Little Celah, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Sixthmonth, 1634 PTS
An advertisement faded from the wide screen on the wall, and switched to an unusual message. The image depicted a smiling man with blue hair and a faded green jacket. His eyes were hidden, covered by a yellow band tied behind his head, as if he had been blindfolded for some reason. The man appeared happy, as if he were greeting a friend. A line of text beside his face read: ‘Triezal: terrorist and outlaw, currently at large. Report any information about this man to the Justice Office by scanning the glyph below. Respondents with useful information may be rewarded up to ten thousand serite!’
The notice was designed as if it were an ad for a competition rather than a manhunt. The man scowled as he viewed the image, bowing his head further downwards, to the point where it would almost appear as if he had a hunch. Over a head shorter than the Jobu among the crowd, it was easy for him to become lost in the crowd.
The man wore a hooded cloak, an article of clothing that was unusual in this part of the station. Such clothing was more akin to the fashion of the Escalos than the children of Celah. Still, in a district this populated, passersby were as varied as stars in the sky, and it was not uncommon to see unusual garments. Thus, the hooded man went largely unnoticed within the crowd as he passed through, making his way deeper and deeper into the depths of the district, his steps awkward due to a noticeable limp in his steps.
It did not take long for him to find the location he was searching for. The alley was mundane, hewn from patchwork, multicolored shades of stone, and the man had seen perhaps thousands just like it in this district alone, over the years. But this one he was able to recognize uniquely. One of the many of the Heirs’ safe houses that the man had memorized the locations of.
He had not chosen to travel to the nearest safehouse, nor the second closest. If the faction had spies, that would be the first place they would check. He could never be certain that none of the faction’s members might have debts the government would be happy to take advantage of.
He drew the entry symbol onto the pad, and the hatch opened up easily before him. Once inside, the hooded man removed his hood, revealing a head full of bright blue hair, a yellow still blindfold resting around his neck. Looking like a more wounded version of the him in the ad, Triezal pulled himself into the room.
As he entered the house’s living room, Triezal was surprised to see the form of a Jobu lying on one of the couches. He was lean for his people, but the man’s fitness and strength could not be denied.
“It’s a surprise to find you here, Little Brother,” he said with a smile, but felt confused by Kalthen’s presence in this part of the district. Shouldn’t his friend have still been near the titan base he had been stationed at? He frowned. Had Kalthen come here to meet with him?
The Jobu lay languidly on the cushion, as if sapped of all energy. Something was wrong, Triezal thought. He could sense this fact, as surely as if it were a scent on the breeze.
“It has been a while indeed,” said Kalthen, “You’ve gotten yourself in quite a heap of trouble this time. A bit worse than any of the trouble I got myself into, before.”
Triezal could not dispute this. Never one had he seen this sort of manhunt. He had expected he would need to go into hiding, after escaping from his predicament. While it would be an annoyance, there was much that Triezal could do to assist with the current situation, even without showing his face in public. But with a campaign this large and well funded, even that bore certain risks. It was unusual. According to his understanding of the Justice Office, they should have just contracted with an information agency, used mercenaries to track him down. In that case, the Heirs could simply have bribed the agency to ‘find nothing,’ and everyone would go on with their lives.
“I had expected them to be looking for me,” he said, in way of reply, “but this… I’m not sure what to make of it. A campaign this expensive for an outlaw is highly unusual. Either someone is funding them, or I’m being scapegoated. Perhaps it’s a ploy by one of our enemies.” He chucked. “I might have to dye my hair a different color.”
As he stepped closer, Triezal got a better view of his friend, and he found his words leaving him. The younger man’s eyes were red and puffy, as if Kalthen had been crying. But that was odd; the large man rarely cried, or at least Triezal had never seen him do so. A sinking feeling began to well up in Triezal’s chest, informing him that something truly had occurred beyond his notice.
“Something happened,” he stated.
“My uncle is dead,” replied Kalthen, and Triezal’s stomach dropped in shock and horror.
“That can’t be right,” he protested. “He should have been safe at the-”
“They found him yesterday morning. Someone took advantage of your stunt as a distraction, it seems.”
Triezal’s mind raced, split between wishing to comfort his friend and thinking of the implications- Kalthen would not lie about such a thing, and if both of the faction’s most important figures were dead, that would only leave Astna to take control. In order to minimize disruption, perhaps Triezal should go back to Otan and ensure they did not lose control of those vital holdings.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“...Why are you here?” he asked. This was information that could have been sent over a call, or even simply a message. Regardless of whether Kalthen desired company, to track Triezal down now, in these conditions… he would have needed help from Astna.
“We knew you would come,” said the Jobu. “If not here, then somewhere. But I was told that this place was your most likely target. It seems that you have become predictable, Triezal.”
Kalthen seemed odd, and was acting in an unusual manner. It was clear that the situation was wearing away at him. He gestured with one of his hands, and Triezal realised that his friend was holding a pistol.
Kalthen sighed.
“I’m sorry, Triezal. But my mother made a deal, to save us, and to save the Heirs. My uncle died for this group, and I- I can’t let it die with him.”
I see, Triezal thought. So that was what this was about. He gritted his teeth. Kalthen lifted up the firearm, admiring the smoothness of its barrel as he aimed it towards Triezal. He could see the rifling inside the bore of the pistol, mere feet away. Triezal could have lashed out, could have forced it away from himself. Instead, he sighed.
“I don’t want to kill you, Kalthen,” Triezal said.
Both of them knew that in a fight, the Jobu would have little chance. He had physical strength and training as a warrior, but even injured, Triezal’s mechanically enhanced physiology could easily handle him. Kalthen barked a laugh, and tossed the gun away, He had never even clicked the safety off.
“I used to hate you, did you know that?” he asked.
Triezal nodded. It had been obvious. Kalthen had been jealous of him. But Triezal had not minded that. It was an emotion he understood.
“To do it yourself… Was that your idea or hers?” Triezal asked.
Kalthen chuckled.
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” Triezal admitted. Triezal did not, could not, consider himself a selfless individual. Perhaps Astna was right, and his death truly was in the organization’s best interest. If Deuvar had been alive, however, Triezal thought, this would not have happened. Deuvar always did well by the faction’s core members.
But Astna was different. The Real Spider was a vicious woman, and there was only one remaining individual she would care for aside from herself. Astna would use Triezal as a scapegoat in an instant. And, as it seemed, she had.
Triezal waited, wanting to see what choice his friend made. His reaction times were limited, stunted by the faltering repair of his muscles and organs. To fully heal, Triezal would need time, food, and perhaps some medical attention as well, for the bullet wounds. He had stopped them up with gauze, but that would be prime for an infection if he were not careful.
“I can’t… I can’t kill another friend,” said Kalthen, finally, and Triezal could not help but smile. Kalthen had been through a lot in the past months, and his uncle’s death must have been a capstone to his misery. Triezal could not help but commiserate.
It seemed that Kalthen had yet to fully get over the deaths of his squad.
“The Leader assigned me away from the front lines, and I… I pretended that was what I wanted. I was working with titans, you know? I had always wanted to pilot one.” Kalthen sighed, a wistful expression crossing his face. “Now, who knows whether we’ll still have any by year’s end. I still don’t know what my mother is up to. I’m not sure I can go back to… to this.” He motioned with his gun, and Triezal understood what the other man meant. Kalthen wished to make his retirement from combat a permanent affair.
Had it really been less than three months since he had been a hotheaded young gloryseeker? But Triezal knew well that the amount of time tended to matter less than what events had occurred within the period.
Time did not change a man, but experiences certainly did.
“Go back to your titans,” he said. “Your mother will likely be glad for you not to take part directly anymore. In fact, I would wager that your presence here was a test.”
Kalthen barked a harsh laugh.
“One I’ve failed, no doubt. She wishes for me to be callous.”
“You take after your uncle, rather than your mother,” said Triezal. “I feel you’re better off this way.”
Kalthen’s smile was wistful.
“I’m not so sure.”
Triezal sighed, and began to walk out. He would not be able to stay here, it seemed. His skin was not so thick as to force Kalthen to be at odds with his mother. In any case, it was better for him to have another friend on the inside than another friend on the run.
Kalthen suddenly spoke again, prompting Triezal to turn back, the first of his boots having already crossed over the threshold.
“Triezal… make sure you live, will you? I’m sure once this blows over, my mother will be happy to let you in.”
Triezal gave his friend a confident smile that he could not truly feel.
“What, you thought some mere soldiers could kill me? I’ll be fine. Once I change up my look, not even you will recognize me.”
WIth that, he raised his hood once more as the hatch slid shut behind him, leaving Kalthen alone once more in the darkened room.
“Two doors shut,” he muttered.
Intelligence Agencies: [Essentially a legal form of espionage institution, the intelligence agencies, particularly those on corporate retainer, make a living from knowing information. Networks of spies can be found in most corporations and institutions, even within criminal factions, churches, and the government itself. The latter two are illegal under Pantheonic Law, but no self respecting corporation would be wary of such a potentially lucrative opportunity. One of the most influential intelligence agencies of Tseludia Station is a corporation called ‘The Heirs of Ottrien.’]