OOC note: Þeksmark is @Nev's nation, and he has given me permission to tell this story in it. I am open to others jumping in, and I'm sure any good idea can accommodate both Nev and myself! Hope you enjoy!
IC:
Eiderwig-by-the-Tangerine, Þeksmark
People say it's fashionable to be a “War Kid” back home now. Can you believe that shit? All that death, the starvation. The fear, knowin’ a Syndie goon squad could bust down your door… and people wanna say it's cool to be able to say you grew up with that. Makes me sick.
I suppose it's useful though, useful to figure out who’s full of shit. I was seventeen when the Syndies came to power and the War started. I grew up with all of that, and it's not a cool thing to brag about. It's fifteen years I'd love to forget, but can't. And anyone else who truly remembers it from their youth will tell ya the same.
Any Prydanian who tells you they're “a War Kid” with a self satisfied look on their face? You know that kid was probably four or somethin’ when the War ended. Technically alive for it, but they grew up in peace time. The good times. They're just lookin’ for some cred, too spoiled by peace to realize that if you had cred it was because of necessity. You didn't want it to want it, you just had it because you were good at survivin’.
And that's why I’m in Þeksmark. Halfway across the world from home, but one of the only places outside of Prydania where you can speak Prydanian on the street an’ get by. That suits me just fine.
Why come all the way to Auroria if that's a concern? Well… the problem with Prydania is that when the War ended, decent men had won. An’ I suppose that's for the best for most people, but it's bad for me. I'm not a decent man. So I’m here.
Eiderwig-by-the-Tangerine can be cool at night. Not like back home in Keris in the winter, God no, but most people back home think this area of the world is all beaches or desert. There's that, já, but you ever get a breeze comin’ off the arid mountains at night, when you're standin’ on a rooftoop garden? It chills ya if you're not ready.
The party’s a high class affair. The kind of sleazy get together rich pricks like to throw for themselves. A fundraiser for a local councilman, officially. Like he needs the money. Thing is these skemmtun* aren't altogether unpleasant. Food’s good. Bar’s open. I’ve had worse Saturday nights. Much worse.
I see her. Just like her message said. Short cropped blonde hair, green eyes. A red dress. The necklace, a black choker, is the final sign that it's her. She looks at me. Sees my lapel, a golden spear, and she knows who I am.
It's more than just a confirmation of identities, though. I look into those green eyes. Into her soul. She's like the last delicate leaf on a barren tree branch in fall.
She leaves the party and makes her way into the maze of the rooftop garden, away from everyone. I find her in a secluded corner looking over the city. She's beautiful. Tragically so. So’s the city.
I pull up my phone. The cash has been deposited. I guess that means it's time to go to work. The funny thing is I could turn around right now. I could leave. What's she gonna do? And me? I’d have landed a cool quarter mill IBU for nothin’.
But that ain't how this works. I slip my phone into my pocket and take out my carton of cigarettes. Ræningi. I don't give a fok if the Predicians own ‘em now. They taste like home. I light it up and drag on it. The fire burnin’ is like a timer, sort of.
I let her hear my footsteps. She only goes stiff when I’m right behind her.
“Care for a smoke?”
She turns, looking at me with a forlorn expression that would make more noble guys wanna go into “knight in shining armour” mode. That's a stereotype about Prydanian men. Stereotypes exist for a reason, but there's always exceptions. I’m an exception to this one.
“Sure,” she says softly, reaching to grab a cigarette from my carton.
“You as bored by that crowd as I am?” she asks as I slip it back into my pocket, taking out a lighter to offer her.
“I didn't come here for the party,” I say, lighting her dart.
“Came here for you.”
She takes a drag, and puffs, looking at me. I let the smoke hit my face.
“I've watched you for days,” I continue.
“You're everything a man could ever want.”
Both are true statements.
“It's not just your face. It's your figure. Your voice. Your eyes.”
She takes another drag on the dart. Her green eyes cutting through the smoke, in the light of the moons.
“It's all the things I see in your eyes.”
She laughs. Like all pretty girls laugh when you try a line on ‘em they've heard a thousand times before. I might be insulted if I was here for anythin’ other than what I’m here for. She turns her back to me and looks out over the city.
“What is it you see in my eyes?” she asks softly.
“I see a crazy girl, someone sick of running. You're ready to face what ya have to face, but ya don't wanna face it alone.”
“No,” she says, almost like a whisper.
“I don't want to face it alone.”
She turns to face me. I go in, and she steps forward, almost out of her heels, body arching up to meet me as we kiss. The wind rise is electric. Her body’s soft. Warm. She's almost weightless. Her perfume is a sweet promise that brings tears to my eyes.
She buries her face in my shoulder when we finally break the kiss. I tell her everything is gonna be alright. I’ll save her from everything she's scared of. I’ll take her far, far away.
“I love you,” I say to her. She kisses me again, deep, and she breaks to catch her breath. That's when it happens.
I pull the trigger. She gasps and falls, I hold her, to brace her. Cradling her against my body. The silencer and rooftop wind make a whisper of the gunshot. I hold her close until she's gone. I'll never know what she was running from, but her cheque cleared. And I always deliver services paid for.
I’ll take tomorrow off. I’ll need it.
*skemmtun- shindigs
IC:
Eiderwig-by-the-Tangerine, Þeksmark
People say it's fashionable to be a “War Kid” back home now. Can you believe that shit? All that death, the starvation. The fear, knowin’ a Syndie goon squad could bust down your door… and people wanna say it's cool to be able to say you grew up with that. Makes me sick.
I suppose it's useful though, useful to figure out who’s full of shit. I was seventeen when the Syndies came to power and the War started. I grew up with all of that, and it's not a cool thing to brag about. It's fifteen years I'd love to forget, but can't. And anyone else who truly remembers it from their youth will tell ya the same.
Any Prydanian who tells you they're “a War Kid” with a self satisfied look on their face? You know that kid was probably four or somethin’ when the War ended. Technically alive for it, but they grew up in peace time. The good times. They're just lookin’ for some cred, too spoiled by peace to realize that if you had cred it was because of necessity. You didn't want it to want it, you just had it because you were good at survivin’.
And that's why I’m in Þeksmark. Halfway across the world from home, but one of the only places outside of Prydania where you can speak Prydanian on the street an’ get by. That suits me just fine.
Why come all the way to Auroria if that's a concern? Well… the problem with Prydania is that when the War ended, decent men had won. An’ I suppose that's for the best for most people, but it's bad for me. I'm not a decent man. So I’m here.
Eiderwig-by-the-Tangerine can be cool at night. Not like back home in Keris in the winter, God no, but most people back home think this area of the world is all beaches or desert. There's that, já, but you ever get a breeze comin’ off the arid mountains at night, when you're standin’ on a rooftoop garden? It chills ya if you're not ready.
The party’s a high class affair. The kind of sleazy get together rich pricks like to throw for themselves. A fundraiser for a local councilman, officially. Like he needs the money. Thing is these skemmtun* aren't altogether unpleasant. Food’s good. Bar’s open. I’ve had worse Saturday nights. Much worse.
I see her. Just like her message said. Short cropped blonde hair, green eyes. A red dress. The necklace, a black choker, is the final sign that it's her. She looks at me. Sees my lapel, a golden spear, and she knows who I am.
It's more than just a confirmation of identities, though. I look into those green eyes. Into her soul. She's like the last delicate leaf on a barren tree branch in fall.
She leaves the party and makes her way into the maze of the rooftop garden, away from everyone. I find her in a secluded corner looking over the city. She's beautiful. Tragically so. So’s the city.
I pull up my phone. The cash has been deposited. I guess that means it's time to go to work. The funny thing is I could turn around right now. I could leave. What's she gonna do? And me? I’d have landed a cool quarter mill IBU for nothin’.
But that ain't how this works. I slip my phone into my pocket and take out my carton of cigarettes. Ræningi. I don't give a fok if the Predicians own ‘em now. They taste like home. I light it up and drag on it. The fire burnin’ is like a timer, sort of.
I let her hear my footsteps. She only goes stiff when I’m right behind her.
“Care for a smoke?”
She turns, looking at me with a forlorn expression that would make more noble guys wanna go into “knight in shining armour” mode. That's a stereotype about Prydanian men. Stereotypes exist for a reason, but there's always exceptions. I’m an exception to this one.
“Sure,” she says softly, reaching to grab a cigarette from my carton.
“You as bored by that crowd as I am?” she asks as I slip it back into my pocket, taking out a lighter to offer her.
“I didn't come here for the party,” I say, lighting her dart.
“Came here for you.”
She takes a drag, and puffs, looking at me. I let the smoke hit my face.
“I've watched you for days,” I continue.
“You're everything a man could ever want.”
Both are true statements.
“It's not just your face. It's your figure. Your voice. Your eyes.”
She takes another drag on the dart. Her green eyes cutting through the smoke, in the light of the moons.
“It's all the things I see in your eyes.”
She laughs. Like all pretty girls laugh when you try a line on ‘em they've heard a thousand times before. I might be insulted if I was here for anythin’ other than what I’m here for. She turns her back to me and looks out over the city.
“What is it you see in my eyes?” she asks softly.
“I see a crazy girl, someone sick of running. You're ready to face what ya have to face, but ya don't wanna face it alone.”
“No,” she says, almost like a whisper.
“I don't want to face it alone.”
She turns to face me. I go in, and she steps forward, almost out of her heels, body arching up to meet me as we kiss. The wind rise is electric. Her body’s soft. Warm. She's almost weightless. Her perfume is a sweet promise that brings tears to my eyes.
She buries her face in my shoulder when we finally break the kiss. I tell her everything is gonna be alright. I’ll save her from everything she's scared of. I’ll take her far, far away.
“I love you,” I say to her. She kisses me again, deep, and she breaks to catch her breath. That's when it happens.
I pull the trigger. She gasps and falls, I hold her, to brace her. Cradling her against my body. The silencer and rooftop wind make a whisper of the gunshot. I hold her close until she's gone. I'll never know what she was running from, but her cheque cleared. And I always deliver services paid for.
I’ll take tomorrow off. I’ll need it.
*skemmtun- shindigs