Fic: Mala vida
You'll find the righ fandoms for this, I'm sure.
The old Empress looks down at the crowd of courtiers, soldiers, young and old, handsome and deformed, brave and cowards. Her omniscient eyes roam over every face, slowly, looking for the right one.
The young commander of the Septime fleet takes a step forward and says, “I shall go.”
She looks at the man; the mane of ginger hair, the sandy short beard, the thin mouth, the hard-looking blue eyes. She smiles. “Of course,” she says. “You will. Who else would?”
The Commander of the Septime fleet is loyal. He proved it over and over. His body bears the marks of the wounds he received for the sake of his glorious sovereign. He shielded her with his own body twice against those criminals who tried to shoot her down. She trusts him.
He does not smile back. He is one of those men who do not smile at all. No happiness, no triumph is ever enough to make him. His life is hard work; a smile an unwanted sign of weakness.
“Defeat him. Kill him and his people. Any way you can find. And drop his body in deep space so I never have to see him again.”
The commander bows and walks out. He demands five cruisers and the right to pick out his crew. The next week, he’s gone. Before the fleet leaves Earth, the Glorious Empress blesses him and he kisses the ring at her middle finger. She goes as far as rest a motherly hand on his hair.
*****************
“It doesn’t have to be like this every time,” he tells the other man. “A failure, life after life after life. We can change that.”
He is sitting very straight on chair. He rests his elbows on the dark metal of the table. He tries to meet the eyes of the man seated in front of him but cannot because the man is looking down. “Thomas,” he says softly.
This time the man - Thomas is not his current names but he still answers it - looks up and gives him a look of immense desolation. “We tried. We failed. With monotonous regularity. The fact that you are here, wearing this uniform…” he shakes his head.
The commander stares at him. He sees the high cheekbones, the wide dark eyes, the mysterious charisma that seems to pour out of the man. He is young; his age. This never changes. It makes everything possible.
“How many times do you remember?”
“Too many.”
The commander of the Septime fleet sighs and gets up, walks to the window. There is nothing to see outside of course. But the sight of the starlit, unmovable darkness, still soothes him. No tempests here at least. Other dangers but no tempests. He misses them, a little. He misses them and the way the crowd moved below as he sang. It felt the same somehow.
“We came close last time.”
Thomas looks at him and frowns like he doesn’t remember.
“Serge?” the commander who was once Francis Drake says.
The other man almost laughs. “You mean that time I wasn’t the one who died?” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t very easy to live with it, you know. With people asking about it. How it happened. Why you did it. If I…” his voice caught. " The grief. The guilt. Life held no interest after that. It was just dreaming about you… Wondering…”
At least, the commander thinks, as Francis Drake he didn’t feel guilty. He felt sad. Uncomfortable. Oh and he missed Thomas of course but guilty didn’t enter the scope of his emotions at the time.
He has to force himself back to the now and then, come back to the table. He was the one to ask for this meeting. Leaving his fleet safely hidden behind a dying planet, he boarded a shuttle, inviting the Rebel Leader to join him. Alone. No weapon. No witness.
When the man entered the room, he felt the natural irresistible pull and managed not to throw himself in his arms. He’s done that, often when Thomas’ name was Serge. He has resisted that often as Francis Drake.
“I want this to end,” he says. “I want us to make it work… us together.”
“And die forever?”
“Do you call this a life? We have a life as long as we can’t remember.” Twenty years, thirty at best and after that… He remembers the last time he found out. He was on stage, singing. It felt like everything was crumbling around him. For a second he lost his breath. Behind him Serge had collapsed to the ground. Everyone seemed to find it funny.
“The Empress sent you to kill me. Us. Why am I even here?” The rebel asks.
“How many men do you still have?”
The Rebel raises a tired hand. “Too many to save, even with my life. Not enough to win the war but enough to make it last and make the old bitch very sorry. Hope she dies before I am defeated and a change comes.”
The commander makes a quick calculation. His own soldiers, the rebel fighters … Not as much as he hoped.
“I have five ships.”
“You think you’re going to crush us with five ships? Sir Francis, you’re losing your touch.”
The commander shakes his head. “No. Five ships with men on board who are ready to join you and your… revolution, as you call it. If you agree.”
The Rebel Leader frowns. “You’d join me?” He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “You pledged your faith to the Empress.”
“That was before I remembered.”
*********************
He agreed to the meeting with a -justified- sense of dread. As he listens, he feels like he is being crushed by the weight of their past lives. The ones they remember as clearly as yesterday. The others he only has uncomfortable flashes of.
The incarnations are subtly different. It took some time finding Francis in Tom until he saw him standing at the edge of the stage above the crowd, poised, unsmiling, surveying the audience with the same searching look he’d had on the ship. It is probably the same for him.
They chose this place to meet. An abandoned merchant station somewhere beyond the borders. Close enough to the rebel base that he can fly back in no time. He looks around at the metal and glass and worn posters in what used to be a bar, years ago. Some things never change; there’s a calendar with naked women on it. Probably the politically correctness of the Empire did not reach here. Torn leather stools. They’re sitting at a table where thousands of men sat before them. Some carved their names on it. He can see old marks of burning, old stains. Drinks. Blood?
He is thinking about the offer. He cannot quite believe it. It has been ten years since he started the civil war against his own grandmother to restore the core of the system she perverted for her own benefit. He was too upright to be perverted. For Francis, or whatever his name is these days, things are different; he grew up from nothing because of the same system.
“You have much more to lose than I,” he says in the end.
“I’m a daredevil.”
He stands, paces the room for a minute. “Let’s imagine we win. What after that?”
“I don’t know. You are the clever one, aren’t you?” There’s a bit of a challenge in the commander’s voice. “You will find something.”
He watches him rise and walk up to him. He is manoeuvred back against the wall.
“You still think it’s a trap. That I’m using this… this thing between us to trap you. But I’m not.” He shakes him a bit, like a reluctant kitten. “I’m not.” Then he kisses him. They lose themselves in the kiss, again and again.
“Over my dead body, Francis,” he remembers saying. “You are not going out of this room unless you kiss me!” Teasing, his back against the door, drunk on ale and lust, arms spread out, laughing. Francis did not laugh. He very seldom did. Taking it as the challenge it was he kissed Thomas, who knew in a flash, and too late, that this, this - hard warm mouth, tickle of a beard, tongue invading him, body pressing full against him, fearless - was his doom. He had expected Francis to roll his eyes, kiss him chastely and storm out. Instead he was manhandled to the bed, pinned there and fucked.
Every kiss with Tom is obscured by the last memory of too cold lips against his; warm tears falling over Tom’s still face, hands pulling him away as he clawed at the coffin…
“You know,” he says against the commander’s mouth. “Somehow, even if this ends being a trap, I don’t really care.” He is kissed again, lightly. “Just, if you must kill me, please do it now.”
A hand in his hair, a face against his own, a body pressed against his body, an arm around his waist. A breathless laugh. “I love you. Did I say that already?”
They take it slow with the next kiss, hands roaming under the tight jacket of the Commander’s uniform, the worn leather of the rebel’s coat.
*********************
“How nice.” The voice from the door, mocking applauses, a senile laugh…
The commander takes a step forward, shielding his friend. Facing the guards. The guns.
“Useless, Commander. Once you’re down, I’ll get him.”
He turns away. They don’t look at her. They embrace; tighten their grip around each other. Close their eyes. Cheek against cheek. Bodies locked together. It feels like dancing.
“If I understand correctly what I heard earlier,” she says, “I’m doing you a favor. You did not have time yet to let each other down.”
It doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t matter. Death doesn’t matter. They barely feel the pain anyway, only each other’s warmth, until everything goes dark.
The old Empress looks down at the crowd of courtiers, soldiers, young and old, handsome and deformed, brave and cowards. Her omniscient eyes roam over every face, slowly, looking for the right one.
The young commander of the Septime fleet takes a step forward and says, “I shall go.”
She looks at the man; the mane of ginger hair, the sandy short beard, the thin mouth, the hard-looking blue eyes. She smiles. “Of course,” she says. “You will. Who else would?”
The Commander of the Septime fleet is loyal. He proved it over and over. His body bears the marks of the wounds he received for the sake of his glorious sovereign. He shielded her with his own body twice against those criminals who tried to shoot her down. She trusts him.
He does not smile back. He is one of those men who do not smile at all. No happiness, no triumph is ever enough to make him. His life is hard work; a smile an unwanted sign of weakness.
“Defeat him. Kill him and his people. Any way you can find. And drop his body in deep space so I never have to see him again.”
The commander bows and walks out. He demands five cruisers and the right to pick out his crew. The next week, he’s gone. Before the fleet leaves Earth, the Glorious Empress blesses him and he kisses the ring at her middle finger. She goes as far as rest a motherly hand on his hair.
*****************
“It doesn’t have to be like this every time,” he tells the other man. “A failure, life after life after life. We can change that.”
He is sitting very straight on chair. He rests his elbows on the dark metal of the table. He tries to meet the eyes of the man seated in front of him but cannot because the man is looking down. “Thomas,” he says softly.
This time the man - Thomas is not his current names but he still answers it - looks up and gives him a look of immense desolation. “We tried. We failed. With monotonous regularity. The fact that you are here, wearing this uniform…” he shakes his head.
The commander stares at him. He sees the high cheekbones, the wide dark eyes, the mysterious charisma that seems to pour out of the man. He is young; his age. This never changes. It makes everything possible.
“How many times do you remember?”
“Too many.”
The commander of the Septime fleet sighs and gets up, walks to the window. There is nothing to see outside of course. But the sight of the starlit, unmovable darkness, still soothes him. No tempests here at least. Other dangers but no tempests. He misses them, a little. He misses them and the way the crowd moved below as he sang. It felt the same somehow.
“We came close last time.”
Thomas looks at him and frowns like he doesn’t remember.
“Serge?” the commander who was once Francis Drake says.
The other man almost laughs. “You mean that time I wasn’t the one who died?” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t very easy to live with it, you know. With people asking about it. How it happened. Why you did it. If I…” his voice caught. " The grief. The guilt. Life held no interest after that. It was just dreaming about you… Wondering…”
At least, the commander thinks, as Francis Drake he didn’t feel guilty. He felt sad. Uncomfortable. Oh and he missed Thomas of course but guilty didn’t enter the scope of his emotions at the time.
He has to force himself back to the now and then, come back to the table. He was the one to ask for this meeting. Leaving his fleet safely hidden behind a dying planet, he boarded a shuttle, inviting the Rebel Leader to join him. Alone. No weapon. No witness.
When the man entered the room, he felt the natural irresistible pull and managed not to throw himself in his arms. He’s done that, often when Thomas’ name was Serge. He has resisted that often as Francis Drake.
“I want this to end,” he says. “I want us to make it work… us together.”
“And die forever?”
“Do you call this a life? We have a life as long as we can’t remember.” Twenty years, thirty at best and after that… He remembers the last time he found out. He was on stage, singing. It felt like everything was crumbling around him. For a second he lost his breath. Behind him Serge had collapsed to the ground. Everyone seemed to find it funny.
“The Empress sent you to kill me. Us. Why am I even here?” The rebel asks.
“How many men do you still have?”
The Rebel raises a tired hand. “Too many to save, even with my life. Not enough to win the war but enough to make it last and make the old bitch very sorry. Hope she dies before I am defeated and a change comes.”
The commander makes a quick calculation. His own soldiers, the rebel fighters … Not as much as he hoped.
“I have five ships.”
“You think you’re going to crush us with five ships? Sir Francis, you’re losing your touch.”
The commander shakes his head. “No. Five ships with men on board who are ready to join you and your… revolution, as you call it. If you agree.”
The Rebel Leader frowns. “You’d join me?” He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “You pledged your faith to the Empress.”
“That was before I remembered.”
*********************
He agreed to the meeting with a -justified- sense of dread. As he listens, he feels like he is being crushed by the weight of their past lives. The ones they remember as clearly as yesterday. The others he only has uncomfortable flashes of.
The incarnations are subtly different. It took some time finding Francis in Tom until he saw him standing at the edge of the stage above the crowd, poised, unsmiling, surveying the audience with the same searching look he’d had on the ship. It is probably the same for him.
They chose this place to meet. An abandoned merchant station somewhere beyond the borders. Close enough to the rebel base that he can fly back in no time. He looks around at the metal and glass and worn posters in what used to be a bar, years ago. Some things never change; there’s a calendar with naked women on it. Probably the politically correctness of the Empire did not reach here. Torn leather stools. They’re sitting at a table where thousands of men sat before them. Some carved their names on it. He can see old marks of burning, old stains. Drinks. Blood?
He is thinking about the offer. He cannot quite believe it. It has been ten years since he started the civil war against his own grandmother to restore the core of the system she perverted for her own benefit. He was too upright to be perverted. For Francis, or whatever his name is these days, things are different; he grew up from nothing because of the same system.
“You have much more to lose than I,” he says in the end.
“I’m a daredevil.”
He stands, paces the room for a minute. “Let’s imagine we win. What after that?”
“I don’t know. You are the clever one, aren’t you?” There’s a bit of a challenge in the commander’s voice. “You will find something.”
He watches him rise and walk up to him. He is manoeuvred back against the wall.
“You still think it’s a trap. That I’m using this… this thing between us to trap you. But I’m not.” He shakes him a bit, like a reluctant kitten. “I’m not.” Then he kisses him. They lose themselves in the kiss, again and again.
“Over my dead body, Francis,” he remembers saying. “You are not going out of this room unless you kiss me!” Teasing, his back against the door, drunk on ale and lust, arms spread out, laughing. Francis did not laugh. He very seldom did. Taking it as the challenge it was he kissed Thomas, who knew in a flash, and too late, that this, this - hard warm mouth, tickle of a beard, tongue invading him, body pressing full against him, fearless - was his doom. He had expected Francis to roll his eyes, kiss him chastely and storm out. Instead he was manhandled to the bed, pinned there and fucked.
Every kiss with Tom is obscured by the last memory of too cold lips against his; warm tears falling over Tom’s still face, hands pulling him away as he clawed at the coffin…
“You know,” he says against the commander’s mouth. “Somehow, even if this ends being a trap, I don’t really care.” He is kissed again, lightly. “Just, if you must kill me, please do it now.”
A hand in his hair, a face against his own, a body pressed against his body, an arm around his waist. A breathless laugh. “I love you. Did I say that already?”
They take it slow with the next kiss, hands roaming under the tight jacket of the Commander’s uniform, the worn leather of the rebel’s coat.
*********************
“How nice.” The voice from the door, mocking applauses, a senile laugh…
The commander takes a step forward, shielding his friend. Facing the guards. The guns.
“Useless, Commander. Once you’re down, I’ll get him.”
He turns away. They don’t look at her. They embrace; tighten their grip around each other. Close their eyes. Cheek against cheek. Bodies locked together. It feels like dancing.
“If I understand correctly what I heard earlier,” she says, “I’m doing you a favor. You did not have time yet to let each other down.”
It doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t matter. Death doesn’t matter. They barely feel the pain anyway, only each other’s warmth, until everything goes dark.