Hi to all again. Some of you will recognise the name of this work, I hope. Does not matter either way, for I wanted to come back tabula rasa, with the slate clean. I am going to start posting chapters to "No Man is an Island", all the way to the end. Was a real labour of love. 
As for some description of the work, it is strictly an action piece, and will (hopefully) not contain any members of the "Sue" family that us writers detest so much. I almost guarantee that there will no arduous journeying around like many journey fics have. For those who recognise and remember Astor and company, for all of the two and half chappies I posted, they will be back for good, and their story will be told, FULLY. Do stick with me all the way to the end. Thrills and spills await.
Chapter Index:
Prologue : A Dish Best Served Cold
Prologue: A Dish Best Served Cold
Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils. Vengeance, covenant and creed, rights naught but thyself despoils.
--
He thrashed in vain, a euphemistic velitation against a fate most unsavoury. Opalescent arms clawed wildly at an umbrageous firmament, thickly embellished and culminated from the various frailties of Man, equal parts Fear, Despair and Hate, clutching at imaginary straws, even as the very air sucked greedily at the last dregs of hope remaining in his broken body, already torpid with apathetic malaise. Directly above, the noxious sky was a fermented broil of darksome clouds, as if it was some diabolical parallax nexus, forming an effective canopy which prevented any light from seeping through. The very ethos of the place resonated with ill intent, and if not for the immutable screams of some unimaginable hapless victim, amplified by the negativity that oozed from every primordial pore present, one would hear the faint piping of some infernally cursed tune, temperate in amplitude but a dread superincumbent weight on any who would hear its abominable consonance.
The ground itself was in a state of salient turbidity, suckling its quarry much like a Portuguese Man-o-War would drape its victims in a mocking caress, ever so slowly drawing him towards its murkily edacious maw. A mouth opened to scream, but only served to churn the negative emotion in the air into a whirling storm of translucent semi-rigidity, before a rush of muddy loam silenced it forever. His hands were held rigidly aloft, in vain hope reaching some form of solidity that simply was not present, or to touch some form of hope amongst the somber nebulousness that the very air personified. Those very fingers would still have been clawing for salvation even as they were swallowed by the insatiable maw, where eternal dissolution would beckon.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mother Nature had validated her tag as the greatest artist of them all, an inspiration among muses. A dazzling halo of afternoon light scintillated down onto earth from its perch in the deeply indigo sky, offset and foiled by uncounted terraces of puffy white clouds, drifting lazily in seemingly suspended motion, moving errantly in one direction, before compensating in the other, all the while forming collages of perceptual imagery along their itinerant motion, limited only by one’s vacuoles of supposition.
Beneath, the sea was an ever-changing plethora of alternating peaks and troughs, an expanse of serene tranquility occasionally broken by the errant dolphin or Wailord. Innumerable pinpricks of sparkling lambency served as a fitting tribute, as well as a fitting furnishing to Nature’s dual nature, the sea reflecting and borrowing its luster from the sky, and yet making the latter seem all the more incandescent, while engaging in a vicious cycle from then on.
A yacht streamlined its way through the azure sea, literally making haste while the Sun shone, making its way towards a partially forested peninsula in the distance. Its two inhabitants were both decked out in decidedly naval blue and white uniforms, with gold buttons and trim, completed by a foolish looking baret, as well as a not-so-foolish-looking pistol. Of course, no two clandestine operators would be complete without their full array of Pokeballs as well, and those were hanging from a modified belt which each wore, and which coincidentally held their pistols as well.
“Lawar, I hope to high heavens that we get there soon. I absolutely cannot wait to finish this job and get paid.” The sailor who was driving the yacht broke the icy silence that had been settling between the two, a grimace worn on his tanned face in the way some old veterans of war would wear their battle scars, transforming his features into a nigh unrecognizable mass of flesh, and letting out a sigh to underline his point.
“You got that right, Nolor; these uniforms that are supposed to help us im-per-so-nate the coast guard are absolutely ridiculous. I mean, if our company already has men in the police, and if those very authorities are feeding off our funds, what in the world do we have to be afraid of?” A disgruntled snort punctuated that particularly grumpy reply, even as the speaker absent-mindedly toyed with the safety catch on his pistol.
Behind the two men, in the cargo bay designated for the merchandise they had been slated to transport to a previously agreed rendezvous point, a barrel took those words as a verbal cue, before its lid rose two inches into the air, creating space through which a pair of red eyes stared surreptitiously, before glowering malevolently, and most pointedly, portentously.
“I mean, not even that cache of sapphire medallions is worth all that much trouble.” Evidently, Lawar had more on his mind besides aesthetically displeasing uniforms and corrupt law enforcers.
“On the talk of trouble, perhaps I can be of some worth then?” A decidedly unctuous voice deadpanned, while a furtive glance to their hind quarters by the two sailors gave them a visual insight to the vocal perpetrator—a young man of no more than twenty two, with a lean, wiry frame, flaming eyes and an unpleasant disposition. It could be reasonably inferred, however, that the sailors' eyes were not paying so much attention to their visitor’s physical attributes as compared to his twin Franciscas, with their graceful lines, upswept points and down-turned edges adorning his belt and further wearing out said visitor’s welcome.
“Thanks for the free ride, but as grateful as I am, I would advise you both not to move a muscle, or else.” The threat was left to hang and simmer in the air, as all three men stared unblinkingly at each other.
With a numbingly quick sleight of hand, a single Francisca was drawn in a single fluid motion, held in the man’s left hand, down-turned head facing Nolor’s forehead. A bead of sweat noticeably ran down the sailor’s forehead, streaking his cheek with diluted saline, before falling to deck. Even as the intruder’s gaze turned downwards, tracing the sweatdrop's freefall, Nolor sprang into action, jackknifing a knee upwards, in visible hope of breaking a rib or two. His intended victim had already pirouetted away, utilizing the latent power gifted by the afforded circular motion and cracking an elbow into Lawar’s face. Continuing the motion, he stooped downwards, flicking his wrist in an arc tangentially perpendicular to the back of Nolor’s thigh, severing the hamstring, and stood back even as the resultant spray of blood buffeted his own legs, a layer of visceral liquid running down his pants.
His other leg unable to support the forward momentum gained by jacking his knee upwards, Nolor collapsed onto the deck like a puppet which had its strings cut, screaming in delirious pain. By then, Lawar had recovered enough to draw his pistol, but before the thought of doing anything with it had been imposed on any of his cognitive synapses, the butt of a second Francisca had slammed onto the joint linking his thumb to the rest of his pistol hand, and a sickening crack merely confirmed the obvious. Using the upswept point of a Francisca to extricate the pistol from Lawar’s flaccid grip, the unknown infiltrator chucked the firearm into Davy Jones’ locker, and spun around in such a way that his peripheral vision encapsulated both his victims.
“So, why did the axe cross the road?” A chill smile had crossed the young man’s face. Some smiles show cheer, while some merely show teeth. It would not take a huge leap of logic to figure out which category that smile would fall into.
“I… … I don’t know.” Nolor managed to blurt out an answer, despite being in obviously overwhelming pain.
“Details, details. Just ask him yourself!” A flick of a wrist, and a precognitive widening of the eyes later, the head of one of the two Franciscas had found its mark in the middle of Nolor’s right chest, piercing through flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife would cut through butter. There was no possible contrivance for the dying man to let out one last shriek of pain, anguish or terror, as his lungs quickly filled with crimson blood, a fact quickly borne out by the silent gurgling of blood by the downed man, even as his hands sought purchase on something solid, a final subconscious refusal to believe in the inevitable.
Lawar had instinctively taken a step backwards, and fell to his knees, begging for mercy.
“May the Lord have mercy on me.”
“Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking.
It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
You and your kind showed no mercy to me before. Since the Lord would have mercy on you, the least I can do is to arrange that meeting.”
An axe head flashed downwards, and to an onlooker, would seem to be a unique knighting mannerism by some member of the monarchy, while the resultant spray was highlighted even more by the evening sun, cloaking all in a blood-red veil of serendipity.
--
The sanguine beauty of the evening sun had given way to a tenebrous layer of Stygian night, bedizened exiguously by several impuissant stars, mirroring their past of years ago, even as the unfathomable expanses of the sea kept out of vision’s reach, its constant erosional tussle with the land the only clue to its presence. An Edenic calm had descended over the whole area, a geography of peace imposed over the hustle that daylight would suffer. He saw only visions of fire, of screaming, of bleeding, of scarred visages once held dear, of Death itself, and of his own survival. Resolve and hate simmered beneath his calm countenance, reserved both for his enemy and for himself.
His right hand gripped a Francisca, with two seemingly new notches carved onto the blade surface, while his left gripped a Pokeball. “Snap, our game begins tomorrow. Finally, after all these years, we are… … We are home.”
“Mother, Father, your son has returned, ten years too… … late.” His voice broke as he finished the sentence, and he gripped his Francisca all the tighter for it.
They bit off more than they could chew.
Astor had returned home.
Caveat Emptor. Caveat Emptor.
He had left plenty of space on his Francisca blade faces for new notches.
Revenge is a dish best served… … cold
--
As of now, it is still a rehash, and edits will kick in after a week and a half. Really busy till then. Life sucks! Alright, read and review away!
Seriously, drop me a PM to say hi. I missed some of you lot, even though I hate to admit it.
As for some description of the work, it is strictly an action piece, and will (hopefully) not contain any members of the "Sue" family that us writers detest so much. I almost guarantee that there will no arduous journeying around like many journey fics have. For those who recognise and remember Astor and company, for all of the two and half chappies I posted, they will be back for good, and their story will be told, FULLY. Do stick with me all the way to the end. Thrills and spills await.
Chapter Index:
Prologue : A Dish Best Served Cold
Prologue: A Dish Best Served Cold
Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils. Vengeance, covenant and creed, rights naught but thyself despoils.
--
He thrashed in vain, a euphemistic velitation against a fate most unsavoury. Opalescent arms clawed wildly at an umbrageous firmament, thickly embellished and culminated from the various frailties of Man, equal parts Fear, Despair and Hate, clutching at imaginary straws, even as the very air sucked greedily at the last dregs of hope remaining in his broken body, already torpid with apathetic malaise. Directly above, the noxious sky was a fermented broil of darksome clouds, as if it was some diabolical parallax nexus, forming an effective canopy which prevented any light from seeping through. The very ethos of the place resonated with ill intent, and if not for the immutable screams of some unimaginable hapless victim, amplified by the negativity that oozed from every primordial pore present, one would hear the faint piping of some infernally cursed tune, temperate in amplitude but a dread superincumbent weight on any who would hear its abominable consonance.
The ground itself was in a state of salient turbidity, suckling its quarry much like a Portuguese Man-o-War would drape its victims in a mocking caress, ever so slowly drawing him towards its murkily edacious maw. A mouth opened to scream, but only served to churn the negative emotion in the air into a whirling storm of translucent semi-rigidity, before a rush of muddy loam silenced it forever. His hands were held rigidly aloft, in vain hope reaching some form of solidity that simply was not present, or to touch some form of hope amongst the somber nebulousness that the very air personified. Those very fingers would still have been clawing for salvation even as they were swallowed by the insatiable maw, where eternal dissolution would beckon.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mother Nature had validated her tag as the greatest artist of them all, an inspiration among muses. A dazzling halo of afternoon light scintillated down onto earth from its perch in the deeply indigo sky, offset and foiled by uncounted terraces of puffy white clouds, drifting lazily in seemingly suspended motion, moving errantly in one direction, before compensating in the other, all the while forming collages of perceptual imagery along their itinerant motion, limited only by one’s vacuoles of supposition.
Beneath, the sea was an ever-changing plethora of alternating peaks and troughs, an expanse of serene tranquility occasionally broken by the errant dolphin or Wailord. Innumerable pinpricks of sparkling lambency served as a fitting tribute, as well as a fitting furnishing to Nature’s dual nature, the sea reflecting and borrowing its luster from the sky, and yet making the latter seem all the more incandescent, while engaging in a vicious cycle from then on.
A yacht streamlined its way through the azure sea, literally making haste while the Sun shone, making its way towards a partially forested peninsula in the distance. Its two inhabitants were both decked out in decidedly naval blue and white uniforms, with gold buttons and trim, completed by a foolish looking baret, as well as a not-so-foolish-looking pistol. Of course, no two clandestine operators would be complete without their full array of Pokeballs as well, and those were hanging from a modified belt which each wore, and which coincidentally held their pistols as well.
“Lawar, I hope to high heavens that we get there soon. I absolutely cannot wait to finish this job and get paid.” The sailor who was driving the yacht broke the icy silence that had been settling between the two, a grimace worn on his tanned face in the way some old veterans of war would wear their battle scars, transforming his features into a nigh unrecognizable mass of flesh, and letting out a sigh to underline his point.
“You got that right, Nolor; these uniforms that are supposed to help us im-per-so-nate the coast guard are absolutely ridiculous. I mean, if our company already has men in the police, and if those very authorities are feeding off our funds, what in the world do we have to be afraid of?” A disgruntled snort punctuated that particularly grumpy reply, even as the speaker absent-mindedly toyed with the safety catch on his pistol.
Behind the two men, in the cargo bay designated for the merchandise they had been slated to transport to a previously agreed rendezvous point, a barrel took those words as a verbal cue, before its lid rose two inches into the air, creating space through which a pair of red eyes stared surreptitiously, before glowering malevolently, and most pointedly, portentously.
“I mean, not even that cache of sapphire medallions is worth all that much trouble.” Evidently, Lawar had more on his mind besides aesthetically displeasing uniforms and corrupt law enforcers.
“On the talk of trouble, perhaps I can be of some worth then?” A decidedly unctuous voice deadpanned, while a furtive glance to their hind quarters by the two sailors gave them a visual insight to the vocal perpetrator—a young man of no more than twenty two, with a lean, wiry frame, flaming eyes and an unpleasant disposition. It could be reasonably inferred, however, that the sailors' eyes were not paying so much attention to their visitor’s physical attributes as compared to his twin Franciscas, with their graceful lines, upswept points and down-turned edges adorning his belt and further wearing out said visitor’s welcome.
“Thanks for the free ride, but as grateful as I am, I would advise you both not to move a muscle, or else.” The threat was left to hang and simmer in the air, as all three men stared unblinkingly at each other.
With a numbingly quick sleight of hand, a single Francisca was drawn in a single fluid motion, held in the man’s left hand, down-turned head facing Nolor’s forehead. A bead of sweat noticeably ran down the sailor’s forehead, streaking his cheek with diluted saline, before falling to deck. Even as the intruder’s gaze turned downwards, tracing the sweatdrop's freefall, Nolor sprang into action, jackknifing a knee upwards, in visible hope of breaking a rib or two. His intended victim had already pirouetted away, utilizing the latent power gifted by the afforded circular motion and cracking an elbow into Lawar’s face. Continuing the motion, he stooped downwards, flicking his wrist in an arc tangentially perpendicular to the back of Nolor’s thigh, severing the hamstring, and stood back even as the resultant spray of blood buffeted his own legs, a layer of visceral liquid running down his pants.
His other leg unable to support the forward momentum gained by jacking his knee upwards, Nolor collapsed onto the deck like a puppet which had its strings cut, screaming in delirious pain. By then, Lawar had recovered enough to draw his pistol, but before the thought of doing anything with it had been imposed on any of his cognitive synapses, the butt of a second Francisca had slammed onto the joint linking his thumb to the rest of his pistol hand, and a sickening crack merely confirmed the obvious. Using the upswept point of a Francisca to extricate the pistol from Lawar’s flaccid grip, the unknown infiltrator chucked the firearm into Davy Jones’ locker, and spun around in such a way that his peripheral vision encapsulated both his victims.
“So, why did the axe cross the road?” A chill smile had crossed the young man’s face. Some smiles show cheer, while some merely show teeth. It would not take a huge leap of logic to figure out which category that smile would fall into.
“I… … I don’t know.” Nolor managed to blurt out an answer, despite being in obviously overwhelming pain.
“Details, details. Just ask him yourself!” A flick of a wrist, and a precognitive widening of the eyes later, the head of one of the two Franciscas had found its mark in the middle of Nolor’s right chest, piercing through flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife would cut through butter. There was no possible contrivance for the dying man to let out one last shriek of pain, anguish or terror, as his lungs quickly filled with crimson blood, a fact quickly borne out by the silent gurgling of blood by the downed man, even as his hands sought purchase on something solid, a final subconscious refusal to believe in the inevitable.
Lawar had instinctively taken a step backwards, and fell to his knees, begging for mercy.
“May the Lord have mercy on me.”
“Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking.
It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
You and your kind showed no mercy to me before. Since the Lord would have mercy on you, the least I can do is to arrange that meeting.”
An axe head flashed downwards, and to an onlooker, would seem to be a unique knighting mannerism by some member of the monarchy, while the resultant spray was highlighted even more by the evening sun, cloaking all in a blood-red veil of serendipity.
--
The sanguine beauty of the evening sun had given way to a tenebrous layer of Stygian night, bedizened exiguously by several impuissant stars, mirroring their past of years ago, even as the unfathomable expanses of the sea kept out of vision’s reach, its constant erosional tussle with the land the only clue to its presence. An Edenic calm had descended over the whole area, a geography of peace imposed over the hustle that daylight would suffer. He saw only visions of fire, of screaming, of bleeding, of scarred visages once held dear, of Death itself, and of his own survival. Resolve and hate simmered beneath his calm countenance, reserved both for his enemy and for himself.
His right hand gripped a Francisca, with two seemingly new notches carved onto the blade surface, while his left gripped a Pokeball. “Snap, our game begins tomorrow. Finally, after all these years, we are… … We are home.”
“Mother, Father, your son has returned, ten years too… … late.” His voice broke as he finished the sentence, and he gripped his Francisca all the tighter for it.
They bit off more than they could chew.
Astor had returned home.
Caveat Emptor. Caveat Emptor.
He had left plenty of space on his Francisca blade faces for new notches.
Revenge is a dish best served… … cold
--
As of now, it is still a rehash, and edits will kick in after a week and a half. Really busy till then. Life sucks! Alright, read and review away!
Seriously, drop me a PM to say hi. I missed some of you lot, even though I hate to admit it.
Last edited:
