Freeloaders: Old Shrapnel
Little fragments of memory, long embedded. Cut for violence, swearing, sexual references, and all that jazz.
* * *
Straightedge
He pulls back from the sights. "Is he bleeding? He's bleeding, isn't he?"
Check down the telescope. Mayhem, blood. Nod.
He snaps his fingers. "Damnit! I wanted that hat."
* * *
Backchat
“Wait. Where’s Backchat?”
Our tankards freeze in place. Redsashes out to check the rooms, listening for the wrong kind of scream.
We find him outside, sat on a chair. He looks over the bay. Past it. His feet are up on the back of a whore, who is barking like a dog for some reason.
Nobody asks any questions. He gives no answers. Satisfied, we return inside.
* * *
Sister Susan
“Easy, ma’am. Just name your price.”
The Abbess’s features twist in rage. “This is a place of work. A place of worship. Not for any money will I have it used as a, as a...” She struggles for a word.
Found one. “Backchat?”
Locked arm, set jaw. Crack, crumple. They run shrieking. One remains, gawping at the slow blossom of blood on the convent floor. Guns turn to her, clickety-clack.
“Lady! You ever been a hostage before?”
She shakes her head, barely a tremor. Staring.
“No worries. You look like a fast learner to me. Come on over.”
* * *
Saint
“Corporal! What exactly is that?”
Saint is having problems with some of the stringy bits. He looks up. “It was a duck.”
“Real big for a duck, ain’t it?”
Saint looks down, thinks for a moment. Waves his knife absently. “Yes. Yes it is. Funny that. What do you suppose it could have been, then?”
“Piece of something that’s still out there?”
“Nope.”
“Something with friends?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Something I’m gonna see again?”
“No sir.”
“Huh. Then I’m all out of questions. As you were, Saint.”
* * *
Creampie
The circle of recruits shoot glances between each other, suddenly nervous.
"Um. Captain? Is she supposed to bend like that?"
"Good question, redsash. Creampie?"
"Mgb?"
"Are you supposed to bend like that?"
She works her way free. "Is no problem, Captain! I fix it later."
"Atta girl. As you were, men."
* * *
Sweet Talk
"What the fuck is this!?"
He shoves the plate under her nose. Sauce spatters down her kimono, dark as old gore.
She blinks, stunned. Swallows before speaking. "Y-your order, great ronin." Her eyes dart between his. "It... it is a treasured speciality. Marinaded lamb with-"
"Lamb? Fucking lamb?!" He seizes a strip, and throws the plate aside. "This isn't a fucking lamb. Look at it! It's less than an inch wide. Fuck!"
There's a sweep and a clatter as, without another word, he storms from the bar.
Silence descends. She looks to us plaintatively. We stare impassively back. Backchat is still eating.
And now he's back. There's a sheep under his arm, its neck still drooling thick arterial blood.
He drops it, kicks it.
"Now cook it properly this time!"
* * *
Spoonie
There’s a thud from underneath, and the cart lurches to one side. A clatter of curses from the men.
“What’s the matter, Spoonie? I did wonder where all the pies went.”
He leaps to one side as a musket round spatters off the cobbles beneath him. “Not... gah! The pies. Straightedge’s mum just - ungh - she takes a... a bit of climbing, sir.”
“The fuck did he say?!”
“Eyes on the road, Straightedge.” Squint past him, back. The cavalry’s gaining.
“Could you... hah! Could you not just... hold the fucking cart for a minute?”
“Could you not just jump on when I fucking told you to, Spoonie?”
He drops, hands on knees, gasping. Rises with a burst of breath.
“Fuck this. I’m stealing a horse. See you on the dhow.”
* * *
Gunner
Step into the lodge. She's there, with a tumbler in hand and a bottle stood on the table before her.
"Gunner. I called a drill. Didn't you hear me?"
"This glass." She says, her words curled in rich Fidelian. "And this bottle. This vodka. I know twenty-three ways to kill a man with these."
She gulps back her drink. "But only one way to kill memory."
I nod. Backchat steps out from the shadows, puts the hilt of his knife across her nose.
"Two ways."
She spits away the blood that runs down her lips. "I should kill you, Captain."
"No, Gunner. That's not what I pay you for. But there's four redsashes doing their trials today. One of them isn't going to make the cut. Now get out there and do your fucking job."
She stands, and Backchat drifts back. "Very well, Captain."
She pauses, then, a smile creeping across half her face. "But one day, I will."
* * *
Duchess
Breathe in, smoke and ash. Relax. Char out the sweet stench of-
"Mister Captain, sir?"
"Isaac fucking Varas! Where in Hell did you come from?"
"From the pile of bodies, sir. See, I'm one of the peasants from the village and I came out for the massacre with all of the rest of them but I got tired and I had to lie down and I had a nap and everyone must have thought I was dead, sir, only they didn't shoot me and I'm still alive, sir."
Blink.
"Right." Throw the smouldering tobacco aside. "Huh. What the fuck are you talking to me for, then?"
"Well I thought as you were supposed to kill us all only you didn't 'cause I was still alive and when you found out then you'd be really angry and you'd come back for me so I'd better find you now so's you wouldn't be angry or nothing. Uh, sorry for being late, sir."
Nice Guy raises an eyebrow. "Shall I kill her for you, Captain?"
"I... huh. No." Weaver, you cunt. "Throw her in the cart. We'll work out what to do with her later."
"Thank you, Mister Captain sir!"
* * *
Joker
The redsashes are shouting and cursing like they were born for it, firmly off their faces. Joker is slumped at the next table, a sack of muscle and scar tissue. An old hound, watching pups at play. Striking one match after another.
One saunters across, swagger in his stagger and flecks of black gum in his grin. Lower City lad. What was his name? Fopboy, that was it. Parents done in by garters. Good catch.
"What you drinkin', old boy?"
More space in the unit for the others, I guess.
Joker stares. "Vodka. Is Fidelian."
"'S a fuckin' pussies drink 's what it is."
Joker smirks, leans forward. "You'll be wanting some, then."
The bottle makes short work of Fopboy's face. He stumbles, blinking back tears of blood and alchohol.
"Keeps you warm." says Joker.
Flicks the match.
* * *
Nobleheart
“Straightedge?” Her voice is clear, rising above the sea of mumbles and snores.
“Yes?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Wrong question. Straightedge, what are you doing in my bunk?”
“Nothing.” You don’t need to see him to know the size of that grin. “Why? Should I be doing something?”
There’s a pause.
“Did you know, Straightedge, that the jaws of a mokosh can chew through bone?”
It takes a moment to sink in.
“I’ll be going now. Night-night, Nobleheart.”
“Fuck off, Straightedge.”
* * *
Butch
She steps over the body at her feet, smiles.
“Morning, Freeloaders!”
The roar goes up. “Morning, Butch!”
She glances between them, hands perched on her hips. “What’re we doing today?”
Another bullet shrieks through the window, hitting the wall behind us. There’s a dull crunch, and a spray of splinters.
“Being besieged.” Glance over - Gunner is off to one side, hewing a fresh murder hole with quiet, savage precision. “Would you like a musket?”
“Hmm.” She tips her head to one side. “I don’t think they’re murderers. And, you know, Huntress. It’s complicated, really.”
Gesture outside. “Take a look.”
She does. The next bullet catches her shoulder, and she falls back in a sprawl. There’s a steady flow of blood, seeping through her uniform. Bleeder helps her back to her feet.
“Would you like a musket?”
“Yes please.”
* * *
Nice Guy
The tavern’s door is off its hinges, but barricaded from the inside. Not unusual. Try giving it a shove.
Not much of a barricade. There’s a tumble and clatter of chairs, a fresh cloud of dust blossoming in the dim haze. And a pained plea from one side.
“Would you… please… turn off… that fucking sun?”
There’s a figure slumped at the base of the bar. A sea of empty bottles stretches out from him on all sides, like a glittering halo. And then there’s the stench - rot and liquor, sweat and blood. All too familiar. His uniform (Majeste’s 23rd Royal Lancers, Sergeant) is torn, ill-fitting and stained. Probably not his.
“How long you been here?”
“I dunno.” He groans, dragging his hands across his face. Leaving marks in the dirt. “Just… stop shouting, will you?”
Glance across the rest of the room. Four corpses, desiccated now. Overturned tables. Dark stains on the floor. More empty bottles.
“Revolution’s been hard on you, huh?”
There’s silence. He raises an eyebrow.
“What revolution?”
* * *
Frigid
Sweet Talk marches into the tavern. He’s in a good mood. You can tell by the number of teeth on display.
“WHERE’S THAT FUCKING REDSASH? I GOT A KNOT IN MY MACE ARM, AND IT NEEDS WORKIN’ OUT!”
“She’s under the table, Sergeant. Been there for the last hour.”
“HA! PUNY LITTLE BACONFACES. CAN’T TAKE THEIR DRINK! AM I RIGHT?”
“Not exactly.”
* * *
Lightweight
Private Fearless raises the telescope to his eyes. Flinches. “Oh gods. Oh gods! The mameluks… they’re coming! They’re still coming! It’s all over, man! We’re doomed!”
We stumble to a halt, panting against the remorseless desert heat. Spoonie manages to catch his breath first.
“How the fuck do they keep finding us?”
They look between one another, searching for an answer. Their eyes settle on Lightweight. And his chainmail, shining like a beacon in the Amun-Sa sun. Spoonie swears.
“Okay, right. Mystery solved. How the fuck do you manage that in the desert, Lightweight?”
He shrugs, points to his bandanna. “Keeps the sun off my head.”
“But…” he sighs. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. Lightweight, you mad bastard, you’re leading the bloody kill-kitties right to us!”
Lightweight blinks. “Oh. Is that a problem?” He smiles, looking around to the mameluks on our tail. Nods. “Okay.”
And starts the charge back toward them.
* * *
Bleeder
“Alright, alright!” Doc Cock sways on his perch. “My turn. What am I thinking of?”
“I got this one!” Bleeder chucks his bottle in the fire, grin plastered across his face. Raises a finger. “Can you kill it?”
“Nah.”
Bleeder nods to himself. Counts off a second finger. “Can you fuck it?”
“Ha! No.”
“Alright.” Raises his third finger. “Can you snort it?”
“Nope.”
Bleeder stops, then, his mad gurn melting away. He leans in, slowly. “Whatever you’re thinking of, Doc, you’re wrong.”