A long, long time ago (a few years, at most), I wrote a fanfic called Stabbed in the Back. It detailed the life of a Force whose prophetic dream came true in a horrific way. Fast forward to last semester, and here I am with this assignment on my hands for Creative Writing: rewrite one of the two stories I'd already written for the course, or write an entirely new story (at least 2,000 words). So I decided to do both. I chose to rewrite my first fanfic, though it would look like a new story to the teacher. Some names have been changed to make it look less like it came from a game, but I think you'll be able to figure out the parallels. Enjoy.
---
Stabbed in the Back
I should have paid more attention to the dream.
The first thing that happened in it was someone saying, "I'm sorry." I felt confused, as if the statement was incongruous with its context. Before I could respond, I saw the blade come out of my chest, a glowing green spire that crackled with the sound of my blood burning. I was locked where I stood in the pain and surprise of the moment. The same voice spoke again; it said, "You got too close." I felt a pressure against my back and staggered forward, the sword vanishing from sight as I lurched. For an instant I saw the hole that had been burned in my chest and the redness of the blood that was beginning to flow out. I perceived its every quivering motion as it stained my white jacket, but only for a moment. My knees buckled at last and I crashed face-first onto the concrete floor. The pain of the fall barely registered against the inferno in my torso. The agony was like a fire spreading to consume my entire body, but like a clenched muscle relaxing it all suddenly faded into the darkness of oblivion.
I woke up in a panic. My comforter felt like it was smothering me, so I thrashed until it had fallen off of the bed. The sensation of immobility was still so vivid in my mind that I felt like I had to stand just to remain sane. Slowly, reality took hold of me. There was no sword, there was no apology, there was no death. It had all been a nightmare. It was a mere nocturnal hallucination, a trick of the subconscious experienced by every human being at some point in their life. I was jarred all the same, because while I am human like everyone else, I am not an entirely normal human being.
My people have been called many things over the course of human history. We've been known as wizards, elves, alchemists, espers, psychics, and forces, to name a few. All of these titles ascribe to us a grandeur we do not possess and lack an appreciation of our true capabilities. We are nothing more than humans with a gift. As I've heard it explained by one of our kind, reality is a collective experience and the sum total of human perception. We, for reasons unknown, have a powerful connection this shared consciousness. The weakest of us are merely aware of its existence, while the mightiest can bend the laws of the world to their wills. I am much nearer to the former than the latter; I have nothing to show for all my training than nightly visions of the world at large and the ability to transmute thought into flame. And at that, I can barely accomplish more with my pyrokinesis than one may with a can of gasoline and a lighter.
That is why I was so shaken by that night's dream and why I should have paid it even more mind than I did. I was attuned to the human thought-stream, if you will. My dreams were never merely random images plucked from the day's experience. They had happened, or were happening, or would happen, to someone, somewhere. Even if I had the dream in first person, I could never be certain that that first person was me. Or, to phrase it another way, I could never be certain that the person in my dream was not me. I believe it was understandable to be jarred by having seen someone die through their own eyes.
Frightening as the vision may have been, I certainly couldn't stand around in my underpants all day. So, I made my way to my closet and picked out an outfit for the day: a pair of black jeans and-- I stopped myself halfway to the rack. I had been reaching for a white blazer unconsciously. It could have been anyone in the dream, but why take chances? I diverted my hand to the only other top that wasn't in the laundry, a green coat hanging beside my initial selection, and clambered into it. Now suitably dressed, I departed from my apartment and made my way to one of the Pioneer's eateries.
I suppose I ought to explain what the Pioneer is. Long ago, the planet on which humanity was born was rendered unsuitable for habitation. It has been so long since it happened that we no longer remember that planet's name, nor how it was destroyed. We only know that its inhabitants built three colony ships, spacecraft large enough to maintain a small ecosystem within themselves indefinitely. The three ships set out to find a new home for humanity. The ancient humans had already located a planet capable of supporting their ships' payloads; it was only a matter of the hundreds of generations that would pass before they arrived. In order of their departure, they were called the Trailblazer, the Pioneer, and the Settler.
Everything was standardized on the Pioneer, so there was a cafeteria for each housing block. On that day I did not go to the one in my own block. Instead, I paid a visit to the eatery three blocks to the west, to meet with a friend. She was waiting for me by the doors, dressed in a white sports jacket and blue jeans. I waved to her somberly, and she returned the gesture with a pearly smile.
"Good afternoon," she said softly.
"And to you," I replied. "Shall we?" I motioned toward the door. She nodded and went in ahead of me. We passed through the service line in silence, focusing more on what we wanted to eat than each other. I had just woken up, but it was already lunch hour, so I took a plate of spaghetti in a thick red sauce and a green salad. My friend took a cut of steak and a platter of mixed vegetables. After we took our seats and started eating, I took it upon myself to initiate the conversation.
"Any interesting Sellsword work for us today?"
My friend nodded as she chewed. "Some small-time Rogues have taken hostages in a warehouse in B12. Some rich brats were holding a party. They've already got a negotiator working on them, but if that falls through they want a Sellsword or two on hand to bust the place up and get them out. They're going to want us on the scene by 2:00 at the latest. Eat quickly."
We were part of the fortunate generation that saw the Pioneer reach its destination. There were celebrations and festivals for a week preceding the arrival, but they were cut short when the Trailblazer failed to respond to any form of communication. The Pioneer was put into orbit around our new home world and scouting teams selected from the military were sent to the surface. When they returned, they reported that the Trailblazer was intact. The ship and the settlement it had established were in perfect working order. The only problem was that they were completely empty. The Trailblazer's entire population had simply vanished.
The governors deliberated on what to do next. Ultimately, they decided to remain in orbit until the fate of the Trailblazer's people could be clearly established. The decision was unpopular, of course. Everyone had been raised knowing that one day they would be the generation to live on soil once more, and suddenly they were being told that could no longer claim their new home. Several factions attempted to wrest control of the Pioneer from the governors, and they might have succeeded if not for the Sellswords. The Sellswords are a militia composed mostly of civilians who have joined together to fight anyone who would threaten the current order. The organization formed because the real military on the Pioneer is often employed in scouting missions to the planet's surface. That meant a vacuum of power in which the Rogues could flourish, hence the formation of the Sellswords to keep the peace. I joined the Sellswords in part because, as much as I wanted to be free of the Pioneer, suffering the same fate as the Trailblazer was too high a price to pay for it. Most Sellswords had less noble reasons for joining, and I suspect that what allegiance they claimed was based on who paid them more.
"Can we do it with only two of us?" I asked her.
She nodded. "They're low on manpower and we've got that force-armor we bought off the military, don't we?"
I waggled my fork back and forth. "I'm not worried about us, I'm worried about them."
Mockingly, she waggled her fork back. "Normally, so would I. But, you're a force. It'll be a cinch."
"It'll be a cinder, that's what it'll be," I said, snapping my fingers, producing a small spark. "Still, I hope the negotiations work out. Less bloodshed is always a good thing."
A small breep-breep-breep noise came from under the table. My friend shifted and pulled a cell phone out of a pants pocket. Her eyebrows raised as she looked at its display, pushed a button on its face, and returned it to whence it came. "Who was that?" I asked.
There was a barely recognizable pause before she answered. "Nobody you know."
I nodded while ensnaring several of my noodles. As I started to bite into them, she said, "Why did you join the Sellswords?"
I blinked. Hastily chewing down the portion I had taken, I replied, "Don't you know?" I had told her shortly after we first met, several years ago.
"Humor me," she said. Her joviality had completely evaporated.
I shrugged. "I'd like to say that it was just civic duty, but... it's revenge. My father was a government worker. Just a low-level bureaucrat, nothing important. But when the Rogues raided the facility he worked in, he was the first hostage to die. And they got away, too. I remember the name of the man who killed him: Cly Maxwell. He's still the top Rogue. I joined the Sellswords to be on the side that he wasn't. Someday, I'll take him down. Someday soon, maybe." My mouth betrayed me. It grinned.
My friend caught on immediately. "Why do you say that?"
I leaned in conspiratorially. She angled forward to match. "I've been tracing Mr. Maxwell for quite some time. Hacking communication networks the Rogues use, tapping phone lines they're on, intercepting mail, et cetera. I think I've finally caught him. He finally made a mistake."
My friend's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Someone got hold of something important to him. I don't know what it is because they use code-speak, but someone's demanded that he come and get it personally. If I make a surprise appearance then..." I snapped my fingers.
My friend leaned back. "But he's bound to have bodyguards there," she protested.
"That was another one of the stipulations. He's going alone."
"And you trust a Rogue to keep his word? He'll have snipers, at the very least."
"And who's to say I'd be attacking him from anywhere I could be seen? I am a force, after all. I'll work something out."
She shook her head slowly. "Is your life worth his? Is it worth the risk?"
"To take one of the most dangerous Rogues out of circulation and put his entire organization into disarray, yes. It's worth risking my life. Risking, mind you. I don't intend to give it up just yet," I said.
She frowned at me, but said nothing more. As we finished eating, she pointed at my chest and said, "Um."
I looked down. Apparently I had leaned a bit farther forward than I had had room to, and gotten spaghetti sauce all over the front of my jacket. Sighing, I said, "I'll have to change." When we left the cafeteria, I returned to my apartment and replaced my stained top with the only other clean one I had. Once that was done, I gathered the two most important tools of my trade, my force-armor and a pistol.
I'm not a physicist. I don't know exactly how force-armor works. All I know is that it's a small module worn on some point on the body that surrounds the wearer in a skintight repulsion field that deflects anything coming their way, assuming the module itself doesn't get damaged. It takes an enormous amount of energy to run, but the user is functionally invulnerable to anything but a laser blade like the kind my friend used. Again, I don't know the science behind it, but they pass straight through force-armor or, for that matter, any kind of armor at all. With that sort of military-grade technology, a single Sellsword could make short work of a dozen Rogues, which is why my friend and I were more concerned for the hostages than ourselves. We were guaranteed to succeed; the important thing was how well.
Finally ready, I rejoined my friend on the streets, and together we made our way to block B12. Upon arriving, we found the warehouse cordoned off by several limousines. Several well-dressed people, whom I assumed to be the parents, were arguing with a man in a business suit, who I took to be the negotiator. My friend and I hailed them.
"We're with the Sellswords," I explained. "What's the situation?"
"What, just the two of you?" a man with graying hair exclaimed.
I nodded. "We can handle it. What's the situation?"
The negotiator turned to me. "They've got three men in there, one for each entrance. They have the children toward the front, near the main door. The Rogue there has a laser sword, so be mindful of that. The two on the side doors have semiautomatic rifles. That's as much as I learned from speaking to them."
"Side doors?" I said to my friend as I took out my cell phone.
"Side doors," she replied, retrieving hers. She dialed my number and we parted ways. I went to the left, she went to the right. As I took my place at what I assumed was the door the negotiator spoke of, her voice came over the phone. "Are you ready?"
I placed my palm firmly against the seam between the opening latch and the adjoining wall and drew my pistol with my left hand. "Ready," I confirmed.
"On three," she said.
"On three," I replied.
"One. Two. Three."
I dropped the phone and channeled a little more power than I felt necessary through my hand. The locking system melted under the heat, allowing me to easily kick the door open. The man who was supposed to be guarding my entrance had his back turned; he was futilely spraying bullets at my friend, whose force-armor dutifully held. I stopped him with a single bullet to the back of the head and sprinted behind a partition that had been set up for the party. The guard at the hostages was our top priority, and by now he knew what was going on.
I rounded the corner to see the worst-case scenario already playing out. The Rogue had already wrapped an arm around the neck of a teenager in a white dress jacket and was holding the hilt of the laser blade to his back. He growled, "Sorry, kid, you were the closest!" and suddenly everything made sense. I was watching the dream in the waking world, but I knew that I had the power to stop it. I reeled back and made a throwing motion, projecting a ball of fire through the air. It angled impossibly around the hostage's head, striking the Rogue in the face and knocking them both to the floor. My friend appeared from wherever she had been, wrested the hostage from his arms, and dealt the final blow.
After that, she quickly switched the blade off and shouted, "Is everyone all right?" There was no verbal response, but at a cursory glance everyone appeared to be alive and well besides those who shouldn't have been.
I stepped toward my friend and patted her on the back. "Good job," I said. I stepped toward the control that would open the main shutter and let the hostages go.
"I'm sorry," my friend said.
Before I could react, my vision turned green. A spire of green light had pierced through me.
My friend spoke again. "You got too close."
There was a sudden shock to my spine as she kicked me away from her. I lurched under the blow, unable to balance myself as the pain overloaded my senses. Faintly, I could see the redness of the blood, my own blood flowing out through the gaping wound. I could hear the hostages screaming, and I could hear the clatter of her boots against metal. She was running away. I was dying, but I couldn't stop myself from putting the pieces together. She was in league with Cly Maxwell. He had known that I was tracing him. Of course he had, he was the head of the Rogues and I was just one Sellsword! And I had played right into their trap and paid with my life.
But I wasn't dead yet. I was a force. Through the torturous haze, I remembered that fact. I was a force, and nothing could happen that I did not allow to happen. I concentrated on the inner fire I was born with and stoked it with the desire for revenge. Revenge against Cly Maxwell and revenge against the friend who betrayed me. The flame grew hotter, burned brighter, and took hold of my entire body. For an instant I believed that I would survive, that I was truly unbreakable.
Reality struck back against me. Those twenty hostages believed that I would soon be dead. A lifetime of experience told me that there was no returning from a wound so grave. And should I return to life, what then? Could I honestly expect to exact my vengeance? I was only one Sellsword, a weak force, and a fool. The flame that had burned so brightly only a moment ago faltered, flickered, and faded. With a last defiant glimmer, my inner fire was extinguished forevermore.
---
The original is available in PSO-World's fanfic archives here. Thanks for reading!
Reply With Quote
Connect With Us