The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Rhian

When I first met Michael, I decided straightaway I'd like him. I could've listened to the rumours calling him bossy and a bit of a whore. I could've listened because they were true. But Michael was a charming son-of-a-bitch. Good-natured. Clever. He laughed when I nearly broke his nose. It was a safer time around when we first met. There wasn't a whole lot for Amali soldiers to do apart from train. Some were shipped around the territories as escorts and guards for the wealthy and whatnot. But the Assembly weren't about to waste a man like Michael on a bunch of nobles or some shady organization. They gave him the very best training and the very best education, raising him up right for something important and dangerous. Point is: I had no choice but to come to terms with Michael dying. I'd already dreamed up the ten thousand ways it could happen. I'd already practiced living as though it had, but he was worth it. Michael Reider made life less boring.

"Michael, I'm so bloody bored," I said. "What good is having my punishment revoked if I haven't got anywhere to go?"

For the record, having my landlock lifted was a surprising side-effect of winning the trial after that whole business with the asylum.

"You could clean your room." Michael took a long look around the dorm. "There's three days, at least."

Clean was a lot like silence. Fuck silence.

"So, they told me I'm not going back to Endica," Michael said. "Ever."

"Can't say I'm disappointed, but why not?"

Michael couldn't say more than that, but it was good news. Our professional lives came with a lot of secrecy and that was all right. 'Course, I'd always ask. Bits and pieces. Fodder for my conspiracies and all. But never mind. Knocks are a lot like footsteps. You can tell a lot about the way a person knocks, and this particular knocker had been standing around a while. Their raps were quick, quiet, almost like they were hoping they could take them back. (They couldn't.)

I wasn't planning on getting up from the bed, so Michael opened the door for me. It was Adeline, and the Squeaky Lass was looking a lot like the time I caught the Commander, Sir, Michael, Sir with his hand in his pants.

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"Goddess," she gasped. "It cannot be."

"Oh, it is," Michael said. "But you can call me Michael."

I probably groaned.

Michael stepped aside, and I waved Adeline inside.

"Good seeing you, mate. What can we do you for?"

"I wanted to thank you." Adeline trotted her way across the room, random doohickey in hand. She dodged all my filthy whatnots along the way. "And to give you this."

I liked free things a lot more than I hated thank-yous.

Turned out, the circular doohickey bestowed upon me was one helluva free thing. Timepiece on one side, compass on the other. When Adeline popped it open on its hinges, I looked back at myself in a pair of compact mirrors. She wasn't kidding around. It was practical. I like practical.

"Right." I turned the doohickey over in my hands. "That's thoughtful of you."

"Wait, where's my present?" Michael asked.

"I wasn't aware you'd be here, Commander Reider, Sir, otherwise I would have—"

"Ignore him," I said.

"No, no. Otherwise you would have what?"

Michael winked and Adeline turned about six shades of pink. I remember feeling a bit embarrassed for the both of them, but it wasn't long afore there were more knocks on the door—louder, more confident than the last. I couldn't be bothered answering that time, either, but Michael was more than happy to.

It was a Strachan messenger. He had a message. Imagine that.

"Rhian Sinclair?"

"Ugh—coming, coming." Standing from the bed, I made my way around the room. I didn't bother dodging my filthy whatnots.

I probably should have been more polite to the man who was about to make my dreams come true, but never mind. Soon as I saw it, I knew what the messenger held in his hands. Orders. My chance to get off that stinking isle and back to work. I snatched the papers up right quick, squiggled an "S" in his ledger, and closed the door.

I'd barely broken the seal on the envelope when it happened again.

Knock, knock, knock.

I swung the door wide open. "Amalia's ancient arsehole, what now?"

It was still the messenger. He had another message.

"Michael Reider?"

Look, I've had a lot of time to think since I started writing all this down and I reckon: this is where the story really ought to start.