NEW FIC: "Or Walk With Kings" - Jupiter Ascending. Gen. Caine. Titus.
[title]: Or Walk With Kings
[author]: splash_the_cat
[fandom]: Jupiter Ascending
[details]: PG. Caine Wise. Titus Abrasax. Famulus. 3162 words. posted 12/22/2015.
[summary]: Caine Wise comes out of the Deadland.
[notes]: While admiring Channing Tatum's very chiseled jaw in the movie, I also realized how very neatly groomed Caine's facial hair is, and thought, "When did he have a chance to do that?" And then someone posted great meta on the fact that Caine's boots and mauler are very clearly Skyjacker issue, and there was discussion on how he got those back, and someone else posted a gifset of Titus pretty much eye-fucking Caine in the airlock scene, and well, here you go.
AO3
livejournal
dreamwidth
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
― Rudyard Kipling, If: A Father's Advice to His Son
After the little doe introduced herself as Famulus, seneschal of his lordship Titus Abrasax, Third Primary of the House of Abrasax, she ignored him for the rest of the trip - from the moment they broke the Deadland's orbit until she'd deposited him in this sumptuous room, instructing, "Please clean yourself and do something about your, well, everything. Lord Titus likes his tools neat and presentable."
His tools. Caine grinned at her, all teeth and displeasure, earning a look of disgust before she shut the door. Tool for what he did not yet know. Famulus hadn't been inclined to tell him anything, not after she'd had to send in a third squad of mercenaries to procure him. One of that group had been bright enough, instead of trying to subdue him first, to toss him the sheave with Titus' holo offering him a chance at release for a small favor. He'd boarded the ship without further issue after that. Small favors for an Entitled were anything but, however Caine wasn't stupid. Just because he'd survived years in that hell didn't mean someone or something more determined wouldn't kill him tomorrow.
Opulent fabrics draped everything, exquisite art and sculpture covered the walls and tables, and colorful floral sprays exploded everywhere - a suite for Entitled guests. Caine sneezed half a dozen times, the exotic fragrances made his nose itch after the dry, dust and death of the Deadland. Sorting through the overwhelming bouquet of scents, he prowled the perimeter of the suite's salon. This Abrasax wasn't creative with his security; like the gun-synths that has assisted his escort here, the security sensors were high end, but standard packages, heavy on holo-recording and cleverly placed, but no after-market mods. It matched what he'd seen on his march through the clipper.
A small hallway led deeper into the suite, to the bedroom probably. At the elaborate arch entrance to it, he caught sight of himself in a polished sculpture hanging on one wall, startling at the feral creature that stared back: a haggard, hairy thing garbed in a patchwork of stolen and bartered garments painted an ugly brown with dirt, mud, and blood.
Fuck it, Caine thought, stripping off the filthy clothes right there, disgust suddenly rippling across his skin. He left them in a pile near the door and abandoned further explorations for the bathing chamber. The nano-fresher was a ridiculously ornate contraption, but he skipped that and stood at the edge of the bath pool, the sight of that much water momentarily mesmerizing.
Longing to be clean overwhelmed his caution, and with a rumbling groan, Caine sank into the water, blissfully heated just this side of scalding. Eddies swirled away in spirals of black and brown when he ducked his head under, scraping his fingers through the sand and crust in his hair and beard until he frantically scrubbed the palms of his hands across every inch of his skin, desperate to be free of the grime.
Eventually spent, the water around him finally clear, he sank under again, enjoying the pleasant burn of the water against his chafed skin, the heat seeping into his muscles. It barely dented the constant tension that coiled his body like a spring, but he still savored the fleeting pleasure, just as he reveled in feeling clean, smelling clean, no longer awash in the miasma of fear and adrenaline stink, carrion, blood, and his own waste.
Unfortunately, Famulus would no doubt return at any moment to drag him to his audience with the Entitled, and his skin was starting to itch from the heat and the unease of being so exposed, so he clambered out of the pool. The disquiet of the Deadland dogged his heels but, for the moment, he felt like a person again, born anew in the water that washed clean not just his skin, but also the tangles of misery, doubt and dread that dominated his every waking thought.
Availing himself of the drying option on the 'fresher, the wall mirror flashed in the corner of his eye and he found himself in front of it as if pulled by a tractor beam. The scars he'd earned in the Deadland he knew well, but not in aggregate like this, seeing all at once the years of damage healed the hard way, the story of his shame writ deep in his flesh. He traced one along his ribs, twisting to follow it around and-
The high pitched whine startled him until he realized it was coming from his own throat. The empty ache between his shoulders was normal now, but seeing it... He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, trying to quell the sudden burn of bile that surged up. The ports were still there, melted closed by the heat of the ion blade that had severed the wings, severed him from everything he'd known, or wanted. The coveted marks of his success in striving against the failure of his very being, gone. Gone because he did something he didn't even remember.
Swallowing against the burning in his throat, Caine closed his eyes and turned away. Self-pity wasn't going to bring his life back.
An archway led out of the bath room into the sleeping chamber, and placed on the foot of the bed... All his breath whooshed out of him. He approached softly, as if they might disappear, but there they sat, and reverently he dragged the tip of a finger down the front seam of one half of a pair of Skyjacker boots. He picked them up; the control gloves were tucked neatly inside each one. These were clearly a new model - lighter, probably jacked up response-time to match. He'd need at least a day to test them out, but Skyjackers trained to fly with just boots or wings, so he'd manage quick enough.
He sorted over the rest of the gear like a cadet up for review: the mauler's power cell chamber was empty, but the shield engaged perfectly. He smoothed a hand across the rough fabric of the tunic and pants before pulling them on and adjusting them to fit his leaner build. The boots went on next, and the gloves. He engaged the controls with trembling fingers and rose a few scant inches off the floor as the grav dynamos came online at his command.
Adrenaline roared though him, demanding he take this advantage and fight his way out, blood pounding in his ears as he ran scenarios and plans based on tactical assessments of everything he'd observed of Titus Abrasax's security from the moment he stepped foot on the transport under the cloud of Famulus's disdain to now. Caine disengaged the boots and thumped back to the floor, shoving the the empty mauler in its holster and all the plans to the back of his mind. The idea of trusting an Entitled grated, but he had gone to some length to procure Caine's services, so for the moment, hearing him out was Caine's best option.
Back in the suite's salon he rummaged through the pile of his discarded clothed and retrieved the crude flaked stone knife the guards hadn't found when they'd searched him. Gathering the ropes of hair that hung down past his shoulders, he hacked them off at the base of his neck before tucking the knife away in his boot.
Facing the mirror again was easier, armored as he now was. A dizzying array of enhancements stocked an ornate vanity, and he hunted through them until he found dark kohl liner and a depilator. One eye was still somewhat swollen enough from his fights with the mercs, so he pocketed the kohl for later and examined the ratty mess of his hair. Even cleaned and with most of it removed, it made his scalp crawl to look at it. He set the depilator and quickly buzzed it down to Skyjacker standard, fluffing his fingers through it when he finished, rejoicing in the lack of snarls and knots. His fingers reset the depilator out of habit and the beam shivered along his skin as he trimmed and shaped his beard into familiar, sharp lines.
That wasn't Legion proscribed, nor the kohl, but he liked the way that, in this shape, the pale, wiry hair highlighted the line of his jaw, and the dark liner emphasized his pale eyes. The squad had always jested him for these vanities, but he'd been given too little leave by breed standards and his creche-mates' opinions of his unsatisfactory features to enjoy much about his appearance, and so clung fiercely to these small acts of defiance against the failures of his genome.
In the mirror, the feral animal was gone, and he stared at a ghost.
The approach of footsteps in the hall saved him from falling into the the yawning chasm that cracked open in his chest at the sight of his reflection. He spun on his heel and positioned himself at the center of the suite just before Famulus swept in with a dozen gun-synth guards at her heels.
She stopped short and cocked her head. "Well, this is unexpected." She twirled a finger at him, until he rolled his eyes and grudgingly spun around in a slow circle for her review. "Acceptable," she said, flicking her fingers toward the door; the gun-synths parted to clear a path for him. "We'll see if Lord Titus feels the same."
*******
"The rabid dog, brought to heel."
Famulus and the synths escorted Caine to an enormous, gleaming glass hall, brilliant and blinding in shades of white and silver. The ceiling soared overhead, high enough to strain even his eyes a little as he scanned the space, mapping out every entry and exit point, every holo-recorder, the dozen plasma batteries hidden in elaborate cornices.
The staccato march of the gun-synths echoed as they neatly fanned out from their cage formation around Caine at the silk-spoken words, revealing a figure at the very center of the hall. The third Primary of the House of Abrasax, clothed in fine garments of simple design, feet bare, swept out his hands and inclined his head. "Welcome, Mr. Wise."
The gun-synths held position but Caine strode on, only halting Famulus said, "Enough." Eyes never leaving the Entitled's smiling face, he fell into parade rest, arms behind his back, left wrist gripped by his right hand.
"Dismiss them, Famulus," Titus said with a glance at the gun-synths.
"My lord-"
"If Mr. Wise were to attack, he would have done so by now." Titus paced a slow circle around Caine, spiraling in ever closer as the echo of the synths' retreat faded, until he stood inches away. He dragged his thumb along the line of Caine's newly-shaven jaw, the touch soft, unfathomably, terribly gentle. "Given Famulus's description, and the reports of your bloodthirsty ferocity, I had not expected anything quite so... delightful."
Caine dug his thumbnail into the skin of his wrist so he wouldn't grind his teeth. He stared ahead when Titus stepped away to rake Caine from head to boots with an exhaustive evaluation. "Do you speak, Mr. Wise? Or is this silent, yet attractive, brooding the only communication of which you are capable?"
Caine blinked once and slowly turned his head to look at Titus. "Why me?" It came out mostly growl, the first words he'd spoken in what, a year? And blood and bone, how he hated to hear them in this echoing space, given to this Entitled.
The animalistic utterance seemed to delight Titus, who clapped his palms together twice, eyes bright with the coldest kind of mirth Caine had ever witnessed. "Your reputation as a hunter still exceeds your reputation as a feral animal in some circles, and I have a use for it. You remember Mr. Apini, I assume."
The question was such a non-sequitur it took Caine a moment to be sure he'd heard right, all pretense of detachment vanished. "What? Stinger Apini?" Caine said, throat choking around the name.
"He's quite fine," Titus said. "Well, as fine as he can be, considering his unfortunate circumstances." And he fell silent, regarding Caine with wide, guileless eyes, the picture of innocence.
Caine heard the bones his wrist creak and grate under the clench of his grip. The asshole was going to make him ask, make him beg for the information. "And those are?" He managed to bite out, relieved at how flat he managed to keep his voice, devoid of the shame and anger and desperation that roiled through him.
"Well," Titus said, leaning in, conspiratorial. "After his valiant sacrifice on your behalf, one expected he would end up farmed out to one of the Outer Arms for mining work, or something equally degrading and appropriate for his show of support for such a heinous criminal, but," and Titus lifted one shoulder in a tiny, desultory shrug, "in a very dramatic conclusion to the sordid tale, his contract was picked up by the Aegis. He serves as a Marshall for them, and in an amazing coincidence, is stationed on the very same planet that has something I need."
Stinger was okay, Stinger was okay. The chant rattled around Caine's head like the buzzing of bees and he missed Titus's words.
"What?" he said, trying to quell the thread of hope winding inside him.
"A pardon," Titus repeated with careful exaggeration. "For your Mr. Apini, and one for yourself as well, as I am nothing if not generous, if you successfully retrieve her for me."
"Her?" Blood and bone, he sounded like a particularly stupid parrot. Caine forcefully dragged his brain back from its senseless jibbering about things he couldn't process or control right now. Head in the game, Wise, before you lose it.
"Just a girl."
There was never just anything where an Entitled was concerned. He waited a beat, then asked, mimicking Titus's studied guilelessness, "What's so important about this girl?"
"I fancy myself an expert in appearances, and I dare say, Mr. Wise, that I believe you to be far smarter than you look." Titus tilted his head, exposing the side of his throat, quite on purpose, Caine thought. "So let me just say that this a personal matter, deeply personal, and leave it at that."
"And if I don't?" Hadn't spoken for a year, and now he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Titus breathed a delicate sigh. "Kneel for me, Mr. Wise."
Caine hesitated, and Titus tsked. "I can easily end our negotiation here, and have you returned to rot out the remainder of your meager existence in the Deadland. I'm sure Mr. Apini is enjoying his enforced retirement on a primitive tertiary backwater, where he will remain until he dies. And who knows what would happen to his lovely little girl then."
Caine pinned Titus with a blank stare and dropped to his knees.
"Much better." Two steps brought Titus right before him, and he pressed one bare foot against the inside of Caine's knee digging his toes in to shove Caine's knees apart. Sliding the ball of his foot up the inside of Caine's thigh, he eased forward, stepping right into the apex of Caine's groin, the inner curve of his hip flush against Caine's cheek.
Caine kept his eyes down and forced his hands flat against his thighs as Titus' scent overwhelmed him. He'd expected perfumes or tailored phermones, but Titus's scent was surprisingly clean, pleasant even, underlined by the musk of arousal, and Caine bit into the meat of his lip to try and quell his body's immediate reaction. It was the most intimate touch he'd felt in what seemed like forever.
"This should be a very simple assignment, given your skills, and I believe I have granted you ample motivation to complete it. So let us dispense with this posturing that you have any real choice here. You will retrieve the girl, and bring her to me, hale and healthy." Titus cupped a hand under Caine's chin, tilting it up. "Perhaps," Titus said, lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes, "if you succeed, I will grant you a bonus. A taste of Entitlement, one more enjoyable for the both of us than your previous experience." The memory of copper-sharp blood flooded Caine's mouth. He ground his teeth to keep from retching right there at Titus' feet.
"But if you fail me, dog," and Titus dug his fingers into Caine's chin, unerringly finding nerves that sent spikes of pain through Caine's jaw. "I will feed you to the Void, and think no more of you." Titus released him and stepped away, one again the image of carefree unconcern. "Famulus will convey the final details of our contract. Good day, Mr. Wise, and happy hunting." He cut Caine an elegant bow, eyes bright and biting, and was gone.
Caine started to push to his feet but a small hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him back down. "Lord Titus did not give you leave to rise." Famulus, her smile the sweet-sour of rancid honey. She held out her hand and when Caine mirrored the gesture, she tipped a small vial of clear fluid into his palm. "Wait here, and I will return when I have completed the necessary preparations for your journey."
And she too, sailed out, leaving Caine on his knees in the empty, echoing hall.
Caine cracked the vial: a molecular slurry of phosphates, sugars and nitrogen, simple proteins, a faint trace of polymerase - a tracking reconstruction of this mysterious girl's geneprint, sterile and odorless to anyone except someone like him. He poured some of the fluid onto his fingers, rubbing it between them before swiping it under his nose. Breathing deep, he pushed away disgust and doubt, everything that whirled inside him, falling into that place inside his mind where everything was the hunt.
The Legion had taught him the value of stillness, of humility, of patience. The Deadland taught him the depths of his own tenacity, stripped him down to nothing but a desire to survive even baser than the one that had driven him his whole life, honed him to a terrible edge. Let Titus think him nothing more than a clever dog brought to heel. He was alive and out, not free, never free, but he had a scent, all he'd ever really needed to succeed.
Caine lifted his eyes to the stars far above him and bared his teeth.
[author]: splash_the_cat
[fandom]: Jupiter Ascending
[details]: PG. Caine Wise. Titus Abrasax. Famulus. 3162 words. posted 12/22/2015.
[summary]: Caine Wise comes out of the Deadland.
[notes]: While admiring Channing Tatum's very chiseled jaw in the movie, I also realized how very neatly groomed Caine's facial hair is, and thought, "When did he have a chance to do that?" And then someone posted great meta on the fact that Caine's boots and mauler are very clearly Skyjacker issue, and there was discussion on how he got those back, and someone else posted a gifset of Titus pretty much eye-fucking Caine in the airlock scene, and well, here you go.
AO3
livejournal
dreamwidth
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
― Rudyard Kipling, If: A Father's Advice to His Son
After the little doe introduced herself as Famulus, seneschal of his lordship Titus Abrasax, Third Primary of the House of Abrasax, she ignored him for the rest of the trip - from the moment they broke the Deadland's orbit until she'd deposited him in this sumptuous room, instructing, "Please clean yourself and do something about your, well, everything. Lord Titus likes his tools neat and presentable."
His tools. Caine grinned at her, all teeth and displeasure, earning a look of disgust before she shut the door. Tool for what he did not yet know. Famulus hadn't been inclined to tell him anything, not after she'd had to send in a third squad of mercenaries to procure him. One of that group had been bright enough, instead of trying to subdue him first, to toss him the sheave with Titus' holo offering him a chance at release for a small favor. He'd boarded the ship without further issue after that. Small favors for an Entitled were anything but, however Caine wasn't stupid. Just because he'd survived years in that hell didn't mean someone or something more determined wouldn't kill him tomorrow.
Opulent fabrics draped everything, exquisite art and sculpture covered the walls and tables, and colorful floral sprays exploded everywhere - a suite for Entitled guests. Caine sneezed half a dozen times, the exotic fragrances made his nose itch after the dry, dust and death of the Deadland. Sorting through the overwhelming bouquet of scents, he prowled the perimeter of the suite's salon. This Abrasax wasn't creative with his security; like the gun-synths that has assisted his escort here, the security sensors were high end, but standard packages, heavy on holo-recording and cleverly placed, but no after-market mods. It matched what he'd seen on his march through the clipper.
A small hallway led deeper into the suite, to the bedroom probably. At the elaborate arch entrance to it, he caught sight of himself in a polished sculpture hanging on one wall, startling at the feral creature that stared back: a haggard, hairy thing garbed in a patchwork of stolen and bartered garments painted an ugly brown with dirt, mud, and blood.
Fuck it, Caine thought, stripping off the filthy clothes right there, disgust suddenly rippling across his skin. He left them in a pile near the door and abandoned further explorations for the bathing chamber. The nano-fresher was a ridiculously ornate contraption, but he skipped that and stood at the edge of the bath pool, the sight of that much water momentarily mesmerizing.
Longing to be clean overwhelmed his caution, and with a rumbling groan, Caine sank into the water, blissfully heated just this side of scalding. Eddies swirled away in spirals of black and brown when he ducked his head under, scraping his fingers through the sand and crust in his hair and beard until he frantically scrubbed the palms of his hands across every inch of his skin, desperate to be free of the grime.
Eventually spent, the water around him finally clear, he sank under again, enjoying the pleasant burn of the water against his chafed skin, the heat seeping into his muscles. It barely dented the constant tension that coiled his body like a spring, but he still savored the fleeting pleasure, just as he reveled in feeling clean, smelling clean, no longer awash in the miasma of fear and adrenaline stink, carrion, blood, and his own waste.
Unfortunately, Famulus would no doubt return at any moment to drag him to his audience with the Entitled, and his skin was starting to itch from the heat and the unease of being so exposed, so he clambered out of the pool. The disquiet of the Deadland dogged his heels but, for the moment, he felt like a person again, born anew in the water that washed clean not just his skin, but also the tangles of misery, doubt and dread that dominated his every waking thought.
Availing himself of the drying option on the 'fresher, the wall mirror flashed in the corner of his eye and he found himself in front of it as if pulled by a tractor beam. The scars he'd earned in the Deadland he knew well, but not in aggregate like this, seeing all at once the years of damage healed the hard way, the story of his shame writ deep in his flesh. He traced one along his ribs, twisting to follow it around and-
The high pitched whine startled him until he realized it was coming from his own throat. The empty ache between his shoulders was normal now, but seeing it... He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, trying to quell the sudden burn of bile that surged up. The ports were still there, melted closed by the heat of the ion blade that had severed the wings, severed him from everything he'd known, or wanted. The coveted marks of his success in striving against the failure of his very being, gone. Gone because he did something he didn't even remember.
Swallowing against the burning in his throat, Caine closed his eyes and turned away. Self-pity wasn't going to bring his life back.
An archway led out of the bath room into the sleeping chamber, and placed on the foot of the bed... All his breath whooshed out of him. He approached softly, as if they might disappear, but there they sat, and reverently he dragged the tip of a finger down the front seam of one half of a pair of Skyjacker boots. He picked them up; the control gloves were tucked neatly inside each one. These were clearly a new model - lighter, probably jacked up response-time to match. He'd need at least a day to test them out, but Skyjackers trained to fly with just boots or wings, so he'd manage quick enough.
He sorted over the rest of the gear like a cadet up for review: the mauler's power cell chamber was empty, but the shield engaged perfectly. He smoothed a hand across the rough fabric of the tunic and pants before pulling them on and adjusting them to fit his leaner build. The boots went on next, and the gloves. He engaged the controls with trembling fingers and rose a few scant inches off the floor as the grav dynamos came online at his command.
Adrenaline roared though him, demanding he take this advantage and fight his way out, blood pounding in his ears as he ran scenarios and plans based on tactical assessments of everything he'd observed of Titus Abrasax's security from the moment he stepped foot on the transport under the cloud of Famulus's disdain to now. Caine disengaged the boots and thumped back to the floor, shoving the the empty mauler in its holster and all the plans to the back of his mind. The idea of trusting an Entitled grated, but he had gone to some length to procure Caine's services, so for the moment, hearing him out was Caine's best option.
Back in the suite's salon he rummaged through the pile of his discarded clothed and retrieved the crude flaked stone knife the guards hadn't found when they'd searched him. Gathering the ropes of hair that hung down past his shoulders, he hacked them off at the base of his neck before tucking the knife away in his boot.
Facing the mirror again was easier, armored as he now was. A dizzying array of enhancements stocked an ornate vanity, and he hunted through them until he found dark kohl liner and a depilator. One eye was still somewhat swollen enough from his fights with the mercs, so he pocketed the kohl for later and examined the ratty mess of his hair. Even cleaned and with most of it removed, it made his scalp crawl to look at it. He set the depilator and quickly buzzed it down to Skyjacker standard, fluffing his fingers through it when he finished, rejoicing in the lack of snarls and knots. His fingers reset the depilator out of habit and the beam shivered along his skin as he trimmed and shaped his beard into familiar, sharp lines.
That wasn't Legion proscribed, nor the kohl, but he liked the way that, in this shape, the pale, wiry hair highlighted the line of his jaw, and the dark liner emphasized his pale eyes. The squad had always jested him for these vanities, but he'd been given too little leave by breed standards and his creche-mates' opinions of his unsatisfactory features to enjoy much about his appearance, and so clung fiercely to these small acts of defiance against the failures of his genome.
In the mirror, the feral animal was gone, and he stared at a ghost.
The approach of footsteps in the hall saved him from falling into the the yawning chasm that cracked open in his chest at the sight of his reflection. He spun on his heel and positioned himself at the center of the suite just before Famulus swept in with a dozen gun-synth guards at her heels.
She stopped short and cocked her head. "Well, this is unexpected." She twirled a finger at him, until he rolled his eyes and grudgingly spun around in a slow circle for her review. "Acceptable," she said, flicking her fingers toward the door; the gun-synths parted to clear a path for him. "We'll see if Lord Titus feels the same."
*******
"The rabid dog, brought to heel."
Famulus and the synths escorted Caine to an enormous, gleaming glass hall, brilliant and blinding in shades of white and silver. The ceiling soared overhead, high enough to strain even his eyes a little as he scanned the space, mapping out every entry and exit point, every holo-recorder, the dozen plasma batteries hidden in elaborate cornices.
The staccato march of the gun-synths echoed as they neatly fanned out from their cage formation around Caine at the silk-spoken words, revealing a figure at the very center of the hall. The third Primary of the House of Abrasax, clothed in fine garments of simple design, feet bare, swept out his hands and inclined his head. "Welcome, Mr. Wise."
The gun-synths held position but Caine strode on, only halting Famulus said, "Enough." Eyes never leaving the Entitled's smiling face, he fell into parade rest, arms behind his back, left wrist gripped by his right hand.
"Dismiss them, Famulus," Titus said with a glance at the gun-synths.
"My lord-"
"If Mr. Wise were to attack, he would have done so by now." Titus paced a slow circle around Caine, spiraling in ever closer as the echo of the synths' retreat faded, until he stood inches away. He dragged his thumb along the line of Caine's newly-shaven jaw, the touch soft, unfathomably, terribly gentle. "Given Famulus's description, and the reports of your bloodthirsty ferocity, I had not expected anything quite so... delightful."
Caine dug his thumbnail into the skin of his wrist so he wouldn't grind his teeth. He stared ahead when Titus stepped away to rake Caine from head to boots with an exhaustive evaluation. "Do you speak, Mr. Wise? Or is this silent, yet attractive, brooding the only communication of which you are capable?"
Caine blinked once and slowly turned his head to look at Titus. "Why me?" It came out mostly growl, the first words he'd spoken in what, a year? And blood and bone, how he hated to hear them in this echoing space, given to this Entitled.
The animalistic utterance seemed to delight Titus, who clapped his palms together twice, eyes bright with the coldest kind of mirth Caine had ever witnessed. "Your reputation as a hunter still exceeds your reputation as a feral animal in some circles, and I have a use for it. You remember Mr. Apini, I assume."
The question was such a non-sequitur it took Caine a moment to be sure he'd heard right, all pretense of detachment vanished. "What? Stinger Apini?" Caine said, throat choking around the name.
"He's quite fine," Titus said. "Well, as fine as he can be, considering his unfortunate circumstances." And he fell silent, regarding Caine with wide, guileless eyes, the picture of innocence.
Caine heard the bones his wrist creak and grate under the clench of his grip. The asshole was going to make him ask, make him beg for the information. "And those are?" He managed to bite out, relieved at how flat he managed to keep his voice, devoid of the shame and anger and desperation that roiled through him.
"Well," Titus said, leaning in, conspiratorial. "After his valiant sacrifice on your behalf, one expected he would end up farmed out to one of the Outer Arms for mining work, or something equally degrading and appropriate for his show of support for such a heinous criminal, but," and Titus lifted one shoulder in a tiny, desultory shrug, "in a very dramatic conclusion to the sordid tale, his contract was picked up by the Aegis. He serves as a Marshall for them, and in an amazing coincidence, is stationed on the very same planet that has something I need."
Stinger was okay, Stinger was okay. The chant rattled around Caine's head like the buzzing of bees and he missed Titus's words.
"What?" he said, trying to quell the thread of hope winding inside him.
"A pardon," Titus repeated with careful exaggeration. "For your Mr. Apini, and one for yourself as well, as I am nothing if not generous, if you successfully retrieve her for me."
"Her?" Blood and bone, he sounded like a particularly stupid parrot. Caine forcefully dragged his brain back from its senseless jibbering about things he couldn't process or control right now. Head in the game, Wise, before you lose it.
"Just a girl."
There was never just anything where an Entitled was concerned. He waited a beat, then asked, mimicking Titus's studied guilelessness, "What's so important about this girl?"
"I fancy myself an expert in appearances, and I dare say, Mr. Wise, that I believe you to be far smarter than you look." Titus tilted his head, exposing the side of his throat, quite on purpose, Caine thought. "So let me just say that this a personal matter, deeply personal, and leave it at that."
"And if I don't?" Hadn't spoken for a year, and now he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Titus breathed a delicate sigh. "Kneel for me, Mr. Wise."
Caine hesitated, and Titus tsked. "I can easily end our negotiation here, and have you returned to rot out the remainder of your meager existence in the Deadland. I'm sure Mr. Apini is enjoying his enforced retirement on a primitive tertiary backwater, where he will remain until he dies. And who knows what would happen to his lovely little girl then."
Caine pinned Titus with a blank stare and dropped to his knees.
"Much better." Two steps brought Titus right before him, and he pressed one bare foot against the inside of Caine's knee digging his toes in to shove Caine's knees apart. Sliding the ball of his foot up the inside of Caine's thigh, he eased forward, stepping right into the apex of Caine's groin, the inner curve of his hip flush against Caine's cheek.
Caine kept his eyes down and forced his hands flat against his thighs as Titus' scent overwhelmed him. He'd expected perfumes or tailored phermones, but Titus's scent was surprisingly clean, pleasant even, underlined by the musk of arousal, and Caine bit into the meat of his lip to try and quell his body's immediate reaction. It was the most intimate touch he'd felt in what seemed like forever.
"This should be a very simple assignment, given your skills, and I believe I have granted you ample motivation to complete it. So let us dispense with this posturing that you have any real choice here. You will retrieve the girl, and bring her to me, hale and healthy." Titus cupped a hand under Caine's chin, tilting it up. "Perhaps," Titus said, lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes, "if you succeed, I will grant you a bonus. A taste of Entitlement, one more enjoyable for the both of us than your previous experience." The memory of copper-sharp blood flooded Caine's mouth. He ground his teeth to keep from retching right there at Titus' feet.
"But if you fail me, dog," and Titus dug his fingers into Caine's chin, unerringly finding nerves that sent spikes of pain through Caine's jaw. "I will feed you to the Void, and think no more of you." Titus released him and stepped away, one again the image of carefree unconcern. "Famulus will convey the final details of our contract. Good day, Mr. Wise, and happy hunting." He cut Caine an elegant bow, eyes bright and biting, and was gone.
Caine started to push to his feet but a small hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him back down. "Lord Titus did not give you leave to rise." Famulus, her smile the sweet-sour of rancid honey. She held out her hand and when Caine mirrored the gesture, she tipped a small vial of clear fluid into his palm. "Wait here, and I will return when I have completed the necessary preparations for your journey."
And she too, sailed out, leaving Caine on his knees in the empty, echoing hall.
Caine cracked the vial: a molecular slurry of phosphates, sugars and nitrogen, simple proteins, a faint trace of polymerase - a tracking reconstruction of this mysterious girl's geneprint, sterile and odorless to anyone except someone like him. He poured some of the fluid onto his fingers, rubbing it between them before swiping it under his nose. Breathing deep, he pushed away disgust and doubt, everything that whirled inside him, falling into that place inside his mind where everything was the hunt.
The Legion had taught him the value of stillness, of humility, of patience. The Deadland taught him the depths of his own tenacity, stripped him down to nothing but a desire to survive even baser than the one that had driven him his whole life, honed him to a terrible edge. Let Titus think him nothing more than a clever dog brought to heel. He was alive and out, not free, never free, but he had a scent, all he'd ever really needed to succeed.
Caine lifted his eyes to the stars far above him and bared his teeth.