Cloudbreak

         

                                                                      Cloudbreak



         The rain was perpetual, its intensity seeming to increase as he opened the door and sprinted the
short distance to the rover. It was maybe a hundred meters but the droplets were heavy and substantial,
striking with unanticipated violence. He was soaked to the skin within seconds, so he slowed his pace to a
leisurely stroll. Once wet, what was the point in rushing?  To endure the slight sting of drops was to be
invigorated.

         
         When he reached the rover , he paused briefly but continued his leisurely stroll, abandoning the
rusting heap where it stood. He wandered through the ghost town of an industrial park at night, small
islands of light oscillating wildly as they were assaulted by the rain.
         

         Upon leaving the smoky basement room, with the din of a hundred drunken voices, he had been struck
by the near silence. There remained the distant sounds of the night , the ever present thrum of the sodium
streetlights but over it all, smothering it, the sound of the rain. The rust-lands were being washed
clean, a summer’s worth of fallout and dust ran roughshod through overwhelmed gutters.


         He began to shiver a little, the rain had felt good at first, but as he was drenched, the
novelty had begun to wear off. He was a thin man, in his late thirties but he was in relatively good shape, if he got soft he would shortly get dead.
He wished he had worn a better jacket but he was happy to see that his cigarettes were dry, those things were far too expensive to waste.         
At least he was sobering up, his head had stopped spinning but he still felt very much that rosy glow of one deep in his cups.

         As he came to the corner the street made an abrupt turn to the right, a steep downhill. Nestled in
the bosom of the hill there stood an ancient and semi-ruined four story , a remnant of more prosperous
days, with a grace uncharacteristic of the area. Every other building on the street was a
very businesslike cube and the vast majority were dark as times had been hard.

         This particular building stood defiant, its bright orange trim and whitewashed walls were filthy
with the lean years but its optimistic dignity intact. The forth floor was really only half a floor,
the half facing the street was a rooftop courtyard and the leafy iron trim had stained long trails of rust
down the façade, ending somewhere unseen behind the signage.

         He felt quite suddenly a compulsion to smoke and he staggered slightly as he scrambled up the
stairs of a plumbing supply store across the street, he could stand under the storefront out of the rain
and as he fumbled through his pockets he was still perusing that building. It was interesting, he hadn’t
really noticed it before, but for the moment it held his attention.

         
         He felt slightly better after a lungful of stinging hot smoke, he exhaled slowly and in the 
moonlight he could see a distinct point, about halfway up the wall, where the ragged edges of upward
roller strokes could clearly be made out, the apparent limits of the ladder. Below that point what seemed
to be multiple, overlapping, somewhat haphazard, coats of paint had failed to cover the rust stains and
the side of the building was a mixture of shades of what was attempting to be white.

         
         He was across the street , sitting on the doorstep, but the lay of the land was such that he could
overlook the rooftop slightly and in the rectangle of light thrown by the uncovered patio door there was
the silhouette of  a woman. The distance was great enough and the lighting poor enough that he could not
make out her face, only an elegant shadow. She was holding something,  probably a Cello, or something like
it, and as the rain had mostly let up he could hear quite clearly as she struck the bow.

         
         There was an initial jolt, a bad note, enough to momentarily lower his expectations but somehow
that set the stage perfectly, for after a minor repositioning of hands she began to play in earnest.
It was a piece he had heard before, although he couldn’t name it, he had never heard it like this, he had
never heard anything like this. It was at once mournful and sweet, like a memory of happy times past, and
as she got into it, it began to resonate with something hidden down beneath that leathery armour.
         

         He found himself wanting to see more clearly, to this end climbing atop the railing to take a seat
and he sat and listened. He was enthralled, entirely at her mercy, though for the moment she was still unaware of his presence. She played with increasing intensity and progressed towards abandon, her long hair heavy in the moisture laden air. She finished the first piece and he was
disappointed, but she shortly began again, soothing his aching heart and putting him more at ease than he
had been in long time.

         
         He felt muddled still, from the night’s earlier festivities, that rosy glow fast becoming a
headache.There was the powerful urge to immerse himself in that haze, dead to pain, oblivious to the world, but he
fought it for the moment, he didn’t have any money left anyway. So he sat, and listened,  trapped in that
grey purgatory of  insomniacs and addicts, lucidity too painful to face and sleep too far out of reach.


         He looked up at the sky as he listened, seeing for the first time in weeks, the stars in their
infinite number and he was reassured that they remained, even if he had been unable to see them for the
clouds, it was good to know they were still there. The moons were out too, both visible in their
respective positions,  it was the first time he had seen them in a while. It was all a little too perfect,
the clearing of the sky, the circumstance of his being confronted with this scene, it was suspicious to
say the least.

         
         He was in a poor position to be distinguishing reality from delusion, as he was, or recently had
been under the influence of a wide range of substances, predominantly alcohol but also a number of
engineered psychoactive substances, widely and cheaply available from genetically altered plants now often
growing wild. Many of these had been identified and exploited by the more enterprising denizens of the
Rustlands, there was plenty of pain to be had, and thus a strong market for recreational drugs. This
combined with a haphazard legal system and the absence of a strong central authority had led to a sort of
gang mentality, with various factions vying for control of strategic and symbolic locations.

         
         He was a small time hustler, a criminal to be sure, had there been any law to break. He was just
trying to get along in a harsh world, or at least, that was what he told himself. He had risen from the
streets of  Dyson City, orphaned young and living more like an animal than a man, he and his confederates
survived on petty theft and the occasional odd job till they were finally old enough to sign up for Merc
duties with one of the houses. House Jahar was a minor house, retainers of Erasmus, but they paid well and
they were willing to train him on the job so long as he signed a contract swearing he wouldn’t fight
against them for at least five years.

         
         He had hungrily seized at the opportunity, he showed surprising natural aptitude for combat,
scored very highly at marksmanship, impressed his trainers and quickly rose through the ranks. When it
came to close combat in powered armour, he was unmatched, in fact he never met his equal in a duel,
although he was wounded in ambushes numerous times.

         
         After successfully leading his five man squadron for several years, he was made a special
magistrate and put in charge of maintaining order in a crime ridden area of the old city, Caledonia, his
old neighbourhood,  probably the worst in the city, if not the solar system.

         
         When they had told him to keep order, they had meant, order in the interests of House Jahar, a
distinction he stubbornly refused to make. He felt bound to deal fairly with the people under his control,
they were little different from him, and he routinely ran afoul of his superiors in his efforts at
garnering popular support. His district ran smoothly, the improvement was marked, but in doing too well he
sowed the seeds of his own downfall.

         
         He was widely respected among the general population, albeit begrudgingly, even if he seemed a
decent fellow, his leash was firmly in the hands of house Jahar and thus he was not to be trusted.
Regardless, he did his best to satisfy both his superiors and his ethics, although the former too often
lost out to the later in many opinions. In the end it could not last, he was set up,  deliberately led
into a situation where he could not comply, and then swiftly disgraced and removed. 

         
         He would never forget that, the last time he felt like he might make a difference, a part of him
died that day, the part that had faith in mankind. At the moment he struggled not to think about it, in
fact that was what had driven the last few years of drunken debauchery, the burning desire to distract
himself from his failure, to dull the pain of that disgrace.

         
         Once disgraced, he could not get work from any of the houses, and he was reduced again to pursuits
less honourable but more lucrative. He had been an enforcer for several different syndicates since that
time, and his fame as a fighter nearly overcame his past, but never quite did, since he wouldn’t let it.

         
         Even the decadent lifestyle afforded by his fury was never enough to completely drown out his
regrets. He had killed countless men, all of them had been trying to kill him at the time but even so,
those faces haunted him. He had made certain distinctions, an enforcer, not a killer, he would
gladly fight for money but he would not kill a man for such a reason, often raising the ire of various
bosses and underlings, it was only because they were unsure if they could kill him that they mostly just
let things go.

         
         But he knew in his heart it was a hollow distinction, whether by his own hands or the hands of his
compatriots, people were dying all the same. It was with this in his mind that he had begun the day,
trying to drink himself happy, and knowing it could never work, drinking all the harder, as if determined
to destroy himself. This had been going on for several years previous to this night, it was his custom to
be oblivious to the world before noon, but as he sat listening and rapidly sobering up, he had what might
be described as, a moment of clarity.

         
         Presented as he was with something so sublimely beautiful, he had occasion to compare himself to
it, and was disgusted with what he saw, moved to tears by waves of regret long repressed by the drink and
the drugs. He was genuinely grateful to have been here at this time, perhaps it was fate he mused,
laughing a little to himself at the absurdity of that suggestion. It had been at least twenty minutes
since she started playing and it was with a distinct tinge of disappointment that he had leapt to his feet
upon the railing, applauding wildly. The figure on the roof went suddenly rigid as she scanned around for
the source of the noise, clearly annoyed. He was about to call out to her, when she noticed him, or he
assumed she did since she stopped searching.

         
         It was then that he had shifted his weight rather quickly on the wet railing, losing his balance
in the process and tumbling unceremoniously some ten meters or so into the darkness of the alley below.
All he could think was, "I hope there isn’t anything pointy down there."

         
         He looked up as he fell and he could see her looking over the edge until he was far enough down for the angle to be prohibitive. He hit the pavement very hard, with a resounding thud and the clatter of various objects of refuse being tossed around. He lay there for what seemed like a long time in silence, slipping ever closer to the blackness of unconsciousness till he heard the clamour of raised voices and the shuffle of feet coming quickly towards him. The last thing he saw was said feet, dainty little feet in sandals, attached to a very fine set of
legs, the owner of which was out of his line of sight, and he did his best to smile as he passed out.
         
         He was having the most incredible dream, all was sweetness and light, angels in powered armour playing  the Cello wonderfully, hanging from gossamer wings. He was sitting on the grassy ground, surrounded by flowers and small animals, the happiness veritably oozed forth from this scene, but he did not find it distasteful. On the contrary, he was disturbed as the sky began to rapidly darken, lightning on the horizon and the swiftly approaching crash of thunder, signalling a profound change of mood. He felt guilty as the flowers withered and the creatures began to flee, he somehow knew it was him who had sullied this place, brought on the change by tracking in filth. Dark blood began to well up from the ground an ever rising tide of gore, till he was literally swimming in it, fighting hard to keep his head up.


         
         It wasn’t long before he began to tire, and he could no longer stay above the blood, he resigned himself to his fate, and began to sink towards the bottom.  This feeling was unfamiliar to him, abject terror, for he had never had anything to lose, even his life he had considered worthless as far back as his days on the streets of Caledonia. With nothing to believe in, and nothing to protect he had been
fearless, throwing himself into the jaws of certain death on a daily basis and living to tell the tale.

         
         He laughed as well as he could with his lungs full of blood, now that his death had come, he had suddenly decided he wasn’t ready to die. How pathetic now too, to be unable to survive after having found such a thing to be true. "Somewhere God must be laughing" he thought, or he might have said it, that distinction was hard to make under the circumstances, but he was extremely surprised that it prompted a reply.

         
          “Why do you think that?” Said the voice, calm and serene, of a wonderfully soothing quality, most
certainly female.

         
         “Because I would laugh at me if I were him.”
He was amazed at himself for that reply, equally so that he could still speak at all.

         “At my foolish and insignificant efforts, at my wasted life,  that I might only see it for what it is after it is too late.”
There was a pause and then her reply.

         
          “You are not dead yet, I can see you breathing.”

         Somehow that calmed him down a little, and as he relaxed the red expanded to fill everything, then, mercifully, the dream was over and he slipped into a deep sleep, the first he had had in a great while.

         
         He awoke in agony, not only from his broken leg, but also his veins were on fire with withdrawal, his body tensing into spasms, threatening to burst his very skull with the pressure. It had been years since he had gone a day without a dose, and the duration of his addiction only added to the severity of the symptoms.Nevertheless, he had little choice but to endure it, as he was unable to move. He could hear muted voices in the next room, the vague indication of conversation, not quite audible through the wall.

         
         He called out, and the voices stopped, after several minutes the door opened and into the room strode a man who looked to be in his sixties, followed by a very attractive young woman, she looked to be in her mid twenties and he recognized her instinctively as the one from the roof. The man was holding a pistol he recognized as one of his own.


         “Just who are you?” She was insistent and forceful, but he had seen enough to recognize the fear
behind her eyes.

         “Who are you?” He said and smiled, she was clearly annoyed, but nevertheless she replied.

         “ I am Lyria Belladonna and this gentleman here is Rufus.”
She motioned to the gun wielding man who nodded but remained vigilant.

         “Frankly, you are a little suspicious, as we found three guns and a Tac-rod on you, just what were
you doing there, and who are you?”

         “It will likely be a long explanation and I doubt you will like it, but I will gladly tell you.
For now let me start with this. My name is Mercutio Rhodes.”