DeathWatch No. 119 – Tell Me The Truth, Dog

Posted on December 19, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #119 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

“This — this is a cheap price you’re paying. One for every ten or twenty,” Immanis growled. “You did not try hard enough.”

“You lying dog,” Nathan cried. “We killed him. He went down with his ship. Take these fucking shackles off me and I’ll–”

“Stop,” Immanis commanded.

Nathan went silent, but looked baffled, panting, staring at Immanis in fury and terror, both.

Immanis laughed aloud, and said to Nathan, “Dog, hmm? Perhaps you are the dog.” He bared sharp white teeth in a feral grin, stalking closer to him. His every movement was followed by the Ilonan wedding guests; they watched him as they watched a predator. Immanis watched Nathan with something more like hunger, looking down, smirking. “Kneel, dog.”

All of the Jacob‘s crew watched in horror as Nathan dropped to his knees and bowed his head. After a moment, he looked up at Immanis, adoration on his face. “Your Majesty,” he said softly.

“Fuck me,” Sha breathed. She shuddered, but then stopped struggling against the guards who held her, the knife still against her skin. “What is going on here?” she wondered, fear touching her voice. Nathan knelt to no one. He wouldn’t even do it for her in play; he made a show of it, a game of it. Was the Prince so terrifying? Was Nathan planning something stupid?

“Tell me the truth, dog,” Immanis said, staring down at him, reaching to touch his cheek with gentle fingertips. He had the kindest touch, the gentlest expression. And then he crouched in front of Nathan and slid his hand over the quartermaster’s ruined arm, digging his fingers in and twisting it at the joint. “Do you wish to fight me?”

Nathan’s expression shifted to agony, and tears spilled over his cheeks as he shuddered with the pain. The muscles in his shoulder twisted; he panted as he tried to stay still. “Yes,” he begged, gritting his teeth.

“Nathan, NO!” Sha shouted, struggling against the Ilonan guards that held her yet again. She could see the pain, the misery on Nathan’s face. This was no game. Whatever this was, it was true, and it was terrible. “NO! Nathan — No NO!” Her eyes were wild; she was not yet as panicked as Jules had been, but she was getting damn near close.

The laughter and delight of the wedding guests was replaced with quiet murmuring. They looked at one another as if gauging whether each neighbor would show mercy, in the face of this pain.

Another cry split the quiet, then.

“Mercy!” shouted Kieron, tears on his cheeks. “Mercy, your majesty!” He could feel his heart thundering, his head swimming. How had it gone so wrong, so quickly?

Soon, all the Centralites joined in. “Mercy!” came the cry from all the soldiers kneeling in the blood of their comrades.

“What is that I hear?” Immanis said, releasing Nathan. He stepped away and strode amongst the fallen soldiers, bare feet stepping with surety in the puddles of blood. His robes trailed in the gore and painted the marble tiles in whorling crimson. He did not seem to mind it. “Is it ‘mercy’ you cry for?” he wondered of the soldiers. “Do you beg me for ‘mercy’?” he asked, looking at each of them in turn.

The marble hall of the Ilonan Prince sang of blood, reeked of copper and salt. The guests of his majesty watched the display in both fascination and terror.

“Yes!” the soldiers begged, nearly as one. “Mercy!” Their voices lifted in a strange song, and for a moment, Immanis looked almost radiant as he walked through the groupings, touching individual soldiers, watching their eyes. He took their measure as he passed by them. He touched Kieron’s chin, turning him so he could see his face, the stitched scar around his eye. He ran his thumb over the stitches, and cocked his head to the side while looking at Kieron for a long moment. He finally released the boy, and moved on to others.

Immanis stopped next to Jules, and leaned down low. “Mercy, hmm?” he wondered, pursing his lips. He reached down to put his hand around her throat. He lifted her, and she did not resist. He had her on her tiptoes, and she hung limp in his grasp, her eyes glassy. He began to squeeze, a sneer of hate curling his lips, and Jules’s face darkened, her lips growing purple. “You melted the flesh off infants while you sat high and safe in your ship. You didn’t kill the monster responsible, and you should have,” he growled at her. The blood of the airman who’d died in her arms still ran from her body. She didn’t fight Immanis as he choked the life from her. She didn’t seem to know it was happening at all. “What kind of mercy were my people shown? What kind of mercy fell upon them from the sky at the hands of your Captain? He could not have done it himself — but you could have stopped him yourself. You should have thrown him from the rail,” he hissed, lifting her high, so the entire chamber could see Jules’ eyes roll back in her head.

Just then, Kieron saw a swift movement.

Hana darted past him, a knife in her hand. She must have picked it up from a dead soldier near her. “Let her go!” she demanded, determination hardening her features. She managed to stab Immanis, but the blade glanced off his spine and only barely bit into his back.

Nathan finally shook himself free of his reverie, shouting, “Hana! Hana, NO!”

Immanis dropped Jules, cursing in Ilonan, and she fell to the floor, boneless, staring off at nothing. He whirled around to pull the knife from his flesh, as guards ran up to grab Hana. Immanis waved them off, and dropped the bloodied knife to the floor. Immanis laughed at Hana, who took a step back, then slipped and fell in the darkening puddles of blood on the floor. “This is you, begging for mercy?” he asked of her, laughing aloud and shaking his head, as though it were the funniest thing in the world.

The chorus of soldiers begging grew louder, until Immanis leaned down over Hana, offering a hand out to her, to help her up. They went silent, as Hana moved to stand to her feet, staring up at Immanis in bewilderment. The whole hall went silent; even the whispering of the wedding guests tapered to nothing.

“I shall give you mercy,” Immanis said, his voice almost kind, reassuring. He smiled, and reached to cup Hana’s face in his hands.

The sound of her neck breaking echoed in the nearly silent chamber.

* * *

NEXT

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DeathWatch No. 118 – Please Don’t Do This

Posted on December 18, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #118 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

Sha, Nathan, and Jules barely had time to look confused before the nearly-one-hundred surviving members of the Maxima moved as one. None of the soldiers flinched as they did as they were commanded — the only differences were the ‘how’. Knives went for hearts, throats, bellies, eyes.

Every.

Single.

Soldier.

Every last man and woman (and in some cases, cadets who were little more than children) who had been serving under Julianna Vernon O’Malley staggered and fell to the floor, bleeding.

For some it was nearly instant. Strong men could slice open their own throat, ear to ear, and bleed out in a matter of seconds.

The Ilonans, at first shocked, began to applaud. They cheered in their own tongue. Here was a spectacle worthy of their Prince, worthy of their having to deal with these wretched enemies being in their presence.

Gemma, half lost within the guards and crowd, grabbed Secta’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

He looked to her, raising a brow.

“There are ninety-four,” Gemma said quietly.

“You counted?” he wondered, giving her hand a gentle squeeze back.

“I felt them all,” she said. “It is as though I am cursed to know the Westlanders’ miseries,” she murmured. “As though their hearts can equal ours.”

“Be careful,” Secta said. “Our Guardian was once a Westlander.” His eyes wandered over the horrific scene, unflinching, seemingly unmoved.

“Once. But he’s died again and again and burned that part away,” Gemma said. “Now he’s ours. Only ours.”

Secta swallowed dryly; in his mind’s eye he could see the crimson water, taste the copper tang in the air, feel the dead weight of his master’s body in his arms. He shuddered, squeezing Gemma’s hand in his, and turned to watch the outsiders coming undone within their misery.

“No. No! NO!” Jules screamed, panicking, and ran for the closest one as he struggled to jam the knife into his own chest. She slipped in the blood of those who were already dead, and reached for the knife, fighting with the soldier. “No — stop! Stop this! No, NO!” Her voice was high; she could not contain her own distress, and she was desperate to save at least one life, stop at least one senseless death.

It was futile; no matter how she blocked him, he kept trying. “Pavel,” she pled, one hand grabbing for the knife, the other touching his cheek, turning his face to hers. “Don’t do this. Don’t let him do this to you — no no, stop, stop pozhaluysta, please please no, no,” she begged, her tongue slipping to Kriegic as she struggled. “You have a wife. You have a son. They love you, Pavel. They love you. Please don’t do this,” she said to him. For all her determination, however, Pavel was simply stronger. He finally wrested the knife from her and slashed it over his own throat, frantic. The spray of blood washed over Jules; she couldn’t even turn her face in time, and was bathed in it. He dropped the knife and collapsed in her arms as she put her hands over the wound, struggling, wild-eyed. She looked around at all the dead, all the dying — a quarter of the people in the room, while the rest knelt in terror, in blood, watching their comrades do the unspeakable, or stood close by, looking avidly fascinated, pleased even. She then looked back to Immanis in horror, and though she tried to speak, instead all that came was a rough keening noise, from somewhere low in her throat.

“This,” Immanis said triumphantly, his lips pulled back in a faint sneer. “This is what the Ilonans felt, while your ship sailed into the Valley. This is what mothers and fathers knew, as you rained fire down from the sky, over their farms, their families, their flesh. This is deploro.”

“I am almost sad my Mistress has missed this,” Gemma whispered to Secta as they remained watching from out of the way. “She enjoys watching the pain of those who have wrong us.”

“I am glad my Guardian is not here,” Secta said, frowning slightly. “I have a terrible feeling about what is to come.”

“Bastard!” came the cry from Sha’s left. She looked shocked, flinching, and turned to see Nate, seething.

“My prophecy has yet to unfold,” Gemma noted, looking at Nathan with worried eyes, watching him after his outburst.

“This is the act of a coward!” Nathan roared, rage and loss in his eyes. “This is the sick cruelty of a man punishing many for the actions of one. We tried to stop Abramov!” Nathan said, stalking toward Immanis, his hands curling into fists. “We blew up his fucking ship! We aren’t the ones who did this to your people!”

“Nate — no,” Sha began, reaching for him, her eyes widening. She tried to get a hand around his wrist, tried to stop him, tried to anything — she would have grabbed him by his dislocated shoulder, but guards grabbed her and pulled her back. She struggled with them, even as Nate stood before Immanis, his dark eyes raging. “Let go,” she hissed at them. “Let me stop him! Let me go!” One of them drove his fist into her stomach hard enough to make her bend double, gagging. She drew breath back in with a whoop and a cough, shook off one of the Ilonans, and landed a blow on the other that broke his nose.

Ilonans tried to draw nearer, to watch; wedding guests slowly closed in around the groupings of Centralites — Sha’s fistfight against the small group of guards piqued their interest. Several of them even began to place bets on whether she would best the guards.

Sha drove her heel down onto the instep of the one that went to grab her again, snarling. She finally stopped when a third guard fisted his fingers in her wild curls and pulled her head back to expose her throat. He held the point of a blade to it, and dug it against her voicebox, hissing quietly, “Be. Still.”

* * *

NEXT

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DeathWatch No. 117 – Are They Loyal To You?

Posted on December 17, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #117 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

“I am…” Sha paused, looked distinctly pained, and said, “…was Captain of the TS Jacob, your majesty,” Sha said quietly, looking Immanis Venator full in the face. She showed no fear, but wore respect for the man, without trembling from anything further than exhaustion. If she’d been any less composed, any less iron-willed, she might’ve wept — not out of fear, but exhaustion and loss. That ship was the last thing she’d had linking her to her father, and the coat that went down with it was the last thing of her brother’s. She felt more alone in this chamber of hundreds than she had in a long while.

“I was Quartermaster of the same, your majesty,” Nate supplied, following Sha’s example. His jaw was clenched, otherwise, but he kept himself from glaring; he knew damned well they were caught, and there was a high likelihood they weren’t getting out of this. At all.

“And I was Quartermaster of the Maxima, your majesty,” Jules said, her voice gone dull. She looked around for Coryphaeus, wondering if he’d changed, if he’d been invited to the royal wedding where she and her friends were being paraded in as a new set of slaves. She looked down at her feet for some time, but then looked up toward Immanis.

When she did, he responded to her statement, as though waiting for her to acknowledge him. “Ah, the Maxima,” Immanis said softly. “Your Captain attempted to murder me,” he said to her, his voice low, his eyes bright with something that nearly seemed like amusement. “He is dead now. My sister put an end to him, after his violent outburst.”

Jules said nothing in reply, but pressed her lips together until they were a hard line. She looked down, unwilling to meet the Prince’s eyes once more, once his attention was fully on her.

Immanis stepped down off the dais, and walked to stand next to Jules, looking out over the sea of soldiers. He was unwilling to be ignored. “Tell me, what is it that a Quartermaster does?”

“The captain runs the ship. The quartermaster runs the crew,” Jules explained, glancing from the Prince to the soldiers and cadets out on the marble floor. “It was my job to make sure the crew were well-suited to their tasks, got what they needed. I handled placement, sleeping, distribution of supplies,” she said quietly.

“Ship-mother to the soldiers?” Immanis purred.

“You could say that,” Jules said, her voice quieter. She grew more nervous, her heart in her throat; she didn’t like the way Immanis began to pace, stalking around her and looking her up and down. He had the air of a cat playing with its food.

“Are they loyal to you? As children are to their mothers?” Immanis wondered of her.

“Moreso, for some,” Jules said, trying to keep the pride from her voice. “We trust one another,” she said, and tried to leave it at that.

Immanis nodded, looking out over the people in the hall. “Tell your soldiers — those who survived the Maxima, those loyal to you, to rise,” he said.

Jules turned and let her eyes settle on the faces watching her, took a long, deep breath, and called out, “Maxima v’stante!” The sound of them all getting to their booted feet was a brief thunder in the hall.

The Ilonan guests of the wedding watched in awe and excitement; they had not had such a show as this in ages.

“Kriegic,” Immanis chuckled. “You’re a tiny thing for such an angry, ugly language.”

Jules didn’t know how to respond to that, and so she did not; she waited, looking out at the faces she’d known for years now, dirtied, bloodied, exhausted.

Immanis called out to his own soldiers and guards, and had them all walk amongst the crew who were standing.

Jules knew the word he used–knife–but no one was being harmed. Instead, each man and woman waiting down on the chamber floor was unbound, and given something. She couldn’t tell what it was until the Prince’s men left the floor.

Every soldier and cadet standing held a short, sharp knife.

“You know the Ilonan tongue, yes?” Immanis wondered of Jules, turning to look at her.

Jules found herself pinned by the dark eyes of the Ilonan Prince. Something about them was both enveloping and inflaming. She felt her cheeks flushed. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Immanis said, “What is ‘deploro‘ in your tongue, then?”

Sha watched, breathless, her heart in her throat. It wasn’t like Jules to be docile. Where was the spitfire screamer who wanted to flay the Ilonans alive? Where was her fury?

“Helpless,” Jules said, strangely captivated by Immanis’s gaze. “To be… to be helpless.”

“You do an injustice to the tongue,” Immanis said, stepping close to her. “It is not merely to be helpless. It is to wail, bitterly.” He reached a hand and touched her cheek, gently.

Sha was stunned at the gesture. She trembled as she stood at the foot of the dais, watching Immanis next to Jules, watching his fingertips touch her.

Nathan looked ready to vomit. He clenched his fists and his jaw and struggled to remain still, breathing steadily through his mouth.

Still, Immanis kept talking quietly. “To weep in anguish. To be consumed in grief, while unable to change the situation. You currently feel helpless, do you not?”

Jules was silent, but gave the most subtle nod, fear shining in her eyes.

He nodded to her, approval and praise on his features, as though he loved Jules for that admission. He turned to look toward the sea of soldiers and cadets. “Maxima — ubitsebya!” he commanded them, smiling grimly. The Kriegic word was not known to everyone listening, but its command was understood by those that mattered.

It was certainly known to Jules.

Her eyes widened, and the world felt as though it were in slow motion as she turned to look at Immanis, her expression all shock and horror.

Kill yourselves.

* * *

NEXT

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Someday.

Posted on December 16, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

Occasionally
he sees how the cycle could end.
He thinks of all the ways it might work:

A gun to his head.
A tire iron to hers.

He imagines what it would be like
to be free:

What joy he would taste.
Nothing at all but blood

as he drops to the ground,
boneless and gone
before his eyes even shut.

Maybe it will be wonderful.
Maybe it will be nothing.

For now,
all he does is dream of the day something changes;
for there to be a promise of better than this.
Until then,

he courts the razors
and the bullets.

He talks sweetly to the poisons
and he kisses the dangerous ones
who could take all his choices away from him,
if it came to that.

He knows this too shall pass.

He thinks to himself
‘Someday.’

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Jagged Edges

Posted on December 15, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

Believe me,
no one wants more than I
to feel your lips
on mine again.
Believe me,
there is nothing
I could even hope for,
nothing else I could want.
I live and breathe
and ache for you.
I submit to you.
I reach for you.
You are not there.
You’ll never be there again.
I’m alone in ways
I did not know
existed.
If there were
a way for me to
come back to you,
to slip under your skin
but feel you inside me all the same,
I would have done it
a hundred thousand times before now.
Believe me.
It is over.
Believe me.
It is no more.
Believe me.
It is lost.

Believe me — so am I.

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