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bakerstreet2015-10-22 10:10 pm
socketeer) wrote in bakerstreet2015-10-22 10:10 pmTHE AU PICTURE PROMPT MEME
the alternate universe picture prompt meme
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socketeer) wrote in bakerstreet2015-10-22 10:10 pm
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A time of peace and prosperity. For centuries, the known universe has been benevolently ruled by great old families that exercise fairness, imagination, and flair. The constellations have reveled in this harmony, and the races have thrived for it. Technology, art, and magic have all advanced in leaps and bounds. All is, and has been, well.
Mostly.
For in this universe, no age has existed wholly without conflict of some sort. The Golden Age, magnificent as it is, is no different, for there cannot be light without casting shadows. There exist, in dark corners where brilliant starlight does not shine, and the families' rule does not reach, creatures as old as time itself: fearlings. They hold many names and take many shapes, but their goal has ever been the same: to instill fear where there is happiness, bring darkness where there is light, and sow discord where there is harmony. For a long time, the fearlings kept to the edges of the galaxies, venturing further only briefly, and rarely.
Lately, they've become bolder.
They were quiet, at first, targeting an outlying constellation, ruled by a small family. They were surreptitious in the way they slunk across the planets, disseminating fear and winking out hope. It wasn't until trade routes were disrupted that the other families took much notice.
Some of the constellations had been lackadaisical about responding at first, assuming it was an isolated incident and denying any exigency. They were wrong. Emboldened by the peoples' passivity, the attacks came more frequently and more boldly. It took a full scale assault on one of the larger constellations before the rulers of the Golden Age realized the gravity of the situation, and the enormity of their enemy's strength and prevalence. Then the campaigns began.
There had always been soldiers, even in the time of peace, ranks filled with volunteer forces that were well-trained (depending on their ruling constellation), but had never seen live battle. That changed quickly.
For most of the planets, life carried on as usual. For them, war was a far away thing, little more than dinner conversation or regaling bedtime tales for children with great, shining heroes. For the constellations under the Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff, war was a little more real. The Lunanoffs, more than any other family, had pledged their resources and efforts, and the efforts of their people, to the war effort. For their subjects, the reality of war was that sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, sometimes never came home. War never came to their doorstep, thanks to the efforts of the Lunanoffs' astral navy, but their people saw the effects of war, nonetheless.
The Lunanoffs' army was great in size, with some soldiers that excelled in the art of war more than others. And while there were a great many storied and well-decorated persons among the ranks, few were more talked about currently than one Kozmotis Pitchiner, a man who was merely a lieutenant when the war against the fearlings began in earnest. Through his strategy and leadership, he had risen remarkably quickly through the ranks to commander, then captain of his own ship. A few weeks ago, he was granted title of General, and given charge of a small fleet.
"General on deck!"
Another day, another campaign. But this one was a little different. They had received intel this time, and they would be lying in wait when the enemy arrived, instead of rushing headlong to mitigate an invasion in progress.
Boots pound heavy on the deck of one of the astral navy's finest warships. Sailors line up in formation to greet their commanding officer as he boards. General Kozmotis Pitchiner comes to stand before them, dressed in a uniform of black and gold. The breast is well decorated, despite his relatively young age. The General surveys the lot almost gravely for a moment, before his silvery eyes glimmer and a small smile breaks across his features. Pitchiner is a kind and charismatic man, with a tendency to be a bit grandiose in his presence and gestures when he gets excited. Most considered him remarkably personable for one of his position.
Hands folded behind his back, as he often stands, the general begins to address them. He welcomes the new soldiers he notes among them and noting what most already know: they are going into certain battle, and the reality of it was, there was a chance that some wouldn't come home. But Pitchiner had one of the best track records when it came to winning battles and, more importantly to him, ensuring that soldiers and sailors came home. He intended to keep it that way. The speech is brief, underlining the urgency of this particular mission.
As he steps away, one of the officers begins calling orders to prepare to set sail. The general stands aside, observing as the sailors go about their duties. There's one particular sailor he's looking for, however, and wordlessly he scans the multitude of uniformed men and women for him.
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It isn't long before the boring ceremony part is over, at least, and everyone starts to move as they're directed. Jack has absolutely no intention of following the herd. General Pitchiner is still standing at the front of the deck, looking over the crowd, and Jack breaks away from his line to start making his way through the crowd towards the front.
"Overland," someone hisses, making a grab at him that he dodges, "we're gearing up for a mission, you're supposed to be—"
Jack waves them off, weaves between his fellow sailors and ignores every one of them that tries to scold him; he only has to worry about being caught by a superior officer, and for once it seems like none of them are keeping an eye on him as they sometimes do, probably too focused for the moment on rounding up the newer recruits. Someone will surely catch sight of him sooner or later, but that won't be a problem once he ducks out of the procession, because he has a home plate waiting at the front of the deck. They can't get him in trouble if the reason for his delay is that the General is talking to him, after all.
Way too many people crash into him and step on his feet — enough that he has to wonder how many of them were really accidents, there are a lot of people here whose feelings towards him range from mild irritation to outright loathing — but Jack finally escapes the crowd of military personnel milling about. He stumbles out with a yelp, his shin clipped by someone's steel-toed boot, turning to call out at the soldier as they walk away, "Okay, that was definitely on purpose, that was a kick!"
It's not the stealthiest way to cap off his effort to shirk his duties, and it doesn't matter at all — there's their esteemed General. Jack approaches him looking every part the proper sailor, his posture held straight and shoulders squared, and he even salutes when he comes to a stop. Anyone that didn't know Jackson Overland would think him almost professional, the way he seems now.
"Nice speech, sir." The sarcastic emphasis he puts on the address is much less professional than the rest of the fake good soldier act he's putting on, as is the crooked smirk on his face.
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While Pitchiner did try to be fair and duly professional, it wasn't really a secret that he tended to play favorites with Jack Overland. Part of it was personal favor, as Jack reminded Kozmotis of himself when he was much younger and, despite occasionally butting heads they worked quite well together. But there was also the fact that Jack was one of the best sailors that the Lunanoff army had to offer. It had been suggested, once or twice, that the sailor be disciplined in such a way that left him landbound, or at least put under a different captain, but the general had refused. He was convinced that, if Jack would only stop his antics, he would be able to swiftly ascend the ranks of the military much as Pitchiner had done. But then, the general didn't think that was really the sort of life Jack wanted. The pomp and ceremony of the military, especially of the higher ranks, didn't exactly seem like his 'thing'.
As Jack stumbles out of the throng of sailors, General Pitchiner forces his smile into something more formal and less inappropriately amused. Almost boredly, he glances towards the accused kicker. "Did you get into a fight with him?" A long, pointed look up and down at Jack, and his brows raise. "I'll thank you to watch the tone, ensign Overland." But he can't keep a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips again. "At ease," he dismisses, then, "Were you even listening?"
While no sailor would step out of line during a speech, it was easy to notice when some weren't paying attention - especially the veterans. For some, the speeches were boosts of morale or a reminder to stay in rank, but for others speeches were nothing but hypocrisy, turning a blind eye to the fact that soldiers hadn't come home the last time, and wouldn't this time. That it wasn't rote drills, this was a war and battles could be lost.
General Pitchiner straightens his shoulders. "Did you need something, Overland, or were you just avoiding reprimands from the officers?"
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"Excuse me? Don't you give me that cool and aloof thing. You're the one who was looking for me, I saw you." He does glance around the room, though, looking to see if anyone has noticed him missing from the rest of the sailors yet. Although he's fairly sure (okay, about 70% sure) that the General will vouch for him, he'd still rather not get caught dawdling by any of his superiors that really have it out for him. While he checks for any glaring officers, he says idly, "Maybe I just wanted one last memory of your voice before I head off to certain death, sir. You know, to carry me through to the end and all."
No amount of scolding or slaps upside the head from fellow troops has ever gotten him to drop the morbid humour; it comes through less often around serious missions, but even then he can't cast it off entirely. There are probably better coping mechanisms than jokes and sarcasm, he knows. Still, it's always worked for him, just like the off-duty pranks and everything he does to lighten up the atmosphere of the ship whenever there are people that don't come back from a mission.
There is something he came to General Pitchiner for, a genuine question that had been on Jack's mind all throughout the speech. He doesn't ask it. He stalls for the moment, scuffs at the floor with his boot toe and shifts awkwardly. It just seems cowardly, fearful, to ask Pitchiner how bad the danger they're expecting really is. It isn't like that at all in its intent, he only wants to head into the fight with an honest view of the situation; Jack as a young man may be a mess of anxiety and insecurities, but in a fight he's fearless, brave often to the point of a reckless disregard for his own safety. But it still feels childish to ask.
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"Just making sure you got on the right ship, soldier," the general answers with humour in his tone. His smile withers promptly, and his brow creases into a displeased frown. "Overland." A warning, gentle, but a warning all the same. "I will do my best to make sure you, along with the rest of my sailors, come home. As always." A soldier lost on the battlefield was something the general regarded as a personal failure, and he mourned every one that marked a new grave. Yet he had to admit to himself that if he failed Jack in particular, it would be felt more keenly than most. He is patient with Jack's jokes, even his morbid humour, but hearing that settled uncomfortably in his chest.
Jack Overland's presence on board was something of a blessing, especially as the scale of the war grew, and times seemed darker. When most were gloomy, and morale was low, it seemed that it was always Jack that cheered them up -- the general could vouch for that himself on more than one occasion.
He's distracted from that thought by Jack's fidgeting; it's hard not to notice. "Something on your mind, soldier?"
They are interrupted briefly by one of the communications officers informing them that some of the smaller ships have given the ready, and the general instructs him to pass orders to one of the commanders to rush their preparations. Their window of chance would not be long to take the enemy off guard. The officer hurries away. In a moment, he would tell Jack to get to his duties, but first: he turns back to the boy before him and his expression softens slightly to something more personable. "You may speak freely."
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He looks away with a scowl, frustrated by himself. It won't just be childish of him to question this, it's disrespectful in a way that he hasn't been towards General Pitchiner in a long time. The way he acts might not show much regard for rank or propriety, but Jack really does respect Pitchiner for a lot of reasons — even if he hadn't when he first joined up with the military, things are different now. He'd like to think that he's different, not the angry time-bomb of a kid he used to be, a significant part of the reason that such a bad reputation still follows him. He admires the General and he respects him in every way that actually matters, they both know that. (Well, he hopes they both know that.)
But telling himself all of that doesn't help in this, doesn't do him any good at all, not to put himself at ease or talk himself out of the question or justify asking it. For some reason, it sets his teeth on edge not to ask; he thinks he'd rather go into a fight knowing that there's absolutely no chance of survival than going in uncertain, and he has such a strange sense of dread that's proving difficult to put aside. So he grits his teeth and speaks, cautious and halting. "Look, I trust you with these things more than I do anyone else, and I know you always do everything to make sure everyone comes back fine. For some stupid reason, I'm just—"
With a harsh sigh, he shoves a hand through his hair and finishes, "I just wanted to know what the chances really are. I mean — that this works, or it all goes to hell, or... whatever else. In your opinion." A pause. "Sir."
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For a moment, Pitchiner reaches out and rests a hand on Jack's shoulder, before resuming his tall, businesslike posture.
"The word we received suggested that they will be many in number," he admits in a solemn tone, "perhaps more than we've seen before. However, we are well-prepared and should have the advantage." He gives Jack another smile, a more private one that's small, but meant to be strong.
"It may be hard won, but I'm confident in my soldiers." And that included Jack, which he should know.
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There's a tangled knot gratitudes caught on his tongue for the reassurance, for hearing him out, for the confidence in him (something that still doesn't click quite right with him, because he knows he's a good sailor, knows he's skilled, but he never feels like he's managed to prove himself enough to be worthy of confidence after the stupid things he'd done early in his recruitment, the mistakes he'd made on missions assigned duties) and it's difficult to put it into words that don't seem strange or embarrassing. Nothing of it makes it out in the end. Instead, Jack clears his throat awkwardly, and takes a half-step back.
"I should probably..." He makes a vague gesture in the direction of the other sailors, indicating his intent to join the rest of the crew. It feels easier to think about fussing with preparation duties now that some of the weight has been lifted from his mind — or just having had the chance to talk to Pitchiner before they set off, maybe. "Y'know, before someone decides to give me lashes for shirking duties or something."
Although he isn't really worried about that, judging by the mischievous edge to his smile and the way he raises his brow like a shrug, a sort of what can do you about it expression.
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The General loses sight of Jack soon enough, another officer taking his attention. The word to move out is giving shortly, and the fleet is on its way.
The tip of Orion's sword was far enough to wage battle, but close enough to be uncomfortable. While the dream pirates marauded in most every galaxy now, the army had yet pushed back enough that they didn't manage to make it to the most populated stars. The fleet arrives at the location, met with some of the Star Captains that had rendezvoused.
But there was nothing to greet them. The sleek, sinister ships were nowhere to be seen, only the emptiness of space.
Maybe they had arrived early enough that the dream pirates hadn't been detected. More likely, they'd discovered, somehow, that their plans were found out, and had altered course.
Many of the soldiers were at their stations, manning guns or awaiting deployment in their individual schooners. Some were in forerunners, checking nearby. But as time and silence dragged on with no sight or tell of the fearlings, murmurings and misgivings spread through the crew, many of whom were in file on deck. General Pitchiner stood tall at the fore of them, sword at his side and a calm demeanor, though an unknown anxiety settled in his stomach, discomfited him. Something was amiss. He trusted his navigators, and they had double-checked both the original report and their current location - there was no mistake.
"Lord Pitchiner!" The panicked voice shattered the silence and startled many of the crew who went promptly for their weapons before relaxing. "Sir-- the dream pirates--" A young ensign stumbled to a halt in front of the general, barely remembering to salute.
The dread in his stomach spread upward and clutched at his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. "Speak," Pitchiner said with a rare curt impatience. It was something that should have been whispered urgently in hushed tones, not announced to the entire crew, but the panicked, inexperienced boy's voice carries. "General Pitchiner, sir, the dream pirates -- they've gone round the asteroids defenses somehow -- they're headed for your home, sir."
He's always kept his calm, for the most part, only getting as heated in battle as would be expected of a soldier, and he does so now, mostly. But the colour drains entirely from his face, and there is a split second where he freezes. He speaks to the officer at his right. "Get the fleet turned about, now. I want every ship going faster than it's ever gone before, understood?"
The general addresses the rest of the crew, tone an unnervingly low one that can somehow still be clearly heard. "To your stations. Be ready to engage."
He stands in the middle of the deck as men and women rush around him with an urgency different from the normal raucous of active battle, wordlessly watching, mind on anything but the sailors around him. His wife, his daughter, his home. They knew, they knew and they had tricked him. He had been fooled by the most childish of tactics and now his family was in danger. His hands clench into fists until his knuckles are stretched white, but his countenance remains stonily impassive.
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He doesn't know whether he would think the same way if he wasn't familiar with the situation himself, but it doesn't matter, because he is. Before he threw his meagre lot in with the military, there had been a moment like this — cold rage and horror and not Emma, not my sister, not her. Roaring blood in his ears and his vision going tunnelled and an absolutely mad, mindless fixation on his sister to the exclusion of all else, the rest of the world could have been going down in flames and he wouldn't have even noticed because all he needed was for her to be safe. Jack was incredibly lucky he hadn't gotten himself killed back then. If General Pitchiner goes down that same path, he'll be bringing an entire army with him.
Jack moves for the middle of the deck as quickly as he can, slipping between crew members and elbowing some out of his way; nobody cares about him in all the rush and frenzy, not enough to notice him and certainly not enough to divert their attention by taking the time to stop him. Once he's through the chaos of people rearranging themselves, hurrying towards stations and organising soldiers as needed, he marches straight for Pitchiner and grabs him by the wrist.
He holds firm, ready to grip with bruising force if he has to, if the General tries to shake him off.
"Sir," he says, his voice hard but low, quiet. "You said you had confidence in us. And I know what this is like, okay? I know." The emphasis there is intense like he wishes it could explain everything for him; it's pained and vulnerable, too, desperate to reach Pitchiner. (Everything in him hollow and screaming and cold, wild terror and Emma Emma Emma like nothing else in the world could have ever mattered.) He tightens his grip on the General's wrist for a moment, a brief squeeze, and steps in close. "But everyone on this ship trusts you. They need you to trust them right now."
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They were his reason for fighting, more than anything else. He fought so they could be safe, so that they could live in a time of peace again. If the dream pirates got there first -- if they had already gotten there --
Kozmotis Pitchiner was not a man who panicked. Whatever happened, he had a plan for it, or could improvise. But right now, his mind is doing precisely that, flickering rapidly between how unforgivably, horribly, potentially irreparably he had erred, and all of the unspeakable atrocities that the fearlings could be committing against his family. They hated him. They'd tried to kill him so many times and had failed, and now they turned that frustration on his wife, on his daughter. Sweet, precious, beautiful Emily Jane with stardust in her hair and a laugh like the solar winds. She was so young. He had to keep her safe, had to had to had to, the fleet had to go faster, he had to get there before-- before--
His racing mind grinds to a halt as he registers fingers about his wrist, and his gaze darts to Jack. It takes a moment before he registers what Jack is saying as his mind attempts to sort itself out, unused to the chaotic jumble of panic it was currently in.
The general doesn't pull his wrist away; it might be the sheer shock of a low ranking sailor laying a hand on him (he was kind, but no one took advantage of that in attempt to be so disrespectful), or that he was too distracted. He frowns. Jack doesn't know, can't know, that's his beautiful, wonderful family that he's failing right now. He'd been so stupidly confident in the remote locale and the protection set up around. But the defenses had failed, he had failed. He had to get there, to save them.
And then something that Jack says sinks in, just a little bit. For a moment his mind is calmer.
"I trust you," Pitchiner tells his sailor, and his voice is unsteady, brittle. "All of you."
He stops long enough to weigh the consequences. There couldn't be many of them at all, there was no way an entire fleet could get past the asteroids, certainly nothing that could come even close to contending with the best warship in the entire Orion constellation, the rest of Lord Pitchiner's entire fleet, and a company of Star Captains besides. Not that the fearlings would have to, the general knew. A hot, sickening feeling washes over him and his skin prickles. To deal with one woman and her child, there would need be but a small company. After all, their fool of a husband and father was stars away, waiting dumbly for an attack that would never come.
He wasn't leading his men into certain death, or even a challenge. Unless --
General Pitchiner calls to an officer that lingered nearby directing orders. "Send the Star Captains out around to ensure this isn't an ambush." He speaks crisply, managing to keep his voice steady, but when the officer has turned away, there's a fretfulness that settles back in his brow, as though he's already forgotten Jack is there.
They had to be safe, they had to be.
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Nobody else is stepping up to the plate, though. There's nothing he can say that will serve to comfort General Pitchiner, no reassurances he can offer or advice to give that comes to mind. But the General has talked Jack down before, from stupid efforts to prove himself to some unknown arbiter, or from trying to save a soldier when it would be suicide to go after them — and the least Jack can do to repay that, he decides, is talk. Until the Star Captains' sweep returns results to them, he can just be annoying and present if it will keep Pitchiner's focus here, instead of letting both of them stand here in silence, imagining worst case scenarios and inventing worse ones.
With that in mind, he nudges his side against the General's to get attention, and he starts talking about the first thing he can think of.
"I almost lost my little sister to fearlings." His tone is softer than it was when he first interrupted the panic, quiet and gentled by remorse. He keeps his eyes forward, expression carefully neutral. "Before I joined the military. It's kind of a blur, but I just remember that as soon as she was in trouble, I ran straight for her. There were probably a million things I could've done that would have been smarter, and I didn't even think about it. Maybe we both could've died. But, I mean, nothing else mattered because Emma had to be okay."
On some days, that's still enough to make Jack feel utterly content and at ease. It doesn't matter that his life had fallen apart after that and he'd joined the military, trying to convince himself that it was to fight against the monsters that had nearly taken his sister away and not at all about running away from his problems; whatever else there is doesn't matter because somewhere out there, his sister is okay, and even if he never sees her again it will be enough just to know that.
His expression scrunches up into an awkward cringe a moment later, because he feels like a complete idiot now that he's said it — nice story, Overland, I'm sure the general whose wife and daughter are in danger really wanted to hear about how nothing bad happened to you. He quickly lets go of General Pitchiner's arm and runs his hand through his hair, not wanting to look up and see what kind of look he's getting for all of this. Is there a punishment for a sailor overstepping their bounds this badly and making a total ass out of themselves, or will regular corporal punishment be good enough?
"Uh, that didn't have a point when I started saying it," he flounders, and doesn't want to admit that I was just killing time because you're freaking out, "but I guess the point is that... I'm an idiot, and you're not, sir, you're— you're gonna be able to keep them safe."
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He listens, sort of, mind torn in a dozen different directions. At least Jack's reminder had served to interject thoughts along their normal route, recalling tactics the pirates used, the layout around his home and -- his home, his family, Emily Jane, she had to be alright, he had to save them, to save her. He feels trapped in his own mind like a caged wild animal, going in circles from panicking thought to rational thought, back to panic. He stays rooted to the spot, partially by Jack's grip and partially by the fact that pacing alerts the rest of the crew that something in wrong, that he's not confident in what he's doing and never can he not be confident. He knows intimately that if his courage falters, so does that of his men.
At the moment, there's nothing he can do but wait, and it's the longest wait of his life. He half-listens to the ensign at his side. He vaguely knew that Jack had a sister, he'd heard of her before, or maybe Jack had said something himself. With how reckless the boy used to be (he'd gotten better), Kozmotis offhandedly thinks that Jack is lucky he didn't get himself killed.
You're gonna be able to keep him safe.
He frowns, looking down finally. He opens his mouth to speak--
"General, sir!" The officer from before is back with a salute. "The asteroid defenses reported all clear, except the one company. Several small vessels. We have data on them, if you'd like to s--" "Yes." The response is short, but not harsh. As if the lock keeping him in place had sprung, he moves. The General strides towards the bow, boots clipping a quick pace on the deck. The warships begin weaving through asteroids. Readouts come on a screen projected with magic.
He feels overwhelmingly stupid, realizing just how very premeditated all of this was. He should've done something more, anything more, to keep his family safe and--
I'll be back soon.
From the front of the deck, a sailor gives a single utterance, and Pitchiner looks up.
Promise?
There before the multitude of Lunanoff Navy warships is a little moon. On it, a palace carved of moonstone that once stood proud has been razed and it, like most of the satellite, lays in thick smoke.
On my soul.
His breath stops, caught somewhere in his throat. "They're still here!" cries one sailor. "Capture them," Pitchiner manages, voice rising through gritted teeth. "Every last one of them, alive. My wife and child may be among them." He draws his sword, eyes blazing as the black fearling vessels are pinned in.
They have to be safe. Have to, have to, have to.
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Whatever it is, he makes a noise of horrified shock in the back of his throat when the devastated palace comes into sight, something at odds with the hope that flares up because this means there's a chance. As horrible as it is, better to have found this than nothing at all, nothing but the ruins. The General gives the order for capture and as the crew starts to move, Jack realises how worried he is about Pitchiner. He never worries, not on missions, where everything is filed down to simple determination so that there's no way for him to screw anything up. But he is. He keeps picturing the same stupid thing he did for Emma, and knowing that unlike then, unlike there was for Jack, there might not be anyone to save Kozmotis Pitchiner in time.
The thought, however unlikely it may be, bothers Jack a lot more than he would have expected. He's dismayed at the thought of losing anyone, of course; he will always be the first one to break formation or disobey a direct order if he has to in order to save someone. It just wouldn't normally cause him actual pain to consider.
"General," he says, over the noise of the ship readying for the confrontation, "be careful." Backing up to go and rejoin the rest of the sailors, Jack considers adding one last thing; and after a moment, he calls out before he turns to go, "Your daughter's gonna be upset if you get hurt saving her!"
It seems less insubordinate to say than if you die out there I'm going to kill you.
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He doesn't hear Jack call to him, the warnings he gives, but as he sails close to the ruined moon and the vessels, he recalls briefly the words 'they're depending on you'.
There is no battle, no loss of life - on either side. Not even a single shot fired. As soon as the sailors had disembarked, they were on board again with dream pirates in shackles with them. The General of the finest Lunanoff fleet was a kind man, and a merciful soldier. If ever a fearling surrendered, he would not kill them, but feed them and encourage them to renounce their ways instead. Clearly, the dream pirates depended on that. But the man who greets them now has no mind for mercy or kindness, only his family. As the pirates are hauled before the general, they are faced with a husband and a father losing a battle with rationality.
Lady Pitchiner and little Emily Jane had been nowhere. Lord Pitch had thought that if anything, they would hold them for ransom and use them as bait against him. But they were not aboard the dream pirate vessels.
"My wife and daughter?" he demanded of the pirate captain. "Where are they?"
Panic wells in his throat, making it hard to breathe and harder to talk. He grinds out the questions, tone managing to remain almost eerily steady. The captain's smug tone infuriates the general twofold. This bastard knew, knew exactly what he had done, and he took pleasure in it. And Kozmotis should have known, should have done something, this was all his fault.
"No, my lord. They are dead."
Everything around him ceases to be, and there is only silence, overwhelming, deafening to his ears. His blood stills, and cold washes over him. They are dead. His stomach turns. The captain grins a wicked, cocky grin and Pitchiner stands tall in response, sword in hand and eyes a steely fury. "Is this true?" he asks of the other pirates, calm as he can manage. They are all too eager, sick in their unison of gleeful little nods to the Captain's words.
Pitchiner leans down very close to the pirate captain, face close to its face. "Then feast your eyes on mine," he says, tone calm and measured. He turns his sword at the ready.
Everyone on this ship trusts you.
The general's sword swings as he straightens again, and both crews tense. Someone gasps. But the blade stops short of the captain's neck, instead tipping his chin upwards to meet Lord Pitch's gaze. "Know this," he continues, "and listen well. You have devoured your last dream, and snuffed your last star. I swear on my family that every last one of you wretches will rot for your crimes." His sword jerks away, and the captain stumbles slightly backwards, eyes wide. Pitchiner sheathes his blade and turns away. "Imprison them," he commands of an officer close by. "If they are disobedient, kill them. Make sure the vicinity is clear, then return to dock." He walks away, chin high and shoulders straight.
The crew was used to fearling prisoners, and the ship was fitted with cells lined of lead. The fearlings are lead away, and Pitchiner disappears rather quickly into his quarters.
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Jack ignores them all and heads off to sneak his way to Pitchiner's quarters.
The problem with the military, he's decided — one of its myriad problems, if he has to be accurate — is that rank and teamwork don't always work so well together. Teamwork, as Jack understands it, means support. If everyone is too intimidated by a superior officer's rank to treat them like an actual person sometimes, he's not clear on where that support is supposed to be coming from. Even with General Pitchiner, as well-known as he is for his kindness, there are barriers of etiquette and propriety that are enforced by punishment, and it's just lucky that Jack doesn't give a shit about any of that. It isn't right to treat the General as anything other than someone in grief right now; anyone but Kozmotis Pitchiner, a man who has lost his wife and daughter.
The news had been tragic to the rest of the crew, but in Jack it had evoked a fear greater than anything he'd ever felt sailing into battle against any number of pirates. He can't take this, he had thought, wildly, this was the greatest loss that General Pitchiner could have suffered and it had come so suddenly. He was surprised that the pirate captain's throat hadn't been slit when he told what had become of the General's family.
General Pitchiner had been quick to withdraw afterwards, which no one could blame him for, but Jack suspects that there have been no attempts to actually follow up on his well-being as a person since then, and it leaves things in their current situation: Jack, standing in front of the General's door and only slightly hesitant to knock. Better to just dive right in, he tells himself; he's already committed to doing this, and so he takes a deep breath, holds it, and raps his knuckles sharply against the door a few times.
"General?" he calls, and before Pitchiner can interrupt, ask what he wants, tell him to go away, Jack goes on calmly, "Sir, if you want to be alone right now, that's fine. Just figured I should tell you that if that's the way it is, then I'll be sitting outside your door in case you change your mind," and silently praying that nobody walks past because he really will be dead if an officer finds him loitering around outside the General's cabin.
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The sound of a knock on the door brings him to, and he finds himself sitting on the floor in an undignified heap, hands clasped tightly together around a silver locket. His head lifts, slightly, and he listens to the voice on the other side of the door.
Jackson Overland, an ensign who used to be almost more trouble than he was worth. Pitchiner had always had a soft spot for him. Even so, he doesn't want to see anyone now, doesn't want anyone to see him.
The great general and lord, a man of esteem to whom many looked up to. And here he was, shaken to the core and it was only the shock that has kept him from falling apart thus far.
Then again, it was Jack who had stopped in the middle of an operation and taken the time to consider him as human, as a man instead of a general, and he realizes now that it was Jack's consideration that had kept him from snapping altogether. It makes him almost nauseous to consider how close he had been to cutting off the head of the dream pirate captain and that of every single leering fearling with him.
As much as he values Jack's help, the other officers would not, though they meant well. It would not be a light punishment Jack would receive for shirking his duties during such an important mission.
Pitchiner opens the door a long, silent moment later, standing aside for Jack to enter. In the hand not holding the door, he still grips the locket. He looks somewhere over the boy's head, not making eye contact.
"Did you need something?"
His voice comes out tired, cracked as though he'd been crying for hours, though there are no signs of tears on his cheeks. He looks down at Jack, finally, if only briefly. "You'll be punished for avoiding your duty."
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He may have been brazen enough to come here, but it feels awkward to do anything more, so he stands in the middle of the room instead of taking a seat. At least the General's quarters are still in one piece, he notes; when Emma was taken away, the last time Jack saw her, he had torn through his own bedroom and thrown everything that he could lift, tipped what he couldn't, and kicked anything that was left. It could be that Pitchiner's grief is more dignified than that, but Jack is still relieved to see no evidence of that destructive style of mourning.
He just isn't sure what to do with whatever remains. At times like this, he feels like his whole life has been so easy and insignificant; he's never known real hardship, some venomous little part of him says, he's never dealt with loss so what could he possibly say here? What good is he really going to be for something that he has no comparable experience in? This wasn't a mistake, because he maintains that if no one else is going to try and treat the General like Kozmotis Pitchiner then it's something that falls to Jack, but — he just wishes there was someone else to do it, for Kozmotis' sake.
"I could pretend that I need something," he says, shifting his weight uncomfortably on his feet; his tone is light but with a cautious edge, too aware of what he's treading on now, "if you want to act like it's not totally obvious that I came here to check up on you."
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The first response that comes to mind is the automatic one, 'I'm alright', or 'there's no need', but he's not alright, not at all, and maybe having someone there will keep him from losing his mind because there's a creeping sensation gripping at his spine and slithering its cold way up that will lead to the realization that he's never going to see his family again. And when that does hit, when the shock has worn itself out and it really sinks in, Pitchiner isn't sure that he's not going to lose his damn mind.
His jaw clenches for a moment, the slightest flicker of that dread reaching far enough to pierce his subconscious. He pushes it away.
"Thank you." It's an almost professional tone, but a thin mask for the anguish that's beginning to build beneath the surface. It might sound trite, but it's genuine. No one else had bothered, or rather dared, to come 'check' on him.
There are two small couches on either side of a coffee table, Kozmotis sits and motions out of habit for Jack to sit across from him. It felt stupid to stand there like they were both frozen, and the general wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't find himself on his knees again on the floor otherwise.
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It doesn't take long for the quiet to make him crack. With a huff of exasperation, more for himself than Pitchiner, he throws his hands up, slumps back in his seat and declares, blunt and determined, "Alright, I'm going to be insanely candid about everything so that I didn't risk my neck just for awkward silences. Here we go: I have no idea what to say."
For all the dramatic intent in that statement, though, it's followed by more silence. Jack fidgets with his right sleeve; not the cuff but a little higher, fingers circling his arm, rubbing over something there that Pitchiner can't see. It does feel easier to keep going with that announcement made, at least, an anxious tension in him loosened. Like he doesn't need to be careful about what he says, now that he's pre-emptively dismissed it all as total bullshit, trying to file himself away as some idiot that isn't thinking about his words, isn't agonising over every single one as they shape on his tongue. And because his nerves are eased, his tone gentles somewhat when he picks up again, "I don't know how you feel because I haven't been through that, and I don't know how to even start making it any better. It just felt like— like the shittiest thing in the world to be off doing something else when you're going through hell."
There's no way he could have managed doing anything else, anyway. He's been thinking about General Pitchiner ceaselessly since the battle (the lack thereof) and anything else has to simmer quietly underneath; his cold fury directed at the fearlings, his horror for what they had done, his dread about what is to come after this, all of it takes a back seat until this is dealt with. There isn't any room in his mind for duties and chores and procedures, not now.
One thing concerns him more than any other. He might not know how this feels, a grief of this terrible magnitude, but he remembers how he felt when Emma was hurt in the attack, and again when his mother took her away, and there's a part of that which could be so much worse than the rest in this situation. His hesitation is a palpable thing, a stillness and a heavy uncertainty, but he pushes through. He has to.
"It's not... your fault," he says, because he has to. "You know that, right?"
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It's a little easier with Jack here, he thinks, not to deal with his grief but to push it away until he can figure out how to deal with it. With someone else in the room, there's a reflexive sense of responsibility to seem put together and in command. Truthfully, he thinks, he doesn't know how he feels either. And he's grateful, that this ensign would take the time, the thought to come to him, to consider him a general and a person when no one else on deck would. It makes him glad of Jack's stubborn streak, of the way he made sure as much as Pitchiner himself (sometimes more) that no one be left behind.
It's not your fault.
His composure begins to crack. "No," he manages, voice suddenly unsteady and eyes widening as though that might discourage the tears welling within him. "It is." He covers his face with one hand, nearly doubling over as he sits there. A sob, tortured and choked, wrenches its way from his dry throat. "I was supposed to protect them," he says, breath hitching and chest fluttering with quick, uneven breaths. "I failed them. It was all I was supposed to do, and I couldn't even--" His fist balls in his hair.
The beautiful faces seared in his mind like a brand seem accusing, and he deserves it, he deserves the worst punishment. His beautiful and serene wife, his wild daughter full of so much life, so much promise, gone in the time it took to be completely duped like a rookie with no brain. Some general. Some husband. Some father he was.
It's his fault. All his fault. Another anguished noise, a cry that didn't quite make it. The other hand comes up and joins the first, balled tight in his hair. They were gone, because of him. Gone and nothing he could do in the entire Golden Age could fix that or bring them back. He was the one that deserved death, not them. Never them.
It was all his fault.
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"I take back what I said about you not being stupid, but only because that's stupid." His own voice comes out just as bad as Pitchiner's, weak and cracking in places. Jack wants to keep all of his focus on the General, but he has to swipe at his eyes because for fuck's sake, he's not going to sit here and actually cry when General Pitchiner is the one who's lost everything. He keeps pushing, insistent, "You're a person, not some— some infallible war machine. You can't do everything, sir, you can't know everything, it's not your fault. You didn't set up that trap, and you didn't make the fearlings attack."
It's not fair. It's not fair that this is happening to Kozmotis Pitchiner, who tries so hard to protect everyone, it's not fair that he blames himself for it, it's not fair that he's stuck with Jack trying to help with this instead of someone better suited. In the end, it's too much for him to sit with his mounting horror over the fact that the General is breaking down in front of him and that the man thinks this tragedy was his own fault. The distant therapist treatment isn't something that Jack can keep up. When his sister was caught up in the fearling attack, Jack couldn't save her. If no one else had stepped in, both of the siblings would have died there, they had the scars to prove it, and he had hated himself for it. Afterwards, no one had ever tried to tell Jack that it wasn't his fault, that he shouldn't blame himself for not being enough to protect her. He may not be good for much, but he can make sure that it isn't like that for General Pitchiner.
Jack leans forward out of his seat and reaches across the table between them to lay his own hands over Pitchiner's. He doesn't pull, just trying to patiently ease their grip loose, to bring them down and away from where Pitchiner is tearing his hair out. And he stays like that, somewhere awkwardly half out of his seat, trying to lean over a table to comfort someone properly, his hold on the General's hands gentle and loose.
"I don't care, alright," he says, firm but kind, a resolute and earnest care showing through, "I don't care if you don't believe me right now, because I'm going to keep saying it anyway. It's not your fault. And I'm, I'm going to tell you that every day — forever, if I have to, if you won't believe it."
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My fault. It's my fault. It's my fault it's all my fault my fault it'smyfaultmyfault--.
"I didn't--" he begins haltingly, frame trembling and teeth grit tightly. "I didn't have to do everything, just, just keep them safe." My fault. "That was all I had to do. I failed. I failed them." And in the worst way. They didn't deserve harm to come to them at all, and he had allowed it by being so very incredibly foolish.
At least there's something about Jack's presence, the way his smaller hands attempt to coax the general's own, the tone of his voice that brings him down from the madness his grief threatens to bring, and he recognizes that Jack is trying.
Defeated, his hands relax, and he takes a shuddering, slow breath.
It is his fault though, he thinks, and even someone telling him every day won't change that fact. His hands lower away after a time, the right uncurling to reveal the locket still in his palm. He stares at it, and at least it gives him an excuse for somewhere to look other than up, because he can't face someone else right now, even if it is Jack - maybe especially because it's Jack. He's not supposed to be like this in front of someone else, even if Jack more than anyone else would probably be alright with breaching the superior/subordinate etiquette. But Jack also treats him just a little more human than everyone else (and he does the same in kind, though he shouldn't, he knows he does). He's not sure he can stand that kindness, right now. He doesn't deserve it, he's sure.
He's calmed down a little now, eyes watery and red and expression drawn. A sigh escapes, world-weary and shaky.
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Maybe he shouldn't have, he thinks as soon as the question leaves him, this is— this is General Pitchiner's personal thing and it's the last piece he has of his family now, it's not at all the same as Jack. But it's too late to take the words back, so that's clearly where this is going now. He pushes at his right sleeve, rucking it up and slipping his fingers up underneath the cuff to pull something out. What slips off his wrist is a bracelet, handmade; it's a simple thing, brightly coloured string woven clumsily together with a handful of beads on it, the handiwork of a child. It's worn and a little frayed in places, surprising that it's still in one piece.
The way Jack holds it makes it precious — like something terribly fragile or alive, the way a person would hold a butterfly or a small bird.
His smile twists, a slight grimace, and he gives a soft, pitiful laugh. Looking at it now, thinking about this, it seems even less like something he should be trying to bring into this; he has so little right to intrude on any of Pitchiner's grief, but he doesn't know what else to do. Faltering, he tries to explain, "Okay, it's not really the same thing, but. My sister made it, and I..."
Just get it over with, he scolds himself. The General has shared so much of himself already just by allowing Jack to be here, by talking to him in the aftermath of the horrible revelation, showing even a fraction of his hurt to a subordinate; and the confiding, that's what he wants the point of what he's saying now to be. A balance, finding some sort of equal ground. Whether the intent will actually be clear or not, he isn't sure, but it's too late for him to back out now. He may as well just follow through on the rest of it and hate himself once he runs out of story to tell.
"After the fearlings, uh — my mom took her and, they moved. She left me with my dad who, let's be honest, couldn't give less of a shit about me," there's another laugh there, a sharp and bitter grin accompanying it, but Jack shakes his head and he moves on quickly from that so it doesn't become an issue, trying to prevent it from standing out as anything important or worth remembering, "and, I don't know, maybe she wanted to start over, or she blamed me for something, or she didn't want Dad around for some reason... because she didn't tell us where they were going and I never got to see them again." He drops his gaze, turning the bracelet around in his hands, and his voice goes quiet and cracked when he finishes, "So this is — all I have left of Emma, I guess."
It doesn't take long for the feelings of anxiety and embarrassment and god, what are you doing, you're not helping you're just annoying, idiot idiot idiot, to catch up with him once the words have stopped, and Jack moves suddenly, scrambles to his feet. He almost trips over both the table and the couch in his haste to move, smiling nervously all the while, and when he stops he just looks small and awkward, out of place.
"Hey!" he says, with false brightness and a meaningless, frantic gesture. "Look at me, being an ass and talking about my dumb life story when I'm supposed to be skipping duties to talk about you. Do you want — like, a glass of water or something?"
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