Writing Post
And, should anyone be interested, the first chapter of a story of mine . . . which has been edited a billion times now.
This'll probably be the final edit for awhile. I'm currently hacking my way through chapter two (wish me luck X___X). When I get a suitable amount of chapters done I'll probably make a website for it . . . .
The best thing, Arman thought wryly, about the President’s
visits was watching his secretary close the door behind the annoying
megalomaniac. The secretary always shot him a sympathetic wince; Arman
had no idea how the man managed to put up with the President’s egotistical
chit-chat as he escorted him out of the office, once or twice he had even
thought about giving the poor clerk a raise just on that premise. Turning
to the papers scattered on his desk, Arman scowled. He barely resisted
the urge to toss the whole pile into his wastebasket, and only the knowledge
that he could quickly be cast back out on the streets held him in check.
He might not like the orders the President gave, but he had to follow them in
letter, if not in spirit.
Yawning, Arman crossed over to a closet on the other side of the room.
Lifting a small key from his vest pocket he opened it, gently removing a single
bottle of alcohol. A crystal class was produced from the same cabinet and
he poured himself a shot. Closing the door he chose to take the bottle
with him.
He sat at his desk as, with a sigh, he sipped slowly. It was early
for him to drink his customary glass, but he needed something to distract from
his growing tension headache. Some days he had half a mind to quit his
job, just to get away from the President, but he was quickly reminded of just
how far he had drug himself up. He never quite had it in him to so quickly
throw away the prestige he had grown so used to. Not if it meant he was
returning to the streets with nothing and no one, save perhaps the small
comfort of one addictive drug or another.
Arman was still not certain as to how the madman, as he had mentally dubbed the
President, had managed to get himself elected. He supposed it involved a
good deal of bribery and threats, if not worse. He knew just how many
worse things a politician could resort to, had they the guts and a good enough
reason. Despite his hardened, sullied years on the street, some of the
things humans could resort to, some of the things people did to each other
still made his blood run cold. He had seen things that no one who looked
down from above could even begin to imagine; the things they reviled and called
dirt barely scratched the surface of the nature of the slums. People like
the President were his daily reminder of just how cold the foundation of
society really was. He envied those who had ever been ignorant of its
workings, even more so the people who still were.
He tipped back the first glass of alcohol quickly. It was not the light,
sweet wine he normally favored, instead something a bit stronger and darker,
something intended to help him forget things for an hour or two.
Despondently he poured himself another glass, sitting the bottle on the
edge of his desk. Then he turned to gaze out the wall-length sheath of
glass behind his desk. It looked out upon the underlying city of
Elysian. The sun had just begun to sit on the horizon and the metallic
city glowed with its reflection. This was the view that tourists flocked
to see, the city glowing as if blessed with a holy light; Elysian had been
carefully constructed to present this illusion of holiness, down to its very
name.
The golden light flickered across the faceted crystal of his wine glass,
glittering as if the same holy fire that saturated the city had been
transferred to it. He watched it, transfixed and at the same time not
really seeing it. His form was a shadow in the light that shone all
around, black curls seeming to swallow the warm glow. His dark eyes were
hooded and troubled; they seemed cold as ice against the warmth of the last
rays of sunlight. He was so lost in his thoughts that he even ignored the
dark curls that fell into his eyes, obscuring the wrinkles at his brow and at
the corners of his eyes.
He turned, his third glass already at his lips, at the sound of a sharp knock
at the door. He called for his secretary to enter, already knowing who
was at the door. The man entered, a timid smile on his face. His
hair was a mass of woolly curls dark enough to match Arman’s, intelligent brown
eyes poked out from the curly mess that somehow managed to looked orderly on
him. Arman blamed it on the man’s distant African heritage. There
was a light scar on the secretary’s nose that was completely at odds with his
otherwise orderly appearance.
Arman nodded at him, taking a sip from his glass, “Was there something you
needed, Matthew?” His voice was faintly sarcastic and his smile wry, he
was always more of an ass than usual after meeting with the President.
Matthew was well used to Arman’s mannerisms and easily ignored him, “I thought
I might find you at your . . . alcohol?” Matthew blinked in
surprise, slightly taken aback at Arman’s uncustomary choice of drink.
Arman snorted and replied, “It’s the only thing strong enough to get the taste
that man leaves in my mouth out.”
Matthew sighed, “You’ve a meeting with the Lieutenant Generals in two hours,
Sir. You can’t afford to drown your misery.”
Arman frowned at him, “You never let me have any fun, Matthew.” He
smirked, placing a finger on his secretary’s forehead, “This goes a little
beyond your job description, don’t you think?”
Matthew’s smile was lopsided, “I’ve joined Christopher’s conspiracy against
you, Sir. Better watch out.”
“Great,” Arman downed the last of the alcohol in his glass, “just what I
needed, another babysitter.”
“Why thank you, Sir. We know you’re grateful for our service,” Matthew
crossed the room and placed the bottle back into the cabinet. He turned
the key, still protruding from the lock, and smiled at the click of the
lock. “If you don’t mind, Sir. I think I’m going to keep this for
the rest of the day. I’ll have it back in time for your evening glass of
wine.”
“And when did you become so impertinent?” Arman asked, “Aren’t secretaries supposed
to do what they’re told?”
Arman’s question was returned with a grin. “But Sir,” Matthew
answered, “We both know you wouldn’t keep me around if I wasn’t. You
secretly get off on it.”
“Bah,” Arman growled. He waved the younger man off, “I’m sure you’ve
plenty of things more pressing than nagging at me.”
“None, Sir,” Matthew spoke with a straight face, though he was clearly laughing
behind his façade. “But I can take a hint. Shall I have that glass
washed for you?”
“And quit calling me ‘sir,’” Arman snapped. “I’ve known you since you
were in diapers.”
The secretary chuckled, calling back as he closed the door behind him, “Very
well, Master.”
------------
It was an hour later when Matthew knocked at the door again. Arman was
sipping water from his wine glass, trying futilely to convince himself the
contents had any alcohol. The look he shot his secretary was one of pure
misery, calculated to make the younger man feel guilty. Unfortunately for
Arman, Matthew had long since grown immune to any such gestures.
“The Lieutenant General has arrived,” the man paused, taking in Arman’s
questioning look as he hesitated at the door. “And don’t you look
queeny. Lieutenant General Fujiwara was the only one who could make it.”
Arman snorted, “I wonder what lovely excuses they’ve come up with this time.”
“I don’t know,” Matthew replied honestly, “Apparently they’ve left it to
Lieutenant General Fujiwara to explain.”
“Then it’ll most certainly be interesting,” Arman shoved his glass to the other
end of the table, “And his mood?”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he considered, “Annoyed I think.”
Arman grinned, “I wouldn’t expect less. There’s a man who hates having to
pick up for other’s slack.”
Matthew shrugged, “Shall I send him in now?”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want him to get in a worse mood than he already is. The
damn man is already hard enough to deal with.”
Arman stared imploringly at the wine cabinet and at his secretary’s retreating
back, wondering if he could convince Matthew that it was certainly a worthy
occasion for a drink or three. He sighed as the door shut behind a tall
Asian; the man was really of about average height, Arman would have to concede,
but just about everyone was tall in comparison to himself, a factor that he had
only his wit and his temper, and perhaps a little of his unscrupulous street
reputation, to counter with.
“Lieutenant General,” he greeted, gesturing to a seat in front of his
desk. “I’m glad you could join me today.”
“Unlike those other jack-offs,” Satoru replied bluntly, taking a seat. He
met Arman’s eyes evenly. Fujiwara Satoru was a man who was all business,
Arman found him easy to work with, if the conversation was sometimes a bit
lacking.
“Precisely,” Arman agreed, secretly glad that Fujiwara was the only general to
show. At least he agreed with Arman’s sentiments, more or less. He
was glad to skip the hours of battling hard heads who did not know when to back
down and keep quiet.
“As you’ve already discerned, I’m sure, the matter to be dealt with is . . .
sensitive,” the pause was more descriptive than his choice of word, “and I’ve
just received more information from the President this morning. He’s
really starting to put the pressure on us now. The damned man doesn’t
know when to let things alone, meddler, he’ll drive the organization into the
ground.” Arman looked the Lieutenant General in the eye. “As you
were the only one of your colleagues to show, this matter will be placed in
your hands. I trust your competency more than the others, anyway.
As it turns out, this arrangement is more to my liking; the others can keep
their noses out of this particular issue . . . . You understand that this
is to be kept highly classified, Lieutenant General?”
“Crystal clear, Sir,” Satoru smirked, “I wasn’t about to keep the others
up-to-date when they can’t be bothered to make meetings, anyway. They can
do their own jobs or they can fail at them, I can‘t be bothered.”
Arman nodded, amused though he kept his features schooled, “I’ll have to see
about a suitable punishment for them, they’re starting to get too far out of
line.”
Satoru had always felt his peers were out of line, but he said nothing.
If he studied Arman closely, he could see the effects of stress on General
Arman’s face. Deep lines were forming that he didn’t remember from the
last time he’d met with him, and he was certain it wasn’t his imagination
creating grey hairs where there had last been a luxurious black. It was
also true that the General was hardly getting younger; age eventually took its
toll on even the most vigorous, Satoru figured that Arman was beginning to feel
a little bit of it.
“Speaking of your peers, I take it,” Arman spoke again, his voice cutting through
Satoru’s thoughts like a knife, “you know nothing of why the truants skipped
out?”
Satoru’s face twisted into a disapproving frown, “I believe that Cook and
Greene were overindulging last night, no real excuse, but they’ll try it
anyway. They couldn’t even handle a paper cut, not to mention a
hangover. And Polzinski disappeared yesterday-you should press him on
that, I’m sure the results will be interesting, if not entertaining.”
The two shared a smirk and Arman made a note to act on the Lieutenant General’s
suggestion. It most certainly had merit.
“Very well, I’ll definitely have to see to the miscreants,” Arman’s tone
suggested that he would enjoy doing so. “But to turn things back to the
matter at hand,” Arman leaned back in his chair, “what do you know about
Babylon, Lieutenant General?”
“Babylon,” Satoru repeated the word. “The ruins out to the west?
Isn’t that where felons are gathering, a sort of modern haven for rogues and
thieves? It‘s like something out of a fantasy book, doomed to fall in on
itself, nothing that idealistic ever works. ‘Robin Hood’ was never a real
person, Sir. And he’s not about to come to life now.”
“You see,” Arman folded his hands, “that’s just the problem. It is
working. Despite all odds and logic, somehow has found a way to make it
work. Information seems to indicate a growing faction within Babylon,
their target is this organization. The President seems to think they’re a
legit threat and wants us to take care of it.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow, “A bunch of ‘merry men’ are a serious threat to
Etherica?”
“Yes,” Arman paused, “Most likely they’re those who escaped from our drafting
process . . . .”
A few moments passed as Satoru processed the information. His eyes
widened in comprehension, “You mean that not only do we have a group intent on
destroying Etherica, but they’re also the only group on the planet who could
possibly have the firepower to do so?! Since when have we been letting
such high level psionics get loose?”
Arman’s silence was vocal enough for Satoru. The Lieutenant General ran a
hand through his hair with a sigh.
“So basically,” Satoru summarized, “we’re doing cleanup work because someone
fucked up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Arman agreed. “It simplifies it a bit,
though. It‘s not just a simple case of covering our asses, as you can
imagine. We need to be very careful or we could very well end up losing
the organization. As much as I hate to admit it, these people are a very
real threat. We have to take this situation seriously.”
Satoru snorted, obviously not quite agreeing, but otherwise kept his opinion to
himself. He said aloud, “So what exactly are you proposing, General
Dusan?”
“I’m proposing that you treat these people as a serious terrorist threat to the
organization. I’m putting you in command of the operation to uproot and
destroy them. You’re intelligent and I’ve utter faith in your
success. I will, of course, be available should you feel the need to
discuss any plans with me before taking access. However, you have
clearance to act at will as you deem necessary.”
He added as an afterthought, “I suggest, Lieutenant General, that you keep full
knowledge of the details of this operation limited to as few people as
possible. It’s hard to tell just what sort of intelligence the rebels may
have placed among us. They certainly seem well informed if their behavior
is anything to go by.”
Satoru nodded, “Duly noted. I am flattered that you have such confidence
in me, Sir, but it seems a lot of responsibility for one man to
undertake. Not that I couldn’t undertake it solo, but . . . will I be
working with another officer?”
Arman nodded, “Straight to the point, aren’t you? That’s part of what I
like about you, Fujiwara. Your partner, Brigadier Deardorf, will, of
course, be assisting you.”
Arman paused to smirk, knowing that things were explosive, at best, when Satoru
and his partner were combined. He was counting on some of that explosive
power to pull the duo through this mission, “We have also provided a score of
men, who have been told nothing save they were selected for a special
operation. I suggest you keep them in the dark, Lieutenant General.
We can select more men upon request, but it will take some time. I wish
you luck.”
Satoru scowled, predictably, at the mention of his partner, “I will be sure to
do my best, Sir.”
It was only his sense of honor and obedience, Arman suspected, that kept him
from blowing his top over the arrangement. Sometimes Arman secretly
wished he would sometime; it would surely be an amusing show. Arman was
having fun seeing how far he could push the man. Satoru Fujiwara was much
better at keeping his temper than his outspoken partner. Arman fully
expected a visit from the Brigadier later today.
“If you have no further questions, Lieutenant General, then you may leave
now. I suggest that you get started on this operation immediately.
Time is of the essence in an operation like this.”
Satoru nodded, voiced his understanding, and then turned around to let himself
out. Arman allowed himself a bit of laughter once the other man was
gone. This little exchange almost made up for the morning’s visit from
the president-almost. At any rate, he wasn’t feeling a longing tug from
his wine cabinet anymore. Matthew would be thankful, he knew, and perhaps
Christopher too. Arman just found the willpower to return to his
paperwork.
------------
Satoru was seething as he walked down the halls from Arman’s office into the
main Etherica complex. Arman’s mocking smile had not been lost on him; he
knew that his placement with Deardorf was a private joke to the General,
everyone in the complex knew that. Never mind the fact that the
partnership did have its occasional perks, their different thinking processes
often complimented each other on a mission and they were well suited in every
practical way to each other. At every other time, however, they were at
each others necks, arguing over every little thing. People used to joke
they were like a married couple, after finding out that Deardorf could be even
scarier than Satoru when angered they had stopped.
He slammed the door shut behind him when he reached the apartment he was forced
to share with his partner. His shoes were kicked off at the doorway, a
habit he had never quite kicked. It was one of his Eastern traits that
had not been cast off as he was immersed in a Western world and one of the many
traits that colored him eccentric. Walking across the room he flopped
face down on the couch, heaving a sigh. He was just waiting for the day
to get worse; it was certainly one of those days and it was hardly half over.
He heard a door creak open to his right, from his partner’s side of the
apartment, as if on cue. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the man
peeking out, long, outlandishly colored hair framing a baby-face which was
deceptive in its age. If ever he had wished to become one with his
furniture, now was it. The couch failed him, and he swore the next time
he cleaned it would be neglected in retaliation.
“Ah, Beefcake,” the same mocking grin that had crossed Arman’s face was
echoed in that tone of voice, “if you’re so desperate you’re resorting to
making out with the couch then I suppose I could give you a hand.
Or head, whichever is more appropriate.”
“No thanks,” Satoru replied, voice muffled into the couch, “go play with one of
your little whores.”
It was a combination of practice and routine that enabled Damien to understand
Satoru’s couch-speak. “It was just an offer, no need to get snippy about
it. What‘s got your undies knotted this time, bad boy?”
Satoru lifted his head just long enough to send his partner quite the withering
glare before going back to becoming one with the couch.
“Fuck off, Dear-dwarf,” he retorted.
“It’s Damien. Day-me-in,” his partner corrected, with an air of
annoyance. “I can see you’re being perfectly unreasonable again, Prince
Arsehole. I assume this has something to do with our dear General?”
Satoru raised his head again, “He’s told you about it already?!”
Damien blinked and raised an eyebrow, “I’ve heard nothing, I assure you, Beefcake.
But I did look at your schedule this morning after you went out. I may
not be a bleeping genius but I can put two and two together.”
After a few moments of watching Satoru fail in his attempts of couch-melding,
Damien spoke again, prodding Satoru with his finger for good measure, “Oi, you
haven’t suffocated yourself yet, have you? So spill, how has His
Grandness upset you this time?”
Satoru didn’t even bother to lift his head this time, mumbling in his
couch-speak, “You’ll find out soon enough, briefing should be sent to you.”
“Oh,” Damien grinned, “So the old goat put both of us on this case. Oh
happy days! I’ll have to go pay him a visit later.”
“I hope you were sarcastic,” replied the couch-speak.
“Oh, of course, Lord Grouchiness. I wouldn’t dream of using anything but
sarcasm around you,” Damien replied, “It might go over your pretty, little
head.”
Ignoring the snort Damien crossed to the other side of the room, clad only in
pajamas featuring some cartoon hit that Satoru had never been bothered to
identify. He had, however, discovered that Damien lived and breathed
animated characters, much to his annoyance on Saturday mornings. Pajamas
disappeared into the kitchen as Damien fixed himself a cup of coffee.
Cream and extra sugar, with a little whipped cream for a kick, Damien figured
he would need it to be up to dealing with Satoru in a mood. When he
reentered the living room Satoru was just as he left him.
Damien placed his empty hand on his hip after brushing a strand of neon blue
hair out of his eye. “I really don’t think you’re going to somehow
dissolve into the couch, Beefcake. But I do know a good Asian joint a few
blocks down. Come on, you’re always bugging me about my greasy American
food. I’ll break down and eat things your way for a change. Come on, come
on, come on.”
The couch-speak did not sound any more enthusiastic than before, “If you like
the place it can’t be authentic. I’ll hate it. Go yourself,
you fatty American.”
“You insult my taste! . . . and I am not fat,” Damien pretended to sound
hurt. “You shouldn’t knock things before you try them Beefcake-san.”
The groan from the couch was most certainly from the slightly modified
nickname.
“What? Did I get it wrong?” Damien frowned, “But Fujimi-san . . . wait,
she said to call her Fujimi . . . Oh-bah-san? Anyway, she said that was
appropriate for you.”
“It’s ‘obaasan,’” the couch-speak corrected, “. . . means grandma.”
Damien snorted, “Well how am I to know such things if you don’t tell me, oh
master of Japanese?”
“Get out a book.”
It was then that Damien realized he had been derailed from his topic, “Now come
on, you need to eat, I’m hungry, it goes without saying we should go to that
cute little Asian place.”
“I prefer to cook for myself,” Satoru replied.
“You just eat that instant noodle-ramen crap!” Damien shook his now empty
coffee mug at his prone partner, “That stuff can’t be any more ‘authentic’ than
anything I eat!”
“Shows how much you know,” Satoru muttered, “it originates from Japan.”
Damien threw both of his hands up in defeat, narrowly missing tossing the
coffee mug across the room. He stomped across the room to his bedroom,
disappearing inside only to change into a shirt and a new pair of pants.
He pulled his hair back and stomped back across the room to stand looking down
on Satoru. One foot slipped out of a sandal to prod him in the side.
“Get up, get up,” he chanted, showing the Asian no mercy. “You have to
get out of the house sometime you evil hermit, it’s not healthy!
Christopher even says so.”
“I take vitamin supplements,” Satoru replied, “and Christopher can go to hell.”
Damien brought the mug down hard on a stylish coffee table placed in front of
the couch, he growled out his frustration and gave Satoru’s leg a hard
kick. He left the mug sitting on the table, if he was lucky it would
leave a nasty ring to irritate his OCD partner. Glaring at the Asian’s
back and stepping out the front door, he let it slam behind him.
Satoru only sighed into the couch.
This'll probably be the final edit for awhile. I'm currently hacking my way through chapter two (wish me luck X___X). When I get a suitable amount of chapters done I'll probably make a website for it . . . .
The best thing, Arman thought wryly, about the President’s
visits was watching his secretary close the door behind the annoying
megalomaniac. The secretary always shot him a sympathetic wince; Arman
had no idea how the man managed to put up with the President’s egotistical
chit-chat as he escorted him out of the office, once or twice he had even
thought about giving the poor clerk a raise just on that premise. Turning
to the papers scattered on his desk, Arman scowled. He barely resisted
the urge to toss the whole pile into his wastebasket, and only the knowledge
that he could quickly be cast back out on the streets held him in check.
He might not like the orders the President gave, but he had to follow them in
letter, if not in spirit.
Yawning, Arman crossed over to a closet on the other side of the room.
Lifting a small key from his vest pocket he opened it, gently removing a single
bottle of alcohol. A crystal class was produced from the same cabinet and
he poured himself a shot. Closing the door he chose to take the bottle
with him.
He sat at his desk as, with a sigh, he sipped slowly. It was early
for him to drink his customary glass, but he needed something to distract from
his growing tension headache. Some days he had half a mind to quit his
job, just to get away from the President, but he was quickly reminded of just
how far he had drug himself up. He never quite had it in him to so quickly
throw away the prestige he had grown so used to. Not if it meant he was
returning to the streets with nothing and no one, save perhaps the small
comfort of one addictive drug or another.
Arman was still not certain as to how the madman, as he had mentally dubbed the
President, had managed to get himself elected. He supposed it involved a
good deal of bribery and threats, if not worse. He knew just how many
worse things a politician could resort to, had they the guts and a good enough
reason. Despite his hardened, sullied years on the street, some of the
things humans could resort to, some of the things people did to each other
still made his blood run cold. He had seen things that no one who looked
down from above could even begin to imagine; the things they reviled and called
dirt barely scratched the surface of the nature of the slums. People like
the President were his daily reminder of just how cold the foundation of
society really was. He envied those who had ever been ignorant of its
workings, even more so the people who still were.
He tipped back the first glass of alcohol quickly. It was not the light,
sweet wine he normally favored, instead something a bit stronger and darker,
something intended to help him forget things for an hour or two.
Despondently he poured himself another glass, sitting the bottle on the
edge of his desk. Then he turned to gaze out the wall-length sheath of
glass behind his desk. It looked out upon the underlying city of
Elysian. The sun had just begun to sit on the horizon and the metallic
city glowed with its reflection. This was the view that tourists flocked
to see, the city glowing as if blessed with a holy light; Elysian had been
carefully constructed to present this illusion of holiness, down to its very
name.
The golden light flickered across the faceted crystal of his wine glass,
glittering as if the same holy fire that saturated the city had been
transferred to it. He watched it, transfixed and at the same time not
really seeing it. His form was a shadow in the light that shone all
around, black curls seeming to swallow the warm glow. His dark eyes were
hooded and troubled; they seemed cold as ice against the warmth of the last
rays of sunlight. He was so lost in his thoughts that he even ignored the
dark curls that fell into his eyes, obscuring the wrinkles at his brow and at
the corners of his eyes.
He turned, his third glass already at his lips, at the sound of a sharp knock
at the door. He called for his secretary to enter, already knowing who
was at the door. The man entered, a timid smile on his face. His
hair was a mass of woolly curls dark enough to match Arman’s, intelligent brown
eyes poked out from the curly mess that somehow managed to looked orderly on
him. Arman blamed it on the man’s distant African heritage. There
was a light scar on the secretary’s nose that was completely at odds with his
otherwise orderly appearance.
Arman nodded at him, taking a sip from his glass, “Was there something you
needed, Matthew?” His voice was faintly sarcastic and his smile wry, he
was always more of an ass than usual after meeting with the President.
Matthew was well used to Arman’s mannerisms and easily ignored him, “I thought
I might find you at your . . . alcohol?” Matthew blinked in
surprise, slightly taken aback at Arman’s uncustomary choice of drink.
Arman snorted and replied, “It’s the only thing strong enough to get the taste
that man leaves in my mouth out.”
Matthew sighed, “You’ve a meeting with the Lieutenant Generals in two hours,
Sir. You can’t afford to drown your misery.”
Arman frowned at him, “You never let me have any fun, Matthew.” He
smirked, placing a finger on his secretary’s forehead, “This goes a little
beyond your job description, don’t you think?”
Matthew’s smile was lopsided, “I’ve joined Christopher’s conspiracy against
you, Sir. Better watch out.”
“Great,” Arman downed the last of the alcohol in his glass, “just what I
needed, another babysitter.”
“Why thank you, Sir. We know you’re grateful for our service,” Matthew
crossed the room and placed the bottle back into the cabinet. He turned
the key, still protruding from the lock, and smiled at the click of the
lock. “If you don’t mind, Sir. I think I’m going to keep this for
the rest of the day. I’ll have it back in time for your evening glass of
wine.”
“And when did you become so impertinent?” Arman asked, “Aren’t secretaries supposed
to do what they’re told?”
Arman’s question was returned with a grin. “But Sir,” Matthew
answered, “We both know you wouldn’t keep me around if I wasn’t. You
secretly get off on it.”
“Bah,” Arman growled. He waved the younger man off, “I’m sure you’ve
plenty of things more pressing than nagging at me.”
“None, Sir,” Matthew spoke with a straight face, though he was clearly laughing
behind his façade. “But I can take a hint. Shall I have that glass
washed for you?”
“And quit calling me ‘sir,’” Arman snapped. “I’ve known you since you
were in diapers.”
The secretary chuckled, calling back as he closed the door behind him, “Very
well, Master.”
------------
It was an hour later when Matthew knocked at the door again. Arman was
sipping water from his wine glass, trying futilely to convince himself the
contents had any alcohol. The look he shot his secretary was one of pure
misery, calculated to make the younger man feel guilty. Unfortunately for
Arman, Matthew had long since grown immune to any such gestures.
“The Lieutenant General has arrived,” the man paused, taking in Arman’s
questioning look as he hesitated at the door. “And don’t you look
queeny. Lieutenant General Fujiwara was the only one who could make it.”
Arman snorted, “I wonder what lovely excuses they’ve come up with this time.”
“I don’t know,” Matthew replied honestly, “Apparently they’ve left it to
Lieutenant General Fujiwara to explain.”
“Then it’ll most certainly be interesting,” Arman shoved his glass to the other
end of the table, “And his mood?”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he considered, “Annoyed I think.”
Arman grinned, “I wouldn’t expect less. There’s a man who hates having to
pick up for other’s slack.”
Matthew shrugged, “Shall I send him in now?”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want him to get in a worse mood than he already is. The
damn man is already hard enough to deal with.”
Arman stared imploringly at the wine cabinet and at his secretary’s retreating
back, wondering if he could convince Matthew that it was certainly a worthy
occasion for a drink or three. He sighed as the door shut behind a tall
Asian; the man was really of about average height, Arman would have to concede,
but just about everyone was tall in comparison to himself, a factor that he had
only his wit and his temper, and perhaps a little of his unscrupulous street
reputation, to counter with.
“Lieutenant General,” he greeted, gesturing to a seat in front of his
desk. “I’m glad you could join me today.”
“Unlike those other jack-offs,” Satoru replied bluntly, taking a seat. He
met Arman’s eyes evenly. Fujiwara Satoru was a man who was all business,
Arman found him easy to work with, if the conversation was sometimes a bit
lacking.
“Precisely,” Arman agreed, secretly glad that Fujiwara was the only general to
show. At least he agreed with Arman’s sentiments, more or less. He
was glad to skip the hours of battling hard heads who did not know when to back
down and keep quiet.
“As you’ve already discerned, I’m sure, the matter to be dealt with is . . .
sensitive,” the pause was more descriptive than his choice of word, “and I’ve
just received more information from the President this morning. He’s
really starting to put the pressure on us now. The damned man doesn’t
know when to let things alone, meddler, he’ll drive the organization into the
ground.” Arman looked the Lieutenant General in the eye. “As you
were the only one of your colleagues to show, this matter will be placed in
your hands. I trust your competency more than the others, anyway.
As it turns out, this arrangement is more to my liking; the others can keep
their noses out of this particular issue . . . . You understand that this
is to be kept highly classified, Lieutenant General?”
“Crystal clear, Sir,” Satoru smirked, “I wasn’t about to keep the others
up-to-date when they can’t be bothered to make meetings, anyway. They can
do their own jobs or they can fail at them, I can‘t be bothered.”
Arman nodded, amused though he kept his features schooled, “I’ll have to see
about a suitable punishment for them, they’re starting to get too far out of
line.”
Satoru had always felt his peers were out of line, but he said nothing.
If he studied Arman closely, he could see the effects of stress on General
Arman’s face. Deep lines were forming that he didn’t remember from the
last time he’d met with him, and he was certain it wasn’t his imagination
creating grey hairs where there had last been a luxurious black. It was
also true that the General was hardly getting younger; age eventually took its
toll on even the most vigorous, Satoru figured that Arman was beginning to feel
a little bit of it.
“Speaking of your peers, I take it,” Arman spoke again, his voice cutting through
Satoru’s thoughts like a knife, “you know nothing of why the truants skipped
out?”
Satoru’s face twisted into a disapproving frown, “I believe that Cook and
Greene were overindulging last night, no real excuse, but they’ll try it
anyway. They couldn’t even handle a paper cut, not to mention a
hangover. And Polzinski disappeared yesterday-you should press him on
that, I’m sure the results will be interesting, if not entertaining.”
The two shared a smirk and Arman made a note to act on the Lieutenant General’s
suggestion. It most certainly had merit.
“Very well, I’ll definitely have to see to the miscreants,” Arman’s tone
suggested that he would enjoy doing so. “But to turn things back to the
matter at hand,” Arman leaned back in his chair, “what do you know about
Babylon, Lieutenant General?”
“Babylon,” Satoru repeated the word. “The ruins out to the west?
Isn’t that where felons are gathering, a sort of modern haven for rogues and
thieves? It‘s like something out of a fantasy book, doomed to fall in on
itself, nothing that idealistic ever works. ‘Robin Hood’ was never a real
person, Sir. And he’s not about to come to life now.”
“You see,” Arman folded his hands, “that’s just the problem. It is
working. Despite all odds and logic, somehow has found a way to make it
work. Information seems to indicate a growing faction within Babylon,
their target is this organization. The President seems to think they’re a
legit threat and wants us to take care of it.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow, “A bunch of ‘merry men’ are a serious threat to
Etherica?”
“Yes,” Arman paused, “Most likely they’re those who escaped from our drafting
process . . . .”
A few moments passed as Satoru processed the information. His eyes
widened in comprehension, “You mean that not only do we have a group intent on
destroying Etherica, but they’re also the only group on the planet who could
possibly have the firepower to do so?! Since when have we been letting
such high level psionics get loose?”
Arman’s silence was vocal enough for Satoru. The Lieutenant General ran a
hand through his hair with a sigh.
“So basically,” Satoru summarized, “we’re doing cleanup work because someone
fucked up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Arman agreed. “It simplifies it a bit,
though. It‘s not just a simple case of covering our asses, as you can
imagine. We need to be very careful or we could very well end up losing
the organization. As much as I hate to admit it, these people are a very
real threat. We have to take this situation seriously.”
Satoru snorted, obviously not quite agreeing, but otherwise kept his opinion to
himself. He said aloud, “So what exactly are you proposing, General
Dusan?”
“I’m proposing that you treat these people as a serious terrorist threat to the
organization. I’m putting you in command of the operation to uproot and
destroy them. You’re intelligent and I’ve utter faith in your
success. I will, of course, be available should you feel the need to
discuss any plans with me before taking access. However, you have
clearance to act at will as you deem necessary.”
He added as an afterthought, “I suggest, Lieutenant General, that you keep full
knowledge of the details of this operation limited to as few people as
possible. It’s hard to tell just what sort of intelligence the rebels may
have placed among us. They certainly seem well informed if their behavior
is anything to go by.”
Satoru nodded, “Duly noted. I am flattered that you have such confidence
in me, Sir, but it seems a lot of responsibility for one man to
undertake. Not that I couldn’t undertake it solo, but . . . will I be
working with another officer?”
Arman nodded, “Straight to the point, aren’t you? That’s part of what I
like about you, Fujiwara. Your partner, Brigadier Deardorf, will, of
course, be assisting you.”
Arman paused to smirk, knowing that things were explosive, at best, when Satoru
and his partner were combined. He was counting on some of that explosive
power to pull the duo through this mission, “We have also provided a score of
men, who have been told nothing save they were selected for a special
operation. I suggest you keep them in the dark, Lieutenant General.
We can select more men upon request, but it will take some time. I wish
you luck.”
Satoru scowled, predictably, at the mention of his partner, “I will be sure to
do my best, Sir.”
It was only his sense of honor and obedience, Arman suspected, that kept him
from blowing his top over the arrangement. Sometimes Arman secretly
wished he would sometime; it would surely be an amusing show. Arman was
having fun seeing how far he could push the man. Satoru Fujiwara was much
better at keeping his temper than his outspoken partner. Arman fully
expected a visit from the Brigadier later today.
“If you have no further questions, Lieutenant General, then you may leave
now. I suggest that you get started on this operation immediately.
Time is of the essence in an operation like this.”
Satoru nodded, voiced his understanding, and then turned around to let himself
out. Arman allowed himself a bit of laughter once the other man was
gone. This little exchange almost made up for the morning’s visit from
the president-almost. At any rate, he wasn’t feeling a longing tug from
his wine cabinet anymore. Matthew would be thankful, he knew, and perhaps
Christopher too. Arman just found the willpower to return to his
paperwork.
------------
Satoru was seething as he walked down the halls from Arman’s office into the
main Etherica complex. Arman’s mocking smile had not been lost on him; he
knew that his placement with Deardorf was a private joke to the General,
everyone in the complex knew that. Never mind the fact that the
partnership did have its occasional perks, their different thinking processes
often complimented each other on a mission and they were well suited in every
practical way to each other. At every other time, however, they were at
each others necks, arguing over every little thing. People used to joke
they were like a married couple, after finding out that Deardorf could be even
scarier than Satoru when angered they had stopped.
He slammed the door shut behind him when he reached the apartment he was forced
to share with his partner. His shoes were kicked off at the doorway, a
habit he had never quite kicked. It was one of his Eastern traits that
had not been cast off as he was immersed in a Western world and one of the many
traits that colored him eccentric. Walking across the room he flopped
face down on the couch, heaving a sigh. He was just waiting for the day
to get worse; it was certainly one of those days and it was hardly half over.
He heard a door creak open to his right, from his partner’s side of the
apartment, as if on cue. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the man
peeking out, long, outlandishly colored hair framing a baby-face which was
deceptive in its age. If ever he had wished to become one with his
furniture, now was it. The couch failed him, and he swore the next time
he cleaned it would be neglected in retaliation.
“Ah, Beefcake,” the same mocking grin that had crossed Arman’s face was
echoed in that tone of voice, “if you’re so desperate you’re resorting to
making out with the couch then I suppose I could give you a hand.
Or head, whichever is more appropriate.”
“No thanks,” Satoru replied, voice muffled into the couch, “go play with one of
your little whores.”
It was a combination of practice and routine that enabled Damien to understand
Satoru’s couch-speak. “It was just an offer, no need to get snippy about
it. What‘s got your undies knotted this time, bad boy?”
Satoru lifted his head just long enough to send his partner quite the withering
glare before going back to becoming one with the couch.
“Fuck off, Dear-dwarf,” he retorted.
“It’s Damien. Day-me-in,” his partner corrected, with an air of
annoyance. “I can see you’re being perfectly unreasonable again, Prince
Arsehole. I assume this has something to do with our dear General?”
Satoru raised his head again, “He’s told you about it already?!”
Damien blinked and raised an eyebrow, “I’ve heard nothing, I assure you, Beefcake.
But I did look at your schedule this morning after you went out. I may
not be a bleeping genius but I can put two and two together.”
After a few moments of watching Satoru fail in his attempts of couch-melding,
Damien spoke again, prodding Satoru with his finger for good measure, “Oi, you
haven’t suffocated yourself yet, have you? So spill, how has His
Grandness upset you this time?”
Satoru didn’t even bother to lift his head this time, mumbling in his
couch-speak, “You’ll find out soon enough, briefing should be sent to you.”
“Oh,” Damien grinned, “So the old goat put both of us on this case. Oh
happy days! I’ll have to go pay him a visit later.”
“I hope you were sarcastic,” replied the couch-speak.
“Oh, of course, Lord Grouchiness. I wouldn’t dream of using anything but
sarcasm around you,” Damien replied, “It might go over your pretty, little
head.”
Ignoring the snort Damien crossed to the other side of the room, clad only in
pajamas featuring some cartoon hit that Satoru had never been bothered to
identify. He had, however, discovered that Damien lived and breathed
animated characters, much to his annoyance on Saturday mornings. Pajamas
disappeared into the kitchen as Damien fixed himself a cup of coffee.
Cream and extra sugar, with a little whipped cream for a kick, Damien figured
he would need it to be up to dealing with Satoru in a mood. When he
reentered the living room Satoru was just as he left him.
Damien placed his empty hand on his hip after brushing a strand of neon blue
hair out of his eye. “I really don’t think you’re going to somehow
dissolve into the couch, Beefcake. But I do know a good Asian joint a few
blocks down. Come on, you’re always bugging me about my greasy American
food. I’ll break down and eat things your way for a change. Come on, come
on, come on.”
The couch-speak did not sound any more enthusiastic than before, “If you like
the place it can’t be authentic. I’ll hate it. Go yourself,
you fatty American.”
“You insult my taste! . . . and I am not fat,” Damien pretended to sound
hurt. “You shouldn’t knock things before you try them Beefcake-san.”
The groan from the couch was most certainly from the slightly modified
nickname.
“What? Did I get it wrong?” Damien frowned, “But Fujimi-san . . . wait,
she said to call her Fujimi . . . Oh-bah-san? Anyway, she said that was
appropriate for you.”
“It’s ‘obaasan,’” the couch-speak corrected, “. . . means grandma.”
Damien snorted, “Well how am I to know such things if you don’t tell me, oh
master of Japanese?”
“Get out a book.”
It was then that Damien realized he had been derailed from his topic, “Now come
on, you need to eat, I’m hungry, it goes without saying we should go to that
cute little Asian place.”
“I prefer to cook for myself,” Satoru replied.
“You just eat that instant noodle-ramen crap!” Damien shook his now empty
coffee mug at his prone partner, “That stuff can’t be any more ‘authentic’ than
anything I eat!”
“Shows how much you know,” Satoru muttered, “it originates from Japan.”
Damien threw both of his hands up in defeat, narrowly missing tossing the
coffee mug across the room. He stomped across the room to his bedroom,
disappearing inside only to change into a shirt and a new pair of pants.
He pulled his hair back and stomped back across the room to stand looking down
on Satoru. One foot slipped out of a sandal to prod him in the side.
“Get up, get up,” he chanted, showing the Asian no mercy. “You have to
get out of the house sometime you evil hermit, it’s not healthy!
Christopher even says so.”
“I take vitamin supplements,” Satoru replied, “and Christopher can go to hell.”
Damien brought the mug down hard on a stylish coffee table placed in front of
the couch, he growled out his frustration and gave Satoru’s leg a hard
kick. He left the mug sitting on the table, if he was lucky it would
leave a nasty ring to irritate his OCD partner. Glaring at the Asian’s
back and stepping out the front door, he let it slam behind him.
Satoru only sighed into the couch.