In the corridor leading into our destination, we pass by unfazed subordinates who do not even stop to give customary salutes. Most of their expressions are grave; as if deeply concerned by something. But their zombie-like slumbering is nothing that particularly concerns me: the atmosphere of the Montepuez has been particularly grim. Although it has been a few hours since the Federation withdrawal, I still expected at least some sense of liveness, some second wind lightheartedness by the crew. But Beatrice’s comment has been largely correct. The Montepuez has been chilly in more ways than one.
But since the Don’s ship has been in continuous combat with the Federation and Ruthenian fleets, I can only surmise that most are simply far too exhausted to spare a moment of celebration. Seldom is the sight of seeing men and women letting themselves unwind at their leisure. But I frequently observe them clumsily shuffle about in shock, as if still coming to terms with our victory. Given the nature of serving the Don directly and having to deal with his antics daily, I can only feel sorry for these fellows forgoing their youthfulness.
Beatrice orders some of her men to wait for us back at the bridge. Although the other two remaining with her were supposed to wait outside, Beatrice must’ve had a change of mind and decides to let them come inside with us. “There’s no particular reason,” Beatrice muses sheepishly “they aren’t dogs—and it is freezing out here, is it not?” She asks to which her subordinates nod “now then, without further ado…” Beatrice taps the door’s side panel, and we proceed to enter one after the other. After one strenuous inhale, I enter last.
A sense of odd nostalgia being in here: seeing terrified subordinates cowering like headless chickens at the thought of a Federation advance in our rear, the Don’ssmashed table, the verbal threat from the man himself which set everything in motion, and the awful purple carpeting dimly lit by the command center’s shabby ceiling lights. It all started here, and it is here where it ends.
The air in here is particularly stiffer than outside. It is eerily quiet: there is no one here other than us, other than the man himself: Dong Zhui. The larger-than-life man has been standing at the far end of the room next to a window panel. His back to us; in his left hand a glass of alcohol. When we entered, there was not so much as a side glance from the Don. Even after we present ourselves with customary salutes, the Donmakes no effort in battling an eye in our direction.
Not a sound, not so much of an acknowledgment from the chief captain. The only ambiance in the room is the slow tick of the clock, which I feel only serves to make things unnerving. When I peer at the others in line, most of them other than Richter and Beatrice are just as seemingly nervous about this as I am. Beatrice returns eye contact, but says nothing and returns to staring ahead at the Don.
We wait for what seems like a hundred ticks, and maybe more. The Don in this time merely waits by the window, basking in the Toscana light as he bears witness to the gradual stream of Mafia ships redirecting flight-paths presumably back to the nearest Clusters. The Don has next to him an end-table containing a tray with several hand-rolled cigars, all of which appear poorly-made but none smoked. Additionally, there is a bottle of nearly-empty liquid.
Any moment now, I expect the man to throw the glass across the wall. With each bated breath, I keep making the spell of the ticking to be broken by screaming of theDon’s subversive expectations. But they remain as fantasies—the ticking continues unopposed. The Don never once averts his gaze. No one in the room utters so much as a word. If it were not for the clock, I imagine one could make out the short, bated breaths more clearly.
A thousand more ticks. A hundred more tocks. Eventually, the Don does stretch his shoulders, then slides his right hand into his pocket. He turns part-way to face us at first—his ugly, purplish rotting flesh and the darker blotches of his beard running through it becomes much more apparent. But his eyes don’t show contempt—they don’t show anger. They don’t show bloodshot eyes ready to punish us. There is only… relief, I could say. Sadness of sorts; uncertainty.
“…It’s funny,” Dong Zhui murmurs, before taking a small sip from his booze. I expect him to become more animated, but the man continues to defy expectations. I merely stiffen up, clearing my throat in the process. With a minor limp, the Don walks towards us. His soles pressing onto and sliding across the ugly purplish carpet almost in tandem with the ticks of the clock. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beatrice’s two men stiffen up. Beatrice herself inhales deeply.
The ever mighty and fearsome Don approaches us mellowly and quietly. His eyes averted to our feet. By the time he reaches us, I reckon most of us are largely tensed up in nature. Some still bating their breath, unsure of what the Don’s erratics may entail. The lack of oxygen makes me a little woozy at best, but I attempt to keep myself disciplined.
The first in formation to be confronted by the passing Don is Beatrice’s men. After the Don inches by them and subsequently, past Beatrice, the two henchmen collapse unheeded: Beatrice doesn’t flinch a muscle. The Don stops briefly, and without turning his head looks off to the side with a subtle nod. He resumes his limping trot before again coming to a stop before me and Brutus. He cranes his head slightly to get a clearer view of me and the ogre. Brutus clenches his fist, but I brush my hands against his and squeeze his in an attempt to soothe him—which he relents. I quickly look back at the Don before lowering my head and glaring at the ground before him.
I look up in time to see the Don take another sip from his glass. Zhui resumes his impromptu inspection of the group without interruption and silently tramples over his broken desk back to the window. With eyes trained on Zhui, I sense Brutus whisking out of line to assist with the lackeys’ stabilization. Likewise, Beatrice must’ve done the same as I hear her kneel and murmur about their wellbeing.
Dong Zhui swishes his wine glass without a word, and without regard to the incident he caused. His back remains to us as before. Before long, and after an uncountable amount of ticks, the lackeys recover and are sent out of the room with the help of Darcy’s lackeys. Zhui finishes his drink, sets it down, and grabs the wine bottle to pour some more—at least that’s what I expected. Rather, Dong Zhui pauses just before pouring it over the glass, lasting for only a few ticks of the glass. He tilts the bottle upward and sets it down on the tray, his burly hand still clasped around the bottle.
“This room used to be much more crowded— suffocating, even,” the Don expresses somberly, gripping his bottle intently, “it made me wish I could…,” he pauses to tilt his head “renovate a little. Make the command center larger.” The Don proceeds to pour out what remains of the bottle into the glass which is barely enough to fill the cup: much less than half, and more than a few spits. “And now here we are, surrounded by an aura of loneliness…” the erratic Don continues with a muse. He takes one gradual gulp of the glass and lets out a disheartening sigh. “And now this lovely little room seems awfully big now, doesn’t it?” Zhui asks, to which the question lingers in the air without an answer. After the question runs its duration, Zhui continues “no presence of Jung Lee, and the Wulfhere has shut me off entirely…” Dong Zhui states grimly but stops when I begin to speak.
“The original shuttle he came in from Lübeck arrived after we exited the hangar bay ,” I reply, “but I did not wait around long enough to see who the passengers were,” I reach up to rub my disfigured cheek, wincing a little, “I know not of what happened between you two, but perhaps Jung departed for his home on Lübeck and allowed a subordinate to come in his place,” when I finish, Zhui nods and strokes his fat chin.
“It does seem like something the Wulf would do,” Zhui said, exchanging gazes with, presumably, Beatrice, “I understand he has a baby on the way,” a furrowed brow “but to leave without saying good-bye—I thought better of the man. In any case, we will find out soon enough, if what you say, my lovely Li, is true about the shuttle you recognized earlier,” my father says, broadly stroking his beard. “The Wulf aside… Darcy,” Dong addresses solemnly. I notice in time the red-haired lackey shuddering at the mention. The man takes a lumbering approach to her. With all eyes trained on the Don, we watch helplessly as he slowly extends a hand to caress her chin. The gesture must’ve made Beatrice in particular uneasy, as I hear her dig her heels into the purplish carpet.
“My boy, my sweet little boy,” Zhui whispers, “I can’t possibly wrap my head around why he is not here, among our ranks, taking in the wonderfully crafted spectacle that his highly-esteemed sister has accomplished!” Zhui says it with such aggravation that I cannot help but grind my teeth. We make brief eye-contact before I dart my gaze. Even from where I stand, I can hear the deep exhales of the Don. “Why, so tell me why you are here in his stead, hm?” My father interrogates, trying to keep his voice down, “tell me why my son went to Valspon—but the three of you return without the man accompanying you? Hm?” The more I grit my teeth, the more frustrated I become “if anything has happened to that boy. If his wonderful sister so happened let him die in vain…”
“Enough!” I shout, just as I look up in time to see Beatrice nearly literally step out of line. She immediately recedes before the Don looks back at us. “Che…” I say with meager strength, “Che is alive. But the siege drained him of energy. So he loaned Darcy and what fighting force he could scrounge for me,” I clear my throat, reaching into my poncho to grab Julius’s bandanna and use it to gently—stingily—dab my disfigured scar tissue. Not once do I look at the Don, or Beatrice. Beatrice on the other hand cuts a slight sigh. Clenching the bandanna I stash it back into my poncho, as theDon replies with a few grunts and breaks off from his position with Darcy.
“I see, I see,” the Don grunts as he lumbers away from Darcy, the scratching of his beard very much apparent, “I see…, I’m sorry for losing my temper, miss Darcy,” I look up to see the Don look back, seemingly sincere in his apology. “That boy means a lot to me— sentimental, even. So long as the boy is not in critical condition, I won’t have to lose myself in… extreme tempter. I hate to admit it, but maybe I should’ve listened to Simon after all and sent Li… or, maybe…” the sage Don trails off with a mumble, scratching his grizzly chin yet again. Zhui nods a couple of times, ponderously stroking his poorly maintained beard a few more times before turning back to the windows.
“But that aside… Emmanuel, where is he?” The burly Don asks, taking a shot from his glass, “he put up an admirable fight—but after your arrival, I was unable to keep track of the situation down south. Things got… hectic,” the Don asks, staring into his glass as he shakes it, “far, far too hectic,” he finishes ushering in a wave of silence. Frozen, I look over at Richter, who wears a pained expression. His fists are shaking; clenched tightly. The man’s lips tremble, as if reluctant about being the bearer of bad news himself. His gaze shifts to me; a cast of doubt in his eyes. Perhaps he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Captain Emmanuel…” Richter speaks up, but I abruptly cut him off.
“Captain Emmanuel of the Kafraiya was killed in action, father,” I declare tersely, “he fought valiantly until the end—and was killed by a stray shrapnel by a lone Federation destroyer that I failed to notice—” I reach into my poncho at Julius’s bloodied bandanna and grip it intensely, “I failed to secure the battlefield thoroughly,” I wrap the bandanna between my fingers, squeezing at the fine texture, “it is by my actions that I hold his death accountable,” I finish shooting a glance at Richter. The mullet-haired captain attempts to speak up, but ultimately shrugs his shoulders and resigns with a nod. I look back at the Don, clearing my throat in anticipation of the punishment sure to come.
But nothing comes out of it.
The Don, as he were, gulps from his cup with a slightly trembling hand. And then nothing. The unwelcoming air of uncertainty suffocates the room more as we await the man’s reaction. The Don takes two more sips, several clock ticks apart before he turns to face us. He looks troubled—concerned. His eyes squint as if doubting what he has heard—as if hoping that I remain in jest. The Don is fazed, to say the least. His eyelids twitch, and his face winces a couple of times. He opens his mouth, expecting to roar about this being a joke. But nothing escapes his lips. His gaze falls to the floor and he shuts his eyes, pained.
As the clock does a few cycles of ticks, Dong Zhui opens his eyes again. He recomposes himself and adjusts his collar. With a sincere wince, he bears a smirk. His narrow eyes squint in pain. He shakes his head, continuing with another pained scoff here and there. Then, to my shock, Zhui abruptly hurls the glass at the clock, shattering both the silverware and the artisan-made clock in a mess of pieces. It all happens so fast, I nearly expected him to throw it at us. “Strangely,” Dong states dryly, “for some reason or another… the drink got bitter—” he jerks his head to the side, “I would’ve hoped…, ” a clear of his throat, “to indulge in it with Emmanuel, and at the very least Jung. But what point is there to continue drinking this piss-water if either aren’t here?” Zhui finishes sorrowfully.
Without another word, Zhui brushes his eyebrows and turns away from us. “For so many years— for so many decades , I wondered if ol’ ‘raki’s legacy would outlive me,” the Mafia Don muses, “I always felt that one day— any day —would be my last. But over time, I stopped caring about the last connections to ol’ ‘raki. Emmanuel was still a little older than me. I knew his day would come eventually,” Dong trails off with a few silent nods, “I knew better than anyone that Emmanuel held nothing against me.
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“I wanted to reconcile with him, just as I hoped to come to terms with Jung—give the ol’ Wulf a proper sendoff to owe up for these years ago,” Zhui caresses the now-empty bottle “a ninety-year-old one-of-a-fucking-kind champaign from Terra,” Zhui scoffs “and it tastes like wonderfully well-produced shit, too. But it was our most prized possession for the three of us. We first opened it after deposing ‘raki. Then we drank some more to celebrate Emmanuel being reinstated in the fleet. And lastly drank most of it after Abassi and seizing Toscana,” Zhui finishes by flicking the bottle and watching in silence as it rocks in place before tipping over.
“Ancient piss-water,” Zhui grumbles, shaking his head, “being finished off by a victory diluted of nectar. I’ve always been moved by oh, so romantic poets, but there’s nothing nectarous about this,” Zhui says, running his hands through his face and recomposing himself. “Well, not to monologue any longer,” Zhui says, turning to face me “I hope you have wonderful news to share with me regarding our remaining strength?” The Don asks, wincing at the question, “frankly, I don’t want to know how little our odds will be in the forthcoming future, but what’s a little more gut-punchers from my beautiful, ever so wonderful daughter?”
With a heavy sigh, I rely upon the Don information our group received while passing by the bridge. Although there is still a slow, strenuous amount of them being transmitted from the Castelforte in particular. We learn that throughout the Velksland battle, at least seventeen of the twenty-nine lesser-ranked lieutenants having autonomous command or those serving under various captains such as Jung or Emmanuel were killed. Other than those captains, in particular, numerous other officers participated specifically at Velksland. Of those, there were roughly about five in all—other than the aforementioned Jung or Emmanuel—three of which perished defending the Mafia.
Of those who served with me at Valspon—including Che’s relief force—there were about forty-three lesser lieutenants and about nine captains. Our ship losses were negligible at the skirmish with the Ides formation battle. Most of our casualties—although ather minor—were sustained at Baltit, as well as the subsequent Metropolitan retreat to Side Malabo and the Frankish Domains. From the brief head-count I did on our return to Lübeck, most survived the conflict at Valkspon. Reports are scarce on the renewed head-count here, but the output seems grim; it could be that nearly fifty percent of my fleet officers were annihilated in the ensuing battle.
I do not want to even think about how many actual crew-members lost their lives today. It could be anywhere from a few thousand to a number shy of a hundred-thousand. I’m not too keen on knowing, and perhaps it would be better that way; for my mental well-being.
When I conclude my findings, Zhui paces at the window panels, nodding all the while. He strokes the putrid side of his face, stops, and turns to face me. But he doesn’t say so much as a word and continues to pace back-and-forth by the window panel. Finally, after a few cycles of the ticking clock, Zhui pauses to cross his arms. A gradual tap of his index finger. “The Federation…” the Don murmurs, his eyes on the remains of the broken clock and silverware spayed all over the ugly carpeting, “I can’t say for sure if the lovingly wonderful… tactic to hold their capital ship hostage was a good one,” a brief pause for a hefty sigh, “or to be a maniac and let them go…, but it has ceased hostilities, and saved the Mafia single-handedly. But; the question remains—do you think the Federation will attack again?”
I can sense all concerned eyes being trained on me. I caress the bandanna from underneath my poncho while pondering how to answer. Or, really, to predict what the Federation may do, reflecting on my conversation with Victoria about the Federation’s business out here in Toscana.
“I do not believe the Federation will attack again,” I answer flatly, raising my head to look the Don in those cold tyrannical eyes, “they sustained enormous casualties that are practically mountainous compared to ours. I learned through…,” I wince, raising a hand to rub my disfigured nose bridge “interrogation at Valspon that the Federation fleet there was not acting per what their military wanted.
“If the Metropol fleet present here pulled no-stops on the strength it mobilized, then I reckon that their government is attempting to subdue any and all remaining pirate havens as a follow-up to their campaigns in earlier years. Considering the near-complete destruction of their allied formations, I imagine it will put a strain on the relationship between them and the colonist factions,” I clear my throat and heave a sigh, again stroking my scarred cheek, “it’s very unlikely of there being a Metropol-led venture into Toscana for a few years at least.
“I don’t doubt that the Ruthenians will attempt to scrounge support for a new invasion someday. But considering the proximity of our regions, I doubt they will be willing to send any naval expeditions with anyone less than the Mericans. As for what the Franks will do…” I trail off. Given the dormant nature of the Franks, I do not consider them a threat at all. They are remarkably docile from the looks of things, but yet do not field any fleets whatsoever, despite largely constructing practically all of the Federation ships.
“You don’t suppose the Federation will redouble their efforts through the Frankish hyper-lanes?” Zhui remarks glancing partially at me. With reluctance, I shake my head.
“Most of the Federation fleet at Valspon—which is considerably smaller than the one here—was obliterated. They might have two possible routes into Toscana there, but the losses they sustained on both battlefields should be more than enough to deter them from squandering any more,” I conclude, trying to keep my doubts in check. If I have to be honest with myself: it’s a rather flimsy reasoning. There is absolutely nothing stopping the Federation from renewing their efforts through the two Frankish hyper-lanes. And considering their relevance to each other, it would be easier for the Metropolitans to coordinate a timetable and, for lack of a better word, steamroll us more efficiently. There’s no meteor shower occurring in the Frankish lanes, so I can’t count on mercy rolls to save me again.
Of course, I can’t share that with the Don. But as I look around the room I would not be surprised if the others—including the Don —have arrived at the same foregone conclusion. When I told Brutus that this was a Pyrrhic victory I meant every last word of it. Even if the Federation didn’t do a two-pronged advance into both hyper-lanes, even a single skirmish would be enough to finish us off for good.
But that’s all assuming the Federation fleet withdrawals here, and perhaps links up with their allies in the Frankish Domain. There are simply too many variables at play. On the other hand, nothing is stopping the Metropolitans from attacking through the Rouen corridor again. Resting a cold hand on my likewise icy facial scar, I wince, wondering if I am thinking too far ahead without taking into the accountability of what will happen right now—if not for the next few weeks.
“I see, I see…” the Don murmurers before a choking air of silence follows suit. The Don clears his throat and picks up one of the lousily-rolled cigars and lights it. Dark, purplish fumes escape from his lips not long after. A few more intense puffs and more burning toxic fumes surround him. He does at least a few paces around the windows, puffing and exhaling more of the deadly toxin as he does so. He stops, briefly, and looks at the shattered remains of the clock. “I see, I see,” the Don repeats, less convincingly this time. The shoddy cigar runs its course, and he flicks what remains of it onto the tray. With his back to us, he heaves a sigh and rests his hands behind his back.
“You were wrong about this once already, Li,” the Don declares somberly, unflinchingly. He casually glances at us, an unimpressed expression if there ever was one. “Let us hope—let us pray —that you are not committing another… miscalculatingblunder,” Zhui pauses to glance back at me before shaking his head and resuming his smoke, “there wouldn’t be nothing left of the Mafia to even consider the odds for a third time,” the Don finishes. Zhui reaches over to the table for a second poorly-handmade cigar. The burly man twirls it in his fingers without another word, and without lighting it. Clenching the bandanna once more, I step forward and clear my throat.
“Even so, if I am once again gravely wrong about my predictions; I will do whatever in my power— whatever it takes —to defend the Mafia,” I declare stiffening a trembling tone, “if I have to throw away even my life to let the Mafia survive for another day, I will do it. Even if I am down to the last ship—to the Castelforte —I will make the Metropolitans pay the price for every inch of space they own,” I slam my chest with a ferocious fist: grimacing at the abrupt but brief pain from giving the salute, “I will give my everything to the Mafia… to preserve our integrity, no matter what it takes!” I finish by slamming my fist once more unto my chest. The intensity of my balled fist gives off mild pain as my nails dig into skin.
“But even so,” I continue with a trembling voice, “but even so… that is only if the Federation redoubles its efforts. And so, even so, in the absence of more reckless violence…,” I glance back at Brutus, wondering if this is the right thing to do after all, “even so… while we can enjoy the spectacle of peace for even a little while longer…” with a shaking sigh, I take a few steps forward, slowly but surely, towards the Don. The man, although hearing my footsteps, does not move a muscle, nor look back out of curiosity. There are a few gasps—mainly from Beatrice—but none dare move.
“But even so,” I state again, the trembling all the more clear “once this is all over… once it is apparent the Federation fleet has left the Merican region—and has indeed left us alone…” I stop in front of the Don’s long-since obliterated desk and look down on it. With a long strenuous sigh, I lower myself to kneel on both knees—my legs closely tucked in with each other. Shutting out the confused murmurs from behind, I shut my eyes and lower my head to the floor, pressing my forehead on the rather hardy flooring, mitigated slightly by the soft fluffiness of the wonderfully scented carpeting. I clasp a handful of both carpet and pieces of wood; sometimes tightening and lessening my grips on either for the impending judgment I may receive.
“There is but only one thing I ask for in return,” I state softly, trying my best to ignore the strands of carpeting slightly caressing my lips. I hear the Don shuffle around, likely turning to see my prostration. The overbearing man doesn’t utter a word—as does the others, there is only a chorus of silence—one with a distinct lack of clock ticks. A wave of emotions wash over me, but I do what I can to suppress them. “I wish to live a life in solitude… free of obligations to posts I held before today, and live out what remains of my life in peace. I wish to watch over and raise those deprived of parents,” I state weakly, “I feel that is the only way I may come to terms with the regrets born from this conflict, atone for the misfortunes I have brought about today. That is all I wish for,” I finish biting down on my lip, unsure of what I am to expect.
If only Simon and Olga were here with me…
After my plea finishes, no-one utters a word. No one moves. Not one tick from the clock to make things unnerving. It’s a second that lasts forever, but eventually, I realize from gasps behind me that the Don has taken a few steps toward me. The cracks and crunches from wood being stepped on causes the hair on my back to stand up. “Don…!” Beatrice quietly sneers, seemingly taking a few steps. But she must’ve stopped after I sense the Don stopping next to me. My heart beats faster, and I clench the piece of wood and carpet I hold in my hands tighter. Zhui’s overbearing shadow eclipses me, but I dare not look up.
“Get up, Li,” the man grumbles, with not an ounce of hostility in his voice, “you know it would break Simon’s feeble heart if he saw you now, yeah?” Slowly, but surely, and with great reluctance I raise my head and upper body. The Don has knelt next to me, at least arms distance away. And yet, he doesn’t make eye contact, and merely looks past me. The sorry excuse for a cigar is firmly held by his thumb and index finger, unlit still.
“After all the shit and rubbish we have gone through,” the Don begins, his eyes rather drowsy. He opens his mouth to continue, but closes it and rubs the monstrous side of his face. Zhui’s gaze meets mine, and he slightly gives a nod. “If that is what you wish, my dear, lovely Li… then I feel it is what I owe you—,” Zhui grimaces “it’s what you have… earned.” And with that, he extends an open hand out and carefully strokes my head. His big, chubby hand slides down until it slides down my right non-marred cheek. The next second, Zhui heaves himself up with a grunt and traces his footsteps back to his seemingly favorite spot by the window.
“Right, right…” Zhui murmurs turning to face us, nodding slightly, “I almost forgot—how could I forget?” With a raised hand, he childishly gestures for us to go “I’ll…strangle the rest of details from the bridge,” Zhui says sliding the cigar between his disgusting lips, his averted gaze to the ships passing by, “you’re more than free to return to your ships—go back to Lübeck for all I care. Just get out of my sight,” he says seemingly flicking the lighter cover on and off. Before I could even think about getting up, a strong before grabs me and lifts me before I even get the chance to react. It is, of course, none other than Brutus. He looks a little apologetic as if it wasn’t something he wanted to do of his own accord. A glance at Beatrice is all I needed to surmise that he was goaded into it by her.
“Well, you heard the boss,” Beatrice remarks bitterly, gesturing at the door as one of Darcy’s lackeys opens the door, “let’s… hustle.” Without another word, the group leaves behind the brooding Mafia Don to his own devices.
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It certainly is a breath of fresh air now that we’re out of the suffocating toxic room. To be able to breathe again without feeling lightheaded by the choking fumes brought about by the cigar. Before I can confront her about her behavior, the woman excuses herself, citing that she needs to check up on her subordinates and that we’ll likely converse later. Darcy, Richter, and her men head off in the opposite direction, presumably for their ships.
“Madame…” Brutus mumbles “what was that all about?” He asks, crossing his arms. His timid eyes shifting from me to the abyssal windows. I merely shake my head.
“I believe when the time is right,” I start by stroking my disfigured cheek, a mild sigh “I’ll tell you everything, Brutus, but for now, let’s just get back to our ship and check in on Olga… hm?” As I gesture for us to follow Darcy’s group, it doesn’t take long for us to join up with them. It seems they must’ve stumbled upon another group; and a state of confusion at that. As I approach the larger host, I am taken back when I recognize one of them—a subordinate I haven’t seen in years, not since the Wulf’sdeparture to Lübeck. Although her hair is longer than I remember, and she looks rather pale, it is no doubt Jean Picot. Needless to say, she does look troubled—as if deeply disturbed. After getting a closer look at the crowd, none of them are faces I recognize—other than Jargon, who is seemingly trying to make his way through the crowd with a look of concern; biting on his lower lip.
“Is there something the matter?” I call out to the group and all attention shifts to me. Almost at once, Jean lightens up—but her expression immediately shifts to irritation. “If you need to see the Don, he’s still in the command room behind us. You can probably catch him before he…”
“The Madame… Scarface— ” Jean cuts me off, grimacing. She takes a few steps forward, her eyes on the floor, “you are Li… Chou, correct?” She inquires. Her breathing grows heavier, and she fondles something in her pocket. The other subordinates clear their throats and shift gazes around.
“Yes, that is correct,” I respond warmly “it certainly has been a while, Jean Picot…” I trail off. For some odd reason, I get the unshakable feeling that something is wrong, but I brush the idea off. “You and the Wulfhere have my utmost gratitude for the accomplishments pulled off here,” I say heartily “without your perseverance, there would’ve been no chance in, er… hell that I could’ve secured a victory here. But with that said…” I squint through the faces in Jean’s group, “Jung Lee… where is the man? I wish to congratulate him first-hand,” I wince a grin “perhaps I may see him off properly and see his child someday?”
In that instant, something flips in Jean. She raises her head, a pained expression across her face: anger, utmost anger. She rips the hand from her pocket, and in an abrupt flurry of events, she lurches toward me with a metallic, sharp object.