands were chained together in front of him. Judging by the wrinkles on his face and the splotches on his face and arms, the years had not been kind to this old man. And yet...
“You are Klataan, a leader of the Shell resistance?”
“I am.”
He spoke calmly, refusing to bow his head or look away. Come what may, he refused to relinquish what he still possessed. Arlette decided she would probably like him if they’d met in different circumstances, but she didn’t have time to make friends.
“I will make this simple,” she told the man. “Answer my questions completely truthfully, and no harm will come to you. Try to hide anything, however, and you will regret doing so more than you can imagine.” She pulled out one of her throwing knives and dressed it up with an illusion, making it appear crueler, with vicious serrations along one side. She held it up in front of her and looked the man in the eye. “You know full well that I could cut off your every finger and my superiors would not even bat an eye. Is that clear?”
The Shell swallowed and nodded.
With a quick flick of her wrist, Arlette reversed her grip on the knife and embedded it into the wooden table between them as a reminder. “Good. Then, let’s begin. You know Rudra well, did you not?”
“Relatively well, I suppose.”
“Explain.”
“As a member of the Shell Council before this all started, I and the others worked rather closely with him throughout the strike.”
“What sort of man would you say he is?”
The man frowned. “Until recently, I believed him to be a man of the utmost integrity. He believed in the betterment of us all and fought almost single-handedly for those beliefs. Now, however...” He shook his head mournfully. “Everyone has a weakness, I suppose, but I did not expect him to abandon everything he claimed to believe in for just one woman. I thought he was stronger than that, but alas.”
“And do you and your compatriots know the identity of the woman in question, or was it always just a nameless woman?”
“I don’t know who the woman is,” the man replied. Try as he might, Arlette caught the way his neck muscles tensed as he answered. A lie.
“I believe I made it quite clear what would happen if you lied to me,” she stated calmly as she placed her hand around the handle of the knife in the table.
The man went white as a sheet and scooted back in his chair. “I-I’m sorry! T-T-Tepin Silverfall!” he stammered. “It’s Tepin Silverfall!”
Arlette had to fight to keep the shock from her face. Tepin Silverfall? The Chos’s assistant? She was the hostage?
“The Shells in the city I interrogated did not know this. How do you?” Arlette pressed.
The Shell hesitated. Arlette scowled as she ripped the knife from the table and stood up. “Very well, if you insist on hiding things-”
“Alright, alright!” he cried, putting his arms up over his face. “The Hidden Fang told us!”
“The Hidden Fang?” She’d heard rumors of the shadowy group back when she’d first come to Stragma but had paid them little mind at the time.
“Yes! Please don’t tell anybody you heard it from me,” he begged. “They’ll kill me!”
“Tell me everything and I will consider it,” she told him. “I was under the impression that the Hidden Fang spoke to no one.”
“Yes, that’s how it always was,” he confirmed. “We in the Council never knew who they were and they never showed themselves, until Rudra. They were the ones who came to us, talking about a ‘general strike’ and all that. After that, one of them would reach out to us on occasion in secret, though only when they felt like it and not the other way around. Their contact was the person who told us, but only if we kept our mouths shut.”
“I see,” she replied. Was there some connection between Silverfall and the Hidden Fang? While interesting, it didn’t concern her mission, so she set the information aside.
“How do you believe he would react were she to disappear entirely?” Arlette inquired. “Or if, say, the Hidden Fang were to pay her a visit?”
“I-I don’t know, I can’t say with any certainty,” he replied. “Before, I would have said he would have stayed firm no matter what, but he ended up not being the man I thought he was. If you require an answer, I humbly suggest you go to Qelton and ask Silverfall herself. Silverfall would know better than anybody here in Arteka.”
Arlette’s ire rose as she realized she was going to have to sneak into another prison today. How many more times would she have to risk herself for this mission? This was getting fucking ridiculous!
“Very well, Klataan. That will be all,” she bristled as turned to leave. “Your answers were... acceptable. I will keep quiet for your safety.”
“Thank you, madam Blou!”
Arlette ignored the sniveling Shell. She’d been wrong, she hadn’t ended up liking him after all. Opening the door, she glared at the guards outside. “What are you looking at?!” she snarled.
Arlette left the prison in a huff, and this time she didn’t have to fake it.
----------------------------------------
As Arlette approached Qelton Prison, she did her best to tamp down her frustrations and bring back the cold, authoritative persona of “Intelligence Officer Parin-blou”. It wasn’t easy. It did not shock Arlette that a society of millions would have multiple prisons, but why did they have to be so far apart? She’d spent the entire day traversing the city from one place to another, to the point that the sun had set half an hour ago!
Arlette thanked fortune that it was currently Spring, as the prisons here were like prisons elsewhere: normal landbound buildings. Had they all been suspended between the giant trees of Pholis, hundreds of paces above the ground, then this whole ordeal would have been all the harder and more exhausting.
The four guards at the entrance didn’t react when she emerged from the darkness into the light of the torches burning above the archway. Likely at least one of them had some sort of night vision and they’d seen her coming.
One of the guards, perhaps the leader of the group judging by the slightly more detailed uniform, stepped forward and the group saluted her, which Arlette returned. As if she’d done it a thousand times before, she pulled a high-quality blank piece of parchment—the same one she’d used the last time—and handed it over.
With her illusions, Arlette set letters to the page spelling out instructions to admit her to speak to one Tepin Silverfall. For one last stamp of authenticity, the bottom of the document contained the Chos’s personal seal, something only the Chos and her husband would have easy access to. Arlette had copied it from a drawing Tehlmar made for her before the trip. He’d gotten several very good looks at it during some raucous drinking sessions with the Stragman leader, and, while he preferred fighting to spying, he’d been trained well enough to know to commit it to memory when he had the chance.
The guard leader arched an eyebrow as he read the empty parchment. “You’ve come at an odd time, but this seems in order,” he remarked, folding the document back up and returning it to her.
“I would have preferred to arrive at a more reasonable hour, but today has not exactly proceeded as planned,” she admitted in all honesty. “You know how it can be.”
“Don’t we all,” he chuckled. “In the grove the turnam warbles, calling for the sunset.”
Arlette blinked, unsure what he’d said. “I’m sorry?”
The guard frowned, and Arlette noticed his hand moving back near the sword that hung on his hip. The other guards tensed as well, eyeing her with sudden suspicion.
“In the grove the turnam warbles, calling for the sunset,” the man repeated.
Arlette’s blood went cold. Fuck, she hadn’t expected to need to know some random code phrase, too! The other prison hadn’t been like this at all! She quickly went through her options.
Trying to answer was out. She had no idea what the proper response was.
Running could work. She was quick and agile, especially for a non-Feeler, though with four guards, that meant at least two, likely three Feelers. Depending on their specialties, she might find herself struggling to escape.
Fighting was also likely out. She would if she had to, but if she drew her blade, it would likely be in an attempt to create an escape route for the aforementioned running option. Fighting her way into the prison was not a possibility she could entertain.
The last option was to bluff. She still had the appearance of authority, at least. That was perhaps her best weapon in this situation.
She decided to bluff, the run if needed.
“General Bloodflower-hono requires my report immediately,” she growled, giving the guard leader Parin’s best intimidating glare. “Step aside before I report you all and you experience his wrath for yourself!”
It turned out to be the wrong move. The four guards surged forward, each of them faster than she was at her fastest. Backpedaling as fast as she could, Arlette drew her sword and ducked out of the way of the swipe of a spear heading towards her head. She noticed that the attack came with the spearhead turned so she would be struck by the blunt side. They wanted to take her alive.
Still retreating, she struck out at the guard leader, who parried and counterattacked, also with the blunt edge of his single-edged sword. Arlette twisted agilely around the blow, only to feel something sweep her feet out from under her. One of the others had managed to get behind her without her noticing.
Arlette tumbled to the ground, disoriented. The sharp blade of a spear appeared beside her neck, with a second taking position over her gut, before she could even think of moving. They’d caught her so quickly that she hadn’t even escaped the torchlight.
She was fucked.
A series of metallic thumps growing closer caught her ears. The guards noticed it too, as two of them—unfortunately not the ones keeping her on the ground—turned towards the approaching noise, their weapons ready.
“Good, good! Well handled!” a voice called from the darkness, apparently delighted at the show.
Arlette put the voice and the sounds together and realized what was happening just as General Caprakan Bloodflower emerged from the gloom. At the sight, she upgraded her status to “royally fucked”. What was he doing here, and why him of all people?
The soft orange light of the torches gleamed off the hard metal shell encasing his legs, sending dim reflections bouncing at various angles all over the area. He teetered slightly with each small step, a clear sign that he had nowhere near mastered Blake’s mechanical legs, but he did not fall over.
The two guards took one look at the man’s getup and tensed once more.
“In the grove the turnam warbles, calling for the sunset,” the one said.
“The birnkalta slither through the darkness, waiting to strike,” the general replied.
“Three hunters, one prey. The scent lingers,” the guard continued.
“Forever shall they feast, until the swarm arrives,” Bloodflower answered.
The guards relaxed slightly.
“General Bloodflower-hono! This woman-”
“Yes, yes, I am well aware of what transpired here,” the general cut in. He turned to Arlette, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Demirt-blou, I must thank you again for agreeing to assist us in these tests. Your generosity is greatly appreciated.”
Arlette blinked, not quite able to grasp what the general was getting at. Was he mocking her?
Then, against her expectations, he waved for the guards to back off. “You may release her now. The test is over and you passed with flying colors.”
The guard standing over her with the spear to her throat look back at him, evidently just as confused as she was. “Sir?”
“Must I spell it out for you?” Bloodflower snapped. “Arlette Demirt-blou, here, graciously agreed to my request to help test the security protocol at various locations here in the city. The test is now over. Unlike some others, you all passed with flying colors. Once again, well done.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” the guard replied, removing the weapon and stepping back.
Arlette got up slowly, her mind spinning. The general was covering for her? Why?
“Now, Demirt-blou,” the general continued, turning towards the prison entrance. “There is still one more thing we must take care of, yes?”
Arlette watched as he headed into the facility, his arms moving forward and back and in and out as his legs followed, his steps still quite ungainly and uncertain but solid enough to slowly move him forward. Her mind sorted through a variety of possibilities. Was this some sort of trap? She’d already been captured, so that made no sense. But then, for what other reason would Bloodflower be doing this? Perhaps this was some weird way of thanking Blake for the suit by helping her?
The general paused under the archway of the entrance and looked back at her over his shoulder, impatient. “Well? Are you coming or not?”
----------------------------------------
The walk through Qelton was perhaps the most awkward time of Arlette’s life. General Bloodflower’s skill with his new walking frame was good enough that he could move about without falling over, but only just. He could get into a rhythm on flat ground that let him move at about two-thirds of a normal person’s walk, but only in a straight line. Every time he had to turn even the slightest bit turned into an endeavor, and Qelton had far more than its fair share of corners to navigate.
It was clear to Arlette that the man would not take kindly to her helping him with this. Prideful people like him never wanted to admit weakness, even if it were plainly evident to all. But she wasn’t much in the mood to help him, anyway. Not until she had some idea of what he was trying to pull.
There were just too many questions, and he wasn’t helping. No, the general seemed content for them to work their way deeper and deeper into the facility in silence. Arlette, however, was not.
“How did you know I was here?” she finally worked up the courage to ask.
The man responded with a snort. “Come now, did you think I would forget about you? You show up with my wife’s childhood idol, some weird foreign noble girl, and a 6-year-old child who makes candles that explode and you think you would just slip my mind? You were under my command for days, even!
“I remember when you first demonstrated your abilities after joining the Second Army. The others might have thought it an amusing novelty at best, but I could see the frightening possibilities immediately. Not just on the battlefield, but infiltration, assassinations, the works.”
He went silent for a moment as he fought to stay upright as they slowly rounded another bend. More than once, he had to use his hand against the wall to maintain his balance, but he did not fall. While his movements were still very clumsy, Arlette couldn’t help but be impressed at how quickly the man had managed to get to this point.
“When I received the report that an Otharian had somehow seemingly vanished into thin air while being watched, I began to suspect your involvement. Taking over the investigation, I halted the search and sent out orders to watch a variety of critical locations for any unusual activity. When I received word of a Blou from Intelligence interrogating a former Shell Councilmember in an unscheduled visit more than a season after all the interrogations in that matter had finished, that told me everything I needed to know. It was trivial to figure out where you would appear next.”
He gave her a smug smirk, to which Arlette returned a dour scowl.
“You should feel fortunate for my involvement. Had the normal people been in charge, well... I’m sure you know, given our history with Drayhadal, how Stragma feels about spies. Especially spies that take on the appearance of others.”
“But instead, you’re helping me,” Arlette pointed out. “Why?”
The man didn’t respond for several long moments. “I have my reasons,” he said finally. Arlette pressed further, but he refused to elaborate.
Tepin Silverfall had her own wing, a newly constructed section of the prison entirely for her and her alone. As they went, it became increasingly clear to Arlette just how incredibly tight the security was for this one prisoner. Even if she had somehow managed to fake her way through the guards outside, she would never have made it through the two other guard checkpoints. She knew this for a fact because the general had insisted, in order for them to keep up the charade, that she “test” the other checkpoints as she had the first, each time with a similar result.
Her prize for making it all the way inside sat in a cell much like any other she’d seen, other than a little more furnishing than usual with a small table and a single chair joining the usual cot. Arlette found the former assistant lying on said cot, staring at the ceiling, as they entered.
Tepin propped her head up at the sound of them arriving and the guards who stood watch over her all day leaving, her face darkening immediately upon seeing Caprakan. “Finally come to gloat, have you?” she asked bitterly.
“Surely you know me better than that, Tepin,” Bloodflower replied, coldly.
“I know you far too well, which is why I know you are not here with good intentions,” she told him. “Tell me, then, to what I owe the honor of a visitation from the esteemed Consort General Caprakan Bloodflower-hono?”
“I am merely a chaperon of sorts today,” the general deflected.
Only then did Silverfall seem to notice Arlette’s presence. She stared for a moment, rubbed her eyes, checked again, and finally sat up. “And you would be?” she asked stuffily. Arlette noted that captivity had done little to rob her of that secretarial attitude.
For the first time that day, Arlette released her illusions entirely. The move took the imprisoned woman by surprise, but, the professional that she was, she hid it well.
“Weren’t you one of Jaquet’s followers?” she asked after a few moments of contemplation.
Arlette would have laughed at the question, had the circumstances been brighter. “That would be one way to put it, perhaps,” she responded, deciding to cut to the chase. “I’m here to talk to you about Rudra.”
The Stragman’s face darkened once more, turning back to the general. “What’s your game, Bloodflower? Is this some sort of bizarre intelligence operation?”
“I am not Stragman or working in any way for Stragma or him,” Arlette informed her. “The general is just helping me.”
“Helping you do what?”
Arlette considered what to say and decided on the truth. The general had pretty much deduced why she was here already, and she needed to speak honestly with Tepin if she wanted the cooperation she needed. “...collect information so my employer can decide if Rudra requires rescue.”
Tepin laughed.
“Is that so?” the disbelieving woman replied. “Did you know that this man here is one of the most conservative, traditionalist people in power, far more than the Chos herself? Not only did he push her in that ideological direction, the thought of his disapproval made her even more unwilling to bend to our demands than she would have been otherwise. The very notion that he would be assisting you in such an endeavor is completely preposterous.”
Arlette looked back at the glowering metal-wrapped man and he crossed his arms as he glared back at both of them.
“She speaks truth, for the most part,” he admitted. “I was very conservative.”
“Was?” Tepin snorted. “Are you claiming you’ve suddenly changed your mind?”
“I have no obligation to explain myself to either of you,” came his dour response. “Just know that our goals are aligned in this case.”
“Look,” Arlette pleaded to the small prisoner, “please just talk with me for a moment. I doubt anything you tell me would be something he doesn’t already know.”
The prisoner hummed. “Ask, then, and we shall see if I answer.”
“Rudra’s situation seemed quite miserable. How long can it continue like this before something has to change?”
Tepin scoffed. “Rudra is nothing if not stubborn. I can imagine the current state of affairs continuing as long as I remain locked away.”
“You don’t think he might act on his own?”
“Not unless my safety is guaranteed. Even then, what he might do is very limited. The idiot is a pacifist, you realize? A fool of the highest order?”
“So if you were to escape to safety, perhaps somewhere outside of Stragma, he would also leave on his own? That might be all it takes?”
Tepin shrugged, looking wistful. “Who can say? He blundered by putting my safety above the well-being of every Shell once, but after all that he’s been through since, perhaps he has finally learned. Sometimes I think to ask him when we are together, but I have yet to find the courage. Though I have told him a thousand times not to make the same mistake again should the opportunity arise, a part of me is afraid that he will listen. Does it make me a terrible person, that sometimes I find myself happy he chose me over my people and my decades-long dream? I wonder.” She shrugged again. “You would be better suited asking him yourself. Only he knows fully what goes on inside that impenetrable skull of his.”
Arlette twisted around to look back at the general, who shook his head.
“This is the best I can manage without Akhustal finding out. I would not be able to hide that from her. Now, I think it would be best if we left,” he told Arlette. “I can only cover for your absence for so long, and we both need rest for what tomorrow brings.”
“Alright,” she agreed. He was correct, it was already far too late in the day and she needed to get back. “Good luck,” she told Tepin.
The prisoner nodded but did not speak. She didn’t have to; her distrustful gaze watching the retreating General Bloodflower-hono’s spoke volumes on its own.