~~~~~
In the real world, the one that moved at full speed and didn’t feature a phantom mentor, Citizen Vaiss was still on Fat Duck’s weather monitor screen. Several quiet seconds had passed in Dastou’s mind while he visited Silverline Sharp. Citizen Vaiss moved, and his face shifted on the screen toward something close to him in the same dark room, on a stand or desk, or in his hand maybe. The Saint knew, he knew, that something terrible was about to happen.
After the overwhelming rage at the mention of Paige’s death, and the time in revelatory slow-motion thought, Dastou remembered that he was not alone here, that he had people he had to safeguard. He looked to his side, at Trenna and Crawford, and they were staring at him, likely because of how quiet he’d been while in his short trance. Trenna was frightened, and Crawford was something closer to curious and suspicious with the possibility of concern layered at the very top. The Saint nodded to the pair, assuring them that he was fine. Crawford nodded back and returned to his standard self-assured visage.
Dastou focused on the screen and the man on it, and once again felt deep in his soul that there was bad news and more danger coming.
“Why did you make some of these people into unbalanced?” asked Dastou of the man on the screen, hoping to get more information before Jaspertine arrived and they got off this warship.
Citizen Vaiss was calm and confident, not displaying his distaste for Saints as overwhelmingly as he had before. Uh oh.
“Why?” Vaiss answered. “Because I could, obviously. They are not worth worrying over, let alone using as anything but tools.”
“They’re people,” whispered Trenna, her voice so sad and lonely it broke the Saint’s focus on Vaiss because it reminded him of himself. “People, not tools.”
Dastou looked over at her, and Trenna’s head was down, a hand wiping at an eye. Her entire camp of homeless survivors, her friends and adopted family of the streets, was taken by Vaiss to be used as bait and as bullet fodder. He had them leave Trenna for dead in the streets just to attract Dastou into an ambush, and the thought dampened the Saint’s fury further, replacing it the empathy Wife reminded him to display more often. “You have to be better than your anger,” Ornadais also told him a few years ago.
“They are what I need them to be,” said Citizen Vaiss, again referring to the sailors or soldiers or homeless under his thumb, “for however long I need them. If it means an army of manipulated patriots, that is what I will have and use. It is all necessary if I am to stop you, Saint. You are a living crime, a testament to selfishness.”
“Feel free to explain that better,” said Crawford, a tinge of tired annoyance in his tone. “Because I would like to leave this ocean-faring handgun and find some supper, with my mind less confused than how I came to it.”
Dastou couldn’t help but smile at that. Crawford’s over-confidence was a fun thing to watch unfold occasionally.
“Come, Trenna, let us leave these two to converse,” finished Crawford, who held his arm out for Trenna to take. Yet again, he was trying to do something positive for the girl – maybe he only felt sorry for her after how she reacted to Vaiss’ words, but it was nonetheless nice to see. Dastou chuckled when Trenna smiled meekly, then half-curtsied before taking his elbow gently. It was like watching a new version of Nes and Saan.
The pair started a walk to the hatch below the view screen with Vaiss’ face on it before being stopped by more words from their televised enemy.
“I will explain nothing,” said Vaiss in answer to Crawford. “You are an aberration, and thankfully the last. After so long, I am able to give a final blow to your kind for your interruptions, your delays.”
Without saying more, Citizen Vaiss glanced down again, moved slightly, and an alarm started to blare on the ship. This one was different than the more standard alarm that went off when Smart Lady found out Dastou was onboard; it was more like a song. A series of seven tones repeating over and over, the sound making him sicker by the second. The Saint couldn’t respond with words, for fear he’d only vomit. After the first three repetitions, Vaiss cut his video feed and the weather information was back on the view screen.
“Boss...,” croaked Crawford. The redhead fell to his knees as Trenna tried to hold him steady. “Do you smell that?”
Burning plastic, peppermint leaves. Dastou began to sway, his mind slowly emptying itself of any intelligent thought.
Ka-boom! Under the bridge, there was an explosion that the Saint only heard a fraction of and felt very mildly in the soles of his feet. He tried to figure out what was going on, but his brain had gone for a nice long walk, and he became lightheaded and tripped on his own feet. After he fell to the floor, Dastou recognized the unmistakable sound of horrified screams floating to his ears from somewhere past the mouseway, where there were private workstations and a few bunks in the small area to the aft of the bridge.
The Saint could still see Trenna, who seemed unaffected by this incredible song he could hear in his mind. The melody was telling him to stop worrying about life, to stop trying hard to live. He was sad that she probably didn’t hear it, it was wonderful. Trenna had tears in her eyes as she started to pull Crawford’s unconscious form, dragging him to the hatch that led out to the deck.
She stopped suddenly, stood straight up. She was looking around. Dastou’s eyelids became heavier, and some of his blinks lasted a little too long. One quick closing of his eyes and Trenna was gone somewhere. Then she was back, holding an orange fluffy thing with straps. She worked to get it on Crawford’s torso, her expression determined past the tears. Dastou blinked and she was gone when he opened his eyes again. Another blink and Trenna was right next to him, moving him onto his side, another fluffy orange thing with straps in her hands. Another blink and she was gone, the vest clipped onto his body roughly, his jacket out of place the same way Crawford’s lab coat was.
When he cast his view sideways, he saw her putting something in front of the hatch, a piece of wood from the crate that those cannon balls smashed up earlier, the box that was blocking the mouseway exit. It was in just the right place on the floor to keep the hatch from closing, something Dastou knew was important, though not why.
Blink.
Trenna was dragging Crawford’s body away. When she reached the hatch, she pushed it open with a shoulder since the piece of wood kept it from shutting completely. She held the way out open, dragged the tall, lanky Crawford out with as much sheer will as actual strength. The agent’s feet got caught on the closing hatch when he was almost out, and she had to open it with one hand while pulling those feet away from the jamb and out to the side, bending Crawford’s knees up to do it.
Blink.
Crawford was no longer near the hatch. He was nowhere Dastou could see, actually. Trenna was very close, though, above the Saint and pulling his body. She was crying, which he could tell despite her being soaking wet all over for some reason. A bright light took over his vision for a moment, revealing the deck more clearly than the security diodes. Lightning. Dastou couldn’t hear anything at all, so if there was thunder he missed it. Too bad, he liked thunder.
Blink.
Dastou was on Fat Duck’s forward deck, still on his back and looking to the side, unable to control where his head faced. Crawford’s body was next to him. Rain was coming down, consistent and heavy. Whatever storm he remembered seeing in the distance when they first snuck aboard had reached the warships. More lightning cut the air, lit the deck. There was an open hatch cover a few meters away that looked like it led below deck – he remembered seeing a few of those on the aft deck, too, though he decided to take the standing hatch to get inside. Next to that hatch cover were four bodies. A man stood there faced out as if he’d just come up. In front of him was a woman, her back to the Saint. The woman held a pistol in very steady hands, her feet planted solidly on the soaked metal floor. It was Trenna.
The man, a uniformed sailor, had blood all over him that the rain was not completely cleaning away. No vi
sible injuries. He was holding a hand axe from one of the emergency fire stations, also covered in blood. He stood incredibly still, staring at Trenna with wide-eyed hunger. Another look at the four bodies revealed they had been quickly, brutally mutilated. Each fresh corpse featured one or two deadly strikes from a sharpened weapon, and some had limbs cut off, an arm here a foot there. Fingers too on occasion, the chopped-off digits lying further from the small stack of bodies as the wind took the small things away. It was easily the most visceral, horrible display of violence Dastou had ever seen, and it was ruining the song he could still hear coming from loudspeakers.
The blood-covered sailor suddenly charged forward, raising the gory hand axe. A snarl and a scream on his face, and a horrific desire in his eyes for violence like Dastou had never seen before. Trenna pulled the trigger, fired her gun, the too-thin young woman’s arm flying up and back with the force of the recoil, the muzzle flash lighting up her immediate area.
Blink.
~~~~
Blurred Weaponry (Saints of the Void, Book 1) Page 45
