Quarantine Writer's Guild

.00 Cigar

Tset 24 Jul, 2020

Admiral Volkas sat in his draconic leather chair in his offices.
His Aide stood nearby, a languid smile on his face.
A small, rough box sat on his desk, its reflection clear as crystal in the overly polished face of the dark hardwood from some dead world.
"Well?" He asked, his voice groaning up from a billowy chest, one decorated in medals.
"It's an apology, sir."
"From Rike Kala Ai'Dim? I don't believe it."
"I didn't, either, but it checks out."
"And after two years of open warfare? And five of silence?"
Arimistead Volkas was Admiral of one of the Free Humanic Fleets.
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Hunter Without Year

Tset 21 Jul, 2020

Vague explanation:
We're looking at the year 2248 or thereabouts.
This is the aftermath of a coup made by some uppity jerk in an upper 1% family.
The assassin is a constant staple in all of my work, but this storyline is definitely him at his worst.
He's an opportunist, and definitely the deadliest thing on Earth, and not easily identifiable as a 'nice person.'
He's also superhuman and about in his sixties when this goes down.
To avoid confusion, his name is in the last paragraph. It's the only time it's mentioned.
The motto for this could be 'truth is a commodity not for the untruthful.'

-------

He hung up his phone and looked around, incredulity and mirth battling across his face to make his eyes water.
It was done.
He was free and nobody was left to hold him down.
Add to that the money in the bank and the villa even after the Hearthrow estate was done being bled dry by assessors and collectors. When Meir returned, he would have to acknowledge him as Baron.
Everything, in the end, had been surprisingly easy, had almost sped along of its own accord, destiny sluicing its way forward, when he had 'pulled the trigger,' as it were.

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