Spoiler! :
If I were a bard, I’d sing you a song.
If I were a friend, I’d help you along.
If I were a thief, I’d do you no wrong.
But when I am King, you’ll know where you belong.
If I were a friend, I’d help you along.
If I were a thief, I’d do you no wrong.
But when I am King, you’ll know where you belong.
-
Fortunately for you, I am none of these things. What I am at this point in time is irrelevant, but I have a story. And so, you must settle for a story. An adventure, involving bards and friends and thieves and kings, set far away from here. In an uncharted and dangerous world, ungoverned and uncivilized. A planet known as Atlantis, but more locally referred to as ‘Hell.’
On a quiet evening, in an old tavern, an adolescent boy sits by a dusty wooden table, opposite three men. The child looks to be about sixteen, with a muddied face and worn leather clothing. On the table there are three mugs, each facing downwards. The dust has been unsettled where the mugs have been crossed and switched around, in an attempt to confuse and discombobulate the three men.
“Wha’d’ya think Garry?” one of them blurts in a drunken slur.
“Go fa’ middle’n.” is his friend’s sluggish reply.
“Alrigh’, middle’n please, li’l nipper.”
The teen slowly lifts the middle mug to reveal absolutely nothing.
“I knew it were th’ right’n ya’ toons!” The third man gives a hearty chuckle, chugging the last of his brew as he does so; resulting in the expulsion of warm, stale liquid across the other two men.
“Eugh! Who’re y’ callin’ toons?” the first man shouts.
“Aye, who?” His friend backs him up and grabs the third man by the collar. Spittle from the drunk’s drooling lip lands on his victim’s brow.
“Why, I were only funnin’ ya’!” The blood drains from his frightened face.
“Aye... ‘n this’ll be fun.” The first man raises his fist, his target locked in place by his friend’s iron grip.
“Fellas! Take this outside!” The elderly bartender’s loudly voiced request is emphasised through the use of a rusty shotgun, aimed carefully at each of the three offenders in turn.
“Go on. Out.” he says, slowly advancing on the trio whilst pushing his spectacles back onto his nose with his trigger-free hand.
The men carefully shuffle away from each other, each slowly making his way to the door, careful not to startle the old man. However, their efforts are in vain as yet another drunken fool swipes at the poor senior with a glass bottle. The swing impacts his head, causing a rather large shock and as the gun goes off, all hell breaks loose.
Punches are thrown left and right, blood and alcohol stain the floor. In the midst of the brawl, a man clutches his intestines and tries hopelessly to shove them back in after being hit at close range with a shotgun blast.
His screams can be heard even from outside the tavern, where the young boy is now stood, a small bag of pebbles hangs loosely from his clenched hand. A vehicle pulls up next to him, its lights momentarily blinding him in contrast to the pitch black of the night. Its chassis is plated with a medley of different corrugated metals, a kind of patchwork ragtag of steel. Two doors at the back of the vehicle open, and two masked men, wielding clubs with nails driven in to them, step out onto the dry, sandy ground.
“Get in.” they say in unison, slapping their hands against the shafts of their weapons.
A road, stretching between the north and south horizons, crosses the barren desert. The first Atlantian star; Protymos-1, is setting in the North-east, basking the land in its rich orange glow. The second; Eptymos-2, the further away sister of Protymos-1, is only just about to pass the middle of the sky.
Two men stand by the road side, a three-wheeled vehicle parked close-enough for one of the men to be leaning on it. This man is wearing brown-leather clothing, which is worn and fraying at the edges. His eyes are covered by a pair of dusty old goggles, and a midnight black fedora sits on his head. The other man, a muscle-bound giant, is wearing blue-denim-dungarees over a dirty-white t-shirt. This larger man is gazing up at Eptymos.
“How long ‘til they arrive?” the man leaning on the bonnet of their three wheeled vehicle says to the other man.
“Giv’m ten minutes.” the bigger man replies, briefly glancing away from the star.
“Okay.”
“We’s nearly at second-light, chief.” the massive man points out.
“Yes, Boa, I see that.” is the disheartened reply of the recently leaning, now stretching, man.
“Som’fink that I wonders is why is there two stars anyway – was never two stars on Earth. Just the one.” The giant scratches his chin with his greasy, sausage-like finger.
“You’re not on Earth anymore Boa, you were deported because you killed three people, remember?” the smaller man explains in a slightly harsh tone.
“Yeah but why’s that mean two stars?”
“Nevermind.” the man replies, and then goes back to leaning on the vehicle.
“And Boss, I only kills two of’m. Third’n was by accident. Were only a babby. I don’t kill babbies on purpose, Boss. Anyways, I were only a young’n.” Boa states, quite calmly.
“Well at least you got to see Mother-Earth. I’ve been stuck in the wastelands my whole life. And so was my father. And so was his father.” The 'Boss' stares at the dirt beneath his feet, entranced in a retrospective state.
“You’s got the blood of Atlantis though, Boss. You and li’l Archiwald.” Boa takes a step forward and covers his eyes, gazing towards the north, where two lights can be seen making their way down the road.
“Blood’s blood, Boa.”
“Boss.” Boa says, then points at the lights.
“My dad’s going to be angry with you two, y’know.” the scruff locked in the back of the van calmly states to his two captors.
“Ha - Shut-up, runt. We’s your father’s best men. E’ry bandit in the wasteland knows about The Scarlett Panthers’ leader’s incomp’ent son. Your own pa’ even thinks you’re a wrong’n. Told me himself,” the ugly man who spoke nudges the driver of the van, with a sick smile on his face. They both chuckle.
The boy in the back of the van lets himself slide down the rough metal wall, until he’s crouching. He sighs, then begins to ponder within himself, as most teens do. He thinks about how much he hates his situation as the son of a bandit leader. He just doesn’t consider himself immoral enough. His father, whilst the only one with a similarly high intellect that Archiwald knows, is also the most immoral. His bandits; The Red Panthers call themselves organised, but every plan the adolescent has ever been involved in has gone wrong and they always end up in a free-for-all blood-bath. He thinks about how little intelligence there is on Atlantis, about how he, his father and possibly a couple of hermits on the edge of the wasteland are likely the only people on Atlantis who know what immoral means. He laughs inside himself, and then begins to wonder why he’s still alive. He’s run away so many times that there wasn’t a man within ten miles who didn’t know about ‘Archiwald The Coward’, a nickname given to him by his own father. It was ironic; he'd killed more people than he could care to remember, and yet he was the coward whilst some kids his age were still living happily in the mining villages.His mind then wanders onto the questions he would have for his father, if only he wouldn’t hit his son in the mouth at even the slightest sign of inquiry. Namely, ‘why are you such a bastard?’ and ‘why do you hate me?’ Two of the questions that make Archiwald feels as though he’s the only who doesn’t know the answers.
“’ey nipper, guess what?” the man sat next to the driver turned to ask, a grimace slowly spreading across his face.
The boy raises one eyebrow.
“We’re ‘ere.” is the bandit’s answer, as the van shrieks to a sudden halt; slamming the boy’s face into the cold, rusty floor-panels of the van.
“Great.” he says, after a few seconds of almost-unconsciousness, then wiping the blood from his brow, he climbs back onto his knees.
As the pair of men step out, they engage in a quick conversation with more men on the outside, the young boy can hear them.
“He’s okay?”
“’course Boss.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“Tavern, ten miles from ‘ere.”
“Tellin’ ya’ Boss, he’s a emb’assement to us. E’s always out gi’in us a bad name.”
“Shut-up, Boa.”
“He’s right though, ain’t he Boss?”
The reply is just a frustrated grunt of anger.
The doors are opened, startling the boy, who had, up until this point, been listening with his ear up against the side of the van's chassis.
“Dad!” is all he can exclaim before he is dragged out onto the dusty desert floor by his father.
“You... you – little bastard.” the father shouts, standing over his son. He tries to crawl away, limbs flailing wildly.
“Come ‘ere!” the father drags him back by his foot. Throwing his own fedora to the side with his free hand, revealing his scraggy hair that is balding in several places.
“Get on your feet. Now!”
The boy is quick to act, pulling himself up using the side of the van. His father slaps him across the jaw, instantly sending him down again.
“Coward. You’re a disgrace. A disgrace to me!” his father’s face is red with anger, tears stream out from under his goggles.
Meanwhile, the trio of goons are hopelessly sniggering at the pair.
“Hit ‘im Boss!” says one of the men, he's shirtless, wearing only a pair of baggy jeans. The father’s head slowly turns to face the encourager. He points at him, then gestures him over with a slow incline of a reversed finger. The man walks confidently forward, not at all fazed by the sheer look of fury on his leader’s face.
“Fight him, Archiwald. Show me you’re not as pathetic as everyone thinks you are. Prove to me that you’re my son.” His father’s words, whilst overridden with anger, suggest a hint of hopeless pleading.
Archiwald slowly raises his fists. He’s pretty skinny, but his adversary is what would be considered ‘thin-as-a-stick’. The bandit's greasy fists are then raised also, but in a more knowing and ready form.
“Fight'm!” Boa shouts.
In one punch to the temple, the scrawny fellow puts Archiwald into the ground. And through the teen's eyes, the last rays of Protymos-1 are slowly disappearing over the horizon, as his vision blurs, Archiwald can faintly here Boa say;
“That’s just embar’ssing” whilst the rest of the group chuckle hysterically.
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