postitnowke

[postitnowke]

 Wip

The Duck nodded, looking like he tempted to drag him to the dance floor if necessary, but before he could atrempt anything of the sort they were interrupted by the woman of the hour. He sensed the Scotsman attempt to subtly place Sher Khan between him and the (deceptively?) innocuous individual before him, placing Khan in the awkward but unstated position of protector of his person, a position he's not had the opportunity to have been placed in before. Frankly speaking, most people rightly in the need to be protected from him instead, and he finds himself stricken dumb and mute by this show of trust, limited though it might be.

“Hello, Bridgetta.” Scrooge said, awkwardly waving at her from behind Khan’s back.

“Hello Scrooge,” She said cheerfully then started as if suddenly noticing the obstacle between herself and the focus of her interest. “And a very warm hello to you as well, Mr. Ah~?” She ended on a questioning note, giving him a curious once over.

“Khan.” He said immediately, wondering if Scrooge had the right of his assessment towards the lady or if she was a gentlewoman of the first order, like the Memsahib's of his youth. A lady to her social equals and superiors but a terror to those beneath her. He'd reserve his judgement until he'd had the opportunity to observe her behavior at a later date. “Sher Khan.”

“Oh. I've heard of you!” She said,automatically smiling politely, but he noticed it had become rather strained. In the years since the second World War and the Amercan involvement in Vietnam’s civil war he’d noticed people had grown significantly less enamored with his business practices. “I wasn't aware you and Scroogie were friends.”

We're not. He thinks the words but doesn't say them. Scrooge and he seemed to have an odd tendency of orbiting each other’s social spheres. He reached out to shake her hand instead. “I don't believe we’ve had the pleasure of being properly introduced.”

She smiles prettily and tolerates his touch, but he let's go quickly, taking pity on the lady once they'd gotten over the social niceties.  He can tell she's uncomfortable to be in the presence of a war profiteer and he can't particularly blame her. He'd been questioning his own decisions as well lately. He doubted much would come of it, he always seemed on the verge of quitting his involvement in state affairs before some higher up approached him with a project he felt foolish to refuse. He wanted money and power, and these contracts provided him with both.

“Well, It's been fun meeting you.” She said with the smile of someone who was eager to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible. “But I was hoping to steal Scroogie away from you for a bit?”

“Oh.” He feigned surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Well,” She said, sending a questioning look behind him. “We were rudely interrupted by young Mr. Glomgold and I'd like to resume dancing with him, if it's acceptable with you both?”

“I'd like nothing better than to return him unto your capable hands.” he said, smiling at her in turn, his lips only stretched wider when he felt McDuck kick at him from behind.”Unfortunately, Mr. McDuck promised to teach me traditional formalized dance from the dannsa Gàidhealach and I'm afraid that in the interests of cultural exchange I find myself quite intrigued at the prospect.”

“He what?” She said, directing the question at the smaller man, who had widened his eyes comically at his near perfect pronunciation of the Highland dances in traditional Scots Gaelic.

“Well,” Scrooge drew out the word, suddenly appearing almost remorseful. “I agreed to show him how to do the Pas de Basques and Highcuts,” after there was no discernible change made in her continued expression of incomprehensible he explained further. “It’s usually taught to young dancers who are not yet prepared to learn the entire, Ghillie Callum, the, ah... Sword Dance.”

“Your teaching him to dance.” She said sounding utterly baffled by this revelation, and Khan could more than understand the sentiment. He was a little confounded by this odd turn of events himself.

“It is not just ‘a dance’ “ Scrooge sounded offended now, and she lifted her hands quickly as if to placate a particularly nervous pet. “The Ghillie Callum is one of the oldest and most famous of Scotland’s traditional war dances and is said to date back to King Malcolm Canmor who performed it after he defeated one of MacBeth’s generals at the Battle of Dunsinane in 1054!”

“I’m sorry for not .” she said attempting to sound soothing. “I’m simply curious about why you would want to teach him a venerated dance of war from the Scottish Gael tradition.”

“Because he curious and I am more than qualified of teaching my...my friend how to dance if i do so choose.” Scrooge said, stuttering over the word friend. Friend. He was glad the woman’s attention was focused on Scrooge rather than him, because if she had bothered to look in his direction she would have seen the shocked expression develop over that one single word, but both were too focused on each other to take notice of him, and he quickly reigned it in, adopting a more neutral stance.

“But isn’t a sword dance performed with swords?” She asked puzzled by the heat in his words.

“Yes, and that is why we are doing the the Pas de Basques and Highcuts.” He sa I know better than to think John D. Rockerduck would trust his guests with swords at a Christmas party. Scrooge smoothed out his lapels the grabbed Sher Khan’s paw with a surprising amount of strength. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my friend has been patiently awaiting my instruction.”

And with that he led a perplexed Sher Khan onto the dance floor.

“That was ‘civil’?” Khan questioned, raising an eyebrow over the what had seemed to be a rather heated argument, especially considering the public nature of the conversation.

“Believe me, Khan. Scrooge said softly, a dark look on his face. “For us that was civil.”

Khan realized some of his continued confusion must have been visible from his features because when Scrooge spoke up next, he seemed annoyed with him personally. “My relationship with the lady, or lack thereof his my own business, and that is all i’ll say on that matter.”

Khan nodded, he’d already decided the topic was none of his business, but he hadn’t been silent for even a full minute before Scrooge became the first to break it.”Besides, I’ve got a question of my own.” He was silent trying to think of a way of voicing his question without sounding accusing, but realizing he didn’t have the acting ability to pull it off. “How did you know how to pronounce ‘dannsa Gàidhealach’, I thought you said dancing was for the Irish?”

“I thought we had established that I was merely attempting to catch your ire?” Khan laughed, then became more serious. “Let us simply say, you are not the first man of Scottish blood to have earned my attention.”

McDuck frowned at the cryptic reply but as he’d been ready to question him on his cryptic reply when Khan chuckled darkly. “Looks like we have ourselves an audience.”

His supposed dance instructor followed his gaze and sure enough there was Brigitta MacBridge, arms folded, and foot tapping impatiently as she watched the two men stand idly on the dance floor without initiating any steps of their own.

Scrooge groaned. “Let’s just get to the dancing and hopefully she’ll go away quickly.”

If he had indeed thought it would be over with quickly, he was very wrong in his initial assumption. Khan did not dazzle him with some instinctual flare for the art, neither did their bodies synchronize without conscious thought.

It was quite the opposite, ��in fact, like nearly any class featuring a novice, Khan’s dance steps were shaky and uncoordinated the instruction a comedy of errors, all overseen by the guests, some watchful, judging the two for their lack of elegance, while others enjoyed it for the same, as well as the drinks and music and conversation.

Somewhere in the night Khan’s right hand found Scrooge’s steady shoulder while his left squeezed the small but warm hand holding his, leaning on the Duck to find balance. They were close enough that his acute senses could feel the tell tale beating of the duck’s heart beating when they had knocked into each other on more than one occasion. Scrooge’s hand on his back was firm, and steady. The instruction would continue well past Ms. MacBridge’s departure, and long into the night.

When they finally departed, both covered in a myriad of bruises and scrapes, mutual regret was felt by both.

[postitnowke]

P5

stouthearted when the continued falling, and they had run out of food because of their master's negligence, and many had been forced to turn on their dead for sustenance. He could still smell the sickly scent of sweat, blood, sickness and fear of dead and dying victims, witnessing Indian and British servant alike screaming in absolute agony as the sickness engulfed them. Some had attempted to crawl weakly towards their families, seeking just a little bit of closeness and comfort before they'd passed on to their next life, only for their kin to turn on them and haul their infected family members back to the cots they were to sleep on and tie them to it so they couldn't escape again. When it was his turn he'd known better than to follow their example. His mother had never left it a secret that she had little care for him. She might not have abandoned him somewhere to die nor left him to be raised by someone who might think even less of him than she had when his infirmity had been realized, but this did not mean he was loved. She expected the child she had named Lungri, to be grateful that she hadn't tossed him aside as trash. And in truth, despite how her words stung and bit into him leaving his soul bleeding out, he was. Not all parents kept their children. He'd been born wrong, diagnosed with what doctors referred to as foot drop. It was a term describing the difficulty he had when lifting the front part of his right paw. Instead of walking correctly, the front of his foot would drag on the ground when he walked. Sometimes it was so bad he would need to raise his thigh when he walked, like a normal child might climb stairs. This would cause a set distinctive rhythmic slapping footsteps across the floor's surface as his bad foot was lowered down onto the floor with each padded step. Anytime he'd approached her with his usual shuffling noise she would become angry with her son, feeling he intentionally made a scene before the fellow servants. She was a woman of strict decorum. The world could and had been going to pieces before them and she continued to expect every one to go about business as she did. Failure to comply would earn a swift tongue lashing. She might have been born Dalit, but she was a master of speaking honeyed poison. So much so much was her proficiency that even the senior servants feared the blade expertly hidden within her words. She'd felt his physical weakness weakened her own image and had resented him for it. What made matters worse was that it was a neurological issue and the severity of the problem could change on a day to day basis. As a result part of his mother had convinced herself he really didn't need as much care as he asked for and that his odd gait was the result of him attempting to act the buffoon to get attention. As a result, she would often attempt to catch him out on his supposed fakery. Like most children, he'd wanted to please her and he'd made an attempt not to allow the weakness in his foot show, slowing his movement down so he could carefully place his paw down in a manner that was almost normal. Instead of being pleased by his attempts to placate her she'd seen it as reaffirmation that a good proportion of his problems were merely a cry for attention and would lose patience with her troublesome son whenever he'd moved too slowly. As melodramatic as he felt the statement was, he'd learned that, in her eyes, it seemed nothing he did was good enough to gain her praise. Her actions made it impossible to seek comfort from anyone, he expected judgment wherever he went. Perhaps this had made things easier for him when he too had contracted the disease. Unlike most of his fellow servants, he expected no one to be there to hold him. He'd remained curled into himself, covered in a puddle of puddle of his own vomit, chills wracking through him like palm leaves in a hurricane, he was unable to move without crying out. Pain like thousands of tiny fish hooks clamping him him tightly through his abdomen. It had felt like a group of fishermen during a contest had all realized they'd hooked the same fish and were determined to make it theirs. The constant tugging from all sides peeling the fish apart, ripping organs every which way, and parting muscle from bones. His coughing, a choking rattling thing, damaged his fragile body further, it was like he'd been in a rush to complete his chores and had grabbed a bite of naan bread to keep the hunger at bay, but in his haste had misjudged how much food his esophagus could handle. So instead of safely consuming the food it had instead felt as if he'd swallowed one of his master's cricket balls. Any water he might have gulped hadn't made it easier to remove the obstruction from his airways. Instead it seemed keen to work against him. He'd coughed up a a deep red foam, the swelling in his throat making it nearly impossible to breathe. To his knowledge he had called for his mother but once, a sign the delirium had been getting to him. If he had been conscious he would have been more surprised to see her slipping close to him to refill his empty water cup and give her son half of her own food. She'd taken the cup, pressing it to his lips, forcing him drink, to stay hydrated. She'd ripped the meal into easier to manage pieces, making him eat, to keep fed. He would later learn to his disgust that the food She'd given him had been hacked off the bodies of the dead and shared among the living after the food rations had run dry. They could still collect water from the holes in the roof but food did not come so easily, the master had seemingly forgotten they needed supplies. She had continued to give food to her son until she had been driven by the illness to take a lie in herself. She may not have been fond of her son in a way a mother was expected to feel for her child. He was too brittle too weak in body and wicked in spirirt that it felt like a punishment to be burdened with such a boy. But that didn't mean he wasn't still her son. No matter how much she might have wished for a better mannered and more physically abled child he was what she had been given. He was troublesome but this did not mean she'd wanted him dead. It was preferable to her that he live, a handicapped child was better than none at all. But he had wanted more than what she could give him, if she could not accept that he was handicapped, he'd still wanted her to love him. He knew she despised him for his infirmity, she'd made it obvious enough that even in the thrall of a deadly illness he'd thought better than to expect anything from her. Far more frequently he'd called for Tabaqui. His only friend, who, had he lived, would have spent the entire time by his side making ridiculous puns that would have encouraged him to get better just so that he could pretend to suffocate the wretched jackal with a pillow. But he wasn't there, the one person he'd most wanted to see, had died in horrific pain frothing and foaming at the mouth, no longer capable of telling friend from foe. Lungri had been attacked and almost bitten by Tabaqui. Had it not been for timely intervention he too may have been lost to hydrophobia. He hadn't cried when Brother Grey had snapped the jackal's neck. He'd been terrified, his friend had never been particularly strong in body and he'd been lifted clear off from his feet and slammed into the wall with enough force to make the dishes rattle. And then with a blast of noise he'd never ever forget the canine had ceased all movements. He'd waited for the still form to move once more but he'd waited in vain. Tabaqui had wanted so badly to die. Watching him whimper and beg for an end to his suffering had broken something inside of him that he'd never been able to fix. Besides, his friend would be reincarnated soon afterwards, hopefully as a Brahmin (the uppermost class in the Caste system). But now with his own mind lost to pain, he'd cried harder for his lost companion than he had ever done or would ever do again. On any other occasion he might have been ashamed of himself but he'd just felt so broken and abandoned by everything there was nothing left in him, his mind a overflowing water sack filled with feelings and disease. It would take him a long time to recover, his body weak and shaky months after the event. Two The and the various religions that had looked upon the disabled as having brought down their own misfortunes on their own through some manner of wicked action.

[postitnowke]

Fearful for his health obviously, but even greater was the fear for the journey of his soul. Even as a child he'd known he wasn't the best behaved of youths. He had been angry and often offended by the way both his peers and the adults around them treated him. His thirst to prove himself and his easily wounded pride had made him prone to secret acts of vengeance upon those he felt wronged him. He might have been seen as easy prey but his pride had been stomped on far too many times to put up with it from people who were only marginally better off than him.This hadn't meshed well with the religious beliefs he'd followed during this period of time. He'd heard elders comment that his handicap was a result of either sins his mother committed or karmatic injuries from a past life. Long days and nights helping his mother complete menial tasks for their employers and the horror that came later gave him plenty of time for introspection. What was said left him terrified for his own fate after death. He didn't know what crimes he'd committed to earn him the punishment to have been cursed since birth, but these people were from different walks of life. It hadn't mattered which as the different religions had all seen his handicap as somehow being a punishment or 'the order of he had hated the weakness with which he'd been born. If a lesson was meant to have been learned from the weakness in his body he had not found the answer. He'd always been consciously aware of how different he walked compared to others. He'd hated thinking that his infirmity made him more susceptible to weakness, ridicule, and possibly death if someone took it to their minds that the cub known by all as "the lame one" needed to be taught his place, which was to say, that he had none in thid life at all. Foolishly, he'd thought that once he was shed of his wretched coat of mortality, it would erase a thousand unspeakable pains life had given him that was at the root of his fear. He'd been wrong, of course. Even as he lost his theological perspective on life he had not been granted peace of mind. It had only made things worse as he'd been given further opportunities be sickened of the life he lived and disgusted by the people who surrounded him. Once he might have thought this impossible. All things considered his worldview had been damn grim to begin with. Growing up in Bombay(or Mumbai as it was now known), he'd grown accustomed to the knowledge that no one was ever safe. The Bubonic epidemic had started when he was but two years of age, and he would be two and twenty when it had 'ended' in 1914. The horror of disease had been palpable in every walk of life. Thousands were dying in the streets and it had seemed like the act of an angry god visiting their wrath upon the wretched souls that were living in the Kali Yuga, the most terrible of the four cyclical ages. He had been lucky and survived the disease himself. Inspired by Walter Charles Rand's actions in Prune(which had led directly to WCR's assassination), their master, the Sahib, had decided to lock them all in together, effectively putting the servants quarters into quarantine. He and his wife had then sent their children home to be watched by family members in England. His actions were understandable after their eldest daughter had contracted the disease and died shortly afterwards. Regardless of how he treated his servants, it was obvious he loved his children and hadn't wanted to risk their other four pups. The master himself had little choice but to remain. He was stationed at the military contentment and could not leave until he had either resigned his post or his commanding officer was willing to issue an order to allow him to evacuate. His wife had refused to abandon him despite the danger, and so the two had remained. Things had seemed like they would continue almost without interruption, but then the man's wife had fallen ill and he had blamed the servants, noting how they had suffered loss as well. He had given the order to quarantine every servant who showed the slightest hint of illness to prevent further outbreak of the bubonic plague within the household and other English officers had followed suit. It could have been argued that the measure was quite logical despite the emotional core that drove it. However it had been seen as an act of cruelty by the servants. Every day they were expected to be subjected to an examination and often forced to strip before prying eyes. Many of the elders he knew(who were neither Christian, Islamic, nor Jew) didn't mind undressing. The old ways hadn't put as much attention on whether a man or woman was fully clad by English standards(it humored him, for instance, to imagine the reaction foreigners he saw wearing a Sari might have to know that traditionally speaking there had been no shirt beneath it), but the prying fingers had made enemies of all. The act made them feel like thr dirty little heathens the English thought they were and these checks were a frequent complaint among anyone with the words to speak it. As more people became infected the situation became more dire the sahib had begun treating him like a Dalit rather than Shudra. He had tasked him with dragging the bodies of the deceased plague victims from the quarantine housing, onto a cart pulled by a cow, and delivering them to the pyre on the outskirts of the city to be burned. This was an unclean duty unworthy of anyone above his nonexistent caste and though he was not the only servant sent on the grim task, the knowledge brought him no relief. The things he witnessed were too grim to find respite, even in the knowledge that he was not alone. It simply meant there were more dying people experiencing the hell he'd seen than what he witnessed in his own home. The English servants would refer to them as reapers, a reference to a being from their. Own. Mythology. It was a dark name for a dark purpose. They'd harvest bodies like some farmers might harvest their crops. Scared out of their mind that they'd do something to screw everything up and concerned he might catch something from the field he worked. Those he worked with seemed to lessen week by week. It would be a lie to say any of the survivors of his his group left the situation entirely intact. He himself would always associate the smell of fire with the burning bodies, the phantom scent filling his nostrils and chasing away any other thought that might have otherwise his mind. It made him feel weak, those memories it brought to mind, making his palms sweat and his heart race. But it was a weakness he didn't hold against himself. It was horror more impossibly frightening than any slasher film made. He challenged anyone who might view his aversion to flames pathetic to spend months in that place among the remains of the servants unflinching and

[postitnowke]

Part three

The adrenaline fueled exhilaration clouded those negative feelings he desired to avoid, leaving him practically giddy with the thrill of it all. He hadn't been able to rid himself of the picture all night, the smell of spilt blood remaining with him all night. it it had made him realize how constricted the rules had become over the years. He enjoyed the thrill of a simple sparring. But he didn't have the patience to pretend he'd no desire to damage his opponents and be damaged in return beyond what the petty rules allowed, leaving him feeling effectively muzzled. He craved the opportunity to show others but most importantly himself just how little these able bodied fighters were when compared to him. And if the program refused to allow him the one thing he wanted then he had no desire to be involved in it, the many invitations to various tournaments across the world were dutifully ignored. The next best thing, street fighting was regrettably ruled out as well. As a young man of little consequence, it had been a viable outlet that provided bodies on whom he could dull his claws when he wasn't hunting for animals that had been labeled pests and offered reward money for their capture. But times had changed. His role in life had changed. There would be scandal if someone of his station were seen beating up hooligans in the worst parts of the city. The act was not only illegal but if the public was treated to images of a wealthy man getting caught out on harming less fortunates the reactions was not likely to be positively received. So maturity had forced him to effectively rule that out also. So he'd let go of either idea with heavy heart and took up botany with as much enthusiasm as he could, paying his scientists to create the perfect specimens to inhabit his office. Their work and his money had paid off. He'd found the garden magnificent and when he was in a mood he would shore himself up in his office, alone among his plants as rage and apathy fought for dominance within his mind. Feeding them, watching them devour their prey eased a little of that internal pressure coiled around his innards that always sunk its venomous fangs within shouldn't he ever let his guard down. His only other method of distraction was paperwork. It was why he felt inclined to work as hard as he did. Many marveld at his ability to keep his nose to the grindstone but they didn't know the truth(and they never would if he had anything to say about it). If he were to get "time off" he wouldn't be able to rest, so obsessed would he be with the state of his company. The helpless anger he often felt simmering under the farce of stoticism needed a target and burying it beneath a mountain of paperwork could overtake him and he'd be forced to retreat once more into his little jungle lest he commit himself to something he would surely regret. And when he found he couldn't sleep, when insomnia clothed him like hand in glove, he'd send out word for his corporate team, letting them know they would be expected to appear for a conference he would be an hours worth of notice. it wasn't very empathetic to those he worked with and a kinder man would at least apologize for the interruption. But he was not that man and there was little else that could be to ensure he had something to do with his time that was constructive. Laying in bed until what most considered to be a decent hour and hating the body he'd been born in was not a constructive use of his time. He paid them overtime for the interruption, as per the long-standing but constantly debated agreement his company had with its irritatingly demanding labor union, so that should have supplied them with all the explanation they needed, no apology necessary. Besides, if some privileged kitten reared on refrigerated wet food couldn't keep up with him and the hours he'd dutifully listed on the contracts they'd signed, the opposing party could just as easily be replaced by someone from the lean and hungry underclasses that had that capability to satisfy his demands. Unexpectedly those early morning meetings had given rise to the rumors that he was, in fact, a vampire. He understood the reason someone uneducated in the mythology of such beings and reared up on horror films and tgr occasional romantic drama might make the assumption so he had ignored the whispering. And when some practical joker found it clever to send him garlic bulbs and a crucifix using his company mail he'd merely rolled his eyes in bemused exasperation and told his aide to have it trashed. Unfortunately the aide had seen a story in the situation and had called Roxanne Featherly with the news who had then gone wild with it on television. The aide was fired for that little detour, of course, but the damage had been done. Now he couldn't go a week without receiving the same thing in the mail for what was over the thousandth time in a row, and any amusement that might have been garnered from the gift had died a cruel death. There were days he'd kill for his hecklers to show an ounce of inspiration. He knew most of the items had been sent in by people who had developed an enmity with either himself or his company, but he would be thankful if they could show a bit more creativity with the "gifts" they sent him. There was a wellspring of ideas to consider when dispatching the undead beyond sending him half rotten vegetables and tacky religious iconography. Sometimes there was a bit more variety, such as a bottle of vampire glitter guaranteed to make his fur shine like one of the characters from a series depicting a more modern tv rendition of the vampire mythos but these proved to be the exception rather than the rule. He imagined they all must have considered themselves quite clever for the act but none of them had realized how easily it had been to track them down. He'd sent them a letter of warning, informing them he considered their actions harassment and if they were to continue he'd consult his legal team. This promise was usually successful when deterring individual senders, but there was always another to take their place. He may have been long lived. He had in fact taken steps to ensure his lengthened lifespan. But contrary to what seemed to be popular belief he was no vamp. Society's odd fixation on the undead was likely the result of the hypersexualized frame Hollywood had fitted nicely over the increasingly tragic picture they'd painted of them over the years. He could also acknowledge that, for what little it was worth, he was quite the handsome fellow. And perhaps he was the slightest bit brooding but those traits did not necessarily a vampire make. There were people, such as one Scrooge McDuck inhabiting the world who fit the bill far better in his opinion. Scrooge was merely a man who had also extended his lifetime, but McDuck was A) A good 20 years his senior, B) Had parents that were likewise still among the living, C) Had an ex partner who was very nearly his own age, D) A suspiciously large number of younger family members whose parents were either deceased or missing, and E) Had loyal but rather odd employees who were extremely close to the family they worked for and would fight for that family to their last breath. It wouldn't take much imagination to see the entire group of them as a vampire coven. But that was for some silly overly paranoid paranormal investigator to consider, and he was certain Scrooge, like himself, had turned to other means after easily dismissing the league of the undead as inefficient. If he had turned to one of the many vampire colonies for assistance, it would have made running his company more difficult. Not only would he inherit whatever weakness the clan he approached possessed, there were even worse things to consider. No matter which vampire court he encountered, if he joined their number he would be eternally subservient to his maker. Their orders would live in his blood, directing him like a puppeteer's marionette. Like a drug addict getting his fix, he would find it difficult if not impossible to resist the call to action living in his veins. And once he'd become one he would be unable to go back. He knew of no reliable means to undo vampireism without dying. Short of interference from a few individuals who thought themselves deities he knew of nothing short of dying that would unleash the chains that bound. Personally he highly doubted those few seconds he'd get to live as himself would be worth the pain of being impaled with extreme prejudice through the chest. With so many strings attached, joining the brooders would be worse than signing a company merger without reading the fine print. He just wasn't having it with that nonsense. There were so many more efficient ways to attain near functional immortality beyond finding yourself a coven and becoming one with the first bloodsucker to flash their pearly whites in your direction. Lungri had enough conflicted thoughts concerning the choice he had made to preserve his body. The method he'd chosen might not have left him subservient to anyone for however long this restricted take on eternity lasted but there were other things he hadn't considered that made him suspect he had been too hasty with his decision. Trauma had made the decision for him. The burden of living through over a century's worth of burdens had made him reconsider it. He had been young then, when the choice was made. Death had been everywhere and he'd been terribly afraid.

[postitnowke]

Part two

It had been designed to retain the carbonation of the wines poured within. Giving a glass too much surface area made it easier for the bubbles to escape. The champagne flutes shape allowed for better texture in the taster's mouth, and, and if you were the type to take youryourl jollies from even the smallest of details, the bubbles rising to the type might make for a source of minor amusement. He'd poped the top as carefully as he could. Flat alcohol brought him no pleasure. Like many, the tangy bubbly sensation was his preference, and he liked the feel of it on his tongue. When he'd taken the bottle off its place on the shelf and settled into his study, he'd intended to take only one glass. He had store CFFs reviews to assess and stock market projections to transcribe. The rest he would save for another day. The operating word in that sentence was that it had been his intention, but the sourness of the carbonated beer successfully distracted the flow of his thoughts, the underlying negativity that edged at the corner of his mind in those shadowed cobwebs cluttering the parts of his mind that weren't focused on the future success of his company dissipating as his mind also worked to compare it to other beers of its class he'd had in the past. It wasn't the best Fruit beer he'd ever sampled but it wasn't the worst either. This one would not be sending him to his bed, body wracked in chills beset by dry heaving. The introduction of technology to the setup made it more difficult to cock up the brewing process and poison the consumers. Some might lament the loss of the truly handcrafted beverages but it was these little improvements that made the world better for it, he thought. Once the first glass was emptied he'd thought briefly of returning it to where he'd originally placed it but with the absence of alcohol he'd been brought back to a reality he was attempting to, well, he wasn't sure what the correct English word was for what he wanted. It wasn't escapism for he had business papers he had tasked himself with completing. He had already made a sizable dent in its width, but whatever the feeling was that he'd experienced as he'd consumed the alcohol, he'd wanted to experience it for just a little longer. It had taken some internal debate because alcohol was not something he typically drank when he was on his own. The preferred use he had for it fell more along the lines of social drinking in the form of "wining and dining" future people of importance in his business. It left him with less need to chat up those individuals as they grew increasingly inebriated and in their intoxicated state grew less likely to notice his reticence as his answers became increasingly more monosyllablic. Perhaps some might view the thought in an ill light but he'd always preferred it when he didn't have to fake interest in the other party's interests and alcohol had always provided him with a much needed relief from the performance. Ultimately he'd decided it wouldn't do any particular harm to take another, and enjoyed the texture on his tongue. He savored it not quite losing himself but enjoying the way it softened the all too sharp edges of his mind in a way he did not find unpleasant, and when that too was consumed. He felt inclined to take a third, the siren's call sang, asking just a little bit longer, and he'd known then that if he'd given in that second time, he'd surrender every time that night an excuse excuse ready on his tongue every time he reached to refill it once more. It wouldn't be long until he was looking down the neck of an empty bottle, and wondering why he'd let himself get so far. He had been ready to place it back on the its place atop the shelf . He'd had to clamp down on the urge to fetch a second bottle, when the feeling returned in full force. It was bad enough when he'd been sober and feeling utterly wrecked. Worse still would be if he was both depressed and drunk. So he'd gently washed out the flute and the beer bottle with dishwasher fluid and water. He'd then placed the bottle into the recycle bin before placing his glass on the dish rack, and then he'd done what he'd always done when faced with a situation he wanted to avoid, he'd gone back to work. He'd had a difficult flight route in need of a pilot, and the cheapest to be found was a frequent patron of Louie's bar. Normally he'd have sent a message with one of his employees to collect Baloo, an employee of a business called "Higher for Hire". His services were offered at a flat rate, which often made him the cheaper alternative to his own pilots. Typically he'd flash some pretty pennies in his direction, tolerate the overly familiar manner with which the man had often referred to him, and conclude their business before calling an employee to shoo the man from his office. However, he had been feeling a weariness down to his bones and had felt a little change of scenery would do him good. He'd done paperwork on his way there, he might've been feeling out of sorts but that was no excuse to run behind. He'd spent valuable time getting himself to where he was, it never left his mind that it was possible for him to lose his place just as easily. He had arrived to witness some sort of celebration, and he'd paused considering his options. Crowds made him uncomfortable. The press of bodies against his reminded him of times times better left forgotten. He could pretend it meant nothing but it always caused his heart to race if he stayed near others too long. For all he knew Baloo might not have even been present. But he'd gotten this far, he was not one to allow himself to be seen to be intimidated. So making a show of shuffling his papers to organize it into different folders to hide his trepidation from his driver, he locked it inside his briefcase. In truth the work he'd been working on had simply been grunt work, so even if someone did break the lock they would be very disappointed at the contents inside. What would bother him more would be if someone were to steal his very expensive briefcase, likely only doing so assuming he had something valuable inside it. So he'd left the briefcase with his driver and ignored the voice in his head that told him there was no one alive he could trust with something belonging to him. Hed walked towards the bar, needling through the crowd, wondering if he was making a mistake, and if he should call the car back. But he'd locked the paperwork into his briefcase and ordered the driver to return when he called him. It was a little too late to go back to his car without a loss of face so he'd gathered his courage, like a soldier going to war, his doublebreasted suit his uniform and his tablet his weapon of choice. He'd entered, pushing through the doors and immediately felt the eyes of the masses settle on him, many of them he knew as pilots from his own company from the uniforms they wore, and recognized quite a few from their faces in the company registry. They seemed eager to avoid their employer's gaze, shrinking into the shadows and hiding their faces with menus. He understood their concerns well, these men were still wearing ignored the whispers and gazes that followed him, dismissing them all as unimportant. He'd surveyed the crowd before he'd caught sight of the man of the hour. The sloth bear sat by the owner, an Orangutan who was pouring what looked like jello into shot glasses. He'd sighed internally and walked towards them with a quiet grace he'd have been unable to manage prior to a series of helpful but painful surgeries he'd had on his foot. It wasn't perfect and he was prone to tire out quickly, pain and numbness shooting through him if he stood on it too long. But he was familiar enough with both that he could ignore all but their more acute forms if the situation required it. He'd made it to the table and, when neither acknowledged him, he cleared his throat to gain their attention. Both men had startled and one of the gelatin shot glasses toppled off the table with a clatter. He fought to avoid a might have had one top many cheap gelatin shots when Su Until very recently when he felt anything at all it was anger and very little else. Sometimes all he could feel was apathetic boredom pulsing in discordant beats within his chest like a tone deaf drummer hammering away at his before an amplified speaker. With it always came the mad desire to strike out at someone, anyone to make the heated tunneling blankness trapped inside his brittle body stop. He was self aware enough to know this desire was abnormal. If there were reliable methods to distract him from that yawning catechism, he would have gladly taken them instead. He'd found few of the usual suggestions ever seemed to work satisfactorily for him. Taking his stress out on inanimate objects helped but only just so. It was like was like someone had bandaged a bullet wound, the wrap might slow the bleeding but the damage was still there. His instincts craved an acceptable target to vent the mental morass of his mind upon, but such people were not to be found in abundance. He had outlived every one of his childhood tormentors. So he had to wait for someone to do something to "earn", it had to be something he could excuse to himself and possibly the authorities if the target sought legal repercussions for his actions. It hadn't happened yet, he was good at reading who would go to the cops and who would not, but he didn't let that cause him to drop his guard. As a younger man, he'd actively attended tournaments with the intent of dealing as much damage on his opponents as he could, but stopping only just short of breaking contest rules.t all his built up mental morass upon without consequence, but there were few readily available. The resulting damage usually ended in blood, his opponent and his own mixing together to matt his fur.

[postitnowke]

Part one

It had been a long time since Shere Khan could say he was happy. The feeling was always so transient, short lived and weakly fluttering in his chest like a penny candle moments before a topper brutally snuffed it out, a may fly flittering about before a flyswatter smashed it flat. It was often said that money couldn't buy happiness, this was true from a certain point of view. However it could also be said that money could provide the wealthy with the means to make their lives easier, which in turn made it more likely a person would find happiness. But for that to be of use you had to admit to yourself and others that you did, in fact, have a problem in need of correction. This was were he found himself lacking. He'd spent years perfecting his ah, "poker face" as the phrase went, when he'd been naught but a cub. It hadn't been easy, practicing expressions in reflective objects and learning to mimic the appropriate tone of voice for a given situation. As a young one he hadn't liked being forced to be someone he wasn't for the sake of another person, his interactions with his mother had been the only exeption. With anyone but her he felt it better that they either accept or reject him for who he was and not the airs he put on, lest he found himself surrounded by people who only liked him for an act he played and not his actual character. He felt such behavior cheapened the relations he had with the few servants willing to accept him as he was. And, with his employers? Well. he had no desire to play pretend just so the English would gloat over his bowed head as they spoke ill of both him and his culture. He'd hated living under the questionable mercies of the English, those men and women who saw him and those he worked with as filthy violent little children incapable of making decisions for themselves that would steal the good silverware the moment their backs were turned. He knew he could become violently angry at times, but he was neither thief nor poorly groomed and he was more than capable at making decisions for himself. So he'd been offended by the way they painted everyone with the same brush, never realizing that many behaviors they held against them was also present in their own culture. But he'd had to bite the bullet and capitulate to his mother's demands to act according to their expectations, lest he find himself on the streets or pressganged into working on a sugar plantation. Too many were lured aboard a ship with the promise of both freedom and riches after a brief period of indentured servitude. They were then taken to far away places he'd only seen on the glass globe of the earth situated his master's study. More often than not the people who leg were never to be seen again. The only evidence that they had gone somewhere and hadn't simply disappeared would be a single hand print on a crumpled old contract. So rare was a successful return, that after boarding a ship, their families would treat the departure as a funeral. Frustrated, he'd had to admit defeat, and had chosen to act as necessity had demanded of him. Being true to yourself was for the wealthy and privledged elites. He'd been born Dalit, a class so low it hadn't even been on the caste system. So low were he and those like him that the bigoted minority had thought his very presence to be polluting. He'd met a few such people but he had served an English family for most of his childhood. They had pitied him in their way, finding odd jobs he could do for more money and lending him a walking stick to help him complete those tasks with greater ease. This had made him angry but if he was honest to himself he'd take pity over disgust any day. While the English understood and followed the rules of social classes, the behavior expected of their elites was often diametrically opposed to those of his society. This had made for odd misunderstandings as two very different cultures clashed over the strangest of things. But one benefit he'd had growing up was that he had been treated as Shudra, which was the lowest of the castes (but still preferable to Dalit). This was due mainly to his mother who had been hired to work as the tunny-ketch, the cook's help. Usually this position went to the cook's wife, but the man, recently widowed, had no intention of remarriage. So the duty of cooking meals for the servants while the cook served the family went to her. Sometimes, when their employers were having a party or when the family demanded a recipe using pig products(the man's religion forbid i) she would assist him beyond the menial tasks(such as grinding plants into flour), but these circumstances were more rare than most might think. The plague had made people less willing to visit other homes and the family only ordered recipes with pig meat about twice per week. Lungri was tasked with working performing menial tasks for his mother(his favorite had been turning milk to butter). Special attention was given to teaching him proper etiquette as servants were expected to comport themselves in a manner that did not embarrass the family that hired them. His mother had taken her lessons to heart and never allowed him to forget how very fortunate they were to have been hired by an English family. The woman had bought into the views of the small but loud minority of people that openly rejected people with disabilities, believing they had done something in a past life that had warranted the pains they dealt with in their current one. It hurt that his own mother had anything in common with those people who believed people like him should have certain rights restricted and the right to inherit forbidden all together, but she had birthed him and kept him, so at least he had that. Sometimes he uncharitably wondered if she kept him around just to have free labor but the suspicion was not one that he had ever wanted to be proven correct. So he tried to ignore how much more affectionate she became when it was payday. Or hpw, whenever he was particularly tired and in need of a break, she would often survey him with a critical eye. Inevitably she'd comment on how good their fortunes were, as she suspected they would never have found employment in an Indian family, and how it was only right and just to pour everything they were into serving their employers. She'd genuinely believed prospective employers might not have even allowed them through the door after seeing his limp paw. Lungri, more than familiar with his mother's constant passive aggressiveness had always been submissive when speaking with her. When interacting with her putting on act was necessary. She had taken a full measure of his personality and had found him wanting. If he wanted peaceful relations with the woman he'd needed tp continue to exert himself past tolerance just to hear the smallest of backhand compliments. He'd worked hard to act only in ways that she approved but as he began working more frequently with his employers, particularly the memsahib, the lady of the house, he'd found himself trying to keep up with their requirements as well. Perhaps the caster oil she would force down the throats of servants that displeased her(as recommended from one of her favorite ladies advice columns) had been the proper punishment to encourage him to learn the rules of proper social decorum. He certainly hadn't been fond of violently vomiting up what little food he got to eat. But he'd learned to act as expected of him and he'd learned fast. Perhaps it had been more successful than he'd intended. When a man spent nearly all his life acting, emotional honesty was hard to come by. Happiness had long since become a fleeting thing. And neither age nor success had made its brief appearances any stronger. Instead as he had gradually made a home for himself at the top of the economic hierarchy, he'd felt steadily less for anything else that occupied his spaces. He had once dreamed impossible dreams of becoming wealthy despite the obstacles that had been thrown in his way. Now, instead of dreams his successes had become an expectation. When you believed you knew success was coming to you, being proven right meant a good deal less than it once did. Usually a successful business takeover would be enough to improve his mood, but the only feeling one of his most recent acquisitions had given him was a wretched tiredness of spirit and a dull numbness of soul. He'd succeeded in attaining riches beyond anything his younger self would have thought possible, and now he had little to prove to anyone anymore. Now he was no longer the underdog fighting for his place in a world that hadn't given him one, he had forced the elites to accept his existence through hard work and perseverance. But in truth he hadn't felt the thrill of conquering a challenge as he'd once done in a long time. Looking for something to take the edge off the feeling he'd taken the elevator down to his storage room to take stock of his alcohol. It was an a active cellar, temperature and humidity maintained by an advanced climate controlled system. Like any natural food product, alcohol was perishable and could spoil if it wasn't carefully maintained. He'd walked past a few bottles of Madeira, over 200 years old, a favorite of Thomas Jefferson, and produced from the same vintage that had been used to toast the American Declaration of independence, and had instead taken out a bottle of Rose de Gambrinus, a Belgian fruit beer. With age the taste of the raspberries faded, so it was agreed upon by many to be better appreciated in it's youth. He'd then hobbled over to the cabinet to retrieve a glass, inspecting each one before settling on a champagne flute. While it was most commonly used for sparkling wines, flutes were also used for fruit beers so he'd violated no rule of etiquette using it. He took a moment to appreciate the smooth feel of the tall tapered conical shape in his hands. The inward curve wasn't just aesthetically pleasing, it also served a purpose