SCRA Recruitment Centre

[Balanar]

I do hope these gentlemen aren't as trigger-happy as I've heard, thought Falsus Lacuna. He was a young man, perhaps between 27 and 30 years old. It was hard to tell with his type, and it was doubtful whether he could have told you himself. With dark brown hair and darker eyes, his face was akin to that of an arabian merchant; not particularly attractive, but seemingly disguising a deep intelligence. Any conclusions a casual observer might have made to this effect, however, must have been instantly obliterated after seeing the clear flask he cradled in his arm.

Would anyone believe him to be intelligent, or even sensible, cradling that flask of purple liquid? I think not. It was a stigma; a brand of sordid failure.

Love, hate, pride, shame, ambition . . . all washed away by the cleansing, wretched fire of the drink in his arms. He had thrown his life in to this bottle, refilling and draining it countless times as he mindlessly wandered the stars. So many years he had spent, running from justice and lawlessness equally, and for what?

To where, to what did he intend to go? What was he running from, and more importantly, where was he running to? The mental strain had taken its toll over the years, and finally hit its breaking point. Today he would settle matters once and for all. That is, he thought, looking up toward the door, if they ever come to speak with me.

Join? He had never even considered the word in his vocabulary. He had never joined any group, per se. He had avoided clubs at school for the year and a half of his attendance, and he had never worked a day in his life. His money and equipment he stole, and his ship he built himself. Now, after two decades of meaningless lawlessness, he had had enough.

This day he was in the Coalition recruitment waiting room, sitting as if ready for judgment. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, and he contemplated fleeing before his meeting. Taking a long draught from his purple beverage, however, he felt his nerves return to him. As the burning liquid slipped down his throat, some steel returned to his spine. He felt . . .

Fabulous. Words failed to describe the feeling he experienced as he sated his addiction, and he shivered a bit in delight. After a moment of thought, his train of thought re-engaged. It had been perhaps three months now, since the incident. Not long ago, he was reasonably content to persist in his meaningless life. However, the incident on Malta had changed everything.

Player. Womanizer. Pimp. That was what they called him, the man who had killed the woman he loved. He had loved a woman once, perhaps two years ago, before she died. More precisely, she had been engaged in some rather illicit activities at the time, and her "employer" had disliked her desire to leave the business. Worried that she would take away harmful information, the man had her killed. In return, Falsus spent years tracking him down and killing him. When the blood had stilled, pooling on the floor, a horror stole across his vision. The blaster shot intended for the pimp had been true to its mark, searing through the short man's head with ease. Thereafter, however, it had punched through his ornately carved walnut desk, killing the child crouching underneath it. Falsus had vomited on the spot.

Killer. Murderer. Monster. He had not been caught; he was too seasoned a criminal for that. Yet no matter how fast his legs, and no matter how powerful his engines, he could not escape his conscience. It grew, grew to a terrible monster which threatened to swallow his soul. So he had turned to alcohol. Finding little sanctuary in that delirium, his attentions had turned to the purple fluid in the flask he now held. His demons had chased him halfway across the Sirius sector, and he had finally discovered what he was looking for. Some sort of cause; some kind of . .

Faction? Perhaps that was the word. He sought an escape from the ghosts that haunted his memories. He wanted something to do; someone to help. Someone had recommended he approach a coalition recruiter; that they fought for the sake of all their comrades. They sought a world where men and women respected each other as equals; nothing more, nothing less. Camaraderie was such an appealing escape from his past. Perhaps he could do something with his life. As this possibility stole across his mind, the hand clutching the flask tightened, and his knuckles turned white. The bottle shattered, cutting his hands and showering him in purple fluid. Looking down at his stained outfit, he shook his head in disgust. Whatever, he thought. If they'll have me, they'll have me soaked in blood and a dirty past. Gritting his teeth in determination, Falsus did the bravest thing he had done in his life. He continued to wait, dripping blood and liquid cardamine.

EDIT: Small correction to one word in the last paragraph. Readability purposes only.

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~ Characters ~

Balanar the Nightstalker - Artemis Marquise - Kane no Tsubasa - Maximilian Immelmann - Hipparchus, the Cartographer