My Synthetic Side

[Otto]

Open to Sulla


I guess it all started when I went to talk at a wall.

Radasanth was fresh out of the dragon attack, and just starting the long road to recovery. Progress was slow, because the Assembly had an uncharacteristic fit of responsibility; we weren't rebuilding in pitch-roofed timber, although that would be much easier. The rebuilding effort was trying to minimize the risk of spreading fires. The new streets would be broader, the houses made of stone and terracotta (in the sturdy old style), and plumbing would bring the river further from the foreshore. It was an ambitious project for a decrepit old city cut off from its former Baronies. I passed a lot of frozen building sites on my walk, all starved for materials and labour.

"At this rate, even the dragons will have died out by the time we're finished," I said.

I'd had to walk about twenty feet down the wall's length to find who I was after. I stared for a moment, then extracted a small brown bottle from inside my coat.

"I brought you some Redwitch," I continued, wrestling with the cork. It had the decency to come out with a clean pop rather than snap inside the neck. "Rotten stuff, but I know you like it."

I drank it all.

"Blegh."

I wiped a few errant drops further into my beard, and looked for somewhere to sit. There were a lot of low grey stones about, but I was uncomfortable about sitting on those. I opted to go cross-legged on the grass instead. It was still damp with morning dew; the sun felt shy today, and was doing its best to hide behind thin lines of cloud undulating their way between horizons. I was on an inland hill just overlooking the city - still within the limits - so I could see the rippling effect the meandering bands of sunlight had on its distant array of parks and houses. Nice, from afar. Up close you’d probably just be disappointed.

It was a strange feeling, having to be the one to keep the conversation afloat for once. "The others are doing fine, at least. I think we hurt ourselves more sorting out the aftermath than we did in the initial attack. But it's madness out there. We're split between keeping an eye on the remaining supplies and policing what's left of the city, without anywhere adequate to call a central HQ. We couldn't do it if we hadn't swelled our ranks during the war. Almost makes you glad for conscription."

A breeze rolled in from the east. I preferred it from that direction, usually, even if the seaborne winds were more comfortable. It carried the smell of the country with it: a fresher scent than that of the burnt-out city. I turned my head into the wind momentarily, and savoured the green, earthy tones. Then the wind slacked, I opened eyes, and regarded the wall once again.

It was about forty feet long, six feet tall, and made of plain clinker brick. What was important about it were all the little brass plaques set into it. Inscribed on each was a name, two dates, and the attempt to summarize an entire life in a few words. They were hollow behind the plates, to make room for a little urn within.

The plaque right in front of me read "William Tallow". Behind it was one more urn which might contain the ashes of my best friend; it was hard to be sure. Where the dragons had breathed fire, precious little remained.

"You lucked out on the view at least, Fats," I sighed.

[Sulla]

The trodden paths were light on traffic and the stone markers went unmourned, but few felt willing to drag themselves to a graveyard to see it on such a depressing day. An occasional lady in billowing skirts of trim black cloth would plod along, her face buried in her hands, only to vanish behind some garish statue of weeping cherubs or drowsy seraphs. Radasanth sat still and stagnant, languishing in the doldrums of a grim dawn. The overcast’s veneer cracked from time to time, allowing sickly golden rays to briefly grope the grounds below.

Along the placid streets and through the wrought iron gates, my delightfully odd figure moved with a sprightly step. My neatly pressed suit and jacket, as silver as the sky, clashed with the jaunty purple scarf around my neck. Though light, my footfalls grew louder in tandem with the tap of the tip of the umbrella I carried as it struck against loose cobblestones. As I passed lone figures along the way, I greeted them with a smile, a nod, and a slight bow; though they only returned half-glances and mumbled words. Discomfort and false pleasantries were exactly how I wanted to be greeted, less chance to remember me that way.

My gait slowed when I reached a weathered headstone just three yards behind an imposing wall. On a sunnier day, the monument would eclipse the grave, but the only shadow cast was by the dismal clouds above. I reached inside my jacket to produce a pen and neatly folded newspaper. Half a crossword was completed on the opened page, and with a click of the pen, I began to fill out the rest.

”A nine letter word for doubleness or fraud,” my face twisted into a smile. ”Duplicity.”

From just behind the paper I spied the stout form of an orc, the only other creature in sight. He sat on the grass and seemed to be speaking to brick as if it would answer back, my grin to grow larger. ”How dear.”

It was not serendipity that brought this killer to the graveyard. For nearly two weeks I’d plotted and schemed; there were machinations in place that could only be lubricated by those fresh, salt tears of recent loss. ”Perfect planning, as always. But now comes the execution.” My gloved hand grasped the marker in front of me as I rubbed my thumb along the top. My eyes read the words on the stone a few more times, assuring the name and date would be fresh in his mind. John Murdoch.

And then I laughed. No slight chuckle or teasing titter, but the loudest guffaw I could muster from the empty depths within. It wasn’t effortless. I’d had practiced since the night before, to a point where angry knocks on my rented door had become an inevitability. But it was a necessity; humor had never come quite so easily to me, and joy was always the hardest emotion to fake.

And, of course, what I found funniest might betray me too soon.

[Otto]

Well.

That was a new one.

Since laughter wasn't really something I expected to hear here of all places, it took me a moment to realise the braying racket behind me wasn't coming from some wayward donkey. But no; my eyes alighted on a fastidiously neat little vision, guffawing his heart out at one of the granite headstones. I must confess to a moment of bewilderment. But then I shrugged to myself. No doubt there were plenty of good reasons to laugh at the deceased; you owe the man six feet beneath you a hefty sum of cash, for instance.

I turned back, but not before the man caught my eye. I saw him wink.

William's plaque stared back at me. He, and most others on the wall, had a couple of bonus icons stamped into the brass: a set of stripes (two in this case, to denote a corporal's rank), and a dragon's head. Given that some parts of Radasanth were still smoking, the latter was fairly self-explanatory. I wanted to resume my conversation, and went so far as to open my mouth a few times like a beached fish, but the interruption had broken my mood. I looked up at the sky instead, then to the jagged horizon. Rain was coming. I could smell it already, rolling in on the wind. That was good. It would wash some of the ash away, at least…

I heard boots crunching over the damp grass towards me. It could only be the crass chortler, since there was nobody else about. My previous ambivalence flared into irritation, so I turned my head just enough to fix him with a beady glare. The git was oblivious, or didn't care. I took him in; a tasteful grey suit, completely free of creases (although that didn't stop him brushing idly at it as he stalked over to me). Young. Dull blond. Plain, but he had a cocky step. He was also generous enough to get a good fit on his clothes, so I could assess his muscular physique. He came at me smiling, which didn't do him any favours.

"Hi," he greeted me, in an apologetic sort of tone. "I’m sorry about all that… truth be told, my heart’s not really in it.”

Kat, my foster mother, always used to tell me that nuisances would go away if you ignored them. “No?” I enquired. Good job, Otto.

That grin stretched a little wider. “My dear friend was of the opinion that we should laugh in the face of death. And I made the foolish decision of agreeing to come here on the anniversary of his death each year to do just that!”

“Oh.” I glanced back at the dull grey marker, and decided to try and be sociable. The corners of my mouth turned up in a little smile of my own. “I just thought you owed them money.”

The man’s expression froze. He seemed confused for a moment, until his gaze wandered across my grin - then he let out another grating, obnoxious laugh. “Aha! Good one,” he exclaimed, then stuck out his hand. “Name’s Octavius.”

That was something you didn’t hear much nowadays: a moniker from the first days of the Republic. I wrapped my palm around his own, and we shook. His grip was reassuringly firm, if that ever means anything.

“Otto,” I replied.

[Sulla]

Whatever name the beast grunted, I knew the truth. Corporal Bastum of the Radasanth City Guard. He had something of a reputation, an affliction most people actually sought out. Stalwart and brave, there was no doubt that the gray-skin sung about in the few unscathed taverns was a being most fit for his job. Though loyalty and duty had their place in this world, I’d often found it more becoming of a hound than a man, but there was no telling what side of the fence orcs fell on when it came to that.

Despite the bardic praise and gushing articles I’d seen, there was no mention of the creature’s unease when it came to a friendly bit of chatter. Perhaps I’d needed to speak a little more slowly, to allow the weight of my words the full length of time to sink into that thick-browed skull of his.

“What sadness brings you out here, dear Otto?” As I let my words slip out carefully, I couldn’t help but think of a thousand ready, witty lines to add to it. ”A matter of grave concern? Entombed in your thoughts? Or three sepulchers for a job well done?” But as pearls before swine, this gold was wasted on an orc, who no doubt found the very idea of wordplay to be something left to tribal chieftains communing with totem spirits.

“I,” he began, but did that damn thing all stoics did when they hid their weakness behind a veneer of ambiguity, “I’ve come to visit a friend.” I hated him more now than when I had begun my research into him, but no matter how much the chess master despises the limp pawn, he’ll still put it to use.

I turned for a moment to steady myself away from him, and to stare at the grave I had just been visiting. His heart was burdened by a recent loss, the Radasanthian Reader gave a few scant sentences to the corporal losing a close aide during the chaos. I knew nothing of note about William Tallow, but I’d be damned if my apathy for some fool who died against his better judgment would hinder this game.

A long, drawn out breath; not too loud, but just audible enough to make it seem a sigh. The taste of ash and smoke coated my tongue, and I delighted in the thought of it. Turning back almost as quickly, I caught his eye, and could feel that crushing weight of depression, that long-searching longing, and that twinge of annoyance.

“We have something in common,” I began. I looked passed where he was to the cityscape just on the horizon. In truth, the utter emptiness of it all filled me with a bit of heartfelt glee; looking back into his gaze, I hope he felt but a glimmer of that jubilation, it’d make my task far easier. “Though I fear your loss was a lot more recent than my own. John died during the civil war, fighting for the dream of stability that he thought the empire provided.” Pausing, I focused in, trying my best to read his reaction. “Are those the tombs for the men who died in the dragon attack?”

[Otto]

"Just the soldiers."

I eased up to my feet and brushed the damp grass from my backside. Stability from the Empire, eh? For some reason, splitting the country in half had had a different effect. People had believed it, though. Of course they had. Given what the Empire paid its soldiers, they'd needed an ideology to make sure their citizens were happy to slaughter each other. I hadn't believed it myself, but that was irrelevant. Those who hadn't donned the red of their own accord, like me, had been conscripted. Ideals to lead us, and whips to drive us.

"Which regiment did he serve with?" I asked.

Octavius gave me a blank look. "What?"

"John," I explained, as patiently as I could. "Who did he serve with?"

Comprehension flickered over the man's face. "Oh. Um, Second Infantry Division, Eighth Battalion. His company's commanding officer was one Captain Birch."

Scraps of memory floated through my mind. It had been a long time ago, but... eighth battalion, eighth battalion. And a Captain Birch? That would have made him one of "Birch's Braves". The mists of memory finally parted.

"Jolly Company. Killed to a man when, after Eighth Battalion was ambushed in northern Concordia, Captain Birch formed a rearguard while the rest withdrew."

"It took three months for me to hear the news," Octavius replied.

I glanced to his side. Octavius was staring out over the city, just as I liked to do up here when I was alone. Which was almost always the case. I have a few graves on this little hill to visit, and I prefer to do so in private. Rurin, Isaac, and now William. Sometimes, I wondered whose gravestone would be added here next. And yes, I am well aware that it could be my own.

"You sound like you were very close," I remarked.

He turned to me, and smiled faintly. "I haven't really talked about him since. Would you... I'm sorry. You wouldn't mind sharing lunch now, would you? I just feel like I need to talk."

I thought about what I had on the rest of that day: furlough, spent putting on melancholy airs in some pub somewhere, before I inevitably got so bored I wandered back to the temporary garrison several hours early and pestered everyone in the forge.

"Where did you have in mind?" I asked.