Damaten
Lawrence returned to Fasnakyle.
It was a campaign without fanfare. It wasn’t brief, as he feared. In fact it was a operation which lasted for months, for how long it didn’t matter. Evidently, it wasn’t sent to the front-lines as he thought, but rather a mission to a frontier world overseeing a Imperium prison camp. Though there was no secret sect to dismantle or some conspiracy to uncover, he was merely acted in a lisason officer capacity for Joint Strategic Operations. Apparently they were going to pry information from a noble prisoner who talked of something happening in the Imperium heartland. What that entailed exactly, Lawrence never exactly found out, but whatever it was, was enough for it to reach the desk of the Deputy Director of Operations, and so Lawrence was spirited away from his beloved princess for a phantom chase he, personally, felt went nowhere.
There was a thump, and Lawrence got up to stretch from his muted leather seat. There weren’t many with him. On his way out, a arm reached out. It was, of course, his best mate Brutus Odysseus, a few years his junior, and no lack of mischief back in their academic days. Charlotte wasn’t with him, and Boris... well, after Zeta, Lawrence isn’t so sure, and neither is he on good terms with Frank. That just left poor old bitter Lawrence alone to endure Brutus’s endless, tiring antics.
“Leaving so soon?” Brutus said. He was lounging in his chair like a king, enjoying chips, and some cheap fantasy drama on the seat video screen. “It’s a good show, you know? Dama. You gotta hand it to those Durazzo merchants, that Li gal? Incredible, one of a kind director, I’d like to meet her some day...”
Lawrence clicked his tonuge, leaning on a chair as he shook his head.
“What?” Brutus said. Throwing a popcorn into his mouth with such casual yet precision accuracy.
“If I listen to to you any more than I have already, I’ll go crazy!” Lawrence said.
Brutus frowned. “You need a little joy in your life.”
“Sure, but not from you.” The shuttle door opened slowly. The airstair unfolded and desecended to the floor. “If I have to endure even a minute of you
Brutus pointed at the screen. “A little overdose of joy never killed anyone. Say, this is a good program—Damas, only a couple seasons long, but it’s good.”
Lawrence shook his head, he glanced out the window at the personnel at the base of the airstair. “Well, I’ve been enjoying shows lately where it’s one and done, y’know? I don’t exactly have the patience to be reading series going on forever. I like ‘em completed, if it has a source material, I might give it a try, though...”
“Books!” Brutus said, “I read the source material of this, it’s good.”
“Dama? Well, anyway, I’ll check it out when I’m not waging whimsical wars conducted by our wise, sage politician. Anyway,” Lawrence grabbed his luggage. “You know I can’t cover for you if they come up here and start dragging you off,” Lawrence said. He waved them off, signaling to them it’ll be a moment. He continued, shouting over the roar of engines: “I hear it happened to a colonel once, wasn’t a pretty scene. You remember? It was all the news when we were back there on Larissa.”
“Uh-huh, mhm,” Brutus said. He primed another popcorn for his mouth. “You know I’m paying back all your, genuine due kindness, you had covering my hind in our school days. That, and this is a really good show.”
Lawrence threw up his arms and vaguely gestured outside. “I should’ve left you behind on Larissa,” he said.
“And let you sulk alone?” Brutus said. “Stick around, you know?” Brutus counter gestured to his adjacent seat. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime finale, it’s the one where the war princess unifies the realm after three generations of war, and...“
Lawrence grabbed his luggage and briskly made his way down the airstair. As he passed them he told them: “Can you guys give him a bit? He’s finishing up a season finale of some fantasy drama he’s been obsessed with.”
“Which?” The bearded one asked.
“Dama,” Lawrence said.
They shrugged.
Lawrence stepped away from the crew and the shuttle and was able to hail a air car nearby. He quickly put his things in the trunk and made his way to the driver’s seat. He stopped to take in the moment of being back on Fasnakyle. His time on Larissa was so uneventiful as it was dutiful, rarely did Lawrence have any spare time to pursue his hobbies, something he only got a abundance of near the end of the Count’s questioning.
Time flew by so much and even now the jet lag, so to speak, was still having him feel out of place. Lawrence thought about if he should turn back, but the air car was already cleared for take off. Feeling too unwell to actually steer the thing, he input coordinates for the hospital ward resided at, and enabled autopilot mode.
He was caught off by the tug of gravity as the air car jolted upward into a air lane. Lawrence always did hate readjusting to gravity after being in space for so long, it self a journey of a standard universal week. He felt a dizzy and searched for a vomit bag in case it came to be. Out of curiosity, he leaned on his side, and turned dials on the video console to see if it had Dama on it. It seemed it did, but the air car came to a stop and hovered at ground level. It dinged several times.
Lawrence steadied himself, still suffering from the after effects of orbital rentry and got out of the air car. He went around and retrieved his luggage, but then paused. He left them in the trunk for now, seeing he’s here at the hospital ward first and foremost. Or should he? Lawrenece glanced over the fare prices. Not pricey by any means, but Lawrence had an uneasy suspicion the prices went up a few cents, which was double the amount on auto pilot mode.
“What the devils?” Lawrence said. He peered at the little digital screen and looked through its settings. A bulletin board notifcation indicated it was because of shortage of software engineers. Even in civilian everyday life, manpower shortage in sectors like this were getting critical.
Lawrence sighed. He could afford it, at his pay-grade it’s no problem, but the problem is Lawrence is a rather thrifty guy, or at least he tries to in his private life and finances. His vices have gotten the worse of him lately, but he always strives to be frugal, and sober.
But this time, Lawrence will have to concede defeat. He left the navigation on autopilot standby for his return—he was a little too tired and irritated now to bother lugging it around.
He made his way to the entrance of the hospital complex. The dual glass doors slid open silently. It wasn’t a busy day it seemed. Yet, curiosity tugged at Lawrence, something about the atmosphere was off, bu he chose to dismiss the unfounded concern.
“Welcome in,” the receptionist said. “Visiting, mister Mengde?” She was a petite woman compared to Lawrence’s stature. He was already known enough given his frequent visits, so he was acquinted with the staff here. She was Lucy. Some of the other patients call her ‘Lucky Lucy’. She smiled, but it wasn’t the same, usual delight Lucy had going for her. For a split second, Lawrence wondered if he was simply too exhausted. He didn’t get much shut-eye, much less a dirt nap during the ride to the ward.
Lawrence leaned in on the counter, he smiled at her, meekly. He cleared his throat. The receptionist seemed anxious, something was oobviously on her tongue, but despite the anticapation she never said a word. Neither did.
The receptionist was the first to break the silence. “Listen, um. . . mister Mengde,” Lucy said, in a rather uncertain tone. She drummed her fingers on the desk, her adam’s apple bobbled as she cleared her throat.
Lawrence signed in on the clipboard. The hesistation on Lucy’s part wasn’t enough to keep Lawrence anchored to her. He was already down the hallway, hands stuffed in pockets. He turned to face the elevator, down the hallway he heard a chair screech but she didn’t come into view past the corner. What’s her deal?
Lawrence pressed the button for the third floor. And that’s when he realized the elevator was down. Just his luck, exhausted and forced to walk. Was this what Lucy was going to warn him about? He answered himself with a sigh. No matter. He turned to jolt up the stairs.
Third floor, fourth from the stairway. In the cases where this would happen Lawrence had it memorized. It was routine for him at this point. All of this was, minus Lucy being unsettled and the elevator being down. He never skipped a beat with his hospital visits, going every day whenever he wasn’t given a new assignment away from Faskynkle. He yearned to be with her, dreading this war and anything else that dared defy his determination to come and see her, to care for her, the little things here and there normally reserved for the nurses and attendants.
But not a day went by when Victoria may one smile, just once more, for him, to grace him once again with the burning smile that always kept him going through this grueling, eternal meat grinder. But now he was denied even that. Everywhere he went, his life seemed to have shrunk without her by his side. All he could do was visit her, every day, and hope for a miracle. And being the fool he was, Lawrence prayed fervantly to any god who shared his sympathy, the bleeding of his mortal heart over the agony of the darling of his life, the angel of his war-torn reality, reduced to nothing more than a comatose by the window-side, staring blankly into space. It tormented him, it ate and chew at him, he was being gnawed alive.
He felt it was his obligation to visit her, to let her know he is alive and well, and give her the chance to feel his touch. To let her know, even a glimmer of the possibility she may still even function enough to think, that he’s made it back to her, like a prince on his horse, returning from a war generating worry for those back home. It’s already been a year since the Zeta affair, and already it seemed so long ago. . .
Sadness tugged at his chest. He gripped the knob of room three-oh-four. He curled his fingers in the door latch and slide it open. Slowly, cautiously, hhis eyes on the smooth adobe tiling. Careful not to disturb Victoria, his beautiful, resting princess.
He looked up. The small solitary room was empty. Lawerence stared ahead, at her usual bed as she always had been, staring out the modest yet elegant window afforded to her. Comatose, yet looking over the metropolisous she saved. The bed-spot provided a beautiful view, and for Lawrence personally it was a beautiful yet bittersweet portrait of a angel. The angel of his war-torn reality. young Dawn’s skirt covered the face of all of Fasnakyle still. It shined as bright as ever than any other day.
But it was cleared out. It wasn’t a case of her having been taken to the rest room or anything. She was gone. Truly, geniunely gone. He wasn’t having a fatigued-induced hallucination.
Lawrence stepped in. Maybe he was just tired. He had little doubt about the possibility of jet lag was no doubt screwing with him. He just needs to close his eyes for a bit, rest overnight and come back later... or so he hoped. The bill on the parking meter is going to put a serious dent in his financial situation.
He shambled towards her bed. All that remained was the steel frame skeletion. No bedding, no blankets. It was all gone.
Lawrence turned, and saw Lucy standing there in the doorway. She looked away with resignation.
“Victoria...” Lawrence said. It was a mere whisper. He was drained. He was a ship returning to harbor after a lengthy, uneventiful voyage and he wanted to relax, to rest his head on Victoria’s lap and let her stroke his hair. It was suppose to be typical, routine.
Lawrence slumped to his knees. He was too zapped to ask what became of Victoria.
Victoria was gone, but he didn’t want to accept this reality check. His fatigue worsened every second.
He heard multiple footsteps and looked up to see Charlotte—and an unkempt Frank.
Frank kept his gaze averted. The two of them never met eyes. Lawrence ignored Charlotte to look at Lucy.
“When was she transferred?” Lawrence asked calmly. There was no energy in his voice. He lowed his head.
“Not long after your last visit, they demanded we hand her over...”
“Who’s they?” Lawrence demanded. He felt embers of rage stir. Even more-so than seeing Frank here.
Lucy was silent for a moment, then: “They were with the government,” she cleared her throat to let it sink in. “That’s all the director said; he claimed it’s all he was told.”
Lawrence stretched his hand and balled it into a fist. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to deck Frank or not, but he found himself content with the answer. Lawrence got to his featand walked, wordlessly, into the hallway. The three backed away as he approached. Frank was slower, and fell to the floor after Lawrence bumped into him. Frank grumbled, caught off-guard by the ordeal, his gaze still averted. Lawrence’s empty yang was filled with pity for the man, and the yin his immeasurable disappointment. Lawrence stared him down, towering over him like a parent to his disobedient, unruly child. The rake scars Lawrence felt earlier were fresh, towering over Frank like this. The situation was awkward, his feelings misplaced. The exhaustion gnawed at him.
“You can’t even look me in the eyes,” Lawrence said. If his stare was a laz beam, he would’ve put the man out of his misery then and there.
Frank struggled to clear his throat. Charlotte tugged at his arm but Lawrence ignored her.
“Lawry...” Charlotte said.
Silence filled the atmosphere as Lawrence parted aways from the group and headed for the stairs.
Partway, Lawrence stopped, and turned to face Frank. He opened his mouth to speak, but found there was no use wasting energy talking down on Frank. He met eyes with Charlotte for a brief moment and turned to head down the stairs. He made it as far as the patio before Charlotte caught up to him.
He didn’t bother to turn back, but she tugged at him by the time he reached his air car rental. He realized Brutus caught up to him from another air car rental—and he wasn’t too pleased.
“How are things with Frank?” Lawrence said. The question dumbfounded Charlotte. “Not too well, I take it.”
Charlotte leaned against the air car. She crossed her arms under her breasts. A reactive sigh. “You knew, didn’t you?” Lawrence continued.
“We wanted to tell you at the space port,” Charlotte said. “We booked this morning and found out...”
Lawrence punched the car, Charlotte recoiled in surprise.
Without another word, he leaned against the air car. What remained of his energy was depleted. There was a dent on the car but it didn’t matter. Charlotte moved closer to him but it was just to open the door. She helped him like he was a decrepit old timer to at least sit partly in the open seat.
“Look at me,” Lawrence said, “acting so harsh on Frank. I... I’m no better a man than him nor Luke.”
“You’re just tired,” Charlotte said. She looked over at the dashboard console, probably thinking where the nearest hotel to stay at may be.
“I’m happy he at least has you as a shoulder to lean on,” Lawrence said. Charlotte reached to gently caress his hand.
“Don’t get any wrong ideas,” Charlotte said. She held up her hand, otensibly to stroke Lawrence’s hair, but refrained. Her hand retracted and she pushed herself away. She looked sideways at Brutus before she looked back at Lawrence.
“I think we have some catching up to do, Lawry... Brutey, won’t you join us over some drinks?”
“You know I’d love to,” Brutus said. “It looks like the two of them need it... and some humors by yours truly.”
“What would you know?” Lawrence said. He slammed the car door shut and inputted coordinates into the console. Charlotte tapped his window.
“Where are you going?” Charlotte said. To Brutus: “What’s his deal?”
“I feel like reporting early my assignment findings to Joint Strategic Operations,” Lawrence said dryly. “Maybe I’ll find out what happened to Vick along the way. Afterwards, I’m drinking alone.”
“I think you need to keep an eye on him,” Charlotte said.
“No, you guys have your little reunion party,” Lawrence said. He waved off Charlotte so he could have space for a vertical take-off. Charlotte reluctantly backed off.
“Duty calls, am I right?” Brutus said. Lawrence gave him the evil eye. Brutus backed off with his hands up in resignation.
The air car took off, and once he was in flight, alone finally in his thoughts once more, did Lawrence recline in his chair and let out his sorrow. It overwhelmed him, he choked and sobbed. Thrashing in the seat, kicking, screaming profanities at the gods, at the God of Gods himself. He cursed fate, he cursed Victoria’s destiny as a Neo sapiens. He cursed and became engulfed in unimainagable self hatred for his cowardice at Zeta. His failure as a man to avenge Luke—and look what it costed him. There was no doubt they spirited away Victoria to continue her treatment. He resented what it meant, anger consumed him—frustration with his past self. He had the chance to avert this and he failed castrophoically. If Luke watched him from Elysium, he knew he would be disappointed by Lawrence, just as he does with Frank.
There was a soft thump. Lawrence took several extended moments to recollect himself. Thankfully, it was a empty lot. Lawrence took a few deep breaths, brushing away his boyish tears. He adjusted his collar and stepped out of the air car. He made his way to the pillared entrance of Joint Strategic Operations, the red citadel, a massive crimson dagger onto the earth.
Halfway up its endless stairway, Lawrence turned to look back over the heights of Fasnakylepolis. He knew, deep down, he wouln’t get a sufficent answer what really became of Victoria, but he found in his emotional discharge a phoenix of determination to stay alive long enough to see her one day. Any day. Be it tomorrow or several decades from now. He’ll fight this war for his own sake, his own future, but also to see Victoria again one day. And when that day comes, when peace prevails and Lawrence can retire in an era of peace, only then, will Lawrence live retire to live a peaceful civilian life, to enjoy a peace he hopes would endure in his lifetime. It’s a wish he knows the God of Gods would never permit, or be that it may they couldn’t even if they wanted to. Such was the inevitability of being a cosmic titan, unable to interact, and only observe and weep as humanity’s errors know no bounds, as their arrogance and craving for war devours man as man devours itself.
Young Dawn, growing weary of the day, retired, and her skirt no longer graced the the mortal realm. While dusk steeped in, Lawrence made his way up the steps, onward to a future paved with uncertainty.