The Mercenaries’ Tale – 2.01 Doug Wakes Up

“Where we are now, what we are about to embark on… everything, every decision and action, is critical in making sure that we take the risks that we are about to take.”

Doug sprang awake. His hand – his only hand – lashed out at the empty space before him as he gasped for air, his only true fingers grasping for anything solid to clutch on to. His eyes darted to-and-fro, brain firing on all the limited cylinders it could offer under the circumstances. Much like an engine misfiring after a long period of abandonment, Doug’s brain coughed heavily and brought up a heavy suggestion in much the way a heavy smoker brings up part of their lungs every time they cough:

Grip someone, something, and make them, or it, talk now. Worry about the details later.

His back, against protests, lurched upwards. His one arm remained outstretched, locked at a ninety degree angle. Doug’s blurry eyes, also clouded from lack of use, locked on to the one detail in the room. It looked vaguely like a man suddenly startled from reading their newspaper, but his eyes were blurry and unsure. Doug’s hand shot forward and confirmed there was definitely a fleshy thing there in front of him and, with his eyes quickly focusing as his brain took command, confirmed that it was indeed a man currently in the process of shitting himself, something Doug’s nose dozily confirmed as it joined its other senses in doing their long neglected duty.

Doug wanted to clutch at his chest with his other hand, which wasn’t available at the moment no matter how hard he tried. He could have let go with his one hand in order to clutch at his chest, but it was busy intimidating a man at that moment and couldn’t be reassigned to chest-clutching duty, his brain reasoned. His brain also reasoned that, as far as he could remember the searing pain and flames, he should be dead.

“I SHOULD BE DEAD,” Doug yelled into the man’s face, his brain having grabbed his vocal chords by the goolies and ordered them to determine what the fuck was going on. “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON,” Doug added, his mouth suddenly syncing with his brain with much aplomb.

“Y-you w-were r-really hurt!” stammered the man in Doug’s hand, attempting to remove the stunned merc’s hand from his collar and realising it might take either three men or a really hot iron to remove the clasped fist from around his person, as tightly clenched as it was. Realising there was only one way out, the man’s hand tentatively reached for a nearby table, gripping a tube designed for paste. He held it accusingly at Doug and then, whimpering all the while as the scarred mercenary growled at him, reached up with his other hand, unscrewed the end of the tube…

…and squirted a big dollop on Doug’s naked chest. The merc immediately released his grip, his face unclenching from angry accusation to pure relief in a matter of seconds. The man’s other hand reached out and carefully rubbed it into Doug’s lumpy chest, the motion calming the beast partially tucked into bed.

“Ahhhhhhh,” offered Doug, slipping back into his coma. The man continued rubbing the salve as another person entered the room; it was Gratin. You could almost feel the sceptical eyes judging from behind the mask.

“He does this regularly now,” explained the man rubbing cream into Doug’s chest, now upright and committed to the act, “don’t you want to intervene and let him know what’s going on? I know you’re one of them types. You could use yer talky brain-ter-brain mojo.”

“I suppose,” replied Gratin with an undertone of reluctance in his voice. “It’s all been going very smoothly in his absence though,” continued the mage, “even Mistress Blaise seems content at the moment.”

The man paused as he considered the Mage’s words.

“You talking about the bird that sat up for an entire week without sleep just to keep an eye on this bloke? And only went to bed when the fancy lady with the accent and them wicked steel fans showed up and gave her a dressin’ down? That ‘Mistress Blaise’?”

“Perhaps content was the wrong word….Focused may be more appropriate…”

The Man returned to rubbing in the ointment, shaking his head.

“Focused is definitely one word for it, I’ll give you that. Whatever you want to call it, Miss O’ Donnell’s gonna be more upset with you if you don’t give her a nudge about ol’ Doug showin’ signs o’ life. And she’s got plenty to be annoyed at you over as it is. You know how she’d react if she knew you kept sneaking out to run your little errands every time she turns her back,” said the man, pouring another considerable dollop of cream into his hand and slathering it on the now sleeping Doug’s chest.

“I thank you for not telling her about those,” Gratin tipped his head into a slight bow to show his appreciation. The man made a small grunt in disapproval, opting to steer away from that subject.

“My main point is that I’m a bit fed up of this fecker strangling me every half hour or so.”

“Hmm. I will resolve this,” said Gratin. The mage stepped forward, nudging the man out of the way, then held a palm over Doug’s face and stood there silently. For a few seconds the man considered the scene and then stepped backwards.

“Oh don’t you start this fecking act,” he snapped, “if you suddenly turn and attempt to grab me then I’ll feed this fecking cream to you, you fecker!”

The mage didn’t reply. Realising he was sharing a room with two men who weren’t currently occupying the same space as he was, the man left.

Gratin opened his eyes to find himself standing under an alien sky. It was night time, the sky littered with stars arranged in unfamiliar constellations. The surrounding landscape was barren save for the remains of an ancient stone building, a stone archway standing by broken slabs of brickwork that once upon a time had been part of a larger structure. Modern lighting had been set up here, electric lamps being powered by generators illuminating the surroundings. From the looks of it, a fight had occurred here recently, fresh blood soaking into the floor and what remained of the stone walls. Gratin had never speculated what Doug’s mental landscape would look like – the thought never having appealed due to already knowing enough about who Doug was to inform him that it would be the last thing he’d ever want to see – but if he had to make a guess, this would not have been it. At the very least, he had expected something resembling a pub, although a battlefield did make sense knowing Doug’s penchant for violence…

Gratin peered around for any sign of the slumbering soldier, finding him lying on the floor on the other side of a demolished wall. Doug was wearing what had once been his old PSF uniform but now looked more like blood covered rags. What remained of his left arm was wrapped up tightly in some shredded brown fabric that was acting as a makeshift tourniquet, the ground surrounding the soldier being soiled with blood from the freshly removed appendage.

The soldier also wasn’t alone.

What could only be described as either an angel or a Valkyrie was leaning over him, whispering to him. She glowed in the dark, her head wreathed in flame. Large, brown wings protruded from her back, the feathers rustling in the breeze. Doug was listening to her intently, tears in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. His one good hand was caressing her face, the Valkyrie tenderly holding it in place as she spoke, wiping his tears away with her free hand. She was also softly crying. The sight of them together made Gratin feel like he had barged in on something incredibly personal. It was a risk that came with peaking at somebody’s dreams and it made Gratin feel like a naughty child peaking at his Faustmas presents long before it was time to open them.

The mage awkwardly cleared his throat, letting his presence known. The couple turned to look at him, the Valkyrie unfolding her wings and letting out a furious, bird-like screech at the sight of him, the wreath of flame that was her hair suddenly burning far more intensely in her anger. Doug grabbed her arm, holding her back as he forced himself up into a sitting position.

“Archie? How’d you get here?” The soldier asked, confusion evident on his face.

“Meatbag,” replied Gratin in his usual monotone intonation, “you’re still asleep.”

“Don’t be daft,” snorted Doug, holding tightly onto the bird-woman.

“Think about it. This is clearly a memory of the day you lost your arm. You are wearing your military uniform. We didn’t meet until some time after you left. Also, there appears to be a mythological creature sitting next to you. In reality, we’re in Galmanoc,” Gratin informed his colleague, carefully approaching the couple. The Valkyrie was practically spitting in rage as he approached. Gratin assumed that she was acting as a representation of a piece of Doug’s subconscious which was fully aware that Gratin was intruding and wasn’t happy about it to the point of turning feral. Doug seemed to have a handle on it though, the creature merely looking threatening but making no move to attack.

“You’ve been in a coma for two weeks. Mistress Blaise has been doing what she can to aid you but she has been required to run many errands regarding our business here. We’ve been feeding you via a drip and healing your severe burns with Comburetillon¹.”

“Where the hell did you find that?” asked Doug, rubbing his bare chest and not feeling anything unusual. His chest looked and felt perfectly normal, much to his surprise.

“It took a few hours of scouring Galmanoc. We had to threaten a few people. In the end we managed to source some via a doctor recommended by Mistress Blaise’s friends.”

Doug, expressing his scepticism, made a chuffing noise between his teeth.

“Please, mate. Blaise doesn’t have any friends.”

“You had better tell that to the people she keeps visiting,” replied Gratin. “Now, there’s the small matter of you still being asleep.”

“I’m not asleep, we’re in this room talking to each other,” stated Doug, puffing his cigarette. Gratin sighed.

“You just pulled that cigarette out of thin air,” said the mage with increasing frustration. “This room has changed significantly whilst we have been talking. It no longer has an entry way or-” the mage paused. It was true The “room” – if the ruined husk of a building could have ever been called that – had changed as it was now a lot more white and less defined as before, the broken stone walls and alien sky having been replaced with a surface that was a white so pure it couldn’t possibly be tangible. The Valkyrie had stopped screeching atleast, although that was only because she had ceased to exist. This wasn’t what had given Gratin pause though. He was wearing a large name tag on his chest which read “hello, my name is A. Boring Sod”. Gratin held it up for Doug to see.

“You need to stop letting your mind wander, Meatbag. This is your dream. Your thoughts are shaping our environment,”

“Er, sorry, I guess?” said Doug, confused at what was going on. Gratin’s large, bushy moustache bristled as the mage took in Doug’s blank expression.

“Things will go much smoother if you just paid attention to me,” he continued, his monocle glinting in the light. Doug gave him a big grin, his face a mask of innocence.

“No worries, you have my full, undivided attention,”

“Then why am I now wearing a frilly dress, McCracken?” Gratin was indeed now wearing a frilly polka-dot dress.

“Can I get you a beer, Doug?” asked one of the several scantily clad, red-headed ladies jiggling around to either side of Gratin. Their breasts were of considerable size and one of them did indeed have a large glass of beer on a silver platter being on offer.

“Concentrate, Meatbag. Concentrate on me, please,” pleaded Gratin in an increasingly exasperated manner as the woman jostled against him.

“I don’t see any problems with this,” replied Doug, chewing the end of his cigar and leaning back into the pile of money he was lying in. Eyes closed, he rubbed a few of the bills on his chest – which was exposed due to his luxurious silken dressing gown with his initials embroidered on it being partially open – purely to annoy Gratin. The mage glowed green as a couple of the women ground their bodies against him. Gratin growled.

“Enough!”

Doug’s stomach lurched as his centre of balance upended. The floor was suddenly the ceiling, and he fell towards it. Sexy dancing women, money and assorted paraphernalia Doug had clearly dreamt up purely to annoy the trespasser in his brain fell upwards, while Gratin remained glued to the spot he was standing. He looked up, watching Doug plummet upwards, the scarred mercenary very acutely aware that the room’s ceiling was now several miles below him.

Doug fell.

Doug shot awake again as a surge of static flowed through his body. It was not entirely unpleasant but felt like a full-body shudder equivalent of a muscle spasm. He suddenly hurt all over, particularly around his chest. His hand went to rub the sore spot between his ribcage and found a sticky cream on lumpy, ruined, bald skin. A resistance pulling against his wrist caused him to acknowledge the tube running into the back of his hand from a nearby drip.

“Aww, fuck,” said Doug. “Can I just go back to sleep?”

“I think you’ve slept enough,” Gratin stated coldly. It was clear that he had been fully aware that Doug had started imagining up ways to try and annoy him. Doug struggled to be anything but obvious. Gratin considered the events of the dream for a moment, a smirk flickering across what was visible of his face.

“Interesting that all of those buxom women had red hair…” Gratin slowly said as he followed a train of thought. Doug went rigid.

“Dunno what you mean, mate,“

“And that Angel, something about her really reminded me of-”

“Oi, I don’t go prying through your private thoughts so you stay the fuck outta mine!”

“I think that is for a reason other than the one you are alluding to, but I promise you I have no desire to spend any more time in what passes for your mind,” Gratin patted Doug on the shoulder, “welcome back to the land of the living, Meatbag.”

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | December 29, 2013 at 8:31 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Blaise, Doug McCracken, Galmanoc, Gratin, magic and mages, the Galactic Finders of the Tserulian Monastery, the Galactic Redemtionists of the Temple of Jehoth, the Mercs

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