"A story? A real story? Do you mean true? Alright. I think I've got one.
You see, it happened in the middle of the business with Yiski. Yes, the Striker Commander- Mhm, he was also the 'Crimson Bolt'- Well, I never served under him directly- In fact, I'm not even sure he could give me orders- Certainly he was my superior, but... well... it's complicated, and a story for another time.
For now, settle for what happened during the Guild Incursion. No, I didn't die. Yes, it was scary. Look, do you want to hear the story or not!?
It was right after the Kidnapping. Yes, the one in which he dived through the window. I was the one who found him, but it was under the Admiral’s orders. Admiral Zill. Zill. But this was when I was serving under Captain Verra. Ha! Yes the scary one, though, you’ve never seen her when she is really scarry. Now listen..."
--
Plasma sighs, running a greased hand through his dark hair, causing it to stick weirdly up in little points. The men hauling the boxes nearby snicker, but Plasma remains fixed on the clipboard. The fat stack of pages seems endless as he pages through it. A continual stream of authorizations, inventories, and legally binding agreements.
It’s enough to drive anyone up the walls!
He continues adding marks, adding ink to the stack of fluids on his hands. The excitement of the morning bombing was giving way to the monotony of paperwork, and the receding adrenaline was taking it’s toll. He carefully adds the final signature with a reluctant flourish, tosses the clipboard on another pile of documents in the hanger and trots over to a door marked lavatory. He rinses the ink and scrubs the grease off of his hands. The mirror is dirty, and requires a bit of wiping before he can properly see himself.
Dirt and oil everwhere...
He does his best to remove the stains and sediment, taking extra care with lieutenant’s insignia on his sleave.
First time I’ll have sky under my feet in nearly a year, and all I can do is mope...
He heaves a final sigh and straightens, glaring at the wall as though it had personally wronged him. After two deep breaths he strides out the door, expression set, blue eyes twinkling in the sharp, boyish face. He checks the pistol on his belt, and gives the small airship a quick once over, fretting all the while. It’s a new model. Much like a squid, but with an even lower profile. Minimized drag. Supposedly the fastest balloon-bearing vessel.
It’ll have to do, he concludes doubtfully, the way the captain flies, I’m sure I’ll be waist deep in kerosine and diesel before the end of the day...
The dock workers saunter over to him.
“A’ight, she’s loaded ‘n ready t’ fly! You sign t’ paper’s?”
Plasma nods and points absently to the discarded clipboard.
The grubby man grabs it roughly and leads his fellows out of the hangar. Plasma pulls an ornate silver watch out of his pocket, yanking the chain a bit harder than perhaps necessary. An image of a majestic skywhale breaching the clouds is embossed on the face cover. He slides his thumb over the engraving before flicking it open and carefully examining the face, sighing.
Just in time! She’ll be here any minute.
He can feel it before she appears. He hunches slightly under the weight of the aproaching presence. A tall woman comes sweeping through the doors. Plasma eyes the deep, resplendent blue uniform with the brilliantly gold captain's insignia. The white leggings and perfectly polished boots drag his eyes earthwards, but they immediately snap up to the reproving sky blue pair gazing back at him. A long scar runs from the base of her neck to the temple, resting directly adjacent to the fragile orb, relic of a very near miss. She removes the tricorn hat to brush a stray lock of auburn hair from her eyes, and replaces it in a fluid, almost mechanical movement.
“Lieutenant. I assume we are ready?” he voice is sharp and quick, but above all carries impressive commanding gravity.Plasma straightens himself to complete and utter attention.
“Yes Ma’am! We are ready to sail at your order.”
She nods and produces a folder seemingly from nowhere, thrusting it at him.
“It is so ordered Lieutenant. Meet me at the helm after you’ve given my orders to the crew.”
She leaps upon the boat with a grace that would put most veteran sailors to shame, leaving Plasma to thread his way along the plank.
Never any trouble when we’re being buffeted by a battery of hwacha, but always the planks!
The ship is small, and the crew smaller. Plasma surveys his three shipmates with growing alarm. Each has a simple uniform, designed for flexibility and dexterity, with no indication of rank. They are adorned with equipment of various shapes and sizes, including a design of sidearm he’s never seen before: short barreled things with no hammer, instead a series of complex mechanisms along the barrel.
One of the men glances up at him derisively. Plasma notices that his headband falls across his left eye, masking it entirely. Battle scars adorn his face, and the man is smoking what appears to be a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Orders Lieutenant?”
Plasma finds himself grasping at words that flit just out of his reach. He finally manages to catch one.
“Yes.”
He opens the folder and examines the contents quickly, kicking himself for not doing so before. He pauses again, staring in disbelief at the words, before fixing a smile and continuing on.
“We are...officially disavowed. Our mission consists of an incursion into Guild Territory. We are your transportation, and the only official backup you will receive. These are your orders. May I borrow your lighter, and a cigarette?”
He takes a sealed envelope from the folder and hands it to the man, who takes it wordlessly. He places it on the table in front of the three men before handing a crude fuel-lighter and cigarette to Plasma. Plasma lights the tobacco and takes a drag, then holds the flame up to the folder. The three men watch as he waits for the flames to take sure hold of hte paper, then tosses it over the side of the ship. Almost on cue the diesel engines grind into life, shoving them out of the docks and into the skies beyond.
------------------------
It is dark in the cell. So far he’s given them nothing, but they’ve given him naught but a few cuts and bruises. For the most part, they are quite polite. The smiling man insisting that he’s been left for dead, and all that he needs for a new life is to trade them information. So far he’s politely refused. The large, angry man did not appreciate that, hence the bruises. The smiling man pleaded with him, that neither of them would enjoy the methods of persuasion it was possible to employ. The faceless man did enjoy every second with the knives. Plasma could only see his eyes, but the joy shining from within was unmistakable.
They had the captain too. In the cell next to him. He had heard he screams echo through the stone corridors. The captain, screaming. That alone was the only thing that had yet cause him pause. What could they have possibly done to her?
-------------------------
The approach had been a success. The three rough men, Simon, Todd, and Cyrevik had been landed, and were well on their way to success. The captain had brought the ship around in a wide, skirting arc through the clouds when they ran into the patrol. A battleship. The first flares shredded the clouds with a poisonous light while rockets and artillery from the gallion flashed and faded around them.
If Plasma had ever seen the captain fly before, it was nothing to what she did now. Time and time again she effortlessly spiraled, weaved, and juked the rockets. The battleship lay between them and escape. The radios of the enemy proved powerful and effective, summoning a host of foes which would give the largest of armadas pause. All for one tiny ship. Too soon the sky became nothing but fire and force. Shells tore at the side of the ship while the bursting ammunition reduced the propellers to so much twisted metal.
They careened towards the ground, spilling hydrogen into the night. Plasma remembered watching in horror as a single flare drifted lazily up off of the battleship, tracing his doom with it’s languid motion. A pair of lithe, strong arms wrapped around him and carried him off the boat. The flare kisses the trail of gas ever so gently and it was a blaze of light and heat, flowing through the air faster than his eyes could follow. It met the reservoir in the balloon and fractured the sky, pulling apart space itself.
About halfway to the ground it occurred to Plasma that while the blast had certainly destroyed everything that remained of their boat, it had somehow failed to claim him. Building logically on this premise, it must have followed that he was no longer on the boat. Finally, considering the single arm still wrapped around him, and the patterns of sound being stolen by the wind the captain was still very close. He looked at her livid face, screaming commands and curses into the night that fell behind their plummet. She was holding a drogue chute. Understanding crashed into his mind like a flak round. He quickly tangles himself and the captain in the chute ropes and kicks it out, hoping beyond hope that they were not too late.
They half-drifted, half-careened into the ground below. Plasma was far too busy ensuring he and the captain were still alive to realize that their progress had not gone unmarked. The click of carbine safeties brought him back to the frigid embrace of reality. The captain’s fist slammed suddenly into his jaw and Plasma met the ground hard. She threw herself on top of him, clawing at his uniform and delivering crushing blows to his head and stomach. The soldiers were none too quick to pull her off of him. Eventually they decided that two prisoners were better than one, and Plasma found himself shortly thereafter in the damp, dismal stone of a prison cell.
--------------
He was sure they couldn’t have expected much from them. It was, of course, the first day. Still, that scream they had managed to tear from the captain had broken her. She was unrecognizable when they returned her to the cell, blood streamed from her face, where great slashes had been torn. She was missing teeth, and her throat was covered in blue and black blotches.
They sat in silence for some time, letting the stone wall between them serve as both a physical and emotional barrier. Plasma found that he soon felt nothing. No fear, no pain, simply nothing. He floated for a while, around his dreamlike state. Then something tugged him gently back into himself. The effect was devastating. Terror enveloped him like an icy cloud, and the dull throbbing and acute burning returned. But the worst thing was in that cell across the wall.
The captain was talking, in a broken voice so utterly alien to the woman he knew was the last hope he had for survival.
“It hurts...it hurts so much...”
He fought the sobs, wrestling them into oblivion with every fiber of his will, but he could not combat the tears. They silently followed their tracks down to his chin, dripping to the floor. For some time he did not speak. But then, his expression was set. The tears had not yet dried, but they would.
“We are getting out of here.”
The broken voice choked on something. Surprise?
“What? How?”
Plasma stared at the lock on his cell. Of course, the guards had searched them thoroughly. He thought briefly of the charged round he had managed to slip into his shoe, but they had searched and taken even those. He had nothing. Cursing, he slammed his hand into the metal bars, immediately regretting the action. The additional pain served to sober him somewhat. He had, before the captain had started dumping moonshine into the engines (which he was still at a loss about, how did it even find his way on board?) sent out a coded radio signal, but he wasn’t sure anyone could receive it. They were disavowed anyway.
The memory of the landing entered his mind suddenly. The captain had lunged at him and grabbed awkwardly at his sleeve. At the time, he thought she was angry about the crash, but there might have been a glint of silver as she brought her hand back from his shoulder.
The insignia.
He kicked himself. Of course, he should have removed it when he burnt the folder containing their orders. At least she had seen to that. It was entirely possible they had no idea who they were or why they were here. The small amount of comfort Plasma found in that though turned instantly to dread as he realized it would only fuel their curiosity. He leaned on the bars of the cell, staring morosely into the hallway.
Then he heard it.
A dull thud. A strangled yell, followed by another dull thud. Two figures were advancing down the hallway. The dim light from a gas lamp flared suddenly in the hallway. Simon and Todd were coming down the hall, weapons drawn and looking weary.
“That you, lieutenant? You’ve got some nasty cuts. Stand back.”
Plasma did as he was told. Simon aimed the strange pistol at the lock. It flashed briefly, but little sound issued from it. Instead, steam hissed from a set of vents near the front. He rattled the door briefly and the lock gave. Todd handed him the majority of his belongings. He shook the questions from his head and rapidly dressed himself, loading his sidearm.
“How did...? The captain...” Plasma hissed, indicating the next cell.
“Skies above.” cursed Simon, aiming the weapon again. Todd moved into the cell hoisting the captain’s arm over his shoulders and pulling her to her feet.
“Comon’ miss. We’ve got to get you out.”
The band of four made their way best they could through the maze like cell block. It looked to Plasma like they were the only two prisoners in the whole place. Not a soul did they pass, save a few more guard who were quickly and silently deprived of life. The were out in the open air now, skirting a large grassy area on their way to what Plasma presumed were docks.
“No. We’ve got to go out the other way!” croaked the captain. They ignored her.
Must be delirious.
“Ensign, remember the mission!”
Plasma stopped dead. Slowly, he and Simon turned to face the woman. Surprise blossomed over her face. If there was anything else Plasma needed, it was that. He nodded to Simon.
“Quickly.”
The first bullet caught her in the throat, the second in the right eye. Todd and Plasma dragged the body into the bushes nearby, then Simon made to set off for the docks. Plasma grabbed his arm.
“We have to find the captain!”
“No chance, Ensign. They fooled you once, and we have no idea where she is. This whole thing could be a trap.”
Plasma glared at him. Then turned back towards the prison building away from the group.
“Do what you like, I’m finding her.”
It was a sudden sharp blow. For a moment he thought he had been shot as the world faded and he sank once again into unknowing.
----------------
Plasma rejoined the world of the living in a whirl of sickly, dim light and damp. The smell of diesel filled his nostrils, and the world seemed to be listing gently from side to side.
He jolted upright, slamming his forehead into a low crossbar and tumbling onto the planks below.
“The captain!”
Cyrevik, the big quiet one got up from the stool where the three men were playing cards and lifted Plasma to his feet, handing him a cloth. He felt something warm and wet by his hairline, probed it with his fingers and realized, frowning at the crimson liquid, what the rag was for.
“Thanks.”
“You should be more careful. It is easy to hurt yourself, being in such a hurry to wake.”
Plasma nodded glumly and looked around the hold of the ship. He tilted his head and looked up at the big man.
“Who is flying?”
Cyrevik smiled.
“The scary lady. After we got you on board we heard a giant bang. Bells were going off and everyone was very confused. We hid on the boat, no use escaping with bells and lights everywhere. Soon other prisoners come to take the other boats. No sense. They race off, and guards come in, get into other boats”.
The big man shrugged, muscle moving in a wave around his neck and shoulders.
“Then guards come on this boat. They don’t find us, and they race off after other prisoners. Catch up to prisoners. We had a not so great fight, yeah? Prisoners leave too quickly to grab bullets. Many surrendered, many died.”
He settled himself back around the little table, picking up a pack of cards. They dance between his hands and the table.
“On the way back, one guard says he sees something in the clouds, a prisoner ship they missed. We fly into the cloud, when we come out again, half of the guard is no longer on ship. Very confusing to us. We run to take out the rest, but before we get out, there is a shot, then a flash off the side of the ship. More confusion: Shot came from helm, but flash is in cloud. Guards go to side of ship. Then ship start to tilt. They grab side, but there is another shot from the helm, and big explosion by side of ship. At the helm is crazy pilot lady, wearing uniform of guard.”
The man deals, cards slicing through the air to land and slide in front of their players.
“You want to play cards?”
Plasma bolts out the door and around to the upper deck. The woman at the helm has a few scratches here and there, but grins fiercely at him.
“Good morning Lieutenant.”
--
“There you have it, kids.”
They look on in a mix of wonder, disbelief, and excitement.
“Is it true?”
“Did you really escape?”
“How did she get the uniform?”
He laughs and dismisses their questions with a wave of his hand.
“Why don’t you ask her?” he smiles and points to the doorway behind him. They turn in unison.
A tall woman with grey streaks in her auburn hair gazes imperiously back at them all.
“Why don’t you pull up a chair, and fill in the blanks, Admiral.”
