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malarkay · 1 year

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Inside the Wire Chapter 11

Summary: During their final battle with the Storm Hawks, Cyclonis is stopped just short of destroying the Dark Ace. Victory, however, eludes them. With Cyclonia fallen, and escape to the Farside cut off, they're forced to confront the consequences of their actions.

Cyclonis was locked in the smallest cell she’d ever seen. There was space for the necessities, but beyond that she could only walk a few steps in any direction before having to turn around.

Not that it mattered. She was too uncomfortable to move around much. But sitting or lying on her back was downright painful, especially since the shelf that served as a bed lacked any padding. She tried using her blanket as a makeshift mattress, but it didn’t help. Besides, she needed it to stay warm. Mr. Moss, already stingy when it came to heating the main cellblock, apparently didn’t believe in heating the isolation unit at all.

All she could do for the first few days was lie on her stomach, head pillowed by her arm, and try to catch snatches of sleep. Mealtimes did nothing to break up the monotony; her rations were once again limited to bread and water.

Worse, she felt sicker and sicker every day, to the point where by day three, she could no longer pretend that she hadn’t caught the flu. It just figured. Her decade-long run of perfect health would end at the most inconvenient time, wouldn’t it?

On day four, the bread and water punishment ended, which should have been a happy occasion, except the food that replaced it was somehow even worse. Breakfast became thin, grayish oatmeal and juice so diluted that it was little more than vaguely fruit-flavoured water. Lunch was still bread and water, but a cup of broth came with it. That was the best meal of the day, as what the broth lacked in salt, it made up for in warmth. It was the only bit of food that managed to arrive hot, and it offered some temporary comfort to her throat, which by now felt like she had swallowed broken glass. Dinner was a slice of…she hesitated to call it meatloaf, but it was meatloaf adjacent. It tasted like what she imagined despair would taste like if it had a taste. It was hard to get down and it settled in her stomach like lead. By the third day of that, she actually started dreading dinnertime. When she got out of isolation, if Mr. Moss ever let her out, she swore she’d never have another snide word to say about the usual cafeteria fare again.

At least the meals were distinct enough to allow her to keep track of time. That was an improvement over her stint in the Stockade’s isolation unit. The only improvement.

By day eight, she was sick enough of being sick to ask to see a medic. She received no response, and no medic came that day. The next morning, she again asked for a medic so she could get some medication for her cough. It was getting worse instead of better; she’d barely slept the night before because of it. Again, she was ignored. When her request was ignored the next day, too, she gave up. She’d just have to tough it out.

After dinner, she pulled out her stack of photos, slowly looking through them as she had every night since the Storm Hawks had given them to her. Returning the pictures to the safety of her pocket, she closed her eyes and thought of better days…

-And opened them again when she heard the faint strains of a melody she hadn’t thought of in years. It was an old song, so old that it predated The Great Storms. At least, that’s what her father had told her. It was one of his favourites because it had been one of her mother’s favourites. He had played it every night as he got her ready for bed, a way to connect her to the mother she’d never get to know. It was one of the few clear memories she had of him. She’d been so young when he died; she knew she was lucky to have any memories of him at all.

She stood and walked to the door, which opened as she approached. She didn’t think it weird, not even when she stepped out of the cell and right into the halls of the Citadel of Cyclonia. She followed the music, which sounded strangely haunting as it echoed through the empty, silent halls. The Citadel was never empty and rarely so quiet.

Here’s to the songs we used to sing,

And here’s to the times we used to know.

It’s hard to hold them in our arms again,

But hard to let them go.

It led her to her old room. The one she had before she became the Master. Her father stood at the window. He was dressed for diplomacy, without weapons or armour. Instead he wore a black cavalier cape draped over a deep purple coat, a Cyclonian raven forged from pure silver pinned to his lapel.

“Lark,” he smiled when he saw her and held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “I don’t dance.”

“Since when?”

“Since…I don’t know. I just don’t. Dancing is a frivolous waste of time-”

“-that is better spent on more productive pursuits. Your grandmother taught you well, I see. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“I never wanted this for you. This life. This war.”

She lowered her head, unable to look him in the eye as she confessed, “It’s over now, anyway. I failed. We lost.”

He strode over to her and wrapped her in a tight hug that she knew she didn’t deserve but couldn’t bring herself not to return. “No, I failed. I was going to put an end to this conflict.”

“You had a plan to win the war?”

He pulled away from the embrace but kept his hands on her shoulders. “No one ever wins a war. They just lose less badly than the other side.”

“I feel like I’ve heard that before,” she said, his words stirring up the ghost of a memory.

“You have. You were there when I said it to your grandmother right before I pitched my proposal to her. I shouldn’t have brought you. I thought having you there would make her more willing to see where I was coming from, but it didn’t. And some words were spoken that weren't appropriate for little ears.”

Tendrils of dread wrapped around her heart as he spoke, but she didn’t know why. “I don’t understand. What was your proposal?” she asked. But she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to understand. And that scared her even more, because she always wanted to understand everything. Before he could answer, she jolted awake.

Her heart pounded like she had just awoken from a nightmare, and she was cold. So cold. Teeth chattering, she wrapped her blanket around herself as tightly as she could.

What wasn’t she remembering?

~*~*~

“I don’t understand. Why aren’t we cleared to land?” Aerrow asked suspiciously, speaking to the Zartaclan radio operator on the other end of the line.

“Your visit for today has been cancelled.”

“Says who?”

“The warden.”

“He can’t do that. We’re not here to socialize; we have a job to do.”

“Not today, you don’t.”

“Unless you give me one good reason why today’s visit’s been cancelled, we’re landing this ship.”

He lifted his thumb off the handset’s talk button. “They’re hiding something,” he said.

“Plague quarantine,” Stork said, sounding hopeful.

“Riot?” Piper guessed.

He shook his head. “No, the operator wouldn’t sound so calm if there was a riot. Plus, everything looks fine down there.”

From where he stood with his hands and face pressed against the windshield, Radarr squawked.

“Escape?” he guessed. Communication with Radarr could be pretty hit or miss, so he was pleased when Radarr nodded his affirmation. Huh. That could definitely have Mr. Moss in a panic and trying to avoid them.

“Could be, but I hope not,” he answered grimly. The longer there was radio silence from Zartacla’s end, though, the more worried he became.

“Daggone, son, d’you have to make everything difficult?” the voice of Mr. Moss finally came through the radio.

“Sorry, Warden, but I don’t think I’m the difficult one here. Why’d you cancel our visit, and why did you wait until just now to tell us about it?”

“Honestly, I plumb forgot there was a visit scheduled for today. I’m cancelling it because Cyclonis is in isolation right now. No visitors allowed.”

“What’d she do?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

He exchanged looks with the others. Radarr crossed his arms, looking smug. The message was clear. ‘I told you so.’

“We need to see her to confirm that she’s here.”

“I’m telling you she is.”

“If you won’t let us see her, then at least let us talk to Dark Ace.”

“That’s not happening, either.”

“Let me guess. He’s in isolation, too?”

“You catch on quick, son.”

“This doesn’t sound like a conversation we should be having over the radio, Warden. We’re landing.” He clicked off the radio before Mr. Moss could protest any further and nodded to Stork. “Take us down.”

He and Piper headed for the skimmer bay. Finn and Junko, curious about why they had circled the terra for so long instead of just landing, joined them along the way.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” he said in response to their questions. Opening the bay door, they headed down the ramp to meet Mr. Moss, who stood waiting for them with his hands on his hips.

“Boy, you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you out of the sky,” he fumed. “You were told you didn’t have permission to land.”

“Good luck explaining that to the Council if you had,” he answered lightly.

“You’re too cocky for your own good.”

Aerrow just grinned, even more so when he got a good look at Mr. Moss. “Ouch, Warden, that looks like it must’ve hurt.” There was a healing gash on his cheek that looked about ready to have the stitches removed and light bruising around his eye. Whatever went down here must have happened just a day or two after their last visit. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with why Cyclonis and the Dark Ace are supposedly in solitary, would it?”

“Watch your tone. And there’s nothing supposed about it. That’s where they are and where they’re staying until I say otherwise.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. So, how close did they come to escaping, and why haven’t you told the Council about it?” he asked, fishing for confirmation that their theory was correct.

Mr. Moss looked annoyed, but he didn’t deny it. “They tried. They failed. And the Council didn’t need to be told about it because nothing happened. I dealt with it.”

“Was anyone hurt?” he asked. The last time those two tried to escape, four innocent men had died. If he closed his eyes now, he could pull up the image of them lying on that garage floor with perfect clarity.

“Just poor Milo,” Hamish said sadly, and they all jumped.

“What did I tell you about sneaking up on people?” Mr. Moss said. “You’re gonna give someone a heart attack one of these days.”

“Sorry, Mr. Moss.”

“Who’s Milo? What happened?” Piper asked.

“Milo was one of the Tracker Beasts,” Hamish said. Sniffing, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his eyes. “He always was my favourite. He hardly ever tried to eat me when I fed him, or cleaned his cage, or took him on walks. I wasn’t here that night; so I never even got to say goodbye!”

“Dude, not cool,” Finn said. “Sorry about your…beast.”

“Thanks,” Hamish said, turning away from them to blow his nose loudly.

“Yes, very sad,” Mr. Moss said. “Hamish, what do you want? Make it quick; I’m in the middle of something here.”

“The captain of the supply barge wants to know why we’re rejecting the crate of foil that-”

“Wait, Tracker Beasts?” Aerrow asked, cutting Hamish off. “Did they make it outside the wall? That’s kind of a big deal, Warden.”

“Don’t get your britches in a twist,” Mr. Moss said. “Ace briefly made it outside the inner wall and was quickly apprehended. Cyclonis didn’t even get that far.”

“It feels like there’s a lot you’re leaving out. Just let us see them. Because right now, I’m not convinced they didn’t escape, and you’re just covering for them.”

“Never question my integrity when it comes to the security of this prison,” Mr. Moss said through his teeth, invading his personal space to jab a finger into his chest. “When you and your hooligan friends cleared this place out, know what I did? I went to Cyclonia, hat in hand, and personally explained to Cyclonis what happened. D’you think that was fun for me? It wasn’t! But it had to be done. If Cyclonis, the Dark Ace, or anyone else in this prison ever managed to escape, I’d do the same for the Sky Knight Council. Don’t think that I wouldn’t.”

“Then why not let us confirm that story with Cyclonis herself?”

“Because she is being punished,�� Mr. Moss drawled out slowly. “Supposing I bring y’all down there? She and your little girlfriend here are gonna get to chit-chattin’, as they do, and then I might as well bring y’all cookies and hot cocoa while you catch up. Maybe you can ask her why we can’t have foil here anymore. I’m sure she’s real proud of that.”

“Oh, aheh, Piper’s not my girlfriend,” Aerrow said. It might be nice if she was, though, wouldn’t it? He glanced over at her to gauge her reaction to either comment, but she looked deep in thought. He shook his head. He was getting distracted. “Besides, we know how to keep things professional. We’ll be in and out.”

That would sound more believable if his squad didn’t choose that moment to all start speaking at once.

“Foil?” Piper said, in the same curious tone she usually reserved for unusual crystals she’d never come across before. He wasn’t sure if she was asking Mr. Moss for clarification or just talking to herself.

“Do you really have cookies and cocoa? Can we have some, please?” Junko asked.

Piper kept repeating the word ‘foil’ with varying levels of befuddlement. She was definitely just thinking out loud, then.

“Did she make a shiv out of the foil or something? Is that what cut you? Because that would be awesome! I mean, that would be bad. But also kinda awesome, right?” Finn said excitedly. “And I’m with Junko on this; cookies and cocoa would really hit the spot right about now.”

“Oh my gosh, foil!” Piper practically yelled, grabbing her head. “I never thought of that! How did I never think of that? It’s such a simple solution to the problem.”

“I think I know why you never thought of it, then,” Finn said, and she shushed him.

“How did she not get away?” she asked Mr. Moss, amazed. “How was no one hurt?”

“Dude, the warden got shanked with a foil shiv! I’d call that a little hurt.”

“Boy, that ain’t what happened. And they didn’t get away because me and my staff are good at what we do,” Mr. Moss said, the pride on his face twisting into anger when Piper burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” Piper covered her mouth to stifle more giggles. “I’m sure that played a part. Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m just thinking about how bad it would be if they ever got away. It’s nervous laughter, I promise.”

“Someone mind filling the rest of us in?” he asked.

“Apparently, you can just wrap them fancy shackles up real good in foil and stop ‘em from working,” Mr. Moss said.

“Hold on; she found a way to use crystals again? And she didn’t get away?” he asked, shocked. “The odds of that are….” he trailed off. They were-

“Infinitesimal!” Piper burst out. “Exactly! I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. You lucked out, Warden.”

“Luck had nothin’ to do with it,” Mr. Moss said, crossing his arms with an annoyed frown.

The suspicion he felt earlier returned with a vengeance. Now that he knew that Cyclonis had access to her powers during the escape attempt, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Moss was lying about recapturing them after all. He sure wasn’t going to take the man's word for it. He needed confirmation, and if Mr. Moss wasn’t cooperating, he’d have to find someone who would.

“I need to talk to Ravess and Snipe.”

~*~*~

“Peace?” her grandmother said, the word spoken like a curse. Spat like it was poison.

No. No, no, no, she didn’t want to be here. She watched as her father squared off against her grandmother, a silent observer in her own…memory? Her younger self clung to her father’s leg, looking up at them with wide, worried eyes.

“There will be peace when the Free Atmos submits or is reduced to a pile of ash. I don’t care which.”

“Mother-”

“No. I won’t permit it.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission. This time next month, I will be the Master of Cyclonia, and I will rule my empire as I see fit.”

“By surrendering it to Atmosia?”

“I’m not surrendering; I’m proposing a ceasefire. We’ll retain all our current holdings. The Empire will remain intact.”

“The Empire isn’t intact now. And if you legitimize Atmosia’s independence, it never will be.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m not the one betraying our home. Betraying this family! Have you forgotten what happened to your father?”

“I haven’t forgotten; I am well aware of everything our family has lost in pursuing this unjust war,” came his quick, harsh reply. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

Her grandmother recoiled as if struck. “Unjust?”

“I know you’ve read the writings of-”

“Don’t you dare speak his name! You would destroy all that we hold dear over the rantings of a bitter madman?” her grandmother raged.

The conversation quickly broke down from there, devolving into a screaming match, with accusations and even insults being thrown by both sides. She’d never seen either of them lose their cool like this before. Eventually, her father scooped up her younger self and stormed out of the room.

She followed them out and was suddenly back in her cell. Her father sat on the bed, alone.

“This is just a dream,” she said, partially seeking confirmation, partly to reassure herself that what she had just seen hadn’t really happened.

“Is that all it is?”

So much for reassurance.

“It has to be. This is stupid. You weren’t a traitor,” she insisted, pleading with him to agree.

“Lark, I need you to understand that what I was proposing wasn’t treason. All I wanted was to bring peace to Cyclonia. I wanted you to be able to have a real childhood. I didn’t want you to inherit a pointless, endless war.”

“It wasn’t pointless.”

“You sound like your grandmother.”

“And you sound like some idiotic Sky Knight.”

He sighed.

“I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the book The Great Myth?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not surprised. She probably burned my copy of it after I was gone. You should track it down and read it.”

“Why?”

“It will help you understand. You asked me that night what I meant when I called the war unjust. I told you that you were too young to understand, but I’d have you read that book when you were older so you’d learn the true history of Cyclonia.”

“Sounds like more Atmosian propaganda,” she said dismissively.

“Hardly. A great-granduncle of ours wrote it.”

That caught her off guard, and next she knew, she was blinking her eyes open. She was still freezing and so, so tired. And thirsty. Sitting up, she waited for the room to stop spinning. It never did, but it slowed down enough that she was able to retrieve the cup of broth that sat on a tray by the door. It was cold, but she gulped it down anyway. She did the same with the water.

Another coughing fit followed. It was painful and left her out of breath, and she had to lie down again the moment it passed. She fought to keep her eyes open. As exhausted as she was, she was afraid to go back to sleep. This illness was warping her dreams and distorting vague memories of her past, making her believe crazy things about the only people she’d ever loved. It was her fault for looking at the photos and getting old memories stuck in her head. She resolved not to look at them again until she felt better. If she didn’t look at them, she wouldn’t think about them, and then she wouldn’t dream about them. Simple.

~*~*~

“Eww, Storm Hawks! What’re you doing here?” Snipe asked as he plunked himself down into a seat across the table from their old adversaries.

Ravess sat more slowly, eyeing them with suspicion. She wondered the same thing, though she could guess. Today was one of the days they usually came to check on Cyclonis, but Mr. Moss still had her locked up in solitary. The fact that the Storm Hawks had still shown up today suggested that they had been kept in the dark about the escape attempt until now.

“We have a few questions we thought you might be able to answer for us,” Aerrow answered, taking the lead.

“Is this about Cyclonis and Ace?”

“What about them?” he asked innocently.

“Let’s not beat around the bush. You must have heard about their botched escape attempt by now.”

“So they did fail?”

Oh, that was their concern; they didn’t trust Mr. Moss to tell them the truth. But they trusted her? She almost laughed. These were strange times.

“Humiliatingly so,” she grinned. It served them right, getting recaptured. Maybe if they weren’t so full of themselves, they would have seen the wisdom in including her in their plan. The three of them together wouldn’t have failed. She was sure of it.

“You’re sure? You’d tell us if they got away?”

She did laugh then. “If they had gotten away, not only would I tell you, I’d volunteer to help you hunt them down.”

“And you’ve seen them since then? You’re not just relying on what Mr. Moss or the guards said happened?” the Storm Hawks’ crystal mage asked. From what she had heard, she was the one who had managed to take Cyclonis down and the one keeping her powerless now. Yet somehow, Cyclonis never seemed particularly bothered by their visits. She didn’t get it. Being forced to meet regularly with someone who ruined her life would drive her crazy. Strange times, indeed.

“Yes. Right after their recapture, before they were sent to solitary. Now that that’s out of the way, I’d rather not waste any more of my time speaking with the likes of you.”

“They brought them back to their regular cells before sending them to solitary?” Aerrow asked, ignoring her barb. “Isn’t that unusual?”

“Nah, we were-” Snipe began, and she kicked him. “Ow! Why’d you kick me?”

“I didn’t,” she lied. She’d given them the answer to their most pressing question. They didn’t need a play-by-play of that night.

She had been beside herself with glee when she stepped into The Courtyard and saw Cyclonis bound to that post. Finally, that brat was going to get what she so richly deserved. It was about time. Past due, even. Someone should have turned her over their knee years ago. Then maybe she wouldn’t have become such a demanding little nightmare to work under. Perhaps it would have taught her the value of actually listening to someone older and wiser than her.

But the reality had been less fulfilling than she imagined. Even watching her finally break had felt like a hollow victory. It wasn’t that she felt sorry for her. She just finally understood that she couldn’t rely on others to be the instrument of her revenge. If she wanted satisfaction, it seemed she’d just have to kick Cyclonis’ scrawny little butt herself.

And that brought her back to the Storm Hawks. She hated them as much as she hated Cyclonis. The only reason she’d tell them about that night would be to embarrass the kid, but she knew now that wouldn’t make her happy. So, as far as she was concerned, they didn’t need to know all the gory little details.

“What were you going to say, Snipe?” Aerrow prompted him.

Snipe opened his mouth, and she kicked him again. He kicked her back, the petulant oaf, but seemed to get the message. “Nothing.”

It was Aerrow’s turn to regard them with suspicion. “There’s something you’re not telling us. Something no one is telling us.”

“I know how to make them talk,” the blond one finally spoke up, trying to sound ominous. She wasn’t impressed. Neither, it seemed, was his squad. They all looked at him in confusion. But he wasn’t deterred. “C’mon, guys, I have an idea.” He stood and headed for the door. Bewildered, the others followed.

The idiot boy stopped at the door and turned back to her and Snipe. “Uhh, this might take a while. You guys can go do whatever it is you do around here.” Pointing a dramatic finger at them, he added, “But when we get back, you will talk!”

“Right,” she said slowly, rolling her eyes.

Several hours later, the Storm Hawks returned, and they were called back to the visiting room. Once they took their seats, Aerrow said, “Okay, Finn, this was your idea. You explain it.”

“Alright, it’s really simple. The first one to spill about what happened that night gets something they want.”

“That’s your master plan? Bribery?” These children thought they could just buy their cooperation, did they? How easily manipulated did they think they were?

Finn just smirked at her before reaching for something behind him. Turning back around, he placed two items on the table in front of him. One was a giant bag emblazoned with the logo of the most famous greasy spoon in the sector. The other was a violin. Nothing fancy, but it looked functional.

“Snipe, dude, you’re looking a little thin,” Finn told him. “This bag has your name on it.” He wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He had actually written Snipe’s name on the bag, but seemed to be second-guessing his ability to read.

She looked at Snipe. He looked at her. She shook her head. He got that mulish look on his face that he always did whenever he was about to do the opposite of what she told him.

“Who’s gonna crack first?” Finn said. “I can sweeten the deal if that’ll help.” He added two large takeaway cups to the table. “You guys like milkshakes? Course you do; who doesn’t? Snipe, yours is chocolate. Ravess, I’m guessing you’re more of a vanilla fan. Am I right?”

She didn’t even have to look at Snipe this time to know that he was about to fold. And she’d be damned if she was going to watch him feast while she walked away empty-handed.

They began speaking simultaneously, talking over each other faster and louder until Aerrow interrupted them to tell them that they could keep everything so long as they slowed down and started again from the beginning.

~*~*~

Lark couldn’t sleep. She was too upset over the fight, and all her father’s reassurances hadn’t soothed her worries. She wanted to see her grandmother, to make sure she wasn’t still angry. Maybe then she’d be able to sleep.

She snuck out of her room and into her grandmother’s but didn’t find her there. She was about to leave, to look for her in the throne room, when she heard voices out in the hall. One was her grandmother’s. Suddenly scared that she’d be in trouble for being here alone in the middle of the night, she hid under the bed.

“-but this couldn’t wait,” her grandmother said as she closed the door behind her. “I have a delicate task for you that requires the utmost discretion.”

“Consider it already done, Master,” came the vaguely inhuman-sounding reply of her grandmother’s companion.

She lifted the dust ruffle to get a better look at what was going on. Her grandmother stood with her back to the bed. Beyond her stood Strix, the red-eyed commander of the Nightcrawlers.

“I fear that my son has proven himself to lack the proper temperament needed to rule the Empire.”

“You’ve decided to postpone stepping down, then?”

“It’s not that simple. He intends to fly to Atmosia tomorrow to broach the topic of peace with the Sky Knight Council.”

“I see,” Strix hissed.

“It pains me to have to make this decision, but I obviously cannot allow that to happen.”

She whimpered. She had been right to worry; her grandmother was still mad. Strix’s gaze shot to the bed, and their eyes met before she yanked the dust ruffle down and scooted farther back.

“You appear to have a small spy hiding underneath your bed, Master,” he said. He sounded like he thought it was funny.

“Calandra, come out from there this instant,” her grandmother commanded.

Her lower lip trembled. Her grandmother was using her In Trouble Name. She was mad at her now, too. She crawled out from under the bed and stood to find her grandmother frowning down at her.

“Gramma, I-”

“Grandmother,” she corrected her.

“Grand-” her voice hitched, and she started over. “Grandmother, I…I didn’t want…I…I-”

“Stop snivelling; it’s unbecoming. Why were you skulking about?”

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves before answering. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“You’re mad at daddy.”

Her grandmother and Strix looked at each other, then her grandmother took a seat on the bed, patting the spot next to her. “Come here.”

She climbed up onto her lap. Her grandmother picked her up and moved her to the bed, then turned slightly to face her. “Your father and I are having a disagreement. It has nothing to do with you, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

“When are you gonna stop being mad?”

“When your father comes to his senses.”

“Oh. Can I sleep here tonight?”

Her grandmother thought about it, then nodded. “Very well. But we must be up early tomorrow to see your father off on his fool’s errand.”

“But you said he couldn’t go.”

“I said I wish he wouldn’t,” her grandmother replied smoothly.

“Nah-uh, you just said you wouldn’t let him.”

“For goodness sake, Calanda! He’s a grown man. If he insists on going, I cannot stop him.”

“Sorry,” she said in a small voice. She hadn’t meant to upset her more. Her thumb found her mouth, worried that she would be sent back to her room alone now. Then she remembered that her grandmother said thumbsucking was for babies, so she chewed on her nail, instead. Her grandmother still took her by the wrist and pulled her hand down.

“It’s alright,” she told her before turning to the Nightcrawler, “You are dismissed. I’m sure you have much to do.”

“Yes, Master. But before I go, to be sure I’ve not misunderstood-”

“I made my intentions clear before we were interrupted.”

“Yes, Master.”

The following day, they gathered in the hangar bay that held her father’s ship.

“I am asking you one last time, as your empress and as your mother, to reconsider.”

“I have to do this. If we start now, I might be able to announce the peace accord as early as the day of my coronation. It truly will be the beginning of a new era,” he said, smiling.

“And then what? Have you considered the consequences? The impact this will have on our economy alone will be devastating.”

“I understand that the transition will be difficult. But I have faith in our people; we will adapt. This agreement will open so many new doors for us. Cyclonia will come out of this stronger than ever.”

“I didn’t raise you to be this naïve.”

“Mother,” he sighed. “I’m doing this with or without your blessing. I would prefer the former.”

“I cannot give it.”

Her father’s jaw clenched. “So be it.”

Her grandmother stepped forward, resting her palm on his cheek. “I love you, but I cannot condone this foolishness.”

“I love you, too. But I’m not changing my mind,” he said, and after a moment, her grandmother let her hand drop. He turned to her. “I love you even more,” he told her, holding out his arms. She ran to him, and he swept her up into a tight hug.

“I wanna go with you.”

“I’d like to take you with me, but it’s just going to be a bunch of grownups sitting around talking. You’ll be bored.”

“No, I won’t,” she promised.

“Your father’s right,” her grandmother said. “You’re going to stay here with me.”

“Awww.”

“None of that. A shipment from the mines on Terra Krustallos is coming in later today,” her grandmother informed her, and she gasped.

“Ohhh, shinies,” her father grinned at her. “That sounds a lot more interesting, doesn’t it?” She nodded enthusiastically.

She threw her arms around his neck. “Love you, bye!”

“Bye,” he laughed, setting her down, and she immediately ran off searching for crates of crystals that had yet to arrive.

Back in the here and now, tears leaked from her closed eyes as she lay shivering in her cell. That was the last time she saw her father alive. His ship crashed before it ever got out of Cyclonian airspace. By the time anyone realized there was a problem, it was too late to abandon the ship. There were no survivors.

Catastrophic equipment failure. That was the official story. A tragic, freak accident. She’d gone her entire life believing that. She hadn’t understood what she had overheard that night. She was too young, her grandmother’s words too subtle. And soon enough, she forgot about it entirely. But now, as she remembered, or imagined that she did, she knew exactly what her grandmother and that Nightcrawler had discussed.

She didn’t want it to be true but feared that it was. It felt more like a memory than a dream. She understood her grandmother’s concerns. She understood how foolish her father’s actions had been. And while she wasn’t sure what she would have done in her grandmother’s place, she knew what she wouldn’t have done. She wouldn’t; she couldn’t have ordered his death.

~*~*~

The mood aboard the Condor was sober as they made their way back to Atmosia.

“I don’t see why everyone seems so surprised,“ Stork said. “We learned at the trial that Cyclonian prisons still use corporal punishment. They knew the risk they were taking when they planned their escape.”

“Zartacla isn’t supposed to be run like a Cyclonian prison anymore,” Aerrow pointed out.

“Meh,” Stork said. “Even Atmosian prisons used to use it.”

“Used to. They outlawed it decades ago,” Piper pointed out, brusquely. Aerrow was used to her preaching to the choir about how Cyclonis needed to be held accountable and made to pay for her many misdeeds. And Stork was right. Cyclonis probably had known the consequences of failing, but she had gone through with the attempt, anyway. With that in mind, he had half expected Piper to take what Ravess and Snipe had told them with the same pragmatism Stork was showing now. But no, she was furious.

“You weren’t there, Stork. If you had heard Ravess, you’d know that what went down that night wasn’t right.”

The moment he had told them that they could both keep what they had brought them, Snipe had grabbed the bag of food and practically inhaled it, leaving his sister to do the talking. That was probably for the best. Apparently, he had been pretty sick at the time and had spent the next three days believing he had imagined the whole thing, making Ravess the more reliable narrator of the two.

“Oh, so we’re just trusting everything Ravess says now? I missed that memo.”

Aerrow exhaled sharply through his nose. “Look, Ravess really doesn’t like Cyclonis. If anything, I’d expect her to downplay what happened, not make it sound worse.”

“I suppose you’re going straight to the Council about this when we get back to Atmosia? Because that went sooo well for you last time.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I think that if you didn’t, we’d have to tie you up and check you for mind control crystals. Been there, done that, don’t need to relive the experience.”

~*~*~

Chairman Tern sat with the rest of the Council, listening to Aerrow as he brought forward his grievance against Mr. Moss.

He was of two minds on the matter. On the one hand, he was having a difficult time feeling any sympathy for the Cyclonians. Cyclonis had her chance to reform Zartacla under her rule, to do away with the barbaric practices left in place by her predecessors. She had not, and as the saying went, you reap what you sow.

On the other hand, Zartacla had provided them with a detailed account of how the prison would be run as a new member of the Free Atmos. There was an entire section devoted to discipline, which made no mention of flogging. He was also less than pleased that the warden would fail to report significant events, such as the attempted escape of his two highest security inmates. It made him wonder what else he was hiding. Perhaps it would be beneficial to remind Mr. Moss that he wasn’t a power unto himself. He worked for them, and he needed to act accordingly. They could not be kept in the dark regarding such matters.

“Cyclonian inmates being subjected to Cyclonian disciplinary measures? Many would call that justice,” Councilman Canastero said once Aerrow had finished, echoing his initial thoughts.

“It didn’t sound like discipline. Or justice. It sounded like Mr. Moss was mad and decided to take his anger out on them,” Aerrow argued.

“I can certainly sympathize,” Tern said to himself. He didn’t mean for Aerrow to overhear, but the boy’s face hardened.

“Sir!” he said, sounding scandalized and disappointed.

He sighed. “My apologies; that was uncalled for.”

“Listen, I get it. They fight dirty, and it’s easy to want to stoop to their level. I remember how it felt to have them taunt me while they hurt me and my friends, how tempting it was to hurt them back, to hit them harder than I’d need to in order to win the fight,” Aerrow said, his hands balling into fists. “To want to kick them when they were down.”

“But,” he prompted, sensing one was coming.

“But I never did,” Aerrow finished. “It wouldn’t have been right. Just like it’s not right to tie them down and beat them after they’re no longer a threat. Zartacla isn’t Cyclonian anymore. So why would you let Mr. Moss run the place like it is?”

He smiled. Lightning Strike would be proud of the man his son was becoming. He was a true Sky Knight, in word and deed.

“You’ve made your point. We will send someone to Zartacla to investigate the claims made against Mr. Moss and to take the appropriate steps to correct any issues they find.”

“Who?”

“Someone who knows how to run a prison to Atmosian standards.”

~*~*~

“Ethan Swift, as I live and breathe,” he said, forcing a smile as he shook the man’s hand. Damn Ravess, running her mouth. She had already lost her place as his favourite informant when she failed to uncover and report the escape plan. Talking to the Storm Hawks was downright beyond the pale. She was gonna learn. “Still playin’ second fiddle to Jacamar?”

“Cormorant now, actually,” was Swift’s mild reply.

He laughed. “Didn’t I tell you you’d never run that place? You’re too soft.”

“Is this really how you want to start this inquiry, Jebediah? You already know you’ve messed up. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t dig the hole any deeper.”

“You know each other?” Hamish asked.

“We met at the annual Corrections Conference on Terra Greemus a fair few years ago,” he answered, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Back when he was just a skinny little twerp like you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. We were both skinny little twerps back then,” Swift said without missing a beat. Then, to Hamish, “And I’ve had the misfortune of running into him there every year since. Though for the life of me, I don’t know why he bothers showing up. He’s always thought he knows more than any of the speakers.”

Hamish grinned, but a frown from him had him wiping that stupid smile off his face. “Council didn’t send you here to reminisce,” he said to Swift. “So let’s get down to brass tacks. What do you need from us?”

“I’d like to get started by looking through Cyclonis’ and Dark Ace’s files.”

“Hamish will take you to the records room.”

“No, you will.”

So that’s how this was going to go? Swift thought he’d come into his prison and run roughshod over him? He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so annoyed. He didn’t know he had it in him.

“Right this way.”

“Here’s what I hope to accomplish on day one,” Swift began as they walked.

“Day one? Just how long do you think this will take?” he asked. He could already feel his blood pressure rising.

“That depends on how today goes. As I was saying, I need to review their records. I’ll also need the names of every guard on staff that night. I want to interview each of them separately. Ravess and Snipe, too. You’re also going to take me on a tour of the prison. The full tour, not the sanitized version you’ve given every other Atmosian official who’s visited. But before all that, I’ll need to see Cyclonis and the Dark Ace.”

“Today? Negativo, they’re still in isolation.”

“I’m aware. How many days has it been?”

“Thirteen.”

“You realize that violates Atmosian law?” Swift asked as they reached the records room.

He sighed heavily as he went to the first cabinet and began rifling through inmate records filed under ‘C.’ Atmosia and its regulations. It was sick the way they insisted on mollycoddling criminals. “Having trouble counting, Swift? Thirteen’s less than fourteen.”

“The limit’s seven days for minors. How old is Cyclonis?”

Like he was supposed to know that off the top of his head?

“Why’re you asking me? Don’t you know?”

“I do,” Swift said. “But you seem to need a reminder.”

He found her file and pulled it out, flipping it open to her demographics page to check her birthday. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen’s less than eighteen,” Swift said, throwing his words back at him. “She’s been in there nearly twice as long as she should have been. She’s probably climbing the walls.” Swift held out his hand for the file, and he passed it over. “Isolation ends today. For both of them.”

He huffed as he turned back to the file cabinet and searched for Ace’s file.

“I see you have isolation listed as the punishment for the infraction, but there’s no sentence length recorded.”

“Must be a clerical error.”

“There’s no excuse for sloppy recordkeeping. If someone who didn’t know any better saw this, they might think you intended to keep her there indefinitely.”

Passive-aggressive little…

Finding Ace’s file, he opened it to the last page and jotted down a quick ‘14 days’ in the blank space provided under sentence duration. Slipping his pen back into his pocket as he closed the file, he turned and offered it to Swift. He took it and put it underneath Cyclonis’, which he still had open.

“I’ll remind my men to be more careful.”

“This is your handwriting.”

He chuckled, though he didn’t find any of this funny. “Well, begging your pardon.”

“There’s also no mention of any corporal punishment. Why?”

“It’s redundant. The inmates know that if they screw up bad enough to get sent to isolation, they’ll get a little taste of the lash first.”

“So you didn’t intentionally leave it out of your report because you knew the Council wouldn’t approve?”

“Listen, Swift, maybe the inmates you work with are weak enough to be cowed by a stern talking to and the threat of being sent to bed without supper, but I’ve got a prison full of Cyclonians I’ve gotta keep in line,” he exploded. “If I were to spare the rod, it’d be a zoo here.”

“Or maybe you only think they’d act like wild animals because that’s how you treat them. We had the same bunch of Cyclonians in our custody not too long ago, a lot of them for months. Somehow we managed to control them just fine without having to beat a single one of them.”

The man truly was insufferable.

“Good for you.”

“I don’t think you get it. Corporal punishment is disallowed under Atmosian law, a fact that I suspect you were already well aware of. If we get any more reports of inmates being hit as punishment after today, not only will you be replaced as warden, but you’ll be brought up on assault charges, too.”

Dammit all to hell.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Swift said, tucking both files under his arm. “You’ll get these back when I’ve finished my investigation. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find my own way to the isolation unit.”

~*~*~

“Open the door,” Swift ordered.

The Zartaclan guard balked. “But-”

“Open the door,” he repeated himself. He was in no mood for any arguments. The guard, sensing that, wisely unlocked and opened the door.

The cell was small. Too small. Cyclonis was curled up on the bed, looking sick as hell. He knew from her time on Atmosia that she tended to be a light sleeper, but she didn’t rouse when the door opened.

“How long has she been ill?”

The guard shrugged. “She first claimed to be sick sometime last week, I think? I don’t remember the exact day.”

“Strange. I didn’t see any medical reports other than her intake evaluation in her file.”

“She didn’t see a medic.”

“Why not?” It was a struggle to keep his tone professional.

“Prisoners in isolation don’t get medic visits. Warden’s orders. Otherwise, they malinger just to talk to someone.”

“Does it look like she’s faking?”

The guard, infuriatingly, shrugged again.

“Go get a medic,” he said sharply. Once the guard had gone, he stepped into the cell. He pressed his hand against her forehead and could feel the heat radiating off of her before he even made contact.

He pulled the blanket away from her, and she stirred for the first time with a wordless noise of protest.

“This blanket is doing you more harm than good right now. We need to get that fever down. Can you sit up?”

She sat up slowly and immediately started coughing. It sounded awful, like she was going to hack up a lung, and it took almost two full minutes for her to get it under control. Once she had, she fixed him with an unfocused gaze. “Dad?”

“Sorry, kiddo, your dad’s not here. But I’ll make sure you get taken care of, okay?”

He didn’t think she was altogether there enough to understand because her only reply was to mumble, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Repeating the apology over and over, it was clear that she was lost in delirium. He figured there was no harm in playing along.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he told her, sitting beside her. What could she possibly have to apologize to her father about? He remembered the news report of the man’s death, more than a decade ago now. She couldn’t have been more than three when it happened. Maybe a very young four. “It’s not your fault.”

He repeated his reassurances until she finally quieted, then patted her on the shoulder. That reminded him of why he was here.

“I need to check your back if that’s alright.”

She stared at him for a moment with a confused frown; then something seemed to click. “Swift?” She sounded like she had just realized someone else was in the room with her. “What’re you doing here?”

“Did you think you could come as close as you did to escaping and not have word get back to Atmosia? I was sent as a liaison to investigate the incident and debrief the Sky Knight Council.”

She made a small noise that might have been understanding but probably wasn’t as she closed her eyes and listed to the side, coming to rest against him with her head on his shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected. No matter how sharp she usually was, she was barely clinging to lucidity or consciousness. He’d have to keep things simple.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, sit up straight. I need to look at your back.”

“Why?” she asked, pushing away from him to sit under her own power, gripping the edge of the bed to keep herself propped up.

“The Council heard about what Mr. Moss did. They aren’t happy. I was sent to see if it’s true.”

The mention of Moss got her attention. She seemed a little more awake now. A little more grounded.

“They don’t care,” she said flatly.

“If they didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here.”

She didn’t have an argument for that, which was either a miracle or a testament to how bad she was feeling. Wordlessly, she undid the top of her jumpsuit, pulling it down, and he raised the back of her undershirt. He had expected any signs of the beating to have faded to next to nothing by now. He did not expect the extensive bruising that remained, splotches of purple still liberally interspersed among patches of livid yellow-green.

He felt his shoulders tense in anger. Moss had to have shown no restraint to have left such lasting evidence. This wasn’t discipline. It was cruelty, plain and simple. “That bastard.”

That shocked a laugh out of her, which turned into another round of coughing. “That bad?” she asked once it had passed. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s not the point. How far down do these bruises go?”

She gestured to the level of her knees. He was going to have more words with Moss later. By the time she got the top of her jumpsuit back on, the guard had returned with a medic. She introduced herself as Alba and got right down to the business of assessing her patient.

“Can you read the temperature for me?” Alba asked him a couple minutes later while she was busy listening to Cyclonis’ lungs.

He took the thermometer from her mouth. “40.3,” he reported, brandishing it at the guard. “Still think she’s faking?”

“Hey, I was just following orders,” the guard defended himself.

He shook his head in disgust and returned his attention to Alba. When it looked like she had completed her exam, he asked, “Well? What’s the verdict?”

“Probably flu, originally. But it sounds like it’s progressed to pneumonia.”

“I want her brought to the infirmary and kept there until she’s turned the corner on this. Have the Dark Ace brought, too. I want them both examined and reports written up detailing every mark left by the warden’s so-called disciplinary tactics.”

“With all due respect, none of us have the authority to remove prisoners from isolation without Mr. Moss’ approval.”

“With all due respect to Mr. Moss,” he said, trying to keep any hint of irony from his tone. “I do have that authority. Do it.”

~*~*~

Swift’s mood had not improved by the time he left the infirmary.

While he was there, he had interviewed Petrel, the medic who was on staff the night of the escape attempt, out of earshot of Cyclonis and the Dark Ace. He filled him in on the rules surrounding how such punishments were meant to be conducted and where things went wrong that night.

In Petrel’s opinion, Moss’ treatment of Cyclonis had been appalling, primarily motivated by anger over her giving him that cut on his face. Because of his personal involvement, Moss should have been disqualified from wielding the strap, and the job should have fallen to another, more neutral guard. But Moss overrode that rule, and the resultant beating had gone on longer and was delivered harder than it should have been.

The flogging of the Dark Ace hadn’t gone by the book, either. Ace had been injured during his recapture. A medical exam should have been performed in advance to ensure that he was fit enough to withstand a whipping without it exacerbating his injuries and causing lasting harm. That exam hadn’t happened.

“Have you witnessed a lot of whippings that haven’t caused harm?” he asked. It was a sarcastic question, but Petrel answered it earnestly.

“Yes. Maimings here are rare. These punishments are designed to hurt inmates, not injure them.” It was a fundamentally different take than his on what the goal of discipline should be, and this young man delivered it in such a matter-of-fact manner. He was beginning to suspect there was something in the Cyclonian water supply.

“I see. Please continue.”

Petrel explained how ten lashes could be delivered with little to no skin getting stripped off as long as the person swinging the whip was experienced, which Moss was. “It’s still plenty painful enough to make a man think twice before stepping out of line again,” he assured him. But Moss had wanted to ‘leave an impression’. And leave an impression he had. While the cuts on Ace’s back were healing well, a few looked likely to leave scars.

“So you just stood by and watched while Mr. Moss abused two inmates, all the while knowing that what he was doing was wrong?” he asked once the man had finished talking. “At the Stockade, a medic’s word is law. Even the head warden listens to what they say when the health and safety of an inmate is on the line.”

“Around here, only Mr. Moss’ word is law. And I didn’t want to be next,” Petrel said. At least he had the decency to look ashamed about it.

Swift stepped out after that to get some air and clear his head. As he walked the grounds, his wandering brought him to Moss’ office. With only a perfunctory knock, he let himself in.

Seated at his desk, Moss looked up at him with undisguised annoyance at the intrusion. “Got that list of guards you asked for,” he said, shoving a piece of paper across the desk. “Along with their schedules so you’ll know when and where you can find ‘em.”

“Thank you,” he said, folding up the page and tucking it into a pocket. “I’d like to see where you carry out your floggings now before it starts getting dark.”

Moss stood and led him to a door near the corner of the back wall, then out into a moderately sized courtyard.

“I still think it’s convenient how you never included this place in any of the inspections that took place before the prison reopened,” he said, frowning up at the whipping post that served as the focal point of the otherwise barren yard.

“Well, I didn’t want to upset the delicate sensibilities of Atmosian bureaucrats.”

“How considerate.”

He walked over to the nearby pillar, taking the strap down. It was heavier than he expected.

“Nice, ain’t it? You can give it a little swing if you like. You might decide the Stockade could use one of its own, after all.”

“I already told you that hitting inmates is unacceptable. There are better ways to correct undesirable behaviour.”

“I tell you what; none of them work as quick as this one. Stop being such a Sky Scout.”

He gave the strap an experimental swing, striking the whipping post, and Moss laughed. “You’re not gonna hurt the post; swing it like you mean it.”

He swung again, harder this time. It made a loud slapping noise as it hit the post, and the force of the impact caused his hand to tingle.

“Now that’s more like it. How’d that make you feel?”

He imagined what it would be like if the post had been a defenseless person, instead. The exercise soured his stomach.

“Like I’m not going to change my mind about this.”

Moss scoffed. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed. All these years, and you still haven’t figured out that some people just don’t respond to anything other than good old-fashioned violence.”

Moss turned his back on him to go back inside, and he really shouldn’t have done that. Just like he knew that he shouldn’t do what he was about to do. But all the anger he felt over everything he had seen and heard that afternoon was boiling too close to the surface. And maybe Moss was right, after all. Maybe some people didn’t respond to anything but violence. People like Moss himself.

So he swung the strap like he meant it.

It struck Moss across the shoulder blades, staggering him. “How’d that make you feel?” Before Moss could respond, before he could even steady himself, he struck him again. “How would it feel if I was twice your size?”

Moss recovered his footing and whirled on him, reaching for the whip at his hip. “You crazy motherf-aaahhhh!”

Swift had swung the strap a third time. It cracked across Moss’ palm, putting a quick end to him going for his weapon.

Moss doubled over, his good hand clutching the wrist of the injured one. “You broke my hand!” Panting in pain, he tried flexing and extending his fingers, with only limited success. “Son of a bitch! You broke it good!”

He stepped closer, looming over Moss’ hunched form. “You’ll live. I’ve decided that a full audit of the prison is necessary. I’ll inform the Council of my decision immediately. Things are going to change for the better around here. Starting with that,” he said, pointing a thumb behind him toward the whipping post. “I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning. It better be gone by then. Do we understand each other now?”

Moss glared at him but nodded. Tossing the strap at his feet, he went back inside.

#storm hawks #master cyclonis #storm hawks aerrow #storm hawks piper #storm hawks mr. moss #storm hawks ravess #storm hawks snipe #storm hawks fanfic

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