A Rough Landing

Don Isaac

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Tracer fire ripped through the skies overhead, clouds of flak detonating and painting the evening sky black. Shrapnel descended from on high like the droppings of great, malevolent dragons, steel spoor left behind from devoured aircraft.

As poetic as the thought was, Don Isaac De Metralla felt he had moderately slighted both himself and his noble steed. Maria laid in a smouldering heap within a stand of ruined trees, her fuselage shattered and her rotors stilled. She was a good steed- she had flown him through a dozen engagements, and she hardly deserved to rest upon this foreign soil.

He'd have to have the peasants haul her home, after they won. While he was quite certain that his leg was broken, he leaned against a shattered wing as low-calibre rounds pattered off his loyal steed's armour, racking the slide of his engraved pistol. "Pablo!" He called out, reaching around the cover with his pistol as he snapped off a series of shots, answering the hail of lead with a well-aimed retort that undoubtedly felled one of the Union men beyond his vision. He returned his gaze to his faithful manservant, staring at his loyal companion through the cracked lenses of his helmet, the groundling retainer fumbling with the controls of a static-shrieking radio.

"Is The Order of the Sanguine Rose able to lend their aid?" Another burst of lead shattered against his mount's metallic frame. The distant shouts of the bearded bastards encroaching on rightful Santagrian land. The swarthy peasant opposite him removed his worn oxygen mask, shaking his head mournfully, the drooping ends of his moustache swaying against his chin. "They are earning their Martyrdom at the bridge," his companion of many years answered sadly.

There was a distant detonation in the vague direction of the bridge- some Union tank being reduced to scrap, or a particularly potent round freeing the Order from their burden of life. "Damn," Don Isaac cursed, hauling himself over the edge of the wing as he took aim at one of the approaching soldiers, a ragged blue uniform marking him as one of the particularly lowly sorts among their ranks- a squeeze of the trigger, and the man dropped, a spasm sending a sortie of shells skywards. "And the infantry?" He called back, winging a soldier and forcing them to drop the rocket launcher they were struggling to haul over on their scrawny soldiers.

He ducked behind Maria's remains as one of the man's fellows responded in kind, an errant round pinging off his crimson armour and tumbling into the earth near his broken leg, his flying leathers stained red. "Damn!" He cursed again as he ejected his magazine, fumbling for a fresh reload along his belt. Pablo carefully set to the task of loading an aged revolver, a grave expression on his face as he shook his head. His manservant opened his mouth and closed it once more, the vassal that had served him faithfully all his life struggling to find the words in this dire strait.

"My Lord- there's something I've always wanted to tell you," he said, his voice quavering. "My-"

"Save your breath, Pablo!" Isaac called out, slamming a fresh magazine home as his servant hastily raised his revolver, the crack of gunfire and a wheeze of air leaving perforated lungs celebrating his success. "You have my word as a Baron of Santagria, a Son of the Atom, and Heir to The Eternal Kingdom, that we will not die here this day!"

His sworn man gave a slow, tired nod as he settled onto the barricade near his lord, preparing to hold off the rabble of Federal Infantry until the moment of victory came upon them- or Martyrdom, perhaps. Well- either would be acceptable, he supposed.

"It's just-" Pablo swallowed, heedless of the round clattering off the steel a few inches from his head.

"My name is Pedro-"

A flash. A descent. An impact. A Martyrdom, denied.
 
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Don Isaac

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Isaac De Metralla- arguably still a Don, and he would happily duel anyone who would dispute that- washed his face in the sink before him. Rather than the intricate patterning of porcelain that he and his forefathers had used for decades, it was a copper basin, battered through the years by whoever had the misfortune of occupying this hovel prior to himself. He, himself- his own noble hands!- had filled it with a bucket from the local well, and it was with no small amount of grumbling that he scrubbed his tanned skin. It had been a scant few months since he had fallen out of one life and into another, and there was no end of indignities that this world seemed intent on heaping upon his gracious person.

For a start, his loyal servant Pablo seemed to have been temporarily lost in the transition between realities. While he had no doubt that his faithful companion had simply misplaced himself, the fact that he had to carefully drag a straight razor across his chin, carefully avoiding the many tentative nicks he had left upon his cinnamon-hued skin over the past few weeks, staring intently at a hand mirror propped against the wall.

Damn, he thought, hissing through clenched teeth as he cringed in pain, adding to the collection of scratches marking his attempts at self-care. Secondly, his holdings failed to transfer over with him- his island home, his stable, and his cadre of servants would perhaps have been a bit too much to ask the Atom for, admittedly. Divested of his position and duty, he had little but what was on his back, his natural excellence, and a burning need to leave the ground.

The ground. Though his leg had long since been mended since his crash, he still felt unsteady, a lifetime of swaying with the gentle rhythms of his airborne home leaving him unprepared for solid earth. Terra Firma was the domain of peasants and infidels, the people who worked the land for their betters, and the 'people' who sought to claim it.

And here he was, breathing their air.

He set down his razor, rubbing the slender red line that marked his chin, a thin trail of crimson running down his freshly-shaven skin. They didn't even have proper skies, here- the sun rose and set without the incandescent neon glow of fallout shrouding it, and but a single moon drifted lazily through the night. Perhaps there were dragons, or other great beasts to be hunted that ruled the horizons- but he could hardly hunt them from a hovel in the middle of the city of Arcadia. He was little better than a donkey, ambling along these cobbled streets, scarcely able to comprehend the glory waiting a few hundred yards overhead.

And simply to compound upon these trials, his noble blood, while undeniable even to this backwater, did him precious little favours. He had no house to call upon, no resources, and precious little but his honour and his blade. With a sigh, he settled his hand upon its gilt pommel. He'd been fortunate enough to find enough work- Work! The Indignity!- as a guard at one of the rowdier taverns in the area, and a few precise cuts of his blade often made it clear that the unwelcome patron was thoroughly outmatched. While certainly unparalleled in his swordsmanship, thanks to his tutors, it seemed that the local constables cared little for duelling- and he was not so depraved as to step into the underground circuits to wager his gold and blood alike.

No- he had his honour. His decency. His grace. With a shift of his shoulders, he adjusted the shoddily polished crimson plates riveted to his worn flight leathers. Pablo had always been talented with all those lesser works of maintenance, leaving Maria and his weapons to the noble's own ministrations. Warded against the world, Don Isaac pushed open the thin plywood door that protected what little he owned as he stepped out into the city beyond.

He was still a Baron of Santagria- and one day, by The Bomb, this realm would know what that meant.
 
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