The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.09 Preparation

Cars in Undercit generally don’t stick to a single owner for long. Being a community of thieves and murderers, vehicles are less a person’s private property and are more like a commodity to be forcibly shared. A vehicle in Undercit can sometimes see up to eight different ‘owners’ in a single day, occasionally two at the same time depending on how prolonged an attempted carjacking becomes and how long one of the carjackers can cling to the side of the car while the other tries to shake them off. In Undercit this is what constitutes as ‘carpooling’.

The current car the mercs were using had only seen half that amount in the past week and had been stitched together using salvaged parts from other borrowed vehicles, giving it a patchwork aesthetic. It had been borrowed so often in its short life that the driver’s window had been rendered incapable of being shut due to the amount of times it had been forced open, a six inch gap forever remaining between the tip of the glass and the rim of the frame. Its key had also long since been lost, the only way to start it being to connect the two loose wires that hung limply underneath the steering column.

The mercs had parked it a street away from the warehouse. Doug was first to reach it, opening the driver’s door only for Blaise to nimbly step past him and slip into the driver’s seat. Doug sucked on his cigarette in mild irritation as she stared up at him expectantly, awaiting him to argue with her or at least give her a scathing remark. He instead shrugged, closed the door and made his way over to the passenger’s side, Gratin having already claimed the back seat. Blaise’s head momentarily disappeared under the steering wheel as she found the loose wiring and started the engine. The hoverpad under the car flared to life, lifting the automobile off of the floor so that its ski-like landing gear could fold up and disappear into the base of the car. The rear-mounted thrusters kicked in, sending the vehicle gliding forward in a jerky motion that suited the battered little car, much like the indifferent limp a cat adopts when it loses a leg to amputation. It continued down the street unimpeded and joined the heavy traffic beyond.

Once they were safely on the move, Gratin cleared his throat.

“So what was the verdict on the employment opportunity?” he asked. Blaise answered whilst Doug was busy lowering his window so that he could smoke out of it.

“Waste of time,” she said curtly. Doug dismissed her conclusion with a wave of his hand.

“You’re only saying that because of the company offering the job. I thought it sounded promising, myself,” he said. Blaise scoffed.

“Of course it sounded promising; they want to entice people into taking it. Mark my words, the only people who will profit from that little arrangement is Salmanic,” she replied, a little too matter-of-factly for Doug’s taste.

“Come off it, Salmanic’s not going to screw over anyone who proves that they’re worth a damn. They’ll want to keep whoever’s handy to have around happy in case they ever need them again. They’ll be shooting themselves in the foot otherwise,” Doug argued, the tone she had used having rubbed him the wrong way. To him it had sounded patronising.

“Then obviously you don’t know Salmanic as well as I do,” she proclaimed in annoyance.

“So you’ve dealt with them before then, have you?” Doug asked, turning in his seat to look at her as if for the first time, unaware that she held such a deep knowledge of the corporate titan that was Salmanic. Then again, he had little knowledge of her life before they had met. It was the one taboo their little group had: don’t go digging up the past. It didn’t need stating or discussing, they simply observed it out of respect for one another. No need to root through someone else’s dirty laundry, it’s their own business if their old clothes are stained with blood. Blaise faltered for a moment, her eyes briefly widening as if she’d lowered her curtain of anonymity a bit too low and revealed something ugly.

“I-I just know people who have and things didn’t end well, alright?” she snapped, her face flushing as she floundered on what to say. Doug stared at her in disbelief.

“…Like who?” he asked.

“Just…people!”

“Faust on a bike…” sighed Doug sarcastically with a roll of his eyes, prompting an exasperated groan from Blaise.

“They’re nobody you’d know anyway!” she reasoned. Doug scratched his chin thoughtfully with his thumb, an interested smirk on his face.

“ ‘s funny, Red, all the time we’ve spent together and you’ve never once struck me as a ‘people person’. I’d like to meet some of these people you know one day,” he said. Blaise shook her head, lost for words. She sought assistance from the back seat by way of the crooked rear-view mirror above her.

“Gratin, tell Doug to stop being an arse and see some sense about this Salmanic job!” she beseeched the mage.

“No, Gratin, tell her to stop being an idiot and give me one proper reason why we shouldn’t take the 10,000 Kronz job!” Doug added before the mage could speak. Gratin hesitated, considering both sides of the argument before arriving at a decision.

“…Mistress Blaise, as much as it pains me to side with the meat-bag, I must point out that it is a large sum of money that is at stake,” he stated.

“Screw you both,” Blaise fumed, glaring at the road in front of her. The two men exchanged a concerned glance. Silence lingered within the car as Doug reflected on Blaise’s behaviour. The junction ahead split between the direction back to Undercit, and the other towards the Skyport. Blaise’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as she saw the sign above the road informing of the junction fly past.

“You don’t have to come. I’ll go alone if I have to,” Doug suggested, lighting the tip of a fresh cigarette with the glowing stump of a dead one. He was pretending not to care a little too obviously. Blaise ignored him, paying attention to the upcoming junction instead. She wrestled with the idea of maintaining her course.

“Oh balls to it,” she muttered under her breath, making the turn towards the ferry port’s car park. She veered into the first parking space she could find, the car coming to an abrupt halt. After cutting the engine, her head fell to the steering wheel with a light thud, an annoyed sigh escaping her lips.

“Er…Blaise?” Doug reached out to touch her shoulder in an effort to see if she was okay.

“Just go get your stuff. We’re going to need extra supplies,” Blaise told him from her slumped position.

“…So you’re coming then? What made you change your mind?” he asked, confused. Blaise shrugged his hand off of her shoulder.

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m not leaving you alone on a job for Salmanic,” she explained. Before Doug could get the impression that she cared, she hastened to add “After all, can’t let you take all the reward money for yourself, it’d go to waste on paying for bar brawl damages and booze.”

“Never knew you cared so much, Love!” replied Doug, beaming.

“Just get lost already before I change my mind again!” she growled, raising her head to glare at him and giving him a slap on the arm as a way of speeding him up. This only made Doug laugh as he left the confines of the car, flicking the dead cigarette stump away as he went.

* * *

In the intervening space between the edge of Undercit and the motorway which connected the City of Light with the rest of the world was a collection of rocks and boulders. They didn’t draw any attention as they were part of the lip of a small cliff that had eroded down until parts began to crumble off. The more astute observer may have noticed what appeared to be a tailgate barely visible between the rocks. It belonged to a caravan that had long ago crashed into the cliff, summoning loose pieces of the cliff face to obscure it. The crash had gone relatively unnoticed and the vehicle had remained buried.

That did not mean that it no longer possessed a use. This fact was evident due to the redheaded woman in the long coat approaching the rock face with a sense of intent about her.

Blaise paused next to an alcove in the rocks, knelt down and carefully reached for a small tripwire that would appear to be more or less invisible to the average observer. Blaise knew that it was there as she had been the one who placed it and had also connected it up to the live mine attached to the alcove’s wall. She calmly disarmed it. That task completed, she straightened up and stepped further into the alcove, where the entrance to the caravan was concealed. It looked extremely rusty and battered with the exception of the lock, which looked as though it had been replaced quite recently. Blaise produced the key from a chain that had been hanging around her neck and tucked under her shirt, using it to open the door.

The interior of the caravan could hardly be called homely. The old furniture was still intact but anything that had been of value had long been scavenged and pawned off by raiders over the years since the accident. The cockpit had caved in, making it impossible to reach the controls. However, the living area was reasonably spacious. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat¹ but there was enough for a person to live in so long as they didn’t mind cramped spaces. It was cold, dank and there wasn’t any way for natural light to seep in so Blaise had to light the place via a lamp connected to a portable generator. Everything laid out in the room was there for a practical purpose. There were no pictures on the walls or any trinkets on display for nostalgia’s sake. Blaise had gone out of her way to keep her living space free of any kind of clutter, preferring it to serve a practical purpose.

There was a modest gas stove next to the entrance as well as a sink fitted with taps that had long since rusted over. A wobbly table stood opposite, a tin plate and mug resting on top awaiting their next use. The only form of seating in the tiny room was a plank of wood that had been nailed to the wall to form a bench. On the back wall was a bunk bed that could be folded up into the wall it hung from, the lower bunk having been replaced by a cabinet. It was the cabinet that Blaise was interested in, moving to kneel down in front of it so she could rifle though it. At a glance, the contents were nothing of consequence – just a collection of shirts and assorted garments – but Blaise slid the back of the cabinet down to reveal a hidden compartment where she stored her ammunition and spare weapons. She took as many clips for her rifle that her coat could contain, paused to make a few additional calculations and then took a couple of clips for her pistols and a couple of napalm and flash grenades.

Satisfied that she had restocked enough, she replaced the compartment’s secret door and closed the cabinet. She paused halfway through standing back up, however, as something on top of the cabinet caught her eye. Most of what she stored there were basic grooming utensils such as a worn hairbrush and the equipment she used to clean her weapons, but what had caught her attention was an old shoebox, its lid having been replaced haphazardly the previous evening. It was the one thing that seemed out of place in the room as it held no obvious practical purpose. The cardboard it was made from was stained by water damage and the edges were frayed.

She straightened herself up and pulled the box towards her, removing the lid to have a better look at the contents. They were mostly old newspaper clippings dating as far as three years previous. Some were reporting on arson attacks against various corporate buildings, others mentioned unfortunate accidents that had occurred in Salmanic buildings that Blaise had known had actually been intentional acts against the company, and some were reports that had been spun to paint Salmanic in a better light. One such example was one article describing Salmanic’s attempts to set up a charity to aid the homeless, despite it being one of their subsidiary groups that had booted the unfortunates out of their homes in the first place.

She swept the clippings aside with a finger until only three items remained; a scrap of coffee-stained paper with a phone number scrawled on it, a faded and creased picture of a happy family containing a father, his two teenage sons and his ten-year-old daughter, and a newspaper cutting dating back roughly sixteen years detailing a fire that had ravaged a ranch house.

Blaise tenderly touched the photo, a sad smile gracing her lips as her fingers brushed against the image of the man.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, a sad smile gracing her lips as she began to pack away the clippings, the photo being the final item to return to the box. She stashed the shoe box inside the cabinet and then steadied herself against it, steeling her thoughts.

“This better be worth it, Doug,” she said to herself as she pushed herself off of the furniture and made her way out.

***

Doug was on the second plate, standing outside a gentleman’s club. It was a quaint three-storey building, with garden chairs and tables arranged outside and hanging baskets filled with flowers decorating the windows. The sign above the door depicted a silhouette of a saloon against a sunrise, the words “The House of the Rising Son” painted below it. Doug nodded in appreciation at the misspelling and headed inside.

The interior was as welcoming as it had been the last time he’d came here. The furniture was clean and well-polished. Drapes hung around every window and the carpet was well-groomed soft shag. A majority of the sparse amount of patrons sat around the bar as a young lady can-canned onto the stage accompanied by a cheerful and jaunty piano ditty. In the corner some office types played pool for money.

There were more women positioned around the bar wearing white roses on their person. They took interest in the patrons in the booths, chatting to them and waiting on them. Every so often one of the women would escort one of the patrons upstairs to the rooms above. A couple of the girls spotted Doug and gave him a curt wave and a smile. He gave them a playful salute and made his way over to the stairs.

He paused at the bottom to look at the pictures on the wall separating the bar area from the pool tables. There were portraits of the previous landladies and pictures of the bar staff posed in front of the bar. The picture Doug was interested in was a portrait of the second landlady to own the establishment: a woman built like an ox pouring a pint of ale behind the bar whilst smiling at the camera.

“Hey Mum,” Doug muttered to the image, a sad smile on his face.

“Hey Dougie,” a voice said from behind him. He turned his head to see a woman in her late 50’s approaching him from the top of the stairs. She was tanned and walked with a cane.

“Pippa,” Doug greeted her. He made his way up the stairs, meeting her halfway.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence. Is this another quick visit or are you going to join your Auntie Pippa for dinner?” she asked as he passed her.

“Just a quick visit, Pip, got a job to do,” he replied. The woman frowned and hobbled after him.

“Would it be an old woman’s folly to hope that it’s a proper job this time?” she questioned. They stepped off of the first flight of stairs, passed a group of giggling rose girls and started up the second.

“They’re all proper jobs, Pippa,” said Doug through a smile that suggested he was humouring her. Pippa’s frown deepened.

“You know what I mean. You know your mother never approved of the PSF² and I highly doubt she would be pleased with your current means of getting by either,” she continued.

“Well it’s not like we can ask her,” he muttered, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Don’t talk like that, Doug, I just worry about you is all. Why don’t you stay here? We could use some extra help behind the bar and the girls would love to see you around more often. It would be so much better than slumming it down in Undercit.” Pippa’s tone had softened. Their conversation halted momentarily as they had to allow one of the businessmen to pass them on the stairs, the man attempting to casually hide his face out of embarrassment as he passed Doug, who ignored him.

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Doug asked as they reached the top of the stairs.

“I just worry about your wellbeing, Dougie. I don’t want to be reading the newsfeeder one day and catch your name in the obituaries…or worse. I get nervous every time I read about another nameless mercenary gunned down in a bloody fire-fight, my mind always jumps to the worst conclusion,” Pippa said apologetically as she leant against the wall. Doug walked to the end of the corridor so that he was standing under the entrance to the attic. He reached up to grab the cord attached to the attic door and tugged it, a set of stairs sliding down from above.

“Is everything how I left it?” he asked, deciding to change the subject. Pippa sighed and nodded.

“If you mean ‘is it still a complete pit’, then yes, we left it just how you like it,” she replied, a wry smile momentarily gracing her face. Doug returned it and walked up to the attic.

The attic had been converted into a bedroom, the room having been decorated with a young boy in mind. The colour scheme was blue, a worn dark blue carpet covering the floors and robin egg blue paint covering the walls. A dusty model aircruiser hung from the ceiling and some tin soldiers cluttered the top of an antique wardrobe. The bedroom looked as though it was hardly ever lived in due to a thick layer of dust on the furniture, their contents slipping from childhood memories to adult territory as Doug stepped further into the room. The dresser was covered with assorted ammunition clips and magazines, and men’s clothes were scattered around in piles on the floor and bed. Pictures decorated the dresser’s mirror showing snippets of Doug’s life in the PSF, fond moments from his childhood and separate photos of his parents. Doug sorted through the pile of ammo, collecting bullets and feeding them into a small box so that he could store them inside his jacket. Once he was happy with the amount he had rounded up, he collected together what money he could find lying around and then took a moment to look at the photos of his old military pals. He found a photograph of an extremely drunk version of himself and a lanky, spectacled soldier with the words ‘With Galvison on leave at Casinopolis, 02/04/4039b³’ scrawled across the bottom in smeared ink.

Doug chuckled at himself over some past memory, his eyes travelling over the mirror’s frame until he spotted a silver chain hanging over it. He plucked it from its perch, revealing a set of dog tags hanging from the chain. He silently read off his own name and old regiment, then slipped the chain over his head and tucked the tags under his shirt. With that he left the bedroom, discovering that Pippa was waiting for him in the hallway.

“You off then?” she asked.

“Yep,” he replied as he headed for the stairs.

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” she continued, causing Doug to pause at the top of the stairs.

“Aren’t I always?”

He flashed her a grin before disappearing down the steps.

***

Gratin didn’t have a hideout to store his personal affects; everything he owned remained on his person at all times. They consisted of one set of silken robes, one golden Winter Solstice mask⁴, one pair of leather sandals, one string purse containing 50Krz hidden within his robes and one safety deposit box key tied around his neck and stuffed down his robes. He didn’t need anything more and so he waited for the others in a park opposite the ferry station amusing himself. He mostly spent the time hovering over a bench, meditating. Every so often, compelled by boredom, he would float to other benches or float behind people out for walks to see if they’d notice him. Sometimes he would even test his concentration skills by summoning a small flame in the palm of his hands and manipulating it into different shapes.

By the time Blaise and Doug found him, he had attracted a small crowd of children and a pile of coins had formed at his feet due to passers-by mistaking him for a performance artist. Upon seeing his friends, Gratin silently stopped practicing his fire control and collected the coins. He then allowed his allies to escort him back to the car, which had mysteriously changed from a rusty three-door car to a rusty five-door car with a hole in the roof during Blaise’s stop in Undercit.

---

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | November 3, 2013 at 6:31 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Auntie Pippa, Blaise, Doug McCracken, Elementism, Galvison, Gratin, magic and mages, Planetary Special Forces, PSF, Salmanic Incorporated, The City of Light, The House of the Rising Son, the Mercs, Undercit, vehicles and transport

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