Regret and Reconcilliation

[Falcon Darkflight]

((Solo))

"Commander..."

The room was even more dark than usual with the blinds shut. The shadowy wraith that was Canen Darkflight stood alone in the office of the commanding officer of Step, breathing in the scent of rich mahogany and largely ignoring the faint forms of old whiskey decanters that lined the shelves of glass drink cabinets stocked from wall to wall. He ignored them because they were the very epitome of the bureaucrat, the type sat behind a comfortable desk with the luxury of making decisions that would not directly affect their own sorry hides. The Nocturn, although he was in the employ of one such or many of the same bureaucrats, still loathed the principles of the desk officers, and did not want to admit to himself that he was under their control. He had to keep reminding himself he was serving his country to stay sane.

"Buren August has deserted." The commander threw to the forefront of his desk a brown paper envelope containing various documents, which Canen collected in his right hand, severing the seal with a paperknife. "...He was last seen setting sail from Etheria at eight thirty yesterday. Current destination is unknown. We need to know what reason he would have for doing this so suddenly. You know him well..."

So? Canen thought to himself. There were many people who knew August better than he did.

"...Do you know the reason for his desertion? Where he might be heading?" The commander asked without wasting time. At least he was straight to the point.

Even if I did, why would I tell you? Canen didn't say. "No, sir, nothing. August is a quiet man. He mostly keeps himself to himself."

"I want you to go after him. Bring him back. Do not allow him to speak to anybody about our operations..." The nameless officer leant back in his chair, the leather upholstery creaking softly. His voice denoted no emotion, a sign this particular commanding officer had experience in disregarding the welfare of everybody, in Canen's eyes. All bureaucrats eventually became institutionalised to the point of no return someday. This one was no different. However, there was an element of concern in his tone and urgency of speech that hinted there may have been another reason for his commanders concern. Canen didn't question it.

"What if he's talked, sir?" Canen asked, turning on his heel towards the brass handle of the door. It was one of the most pointless questions he had ever raised to date. He knew that there would be a private court marshal followed by a hasty execution, with all Step agents not on assignment present to see the example of what would happen if any of them decided to stray from the path. It was brutal, but nations had to have a way of keeping their ranks in order. Even Canen admitted that.

"I thought you said he was a quiet man? You and I both know the consequences..." Was the expected response. Although he showed no emotion on the outside, Canen was grimacing internally at the prospect of watching his friend and mentor get executed.

"I'm ready to leave on command sir." The response was automatic from the Nocturn. To the commander, it was a simple enough statement. To Canen, that sentence was literally begging his superior to let him out of the office and find out what the hell was going on with Buren, avoiding the subject of a possible execution.

[Falcon Darkflight]

"Look, i'm telling you now..." Maes Maverick exclaimed, his rugged face drawn heavily underneath a thin pair of glasses and a mass of slicked back black hair, "...You really want to quit while you're ahead, Evans..."

There was an anxious silence. The ready room cards table was piled with blue and red chips, cigerette butts and semi-emptied beer tankards spanning the diameter of the table. Evans cast his hazel eyes through the bangs of his oak hair towards his hand, and grinned like a cat who had just found the vat of cream, wincing through the fog of tobacco fumes at his winning cards.

"Bullshit to that, Mav. You wanna see me to back that cocky attitude up?"

Maverick looked back down at his own cards, masking his frustrated reactions. Two three's and a four, and he was calling Evan's bluff for another hundred gold nuggets. If he laid down his cards now, he was going to be a lot more out of pocket. He'd have to start laying IOU's on the table. So, his pride took over his common sense.

"I'll see you another fifty Evans. Got the balls to piss a little more in the pot?"

Evans's grin expanded past the horizon as he nodded and tossed a couple more chips into the kitty. Maverick could no longer hide his expression as his false smile turned into a frown, his cards hitting the table like cannonballs impacting a concrete wall. Evans paused for a moment, staring at the hand in disbelief.

"That...was all you had?" He giggled, laying his four aces on the table slowly and surely. He wanted to let Mav feel the win. As the clinking of nickel blue and red chips echoed throughout the empty ready room in their Step safehouse, dragged across the table surface by a grinning Evans, a low voice sounded out from the corner.

"I'm back."

Both men turned their heads to see Canen entering the inadequately lit room as if on some dark purpose, keeping amongst the shadows as he strode up to his partners. Evans passed a small nod of acknowledgement to his collegue while Maes simply slumped in his chair and waved slowly, a dark expression still locked on his face from the impact of having lost his nights wages again. The brown paper envelope with Canen's orders in slammed onto the cards table, knocking over empty cups and redistributing cigerette ends onto the wooden planked floor.

"Head of Intelligence, Buren August, jumped ship at eight thirty yesterday. Information suggests he sailed from Etheria, although nobody knows where to or why. Command has basically asked me to bring him back to shore."

"What?" Evans asked, surprised by Canen's revelations.

"I'm not joking. I wish I was." The Nocturn, dressed in the long red robes of his commission. "I'm close friends with Buren. He's a good man and I want to know why he would do this."

"No shit?" Evans asked again, finding it difficult to comprehend what Canen was telling them. "The hero of the ten year rebellion has done a runner?"

"Evans, i'm not going to repeat myself" The Nocturn pounded his fist against the wall. "They're sending us out there. All three of us. Something is up and I need to know about it."

"Uh-oh. I ain't feelin' this...you know what they do with deserters. I don't want to get caught up in this..." Maverick whinged. Canen glared at him.

"Sorry."

"We have to leave today." Canen got straight down to business. "So we'd better start getting resupplied. I think its best if we take full field gear, seeing as we don't know how long it will take to find August. We'll need food, water and shelter. We'll also probably need a bit of money. People tend to talk better when their pockets are lined, and i'm willing to bet that the port stewards of Etheria wouldn't mind the extra cash. And, on that note..."

"...a boat?" Maverick pre-empted.

"Bingo. I'll see if we can sail Step-specific, but i'm not sure if the budget will cover it. We might have to pay a bung to the port stewards to get us a ride." Canen, talking at almost a million miles an hour now he was so worked up, knew full well that Step would tell him to try and stow away on a civilian transport or alternatly hire one of their own, but he and his collegues could hardly afford to rent a ship. They would have to be clever about it.

"...might not need to." Evans lamented, standing up at last. He was a lot taller than he first looked and had to duck under a low beam to get near to Canen. "...I have contacts in the area. One of them has connections with a lot of the underhand work in Ettermire, rumoured to have been on the development team responsible for the airships, although its all mainly hush-hush. She's a good engineer. She owns a private pier near Etheria and uses it to sail to and from Alerar, on a no questions asked basis, if you get my drift."

"Evans, im not so sure about this. We shouldn't be working with people so heavily involved in Alerar affairs...it could work against the interests of Corone..." Canen pointed out. That was a dangerous line to cross.

"Don't worry sir, she's ex-Alerar, defected to Corone based agencies last year. She recently divulged a lot of technical genius our way. Indirectly, of course."

"I don't trust defectors, regardless of how much material they provide us. Did it ever occur to you that she might be a mole?" Canen pointed out. It was in his nature to be distrusting of traitors, no matter how many gifts they bore. After all, it was this same mistake that had contributed to his homeland's eradication from existence, trusting those with false promises.

Evans just winked, implying the obvious. "Trust me on this one. She's solid gold."

[Falcon Darkflight]

As they swept along the breaking crests of the waves of the Coronian ocean, Buren August peered through the thick fog that surrounded his small, one sailed merchant vessel. A cool and somewhat moist wind slapped his cheek from the west, blowing his dark hair aghast his face and unsettling his transfixed expression from one of deep thought to a more irritated scowl. His hands rested on the thick wooden banister that fenced the sides of the ship and stung as water whipped up the curved sides of the boat and lashed at his freezing fingertips, his hands barely protected by the long sleeved red robes of a Step agent.

That annoyed him. He still hadn't found any other clothing since his leave, and stuck out like a sore thumb. He silently cursed his fortune as the thoughts of his face on wanted posters around the country erupted like the outbust of a violent volcano. However much that angered him, though, nothing could compare to the rage he felt when he knew that it shouldn't have been his mug on those posters.

No! He thought, slamming his fist into the wooden rail. It should be them. All of those bastards, those corrupt, bureaucrat sons of bitches!

His visible anger disipated slowly as another wave curled up the ship hull and licked his hand gently, although the fire still raged on relentless underneath. The blank faces of the crew paid him little heed as they scurried about the ship, cleaning the decking and barking navigational orders back and forth the two ends of the vessel, but somehow the atmosphere indicated the crew wanted little to do with Buren August. They were not stupid. Any man who paid as much as he had to stow away was almost certaintly on a death sentence, and these type of death sentences were highly contagious for those who helped such a man escape. None of them had any plans to die before they handed in their hard-earned bounty of fish to their boss in Alerar.

I was only following orders. A man has to feed his family... Buren attempted to console himself, to reason with his guilt. ...but even so? it was a slaughter, a massacre...en masse murder. Do I really need to make excuses for myself? "I was only following orders..." only serves as a cowards way of escape from the truth. I killed children. I killed women, pregnant women. For what? So I go back to the state smelling of roses?

Buren's eyes looked out to the sea, where the fog clouded all. It was much like the state of his own mind right now, shrouded, uncertain of which direction to go, and which direction he came from.

How can I look my wife in the eye in the morning? How can I even have the right to kids? I tore apart families for the state. The 'corrupt' state. It could have been Rose right there under my sword. Would she forgive me? Could she?

His mind in turmoil, Buren lamented on his fruitless reflection as the mist swallowed the vessel, the island of departure set firmly in the background waiting to recieve its precious cargo.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen was staring through the closed window of the passenger's side of the cross country carriage as the dark countryside slipped by idly, every bump shaking the wooden and metal hub of the small horse drawn transport as the roads drew together. Maverick was driving, and nervously tapping the woodwork on his armrests whilst whistling to himself a bluesy sort of tune.

Evan's was anxious too. He calmed himself by half shutting his eyes and picturing himself travelling with his father and brother across the island of Lornius, as they had once done together during the first LCC competitions. The three men had always travelled there together before Step had taken up most of his time commitments, and he knew he would give up just about anythig to once again experience the feeling of the warm Lornius sunrise on his face, the fresh sea salt air in Lyridia tickling the skin on his face. The senior Evans had been killed at sea during a fierce pirate raid, having been a veteran fisherman for Corone since he could remember, and his brother with him. Since then, Evans jr felt as if he didn't really belong to anything except Step.

Yes, he admitted, those times had remained crystal clear in his memories, but now thats all they were now. A mere memory. Perhaps even a reminder of what happens when kids grow into men.

"What's up?"

Canen's question did not really sink in at first as Evans stared into space, but registered soon afterwards.

"I don't like the sea."

Canen turned from the window and looked across the cabin compartment to his partner Evans. He didn't really know him very well, being only on his fourth assignment with Step, and only his second with Evan's. He correctly assumed this was going to be the job where he was going to have to get to know both of his team for the good of their collective health.

"You know Lornius, right?" Evans asked. He knew that Canen did. "Me, my old man and my brother used to travel there once or twice a year. Mainly to catch the Lornius Corporation Challenge events, but also just to get away from work for a break. You see, my dad and brother ran a fishing harbour off of the coast of Corone's south side. Pulled in a barebone quota most times, sometimes even less than we needed to live on. Somehow, though, whether by divine intervention or not, we got through."

Canen nodded. He was perhaps a little ignorant of the circumstances of having to feed a family, but had first hand experience in struggling to survive.

Evans continued as the coach jolted suddenly over a rock. "Goddamn roads...anyway, to cut a long and winding story short, they got themselves lost in a storm en-route to the LCC championships when I was thirteen. I was ill with some god-forsaken flu virus. Mother said i'd be crazy to travel with them, and who would have guessed that flu could save a life? It sure as hell saved mine. Bed ridden for weeks, I found out that the very ocean we had depended on for sustanance all these years had just taken away everything we needed to survive.."

"So, is that why you joined up?" Canen asked politely. He brushed the short black bangs from his face, unsettled by the sudden sharp force underneath him from the cart.

"Maybe. The government worked damn hard to take care of us, but there wasn't enough income for both me and my mother. So, we made a family agreement. I would join the military, and she would work on establishing a trade of sorts. Not fishing, like, but perhaps tailoring. She was a hell of a dressmaker once."

There was a little silence, signifying the end of the tale. Perhaps it wasn't the end, but Evans didn't seem like he was ready to continue the story if it wasn't. Instead, he eyeballed his superior and pitched the question he'd been meaning to ask for a while.

"What happened to the Khaians, Sir?"

It was not a question Canen was expecting and caught him off guard. He slowly turned his head, looked down, and wondered why Evans would want to know that part of history.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Etheria port seemed like a different place altogether in the quiet hours of the morning. Usually bustling with merchants, tourists, import and export vehicles of all manner, horse drawn carts and the types of people you would generally want to avoid, the docks and seafront were especially tranquil with the lapping of the waves providing a soothing aura for the coastal town. At this time, the moon was still hung high in the cloudless, blue inked night sky, casting down a shimmering sheet of silvery light that highlighted the various piers and lit up the darkest street corners. The ocean linking the great nations of Alerar and Corone licked gently at the wooden support struts of the beach gangways, and all was still as people slept in their warm beds inside their warm homes.

Kristine Myrias peered through the flawed glass of her bedroom window and sighed heavily. Her nightgown, crafted from fine handsewn silk, ruffled as she fidgeted across the sill like a child, brushing her straight blonde hair from her face. In the moonlight it would seem as if her eyes were composed of the finest topaz, gleaming with a radiance that would allow a jeweller a quick lick of the lips, and gave her young face definition.

But even a beautiful woman could get depressed from time to time.

Twenty three years of age, she was living a life of undeserved solitude away from the Aleararian military. Kristine had been holed up inside this god-forsaken safehouse now for three years, on her own, with few legitimate income options available to her, even in Etheria. Currently, and officially, she was working maintenance in the dockyards for the smaller merchant vessels. The job paid a low wage, and gave her no personal satisfaction at all other than that of being able to stay alive. But, even then, she wondered what the point of staying alive would be.

As she cast her sad eyes onto the slowly rippling surface of the ocean through her window, Kristin remembered the good times. She had been an exclusive part of the development team researching into the newest experimental airships for Alerar, had exclusive access to Valsoth d'Isto and had a security clearance with the Drow people that most would kill for. Hailed as a mechanical prodigy, Kristin had worked hard and had earned the often hard to come by respect of the Drows she served. Her wages would often be pumped into bars quicker than the ale could be poured, and many a sick day would follow the parties.
And now, here she was, trapped. Shunned for leaking information to other nations, the military rid themselves of Kristine and put a price on her head so large she couldn't go anywhere near another civilisation. After all of her hard work, long hours, and almost mothering instincts towards her metal contraptions, Kristine Myrias was now nothing more than a fugative.

"God damn it..." She muttered to herself, slamming her fist into the wooden cross-beam frame of the window. "What have you done with your life? One mistake. One god-damned mistake, and all of this? You should have known better, Kristine."

"So, we wait for the Step-boys?" Another voice crept out from the corner of the room, its presence unbeknown to Kristine, who jumped with fright.

"...Y-yes..." She stuttered shakily, recovering from the sudden startle. "They should be here soon..."

"Good." The male voice spoke. "Let's prepare to meet our guests."

[Falcon Darkflight]

The members of Step soon realised the roads leading into Etheria port were far too rough and eroded for their liking, making a less than pleasant journey by coach from one town to the next. The weather in Alerar in recent times had been heavy and harsh and when the storms came, the downpours of water attacked the loose dirt and stone like miniture bombs, discarding raw material in all directions and leaving sizable divots in the track that were seldom attended to.

That's one of the problems with Alerar. Too much money being spent on researching these damned airships instead of looking after the other parts of the country. Canen thought bitterly. It was no secret that he really couldn't have cared less what Alerar spent it's money on and how they did it. Simply put, he just didn't want to be there, and had always felt particularly vindictive about the state of affairs in Alerar since he had left the Grander's Order. And no one blinked an eye when Realyse turned the order into a brutality farm.

But in this case, Alerarian affairs had little to do with the Khaian's mission, and he reminded himself of that as the roads smoothed out a little and the coach resumed its gentle coasting. This was an internal investigation to bring back a rogue member of Step. The more he thought about it, the more Canen realised how institutionalise he was becoming. Buren was more than a collegue to him, he was a friend, a mentor and a damned good soldier. Yet, on the other hand, Canen was already adpoting the mentality that he was simply another target, one of many he had encountered and killed. He was trying not to, trying to resist that thought with all of his might, but he couldn't.

And then Canen let something dangerous wallow into his head. What if Buren had done something terrible? Something that would warrant doing a runner from one of the most powerful organisations today? Would that mean he would have to put his friendship with August aside, and carry out his orders without emotion, without compassion?

As he started to wonder why Step, knowing the bond the two officers shared, had assigned him to this mission, and what Buren had run away for, a massive explosion rocked the carriage, and all went black.

[Falcon Darkflight]

It took the blazing heat of the surrounding flames to arouse Canen into a panicked consciousness. The first sensations that came to, smell and taste, quickly caught a horrifying concoction of melting metal and smoggy fumes that gripped the air tightly and caused Canen's stomach to heave outwards. In this instinctive reaction, his emerald eyes opened quickly and anxiously, rapidly rolling over the scene, only to witness the full horror of what had happened barely two minutes ago.

He crawled slowly through the broken and splintered beams of wood that had once been the supports for the chassis of the carriage as the numbing heat sheared his unprotected skin, the jagged edges of the flames sheering through the caved doors as if they were butter, a shrill pitch in his ears still ringing from the explosion. Canen could see Evans ahead through the black haze, his back resting against what used to be the back of the upturned carriage, coughing up large amounts of blood from his wounds. His body seemed little more than dead weight, somehow apart from him. The agent lay half on his belly, looked down at himself, and saw that his chest had been penetrated by a metal strut. The man could only manage a powerful cry of pain before his heart, starved of precious human blood, stopped beating entirely.

The Khaian was lost in the moment. Furiously wishing to Isa that he knew what he was supposed to do, Canen turned his injured head downward and saw to his amazement that his sword was clenched tightly in his bloodied right hand, his fingers wrapped firmly around the gripshaft, the blade pressed almost vertically against his side. He funnelled all of his energy into his right arm, willing it to move with all of his might, and when it started to respond silently began cursing the flames that licked at his blackened face. With as much energy and persistance as the Khaian could offer himself, Canen used his sword like a hot iron poker, clearing a pathway out of the burning vehicle as ash and ember scattered in a cloud whilst the metal of the blade struck white hot material left and right.

All was a blur. He dodged the burning lumber and crawled out onto the rough roadside on his bleeding elbows and knees, his lungs relieved of the heavy burden of dusty smoke and heaving up black chunks of soot to clear out his airways. There were burning pieces of wood scattered everywhere. Aghast a pile of blackened charcoal was the disfigured and dismembered corpse of what used to be Lt Maes Maverick, and as the Khaian turned on his back and lay on the soft, cool earth of the roadside, gasping for air and trembling from the shock, the smell of scolded flesh and melted bone drifted under his nostrils. Canen couldn't even find within himself the reserves to vomit.

[Falcon Darkflight]

"Is it done?"

There came a stressed groaning from the leather office chair as the faceless figure leaned back, raising a crystal tumbler to his curled, thin lips with an emotionless tone that only self-satisifed, greatly obese bureaucrats could manage. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as the strong liquor washed over the lining of his throat, leaving a warm yet pleasant sensation that forced a smile onto the face of the commander, when, ironically, his other day-to-day situations gave him very little to smile about.

"Sir." A young, yet unspirited voice responded. "We have the girl in Etheria."

The sultry air of the commander's office was, momentarily, silent. Another sip of brandy and another couple of seconds passed.

"Good. At the first opportunity, turn her in to Alerar. What of Canen Darkflight, Maes Maverick and Evans?"

The commander did not ask the question as if he were truely searching for an answer. The tone suggested he either already knew and wanted the answer confirmed to him.

"We heard rumours that their transport was attacked south of Etheria. They never made it to port."

This was suprising, if not slightly disturbing. Some shape came to his face as the commander posed a thought, appearing to be devoid of any expression or emotion at all, yet internally worried about ths alleged development. He raised the tumbler again to his lips, and allowed the cool alcohol to pour into the void of his mouth, downing the remains outright.

"…This…is an unexpected development. Details?"

"Very few..." The commander frowned, and sat forward in his creaking, straining throne upon hearing this. "We only have two agents up there from our side. Number of dead and wounded unknown. Exact time, unknown. The only lead we have was that we know all three of them were in the carriage at the time."

The anxious eyes of the obese commander suddenly narrowed into a creased grin, his flustered red face coated in a thin film of sweat even in the damning cold of the night.

"Tell Jezoir to come to Etheria port. Have him search for survivors."

"Yes, sir."