The immortals , Chapter One

A short sharp squeal of the brakes penetrated the silky veil of my dreams, and the sudden halting of the car jolted me awake. My eyes peeled themselves open revealing the black night, My vision adjusted and I found myself outside a beautiful house, the true size of which remained a secret thanks to the cloak of the late evening. The driver stepped out of the vehicle, and came to my door, opening it gently, surely hoping I was not still leaning against it. in my slumber, as I was moments ago. The door snapped open and the warm fingers of Louisiana’s humidity threatened to throw me back into a sleepy daze. As I left the vehicle, I took in my surroundings. The house appeared massive. An aged house from the plantation era, it's white exterior gave a dull shine in the sky. Lamps flanked me and formed a perimeter around the road, which lead in through a grove of trees, likely hundreds of years old. Leafless and barren, but still oddly haunting and beautiful as they ran the length of the road. The small track lead from the distance towards the house, and ran around a large, dysfunctional fountain. Moss distributed a small layer of thin oil on the surface of water left to sit in it's bed.

"Major Pearse " A voice thick with a beautiful accent, foreign to me cut through the air, calling my name, and pulling me from my appreciation.
I turn around to the door of the house and see a tall, slim gentleman in his later years. His skin shone a beautiful ebony, his short, almost buzz cut hair a perfect topping of grey. Immaculately dressed in what can only be described as a butlers uniform of a jacket and tails, he elegantly pointed the driver into the house, who followed quite promptly after securing my suitcase and effects from the trunk of the car.
I approached him and offered one hand, and trying, yet failing with the other to stifle a yawn.
“My apologies, good sir, I’m afraid I have just awoken from my vehicular slumber,” I half attempted to laugh to try and seem less rude and lighten the situation. The stranger seemed at least to appreciate the effort, or at the very least, played along with the charade to its completion.

“It is quite alright, Sir, we are a little a ways away from you’re neck of the woods, you best be gettin’ inside and getting comfortable. I can whip up some food and you can get acquainted with the house before your host returns from his business out west.”
His accent was a delight, but one I was unfamiliar with. It reminded me of Mammy from Gone with the Wind, but more refined, gentler, and less of a caricature. I later discovered it was the accent of Baton Rouge, a gorgeous Cajun and Creole area not far from where we supposedly were.
He invited me inside and offered me sanctuary in the lounge.
The inside of the house was a betrayal to the outside in some ways. As I saw the first glimpse of this place I felt like I was in a pre civil war plantation house, surrounded by slaves and cotton fields. Inside the same luxury was afforded to me as it would be in any modern home. The area was temperature controlled, lit and furnished with modernity and was less humid than outside. The furnishing were a perfect mix of modern, yet Robust and instantly timeless. The library was large room. The walls were all covered in bookshelves, which in turn were absolutely full of books.
Despite my polite insistence, the butler, who introduced himself as Mister Thomas, disappeared to prepare some food, or at least see that the preparation was being seen to. I would hardly assume he was the lone staff member in such a beautiful and enormous house.
I was delighted, and likely did not hide it well. I was starving. A standard flight from Dublin to Heathrow, followed by a helicopter escort from there to an undisclosed RAF base, from there then a lengthy, private military flight aboard a C-130 to an unknown site, and then what felt like an instant drive to here, though I am sure it was longer than it felt, and less sure that I wasn’t drugged to ensure I hadn’t woken up during the transit. The driver wasn’t the same gentleman I greeted when I embarked the car either. Or at least I don’t think he was.....
I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and proceeded to peruse the shelves. I found myself out of curiosity looking through the itemized and well moderated catalog. Out of interest, and possibly some form of self indulgence I searched for my own name. I appeared in the historical section, alongside the title of my book, “The Hidden Immortals;  an analysis on historical accounts from witnesses of supernatural events in wartime”
I scoffed at the title and walked to the section where it was supposed to be. There was it’s notable absence. I could only assume that my host has the book with him on his travels to familiarise himself with me. I felt decidedly disarmed. I knew nothing about this Hastings character, only that he wished to speak with me over the course of a few days, and requested I bring materials to assist in the preparation of a set of memoirs or perhaps an autobiography.
I turned away from the shelves and observed the room. The walls were a bright white plaster, that was beautifully framed by the dark wooden floors and the cream coloured ceiling. The bookshelves which ran the entire perimeter of the room were a dark varnished wood, every shelf adorned with the livery of several dozen books, each one a different colour, texture and material for the spine.
In the center of the room was a circle made of chairs and couches. The chairs all matched, in gorgeous brown leather, both antiquated and in great condition, showing great dedication in their maintenance.
I took a seat in a random chair and felt the weight of my journey began to take hold again. The effects of whatever sleeping agent they had given me still clinging to my limbs and eyelids.
I felt myself drifting off once more before Mister Thomas entered the room with a small gold, ornate catering trolley. He pulled it beside me and set a place on the table with practiced speed and precision. In a perfect and precise moment, there was a set of cutlery, a glass, a small napkin, folded into a subtle pyramid, and finally a small jug of iced water. The condensation mirroring my own perspiration.
He lifted the lid from the trolley, and revealed a sight that was more welcome than anything else at that moment. A smell of beautiful bread, warm butter and black pepper caressed my olfactory senses And my mouth began to water.
Mister Thomas has prepared a mix of items for me to choose from, as he figured I was hungry from such a long trip. He prepared egg mayonnaise on brioche bun sandwiches, a bowl of traditional Jambalaya, some crackers, a little place of various cheeses, some sourdough bread and a small plate warm salted butter. I felt as if I wanted to eat it all, and completely forgo any shame I wanted to feel, but thankfully, Mister Thomas bid me a good evening, and simply stated that my room was at the top of the stairs, the first door on the left. It had its own bathroom, and if I needed anything, simply to ring the bell attached to the wall behind the bed. He finally left after advising me to eat as much as I wanted and leave everything here, it would be cleaned up by the morning.
I had never eaten such wonderful food before. The flavours a wonderful blend of smoked meats, earthy spices and sharp pepper flavours, all melding together in a beautiful hot broth. As soon as I found myself appreciating it, it was gone. I moved on to the bread, and after buttering it slightly, used it to mop up the rest of the broth. My lips tingled with spices and my palate was still ablaze with the smoked pepper flavours when I realized my eyes were growing heavy and weighted.
I stood, and slowly made my way to the bedroom. I can barely remember even making my way there before I found myself closing the door, and peering around the room. Such antiquated majesty mixed with modernity I had not seen. The room was highly spacious, like a hotel room. A four poster bed sat in the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall. A large, beautiful and ornamented wooden desk rested in one corner, and in the other was a door. Through this door was the bathroom. The bathroom was beautiful.  A cream coloured claw foot bath lay by the wall, connected to the floor, and a shower head rested above mounted to the wall. The mirror was playing a news broadcast, and appeared to feature controls for the shower and sink. I returned to the bedroom and quickly disposed of my clothing, sitting on the bed. I felt a familiar anxious need in my mind and looked towards the large bureau. Inside, was a selection of liquours and whiskeys that felt like it was just for me. I picked a bottle of Jameson twelve.  Not exactly cheap, but not top shelf. I poured a generous glass and gulped it down, before chasing it with another. I filled another up to about halfway and made my way to the bed. I sat back down, and drank the glass, this time appreciating the gorgeous acidic warmth that washed over me, before the earthy flavors gave way to a sweet aftertaste, and the heat flowed into my stomach to join the rest, which I had barely felt at all. My head found the pillow at last. My body melted into the smooth, cool sheets, and a brisk but comfortable breeze crept in the open window and massaged my near naked form. I was asleep before I even got under the covers. 

My Dark Side Part 1

I hear you come home from work. 

I smell your scent. I can taste that beautiful perfume in the air as you brush past me in the kitchen. You brush past me and plant a sweet kiss on my cheek as I prepare dinner. I finished early, and you had to work late. I wasn't happy about this. I can't really take that out on you. But I will. 

the knife in my hand cuts through the cherry tomatoes easily. The soft flesh of the fruit giving way to the harsh steel blade and forfeiting it's contents onto the cutting board.

I awaken. My dark side comes forth. I freeze despite the hot blood coursing through my veins. My eyes rise to you. You stand there at the kitchen window looking out into the deep darkness of the city skyline, punctuated by scattered lights and soft stars struggling to light up the sky the way you light up my life. 

The fleeting sweet sentiment disappears as the dark side stirs even more. My hands shake, and the knife rattles against the board again. You turn at the noise and walk towards me. 

I pick up the cherry tomato and place it into your mouth. You giggle that sweet little melody and bite down. A small piece of the flesh and juices leaks out onto your chin, and your laugh crescendos  and you shy away. 

"Shhhh", I say. My face relaxing into that frown I know you love. Your face relaxes, but I see that fear in your eyes flash. That frightened excitement. You see me changing. Your mind starts to race. Your eyes are screaming in beautiful fervour. 

I kiss your chin and take the spill into my own mouth. Your eyes screw shut, and your moan escapes your mouth. You know what's happening. Dinner is off the menu. Dessert is about to be served. 

I draw the knife from the board. I wipe it off in the neck of your work shirt. It's Friday anyway. I'll wash it later. The red juices stain your shirt. I take the knife and pull it to your throat, gently, letting the blade do the talking. The sharpness of the knife on your neck drawing gasps and leaving a tiny red line. I leave your chin alone and press you onto the counter, lifting you up. I take the knife and place it under your shirt, letting it pierce the fabric. I cut it. I cut it off you. from the neck to the sleeve. It falls to the counter. The black bra I bought for you yesterday covering your milky skin. I feel the warmth of your skin as you shiver in what I can assume is fear. Your breaths are short, sharp and sexy. My other hand runs up your stomach, brushes up your breast and comes to a stop at your shoulder. My eyes are running over your body before I eventually settle on your own blues. My hand creeps its way to your throat. I grasp your chin and pull you closer. I open my mouth and close my eyes. I feel your hot breath start to brush against my lips. My eyes open and I see your eyes are closed. Your lips are starting to purse and ask me for a kiss. I lean back and reach into my back pocket. The present I bought for tonight is now in my hand. I place the new collar on your neck and you open your eyes in surprised delight. We share a loving glance before I yank the leash attached and my smile disappears. You drop off the counter and your heels clatter to the floor, and you drop to your knees.

"Pants off" I growl and you comply. 

As I lead you to the bedroom, you start to take off your pants but I don't stop. I pull you and you have to do it on the move. You do your best. You're wearing nothing but your new lingerie I bought you, and those heels. I still have the knife. I show it to you again. You breathe deep and squeal. I place it in your mouth and you bite down on the blade. I let go. I still have you. I reach into my other pocket. A blindfold comes out and I cover your eyes. I take the knife back and use it to remove your bra. I cut it at centre of your chest. The new gift I bought you. Just a prop. It falls to the floor. I let the tip of the knife run up your chest, and across your shoulder. I let it sit there and then trace a line down to your left nipple. It sits there and you squirm as it just barely scratches you. You gasp again. A short sweet little sound. There's a solid scratch from your chest, around your shoulder and down. Beautiful. I throw the knife. It clatters to the ground and you jump. My hand finds your throat and I grab you hard. I pull you up by your throat and you stand. I bring your face close to mine and I simply say one word. 

"Obey" 

I toss you back on the bed. You fall back and sit up. I push you down hard. You obey. 

I grab your hands and kiss them. I place them over your head to waiting shackles. Cold leather and steel hugs your hands as they grip them tight. You can't move. I kiss you. I kiss your lips. I kiss your neck. I kiss your chest. I find the small scratch I left with the knife and run my tongue from it's inception to it's destination. I take your nipple in my mouth and suck hard, and punctuate it with a bite. 

Crime Thriller Chapter 1

It was lightly raining. The smoky smell of the asphalt mixed with the damp warmth of the mobile home, wafting out of the cracked plastic windows. The home was small. Looked like it came right out of a magazine, aside from all the filth. Single door in the centre, with a single window offset to the side illuminated by a mild orange glow. A white netting covered the window, thin enough to let the light in and out, but not enough to see in.
I knocked on the door three times. Firm, hard enough to flex the door on it's hinges and stress the lock. No excuses for not hearing me. I heard a mild shuffling inside, and the curtain darkened slightly as the occupant attempted to see who was outside before the shape disappeared.
The door opened slightly and a large dirty face appeared in the gap. His beard was untrimmed and unkempt framing his jaundiced eyes beneath a tattered beanie. He looked carefully at my face, and said in a cracked voice;
"Connor?"
I nodded and he relented, closing the door for a moment, and releasing the latch before ushering me in. As I entered the warmth of the room surrounded me and wiped away the grip of the outside cold. The small quarters was disgusting. The strong smell of pungent weed tickled my nostrils. The dampness was an underlying flavour but combined with the stench of unwashed clothes and the likely unwashed occupant, it washed over the senses and I caught my breath in my throat, coughing lightly.
I looked down to the floor and noted the carpet of clothes and rubbish. The retro terracotta linoleum peaking through parts like a small window to the ancient past. The counters were full of detritus, from drug paraphernalia and disposable food containers to beer cans and generic garbage.
There is no furniture, just the bed which was a mess of blankets and clothing, covered in loose tobacco and what looked like ash.
I turned around finally and found the occupant peering out into the street before closing the door, and turning to face me. I made sure to be just a little bit too close to him.
As he turned he hunched over and made his way awkwardly to the bed where he sat.
He reached behind the pillow and pulled out a crisp and fresh envelope, which he handed me.
I opened it and began to thumb through the cash absent-mindedly. I knew it was short. It had been for several weeks now.
He eventually spoke when he saw me getting to the end of the stack.
"It's short again, you know how it is. It's hard out here, man."
I said nothing, and shoved the money back inside, and placed it into my inside jacket pocket.
"You know, I've been short before, last few weeks, y'know? He knows, he knows I'm good for it. I just ain't been sellin' like I used to, my guys are slackin' off."
I spoke. I looked nonchalantly around the room as I did.
"You've been getting regular deliveries of product, so if you aren't shifting it, you can hand it back over and we can send it to midtown, see if they can move it."
"Oh.... I've been having to cut the prices but it's all sold. That's the problem. I have none left and don't have the cash."
He fidgets, and as my gaze passes underneath the counter, he stands up and holds a pair of steepled hands out towards me.
"Please Connor. I'm just trying my best out here."
"Mind if I look around?" I ask, ignoring him.
He says nothing. I reach down towards the cabinet under the counter and he places his leg in front of it. His face says more than any words ever could. He's terrified but determined. He's at his full height now, standing well over my own. I look up into his wild eyes.
"What's going on Mitchel?" I ask him.
"Nothing. Just get out, and tell him I'll have his money for him next week!" His voice cracks but his face is still full of resolve. An age seems to pass. We stand there as he shakes. All his energy manifesting itself in minute vibrations of his jaw and lower lip.

It's now or never. I push him back onto the bed. He falls back easily, he has no real strength, but addicts can be crafty. He falls clumsily backwards and crashes into the bed. I kick the drawer door and my foot smashes through the cheap paneling. I pull my foot back and with it comes the remains of the door. He freezes and waits for me to look into the drawer. I thrust my hand in and immediately find a small plastic bag. I pull it out, feeling the considerable weight and through the thin white plastic, I can see stacks of cash. I drop the bag onto the floor, and look him in the eyes. I raise an eyebrow. I know all about this already. This is simply theatrics to make him squirm. I was told to be frightening. Not easy when you're five foot six. We'll have to fight shortly. He slowly stands, strangely poised. His hands are outstretched like he's about to catch me if I fall forward. He's afraid. Perfect. 

"What's going on, Mitchel?" I ask again. Louder and full of spite. 

His face screws up and he returns to the bed, sitting. 

"The Eighth Street Pikes were here a few weeks ago. They came in and fucked me up something awful. Took my clothes, and tried to take my product. I already sold it, so they wanted my cash. I told them they were already too late, and that the boss man picked it up."

He took a breath, his eyes were streaming tears, his breathing strange and stuttered like a bawling child. 

He tries to speak but another torrent of heavy heaving sobs comes forth. 

I draw a deep breath in to feign interest and thought, but it catches in my throat. That same sickly smell, plus the new aroma of what I can only assume is Mitchel's piss as his fear took advantage of his fragile state and he sits in a puddle of his own making. 

I clear my throat in an attempt to fill the air with something other than wailing, and two words barely make their way past my lips. 

"Go on"

He manages to get it together. 

"Then they came, and they said I have to kick up to them, or else they'd be back, and they'd kill me. So I've been skimming off the top, and handing it over to them. They're coming tomorrow night to pick it up. Please can you help me, man?" he looks up at me as his words devolve into weak mumbling. He's covered in tears and snot, dirt and ash. 

I lean down and pick up the bag. He grabs it as I do and holds it tight, ripping the bag as he does. Notes and stacks spill out onto the filthy ground, and he tries to land on them like an animal, scrambling and ripping at them. He's trying to make some kind of protest, but it's all coming out in grunts and screams. I back away. He's lost it. He'll probably stop after a few minutes, once he's gotten it out of his system. 

He settles down after a moment. Another few moments of me waiting for him to calm down. I'm actually losing my patience for real now. 

"Please, just let me keep this. It's all I have for now, and I need it. They're coming tomorrow, I need to give it to them." More blubbering, and even more crying. 

"Jesus Christ. Let me take care of it. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't go anywhere." I let the words settle him down, and walk out the door. The wet concrete smell greets me again, and the dark starless sky sits above me. Streetlamps punching orange light into the navy black night. My hand finds the cool leather of my phone case, which I extract from my jacket. The bright white glow of the screen hits me and I squint as I try and find my contacts. This new phone always makes me feel like an old man when I use it. I text the local PD contact I have asking for the address of these punks. He sends me back something pretty quick. Looks like it's about a block away. I tell him to try and delay any response to the area, since it will be messy. He says he'll try his best. 

I hear the door open again behind me, and I turn. Mitchel is there. He's wearing his jacket now, an old cloth coat that looks like he found it in the trash. He's holding a sawed off shotgun in his right hand, down by his hip. 

"You're not coming with me, Mitchel." my voice doesn't carry too well in this damp space but he seems to hear it. He knows he's not coming with me. 

"I need you to leave this alone Connor. I mean it. I don't need your help man." 

Now I'm confused. He just fucking asked me, crying for my help. Now he stands here with a shotgun, his tears all dried and talking tough. 

"Jesus Christ Mitchel. Go inside. I'll take care of this. I'll be back in an hour or so."

He levels the shotgun at me. I make a move, but it's too late. I can't outshoot him now. 

"You won't get it, Connor. It's beyond what you can understand." His hands shake as he says this, and he's unable to steady himself. The drugs have taken him. He just took something, and it's coursing through his veins. He takes a breath and a word comes out of his mouth which I can't understand because he's interrupted.

The shotgun barks and instantly I screw my eyes shut, and my mouth gasping in. I feel the powder burn as it hits my face but I'm still standing. My left ear is ringing, and I can almost hear the shot fly past me even though it's long gone. My eyes open and I see him looking at me with an open mouth. He dips his hand into his jacket and the shotgun cracks open at the breach, firing out the old shells. I drop my own hand to my hip and my pistol grip fills my hand. I grasp and pull, and the practiced movement takes over, the gun rises in front of me, my eyes don't leave him. The sights rise into view and stop right at his chest. My mind races, and I lift the gun slightly. My grip tightens at my palm, my finger pulling into the wall of the trigger. My arms tense. My left eye closes in a blink, and I squeeze the trigger once. The weapon bucks slightly, and returns to it's resting position. My finger squeezes to find that wall, taking the slight sloppiness out of the trigger before squeezing again. A second shunt against my hands tells me another shot has left the barrel. Time returns to it's normal rate. He stands still, his eyes staring at nothing in particular in the air between us. My two bullet casings hit the ground, small metallic pings, followed by his own plastic shotgun shells. Hollow thumps of plastic. He leans backward, his entire body hits the ground at the same time. Calves to cranium. I breathe out a long solid breath. It feels like an entire week since I heard his shot and took that first lungful of air. I keep my pistol drawn and pointed at him. I walk slowly to him and kick away the shotgun. I take a look at him. His eyes are totally glassed over. Still looking in that same spot. He has two holes in his face. One below his left eye, and one above in his forehead. Blood is seeping slowly out of both wounds in small pumps, in line with his dying heartbeat. Two .40 cal shots in the face. He's out for the count. Perfect. His shotgun lies just behind me. I pick it up, and in turn holster my own pistol. The shells are on the ground. Blue cylinders capped with copper disks, still smoking from the opposite open end. Slugs, not scatter. No wonder he missed. Still lucky. If it had hit me it would have ripped my head clean off.

I can't leave him here like this. I lift him up over my shoulders, his dead weight sitting mighty over me. I manage to stagger over to his trailer and toss him on the bed. I send another slug into the breach of the shotgun, and place it under his jaw. I place his finger on the trigger and lean back, looking away, and let his finger fall onto it. The shotgun barks once again, differently this time. No echo, just a sickening wet splintering. followed by a strange shuddering as the body convulsed. The last brain signals firing as they're destroyed. I look back at him. His head is gone from the chin up. Ceiling covered in blood. I find the money in the ripped bag, and carefully pull it out, setting it with the rest of the cash in the envelope in my jacket. 

I take one last look around, and satisfied, I exit, and leave the door slightly ajar, just to let any odour I've left behind dissipate. The humid air hits me again for the third time, and I finally leave the home forever. I look for my own shells, and anything he's left behind. Nothing. Not much in the way of blood, so that's fine. I take my leave quickly and start towards the address of these punks. I need to make sure the stories all check out, now that I asked for the address. 

The place is surprisingly nice. It's a Chinese take out restaurant. I've actually eaten from here before.  

I look around, and note the fire escape. Pulled down and tied to the ground. For fast getaways, and also a secret entrance. Looks like my way in. I slip into the alley. My hand finds my pistol again. I check my mag. Two rounds gone. Nine left, plus the one in the chamber. I check my holster for my spare mags. Two spares sit in the space behind the weapon. Eleven rounds each. Should be plenty if things go south. . A small hidden stiletto style blade just the inside of my wrist sitting lengthways up my forearm. I need to be clever about this. 

I reach into my right inside pocket, and find my suppressor. I screw it onto the barrel quickly and holster it. It's awkward, but that's not going to be a problem for long. I start up the fire escape. It's quiet. Tied down within an inch of it's life to make sure it is. Means people can come and go at all hours and not bother the neighbours. Perfect.

At the top there's a window. Locked. I pull my hat from my back pocket, and my handgun from it's holster. I knock on the window and start to sing softly. An old tune, out of key and far too slow. A shadow comes to the window and moves the curtains slightly. 

I start to shout a Chinese food order, slurring my speech just enough to be obnoxious, not enough to be a parody. He starts to argue, I can't see him clearly, but he's pissed. He opens the window, and starts to try and shoo me away. I raise my hat to his face and place the pistol up to it. I fire two shots and push inside the window. The shots crack loud but dull. Still supersonic but not as brash. Shots go through his head and hit the wall behind him. I catch the body as he falls, and lay him down softly. I leave the hat on his face and let it soak the blood. I hear commotion and yelling. Suppressor was worthless without subsonic bullets. Fuckit. Time to go loud on purpose this time. I check the body. One of those tacky tracksuits, in gold and blue. He's a pike alright. Shitty tattoos, not many of them. Just a bagman. A gun in his pocket. Old Hi Point. Garbage, but robust. I take it, and pocket it. I hear footsteps, several people. I stand by the door, and pull out my knife, holding it in my left hand, gun in my right. Heavy with the suppressor, but still usable. The door bursts open spilling light into the room. Two men enter in single file, one stays outside. Both men are wearing those same hideous colours. Man in front has an assault rifle of some kind, can't see the model, likely an AK. Second one has a long shotgun, double barrelled, over under. Definitely gang bangers. No kind of order or corner clearing. I raise my pistol and send a round through the first guy's head. He drops like a puppet with cut strings. I step forward and ram the knife into the second's forearm holding the shotgun. It drops as his tendons rip, and I tear the knife out and kick the shotgun away. He starts to scream and fight back. I step my feet back and try to push him out the door. He plants his feet and pushes hard, I take his strength and push back harder. He returns the favour. I turn and pull him over me, tossing him with my hip and letting him drop onto the ground. I hear the breath get knocked out of him, and I raise my pistol to the door way. A shadow appears from around the corner and I send a pair of shots into its chest. A gasp, a cough and a shout, is followed by it's collapse and they clumsily fall backwards into the hallway. I look down at the winded assailant and see his fear as the pistol finds his face. I fire two shots into his forehead and see him go limp. I holster my weapon, and sheath my blade. 

I grab the shotgun and check the breach. Two loaded shots. I hit the break action and unload the weapon, and toss it aside. Stealth is off the table. 

I check the Assault rifle. An AK knock off judging by the circular front sight. Typical cheap trash.  I check the mag, chambered in 7.62. Should make a nice mess. I shoulder the weapon and move to the hallway. Another series of footsteps shuffle their way towards me. The hallway is empty, nothing to my left, just a wall. The right leads down a corridor, with two more doors to the left and a stair case. The footsteps stop.

I stay still and listen. Nothing. A brief creak from the door closest to me. I point the weapon freely, sights are no use at this range with this cheap piece of shit. Better to just go for volume. I hold the rifle close and listen for the door handle. I hear whispers in Chinese. Panicked, quiet whispers. The door creaks open and a set of hands wielding a pistol eases out slowly. I grab the hands with my left hand and push them high above his head. I point the rifle at him with my right hand and fire once. The rifle shouts and the pistol falls from his hands as he crumples down. I release him and my hand finds the grip of the rifle, I follow him into the room and as he falls, there's another behind him with another handgun, holding it in one hand. A shot rings out which seems to frighten him more than it does me. He closes his eyes and tries to fire again, but I'm already on him. I kick him in his chest hard, he falls back and drops, coughing. I kick aside his pistol. Noone else in the room. The first guy is done. Sucking chest wound, minutes at best. I can't go too hard into the next room. I can hear women screaming after every shot. I knock on the door and shout into the room. 

"Come out. Everyone else out here is de-" 

Before I can get anymore words out, a barrage of fire tears through the doo. I hit the deck and look up. The door is shredded. A large hole frayed by splinters sits in the middle like a porthole. A figure steps in front eagerly pointing his handgun outwards, but not down. I send a shot through his throat. He drops. 

The door flings open and two men are on me immediately. They grab my arms by the elbows. I drop the rifle and kick out at their knees. They both drop to the ground with me but still have a hold on me. They both hold knives in their free hand. Shit.

One stabs, my free hand catches his, the other stabs, I roll. I'm all elbows at this point. It's too close for anything else. I hit the one on my left with a harsh elbow to the nose. He seems to be fine. Bleeding but tough. We found the muscle at last. More stabs. More half hearted blocking and rolling. Time to get creative. I slip the jacket sleeve for my right arm and heave myself over the man on my left. I end up on him like a backpack as he tries to stand up and buck me off. I roll too my right and land on my knees and stand. I take out my own knife from it's sheath and lose the jacket entirely. It lands with a thump on the ground. The one closest to me stands up. He's tall. Not wearing that dumb tracksuit either. He's in a dark suit. The other is the same. He stands as well. They both look identical. Twins. They share a glance, and nod silently. The first comes at me, his hands cycling back and forth to force me to react. It works. My hands slip up and he reads me perfectly. As I raise my hands he cuts for my stomach in a swipe. He catches me lightly. My shirt and vest ripping and forming a crimson line. I bend and double over. The other guy kicks up and catches me in the face. I reel back and hot blood steams down my face from my nose. My hand moves to my face, but the mere glance of my fingers sends a wave of white hot pain down to my core. Broken nose, maybe a fractured cheekbone. Pain flashes every time I blink or move my mouth. I have to get over it. Adrenaline will kick in soon. I steady myself and get ready for the next onslaught. I'll need to go on the attack once I stop the initial hits. I lower my hands and start to take a deep breath. They see me get tired and start straightening up and walking towards me, smirking and muttering. The one who slashed me sticks out his hand to grasp my shoulder. There's the adrenaline. I grab it and twist hard. I push his arm under his armpit and behind his back, and stab him hard in the arm, pinning it to his back. He falls and screams. The other one comes to life and starts punching and slashing. I wait until a committed strike comes my way and bat it aside. I feel small cuts where the knife manages to catch my arm. I back up to the wall and he comes for me. A strong grapple around my shoulders, trying to squeeze me into a headlock. I lift my feet and plant myself on the wall and kick off hard. We fall to the ground with me on top. I try and get my knee on his knife welding hand, and I pin his wrist. His hand relaxes. I pull my hand around my back and find the Hi-Point. I draw it from my waist band and point it at his face and pull the trigger twice. Two clunky pulls. Bad trigger work on my part, and the weapon feels like a cheap nail gun. Did the job. One in the cheek and one in between his eyes. The other assailant is still writhing. I put two rounds into his back and he drops. One gasp and he's gone. A death rattle and some strange breathing. He's still in there. But it's over for him. 

I return to the room with the young man wheezing. He's still there doing that. Perfect. The second room containing the other two knife men is still open. I peer in the door and see a group of women. Terrified, all scantily clad in lingerie and underwear. All wearing medical style masks and gloves. The room expands into a much larger room. Looks like the walls were knocked through. It's a packing room, right above the restaurant. The women are all terrified. I wave them out of the room. They run. A single man is left there. He's small, well dressed. His suit is grey, with a red shirt. No tie, but a pink silk scarf sits below his neck. Probably mid fifties. Good shape for his age. He pulls out a dagger from his sleeve. I pull up the pistol and point it at his chest. He makes a move. I fire until it's dry. The slide pulls back and the pistol smokes from the barrel and ejection port. I drop the pistol and look at the guy waiting for him to fall. He takes a breath and stays as he is. Blood pours from his wounds, all six of them in his chest and stomach. The bleeding slows and he steps forward. I can't believe it. He moves quickly all of a sudden and the dagger enters my chest. I gasp as the knife pushes into me. I don't feel it at first. Shock has me, but the man seems curious as he looks at it. He pulls it out, and it all goes black. 

I wake in the hospital bed. My stab wound gone. 

Chapter 3

He was possibly the largest man that Jim had ever seen. He was clad in leather armour, and furs, with red paint over the top half of his face, and bleeding from a large wound in his exposed chest. His arms were covered in mismatched metal plates extending uover his shoulders preotecting his head. On his right hand was a hatchet, strangley small for such a large man, but Jim assumed most of his damage was done with his large, rough and brutal hands. Swollen knuckles from recent fistfights or pummelling. His axe was in his right hand, twirling around his fingers; a practiced trick feigning skill in the absence of actual skill or formal training. He saw Jim as he emerged from the smoke and stopped, turning to face him. Meeting eyes for a brief moment he started stomping over before breaking into a clumsy run, axe raised above, beginning a curling swing at Jim's head. As he closed the distance Jim went for his sword but mistimed the draw, and had to duck under the swing, weaving back and to the left. As the giant realised he had missed his axe flew over Jim's head to the right, he snarled and drew his arm back to his left, hoping to land a backswing. Jim leaned back as it came and put his hand to his sword again, feeling the sharp swing of the axe brush through the air in front of his face. His arm raised above his head once again curling off to the right, telgrpahing his swing. Jim drew his sword and met the blow with a high swing to the left cathing the axe at the top of the hilt and loosing it from the man's grasp. The axe sailed overboard into the sea spray. As the brute watched it disappear Jim brought the sword to bear in a backswing of his own and slashed his throat. The raider clutched his neck and dropped to his knees, before spluttering and landing on all fours. Jim watched the man wretch, try to draw a breath and cough once again before he looked up at Jim. Jim turned away and left the man to die.
As he turned he flicked his sword in his hand and sent blood onto the deck, to be met with the wall of smoke starting to dissipating. As the smoke started blowing away, Jim began to see the chaos unfurl in front of him. The deck was absolute mayhem. Jim found himself at the helm as the smoke faded, and saw Nichols desperately trying to steer from port to starboard.
"You're doing great Nichols, keep it up!" He yelled as the young man nodded and went back to his task. As he turned back he spotted a group of four raiders moving towards him pointing and gesturing to go to him. He realised he was still dressed in his formals, and they recognised him as the captain, which he technically was. Behind them he could see the small group of riflemen firing in volleys with Ash at the centre keeping the fight going, and every other crewman was engaging in combat, outnumbering the attackers but being outmatched, desperately fighting for their lives. Jim raised his sword in a guard and stood firm with a side facing stance. Two of the men carried swords, the girl had a pair of hatchets and another, the largest, had a two handed axe. They ran at him in a staggered line, one behind the other. The first came with an overhead two handed swing for his head. Jim instinctively raised his sword above him to block the blow and deflected the blow to his left while moving right, as the sword slipped off of his own he brought it own down aiming for the nape of the neck. He felt warm blood splash his hand and face as the first died immediately. The next swordsman aimed low for his front foot as he resumed his stance. Jim stepped back and cut the arm of his opponent deep at the forearm, forcing the enemy to drop his weapon and stumble back in pain. The screeching woman with the axes jumped and brought both axes down in another overhead attack. He blocked the blow as before but the axe blades were wrapped around his sword. He allowed the weight to fold his sword over his right side, trapping her weapons under his blade and slashing at her throat with all his strength, cutting her neck open.  Her eyes went wide before she fell hard on her back, in total shock. The final foe wielded the axe in two hands, swinging it around gaining momentum for a massive strike. As he came forth for an attack Jim parried the weapon aside, allowing it smash into the wooden decking and punched first with his left hand, and then hard with his hand gaurd opening a large gash in his enemy's eyebrow, though he kept hold of the axe. Screaming he dragged the axe from the deck and swung hard at Jim's head. Using the same duck and weave as before Jim moved back and left, staying low, and cut at the legs of his enemy severing one of them at the knee and cutting deep into the thigh of the other. Blood ran thick onto the slick deck, and the man collapsed hard onto his remaining knee.
He opened his mouth as he saw Jim raising his sword and said one word, stopping Jim in his tracks.
"Please." He shouted, tears his eyes and pain in his face. Jim, stunned, lowered his sword and looked at him, awaiting some beg for reprieve.
"Make it quick," was the only response. Jim swung his sword up with both hands and brought it around hard to the left, and cut his head clean from his shoulders. The body twitched and swayed before Jim kicked the chest and it fell awkwardly onto the wood with barely a sound.

The Librarian

A long corridor gives way to a massive cavernous room. The walls filled with shelving which in turn were filled with books. The Guildern Library smelled of leather, old manuscript and a strange stale smell mixed with the perfumed air. The dust particles hung in the shining sunbeams, creating intricate patterns throughout the mosaic glass. The sound of shuffling echoing throughout the cavern. Pages turned, slow footsteps, general muttering and light scribbling made up the delicate cacophony in the library.  A small man in dark robes notices Jim by the door and displays a slight smiles before beckoning him over. He draws open a large book by the desk and readies a quill. his voice deep and enthusiastic.
"Master Campbell, how can we assist you today? More on the history of the Icarus perhaps? Supposed Memoirs of Gabriel? Or perhaps a little more research on the history of the Titans?"
Jim smiled and shook his head,  "Something a little more dour I'm afraid. Do you have anything on the Red Death?"
The smile quickly soured on the librarians face,  and he recapped his quill. Jim thought he tapped a sensitive subject.
"There's nothing on that I'm afraid. We've scoured the archives and our scholars have travelled the entire continent looking for information."
"And?"
"Nothing. Not a damn thing. It's been the top priority ever since its return over the last few years. All we know is the symptoms,  the sickness and the end result. No treatments,  no medicine,  only quarantine and death. I assume you've been the one tasked with the retrieval of this miracle worker?"
Jim nodded, "Yeah,  they want my flotilla to retrieve him. They're sending two others as a show of force but it rests with us."
"I see. Well I understand you're moving to Cathedral to find his contact. Does he want to be found?"
"I assume so,  that's why he reached out to the church." Jim noted the genuine interest of the Master Librarian.
"Looking to encounter much resistance? Anyone in particular you're looking to avoid?"
Jim thought about the various nations and the tactics each one employs. His mind raced straight to one with a slight tweak of fear in his spine.
"The Chaladonians." he remarked.
The Librarian was strangely delighted with this answer, and his smile returned.
"Ah yes, the heavily armoured Inquisitors! The shield walls, the ancient piety,  zeal and religious fervour,  the honour of one on one combat and the constant knowledge that your fight is the right one!"
"You seem to be more than interested in the Chaladonians"
The old man smiled unabashed by his interest. He turns and draws a small piece of manuscript from the shelf behind him, and points to one of the notes.
An account of the White Dukedom, from the Great War to the War of the Fjords, by Magnus Hall. 
"Is that you?"
"Yes. It's the scripture that allowed me access to the Library in the first place. The former Master Librarian was impressed and commissioned it as a full work."
"Where's the White Dukedom?" Jim asked, slightly confused.
"The White Dukedom was at war with the Mountain Compact, and after the war they all found themselves believing they fought the war for different reasons. Most of the nation assumed they fought because they were trying to expand the Dukedom, soldiers were trying to prove themselves as knights to claim new land and try and start a fortune. The rest assumed they were fighting for the glory of their religion. The Order of Chaladon was formed by Duke Chaladon, and he instated a religious institution which stands to this day. They don't believe in a deity, but rather a unique presence that watches over everything."
"So the Baronies were unhappy with this."
"Indeed. They saw this as a rebellion, and as the religious moved to the East to form this new Order, the less religious moved West to maintain the secular senate. After the failed negotiation, war eventually ignited, and that's why the conflict is still raging to this day."
Jim took a moment to process, and grunted in acknowledgement.
"After all my experience with both nations, I never once found someone who knew why they were really fighting."
"Internal propaganda makes sure they just know who the enemy is, not why they are the enemy."
"Oddly prophetic from a secular scholar."
Magnus liked that, smirked a little and gave a slight wink.
"So what's your plan for the meeting?"
Jim took a walk to the bay window at the side of the library, Magnus by his side. He took a long look at the desert meeting the ocean in the distance, and the high walls of the city.
"I'll dismount and meet him in one of the outlying district. I'll send in Gaige to make contact, and to arrange a proper meeting with myself and my council. Then we'll make an arrangement, and we'll bring him back here."
"Is that what you think is right?"
"I'm paid to do a job"
A slight dissatisfied grunt was Magnus' response.
"Master Campbell, you'll never be overly successful if you just follow. Even as your own commander, you're still under the command of another. "
"Well I'm a mercenary right now, I can choose my own boss and turn down jobs, that's all I can do for the moment."
"Take a moment when you're finished this assignment. I feel this will either make or break you"
"Thank you,scholar."
Jim nodded and left Magnus to his work again, leaving the corridor and walking back outside to the fresher air of Vyshtorg. He took a deep breath letting the cool air fill his lungs before reaching into his jacket for his pipe and tobacco. Looking over the railing of the staircase back down to the city he was overlooking the market district, and could see the airdock several blocks down and could make out a few of the ships in his flotilla. He took some of the tobacco and rolled it into a small but loose clump before slotting it into the pipe. He lit the match against the railing and ignited the tobacco before taking a small puff and exhaling through his nose. The aromatic smoke ran around his jacket, into his collar and throughout the space around him.
A set of footsteps behind him announced the presence of another.
"Anything?"
Jim turned and saw Swallow making her way towards him, eyes slightly unfocused and breath hinting of moonshine.
"Not a damn thing. Mostly another lecture and some smoke about the Chaladonians and Baronies."
"Shame" She steps towards him and takes his pipe, taking a quick puff and handing it back.
"Looks like we're going to have to do this the way the Guild want it."
Jim takes one long draw and turns, his cloak whirling behind him, and Swallow following beside.
"Maybe something will come up when we get there"
"The way I think, everyone knows where this guy is, so we need to make sure we're the first ones there. Otherwise it'll be a scramble, and it might get violent."
"Exciting"
"Mmmm"

Sons of Icarus Chapter 2

The clouds gave birth to a large hulking ship. It looked like a ship that should be on water, but instead of sails, it had a large grey balloon and bristled with weapons from bow to stern. The buzz from it's engines was a deep rumble, and as it descended through the cloud cover it was followed by two more ships, all similarly built but with different colours, some greys, browns, reds and purples. All three ships pointed their bow down and their engines flared to life with tar like smoke billowing from the propellers in the rear. As they descended they broke from one group into three ships, and one headed for Jim's ship while the other two craft circled around to the rear.

Jim noted the crew freezing, and Ash was completely in awe of what was happening. As the ships drew close he could hear the whirr of the propellers and the hiss of the air in the balloon. Jim gripped his sword and ordered Ash to his side.

"Get the engineers to push the engines as hard as they'll go. More fuel, we need to be moving as fast as we can. Use the moonshine if you have too!" Jim barked at the large man, who scurried uncharacteristically to the engine decks below, to bawl and yell at the engineers.

Jim knew however, that they were not going to escape, they just needed to be moving as fast as possible, and generate some kind of smokestack from the funnel to attract enough attention. It was a shoddy plan, but it had to do.

Milano ran to the weapons locker, and collected the remaining rifles, and handed Jim his officers pistol, a long, well crafted, pistol, ornamented beautifully and adorned with golden markings and engravings. Jim checked the barrel, and loaded the cartridge into the breech, before snapping the breech shut with a flick of his wrist. He grabbed a rifle from Milano and did the same, snapping open the breech, and placing a small cartridge into the slot, and pocketing a few more of the charges into his pockets and bandoliers around his waist. He played with a charge before inspecting it. Universal ammunition for ballistic weapons was very common nowadays. They contained all the components for a bullet; wadding, powder and the projectile itself. All contained within a cartridge for easy transport and fast loading. Jim snapped the breach closed on the rifle, threw it to a crewman, and commanded the nearest crewman to take the helm and to keep the heading straight.

Taking a deep breath he approached the steps and looked at the two seas in front of him. One a calm ocean of water, slightly brushed by the wind., the other a sea of frightened young faces, clutching a mixture of rifles, hand axes and personal weapons. Jim decided now was a good time to try and draw some courage.

"We are not safe. I'll not lie. Some of you are possibly going to die. Let's not pretend that we are children. I'm not your mother, and I'm certainly not going to tell you it's all going to be alright. What I will do is protect you all as much as I possibly can. We are not soldiers. We are not hardened men, ready to jump into the gates of hell to fight the devil himself. We are sailors. All we can do is our best. So all of you get ready to either die fighting for your miserable life, or find new purpose in how you live. Are you with me?!"

"Aye, Captain!" came a rousing chorus of hardy voices. They looked less afraid, but no more intimidating. Faces were hardened, aim was steady and voices were loud and deep. Some of the boys had just become men. Ash still looked afraid, but he had a new love for living in his eyes, and clutched his rifle and began to take aim.

"Ash, get the Captain," said Jim, not wanting any shots fired yet until they knew what the raiders were up to.

"Aye," and off he went down the steps.

Jim took position with some of the men at the starboard side where the primary ship was heading. Jim stood leaning on the railings, trying to see what the ships were about. They looked like they were forming a perimeter, ready to surround and sink the ship if not compliant. They had every advantage; height, speed, maneuvering, weaponry, crew, training and worst of all; nothing to lose. Jim's men had families, lives, loved ones and dreams. Jim was hoping they'd fight hard to save what they had. Jim's sweat ran cold down his face and back, soaking into his long johns, leaving his still neat dress uniform only specked with some of the wash from the sea. He removed his hat and threw it to Milano who scuttled off to put it away in his quarters. The boy was only in his mid teens, still wet behind the ears. Time seemed to slow down as Jim watched him make his way down the steps, bumping into Ash who was returning from rousing the captain, however empty handed. Ash opened his mouth to say something but was drowned out by the sound of a dull explosion which rocked the Aurora. The ship swayed to the side and the deck buckled, smoke and flame rising from the staircase leading to the decks below. The young hopeful was blasted out of the hatch, smoldering and lifeless. The crew were all shook off their feet.
"Report!" Cried Jim as he came to his feet.
"A shot into the side, sir! Topside aport, not taking water yet." yelled a crewman from the side of the ship.
"Should we return fire, Sir?" Ash asked from the ground.
"No, twas a warning shot, we won't stand a chance at range." Jim replied without looking
"A warning shot? They hit us directly! A well aimed and lethal hit, Sir!"
"That's their way, For them the fact that they didn't kill us all is enough to warn us."

"Sir, we need to -"
"Enough!" Jim needed to take control, Ash, as large as he is, was starting to panic. As loyal as a guard dog is, you need to show it the chain to allow it to bare it's teeth.  

 "Boson! Get to the Flak gun, get them sighted and ready to fire, but only on my mark. If I see you cowering and silent, you'll wish they captured you. Now get a move on, man!!"
Ash nodded, a shameful but angry nod, and turned to walk to the bow. As he walked on he gathered momentum, rolling his shoulder and unsheathing his baton, a long knobbed club, and began rapping it against the deck railings. Jim couldn't hear the words, but the crew's faces were as good a transcript as any. No other man could speak an incantation to rally men like Ash Thomas.
Leaving them to it, Jim returned to the helm, and took control of the radio. Setting it to local broadcast he took a look at the ships still bearing down, now beginning to surround the Aurora.
"This is the," Jim paused and thought about the explosion below decks.
"This is Captain Jim Campbell of the Middle Ancient, vessel from the Merchant Navy of the Order of Chaladon. We are a peaceful ship, however we are armed. We can and will defend ourselves if fired upon again. You have been warned. However we will peacefully surrender any supplies we have that are valuable to you. We are carrying trade goods from the Mercantile Guild that will fetch fair pri-"
A suddenly deep, low voice interrupted the broadcast.
"Your lives are ours. You are the cargo. We will take what you have. You will be sold, or you will die protecting that useless piece of machinery that you-"
Jim slammed the handpiece into the speaker, shattering the coils within and breaking the whole thing.
"Nichols, retake the helm and keep swerving port to starboard. Be unpredictable. I'll get you the greatcoat."
Taking the greatcoat from the weapons cabinet, he fixed it around the waist of the helmsman. "The clips fit into the trousers, and then the upper section is worn like a regular jacket, now arms in. Good lad. It's heavy, but it'll feel natural, and it'll protect you from any shrapnel. Now haul arse and get busy moving", and with that Jim slammed the Middle Ancient to full ahead and returned to the centre of the ship.
"Right. We're fighting. Noone fire until I give the order. Anyone without a weapon, either be ready to pick up a rifle from someone who falls, or keep a supply of ammunition. Ready your rifles."
He could see the men loading their rifles clumsily, looking at each other and starting to rally themselves. The raider ships were getting closer and closer. The main ship bearing down on them was now less than five hundred meters away, with the other two moving around to the sides and rear.
Jim decided it was time to act.
"Ready." The men tok positions at the edge of the ship, clutching their rifles.
"Aim." The crew took aim, a dozen rifles, plus the flak cannon.
There was no sound apart form the spray of the sea and the steady hum of the airships. Jim grabbed his telescope from his belt and peered through the lenses. The ship came into focus, and his heart sank. The vessel was a massive junker with open decks and a steel bottom. Ropes hung off of the sides like tentacles. Crewmen were hanging off of the side and from the ropes, waving around weapons. The other two ships seemed like smaller versions of the same class.
"Fire!"
The crew rippled with a short burst of fire. The air stung with the smell of gunpowder and smoke.
A dozen tiny smoke trails flew towards the ship and all of them fell short, dipping below the hull.
"Charge arms!! Aim higher! Flak, open fire! Now!"
A mix of confused gestures and scrambling was the response before the position started firing. A single shot was met with a massive jump from each crewman, before they regained their composure and started firing for full effect. A sharp, steady booming rumble shook the ship as the flak sent timed explosive shells into the sky. The shots sailed for several hundred metres before bursting into a black cloud. They were failing short, exploding too soon, but the raiders started weaving already. Buying more time is all.
Jim ordered another volley and the shots still fell too low. The ship was growing ever closer, now around three hundred metres. Jim snatched a rifle from a crewman, loaded and took aim. The sights were rusted and fill of grime. Jim wipe it on his sleeve and tried again. He could make out a crewman hanging off of the bow cables. The wind was behind him, but the ship was moving, as well as the momentum of the enemy ship. He aimed about ten feet above and five to the left. the trigger was stiff as he squeezed, and fired a shot. The shot curved right against the momentum of the ship and began to dip, but found its mark. The target was surrounded by a red spray and was blasted off of the cable, falling hundreds of metres into the sea. He threw the rifle back to the deck hand and ordered another volley. This time the shots found their mark. More crewmen either disappeared from view or fell from the ship itself. Splinters and sparks exploded from the bottom of the hull. Two more volleys and the ship was starting to smoke. Heavy black smog began pouring out of the bottom of the ship. The crewmen started to cheer as they were reloading faster and even trading places to shoot. a small grin teased Jim's lips as he saw them enjoying it, but he knew it can only get worse. He was right. Muzzle flashes began coming from the top and middle decks. Steady regimented fire began peppering the ocean and walking it's way towards the deck. The smiling crewmen stopped laughing and began panicking. The deck began exploding in splinters. Several crewmen were bleeding from splinters and bullet wounds alike. To their credit they kept firing. The flak gun was finally hitting the ship with bursting shots, shots smashing into the deck and sending more raiders tumbling into the sea. The junker slammed into full speed and within mere moments was directly over the Middle Ancient. the flak gun continued firing into the belly of the ship but the shells were bursting on the edge, showering the deck in shrapnel.
"Cease Fire!!" Jim yelled over the cacophany but they couldn't hear. Ash was already heading over, ddging the red hot shrapnel comin from above.
"Make ready! They're about to board. Anone with a rifle stay as you are and fire as they come in, everyone else use your hatchets and anyting you can find!"
Jim's commands were falling on ready ears as they realised the gravity of what was happening. The riflemen stood in a line and aimed at the hatches above, with the rest clutching hand axes, crowbars, grapples, fishing spears and anything they could find. Some had old momentos from home in the form of knives, daggers, old cutlesses and the occasional shortsword, but most had what they could find. Fear, anger and a range of other emotions were plastered across the faces of them all, all of them baptised in a hail of fire thy hadn't signed up for. Jim felt anger, with hints of sadness and fear. He was not afraid to die, only afraid to let the men under his command die. He undid the clasp on his scabbard and gripped his sword handle, fixing his right fist under the hand gaurd and gripping it tight.  The black smoke that was billowing from the rear of the engine was now funnelling through large pipes at the bottom and began to flow onto the deck, swamping the entire ship in black smog.
As the bottom hatches of the intruders burst open above him and the sounds of shouting took up and became louder his knuckles grew white, and he suddenly realised, with all his training, all of his command and combat experience, he had never fought, let alone killed another man with his sword. Loud thumps annouced the arrival of his foe, and they emerged through the darkness.

Sons of Icarus; Chapter 1

A cool ocean spray through the open porthole awoke First Mate Jim Campbell as he snoozed through the late evening. A light, tuneful whistling could be heard over the light hissing of the sea as the Middle Ancient  passed softly through the gentle waters. The light trickled through the cracks of the old but tested wood of the deck, cutting straight yellow lines in the rough brown panel. Jim swung his legs out of the bunk with a soft grunt, feeling well rested and lightly hungover from the festivities of the night before. It was the lookout's birthday. Jim thought hard for the man's name, but it eluded him, as did the majority of the frivolities. A faint memory of the captain using a bucket as a boot and trying to kick one of the deck hands up the arse with it drew a small smile from the young man's mouth. A small muffled voice announced the presence of Milano, Jim's servant.
"Mr. Campbell, Sir! Captain awaits!" His youthful enthusiastic voice giving away his constant seek of approval from the officers on board. He didn't need it, he's in line for Midshipman when the time comes, a full officer rank. Jim liked him, he treated him well and let him dine with him and the Captain when it was appropriate. Highly frowned upon in the Chaladonian Merchant Navy, where the peasants were to know their place in the layer cake. He appeared at the door with a steel catering tray, and placed it down on the desk. He's already been up for hours, even with all the rum Jim fed him last night, he was still eager and awake. He knew his duties. He'll do well.
Upon the tray was a plate, adorned with eggs, some bacon medallions and, as Jim was secretly delighted to see, some fried mushrooms. Alongside the plate sat one of the steel jugs, and a small wooden cup. The young man filled the cup with a dark red liquid and handed it to Jim, who nodded and took a deep gulp. The warm red wine hit the back of his throat faster than he expected and drew his breath from him. After a brief cough, he filled the cup himself and handed it to Milano, urging him to drink. He took a modest sip and set it back down.
"Captain is waiting, Mr. Campbell, Sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, Mr. Milano that's all. I'll see you topside."
Jim looked for his bicorn, and felt the light felted fabric under his posterior, and drew the hat from within. It came forth rather crumpled and more like a croissant than a mighty command staff hat. He peeled it over his head and staggered to his feet, the taste of honey mead on his breath and the fire in his chest from the rum. Still in his dress uniform from the night before, he looked around his modest quarters for any clues of the sort of entrance he made into the bunk. A quick scan of the desk revealed a knocked over inkwell, with it's contents dried over the scouting reports, and the inventory he had taken the morning before. Captain Yira won't mind. He can write them up again this evening.
His life on the merchant vessel was a relaxed one. He woke usually before the captain, leaving him sleep, and had the boson rouse the men and set them to work with getting the ship underway. In this case however the captain awoke first, and was on deck by the time Jim made his way shakily to the helm, full of a warm hearty breakfast.
"Afternoon, Mr. Campbell", laughed the captain, as he squinted in the early afternoon sun. the captain's large grey beard and bicorn framed his round, red face, and his unofficial uniform was as well-pressed and tidy as always, with the exception of the sweat stains around the chest and armpits. The captain was a short, jolly and friendly man, and there was no man on this ship who carried more respect from the crew than Captain Yira. His grey uniform was dotted with service pins from the Chaladonian Navy, and his old sword was perfectly polished as always. His purple suede bicorn was adorned with the symbol of the Chaladon Merchant Navy, a mermaid with a tricorn and a compass.
A proud man, who respected the seas and knew how to capture the movements of nature to propel his modest vessel through the open seas.
Jim nodded and took his place at the helm, wiping his brow as he grasped the wheel. The crew were dotted around the ship, either talking in small groups or lazily going about minor tasks.
There was not much work for a sailor for the Merchant Fleet, not on the water anyway. With the new fuel driven propellers the need for sails was lessened, and unless a ship was caught without fuel, the sails were more for decorative reasons and antiquity.
The real reason for numbers was the manual labour involved in loading and unloading, that led to a lot of inactivity, and it was perfect for the lesser educated of Chaladon to turn to as a long term employment. The majority of the Middle Ancient  were uneducated. Some were farmers, some were ex convicts, some were invalids from military life, and some were just out of schooling, and wanted a solid job with benefits. Many men followed their fathers, many of those men followed into the sailors life of alcoholism, sickness and a lifetime of hardiness. the crew of the Middle Ancient were quite a young crew, with very few of them over the age of twenty. The only exceptions were the Captain who would be approaching his sixties, and the boson, who is in his thirties. Jim was the oldest next to these two, at the age of twenty-four, which gave him an edge of respect with the lower ranking men of the ship.
Jim sank his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, and felt the silk lining as he fumbled for his compass. He drew the small golden item and set it on the palm of his hand.
"Why are we heading south, Captain?" asked Jim.
The original plan was to head west to pick up the shipment and return it back east to home port with no deviation.
Yira frowned and removed his hat, fanning his red face.
"We drifted off course last night, whoever set the anchor never left it run deep and we drifted West. We need to proceed back North-East and return to our course heading."
One of the crewmen at the weapons locker was listening, and turned around swiftly.
"So we out West? In the black channel?Wiff raiders?" he said, shaking his head in fear.
Jim looked at the captain and could not tell if the calm on his face was artificial or natural, and faced the young crewman.
"We're not too far west, just a little of course, aren't we Captain Yira?"
"Right you are, Mister Campbell, we should be back on course within a few hours and we can return to our original heading."
Jim glanced back to the crewman, and again noted the fear in his eyes, and the sweat on his brow.
"If it's all the same to you, Captain, I'd like to have more men on lookout, just to be on the safe side."
"By all means, Jim," returned the captain. The captain never referred to Jim by his first name. Not in front of the crew anyway.
"I'll be in my quarters, Jim," the captain slurred as he took his leave."Not feeling the best. You have the ship until I return." He staggered clumsily to the stairs and his foot never took his weight as he made the first step, and he collapsed down the stairs, crashing awkwardly to the main deck.
"The Captain's down!"
"Is he hurt?"
"Mr. Campbell, what happened?"
Jim recognised the rumbling voice of the boson, and caught sight of him, head and shoulders above the crowd of concerned crewmen. A giant bearded lion of a man, who was dressed in his practical deck wear, like the rest of the crew, but with the addition of a hardwood cudgel, and a small sabre. He pushed through the line of men to find the captain lying on his back at the foot of the stairs. Jim shouted over the panicking crew.
"Enough!"
The crew all stopped and looked to Jim, with total silence aside from the hiss of the sea. He took a solid breath and projected over the sound of mother nature.
"The captain slipped and fell. He had a lot to drink last night, as did we all I'm sure. If the boson and some volunteers would kindly escort the captain to his chambers we can get back to work."
A few short moments later the boson made his way to the top of the deck, with a few harsh words to a few crewmen on the way, and put his giant hand on Jim's shoulder as he steered.
"Is he alright, Mr. Thomas?" Jim referred to the boson by his full name, and never by his title or his nickname, "The Lion."
"Yes, Sir. Just a little under the weather. Which we may be soon," the boson said as he pointed towards a rapidly darkening section of cloud.
"Indeed. I need you to station crew on lookout, all sectors of the ship on high security, and one on each post needs to be armed. Take the weapons, one rifle between five." Jim nodded his head towards to locked weapons cabinet.
"Just for the moment. The rest can rotate and keep and eye on the horizon. Get the flak cannon ready. We may need it"
The Boson nodded, a small trace of fear in his face as he processed the orders Jim have given. The crew had not trained for this, and none bar the captain and Jim had any experience with combat, and both were rather limited.
The Lion took a look around at the ship, taking in what viewpoints there were, before nodding and taking off, bellowing orders and pointing people in various directions. A short while later he returned and unlocked the weapons cabinet, taking out six rifles, before moving to lock it again.
"Leave it open, Ash. Just to be safe." Jim said, as he kept his eye on the storm, using the Boson's first name, just showing him how serious the situation was.
"Aye, Sir," he grumbled, and set off distributing weapons.
Jim could see the few men that were hastily assembled into a weapons crew were gathering at the bow of the ship and slipping the grey tarp off of the flak cannon. They tossed the tarp aside and began debating about who gets to sit in and shoot. Ash was present and informed them that whoever was sitting in the cannon would be targeted first if there was indeed anything to shoot. He then grabbed one of them and shoved him into the seat, advised the rest to help with loading, and turning.
Jim took a long breath and cursed whomever had led them to this situation, as well as the captain for not taking this seriously. The reason Jim stayed up to work on navigation, was to avoid this exact situation, and with the ruined maps and notes, he was not sure exactly how far North they had drifted, and how they would know when they are back on the right path.
"Navigation Aid! Off the Starboard bow! Just a mile out!" the lookout shouted down to Jim, who breathed a sigh of relief. the navigational aids were set for this reason, off course piloting and ships in dense fog. Once they found out which beacon it was, they can correct course and get back to land.
Jim peered up to the lookout, up in the crows nest atop the mast, and grabbed the radio next to the wheel, using the internal ship channel.
"Lookout, First Mate here, can you see what the markings are?"
Jim could see the lookout craning his head in the crows nest, leaning around to get a better angle on the bouy. The radio crackled in response a few moments later.
"The markings look slightly off. They're looking pretty rough, Sir."
Campbell was beginning to sweat, even more considering the heat and hangove combination. "Rough? Rough how? Are the regulation?"
"Hard to say, they're not the right colour. A kind of dark red."
That settled it. The merchant fleets used a regulation dark green paint for marking navigational aides, and this broke procedure. The fact that is was difficult to read aroused suspiscion, as they were always positioned for ease of access. Now that the paint is different, it presented a new threat; bait.
Jim slammed the ship into full reverse, and watched the crew lurch forward as the powerful engines turned and stopped the ship almost dead before pulling the ship around. Jim then lurched the wheel to the right, dragging the ship left and turning the giant craft around. A sharp wind waught the mast and turned it towards the turn, nearly capsising the vessel, but Jim put the Middle Ancient into full ahead, creating a large wake of white water and smoke from the engines. The ship was now heading full speed back North.
"We're not up north, we're far south. Captain was still bloody drunk when he woke up this morning." Jim was enraged, and terrified. They drifted south rather than north, and continued south to raider territory. Cloud cover was descending and made long range visibility more difficult. A faint rumbling could be heard over the sound of the roaring engines.
"Thunder?" asked the Lion, who appeared beside Jim.
"We can only hope", he replied.
"I can't see any ships for miles, what else could it be?"
It was then that Jim noted that the boson had only ever been on this ship, with this captain, on this route for almost his entire adult life, and had never even heard of a ship that didnt touch water.
"You think you've seen a lot in this life, Ash?" he asked with a slight smile.
"What's that supposed to mean?" returned a confused and slightly afraid Lion.
"Arm the crew, they're coming from the skies this time"
And with that, the skies opened, and hell descended from the heavens.