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Chapter 5 - Volume One: Origin of Calamity CHAPTER 5: THE AFTERMATH

 

Aboard the mother-ship, a hive of activity unfolded. Dozens of pirates got off from their Void-Riders, some carefully transporting injured comrades on stretchers, others unloading crates of equipment. Moving among them, a seemingly average pirate, yet every action calculated, was the red-haired impostor. She kept her head low, her movements mirroring the tired nonchalance of the crew, a masterclass in blending in.

"Alright, gang," the leader's amplified voice boomed across the hangar. "Well done out there. We sustained some losses, but our casualties were within expected parameters. We honor our fallen. Their sacrifices will not be in vain. The surviving crew can go wash up and grab some food at the cafeteria. This calls for a celebration."

A cheer erupted from the assembled pirates. Many immediately pulled off their masks, their faces revealing a mixture of exhaustion and relief, and began animated discussions with their comrades. Not so for the impostor. She remained cloaked, her gaze sweeping the area, almost certain she would find the masked leader. Her hunch proved correct. She spotted him near an exit that led to another section where Void-Riders were stored. He had just concluded a conversation with Mohawk and was heading towards his personal craft—the distinctive, whale-shaped Void-Rider that rested among others, perfectly arranged like vehicles in a parking bay. He boarded it, and the hatch sealed with a soft hiss.

The red-haired impostor wasted no time. Dodging the casual gazes of the guards posted nearby, she moved with practiced stealth. She reached the leader's Void-Rider, its sleek, alien design both fascinating and frustrating. Its exterior presented no obvious entry points, leaving her puzzled as to how to gain access.

She circled the sleek, almost organic contours of the whale-shaped Void-Rider. Its hull was seamless, an unbroken expanse of dark plating. There were no visible doors, no obvious hatches, just the smooth curve of its form. Puzzlement turned to determination as she ran a hand along a faint indentation near what she surmised was the rear ventral plating – a subtle, almost invisible seam that suggested a panel.

Recalling the casual way the leader had boarded, she reasoned there had to be a less conspicuous entry for maintenance or quick access. She pressed along the seam, feeling for a switch or a hidden latch. Her fingers brushed against a tiny, almost imperceptible pressure plate, camouflaged perfectly into the hull's texture. Applying a firm, precise pressure, she heard a soft click. A narrow segment of the hull, barely wide enough for a person, slid inward, revealing a dimly lit access shaft. It wasn't a grand entrance, but it was an entrance nonetheless.

With a swift, silent motion, she slipped inside, the panel hissing shut behind her, plunging her into the belly of the formidable craft.

Once inside the Void-Rider, she moved with deliberate silence, her senses on high alert. The interior of the whale-shaped craft was surprisingly spacious and clean, a stark contrast to the dust and wreckage outside. She navigated dimly lit corridors, her footsteps feather-light, listening for any sign of movement. She bypassed a galley, its counters gleaming, then a small, functional-looking latrine. Further on, she peered into a recreation lounge, filled with plush seating and holographic entertainment screens, and even glimpsed a compact, well-equipped gymnasium. The ship felt empty, the crew likely off celebrating as ordered, or tending to the injured. She was a ghost in the machine, her hooded form a shadow within shadows.

She pressed on, guided by a low hum of machinery and an intuitive sense of where the command or personal quarters might be. Finally, she reached a door, unmarked but subtly different, emitting a faint, warm light from within. Cautiously, she pushed it open just a crack, peering inside.

It was a study, littered with data pads and ancient-looking tomes. And there, at a central table, was the masked leader. He sat, facing away from her, his obsidian mask still in place, but stripped of his leather jacket and clothes. He wore only a pair of dark boxer shorts. His back was towards the door, a powerful, sculpted form visible beneath the fabric of his underwear. His dark, rich chocolate skin glowed subtly in the ambient light, highlighting the lean muscle and defined contours of his shoulders and back. His body was branded in tattoos --his back carried a broken shell tattoo, both arms had fang-less serpents and finally, his chest covered in the drawing of a flightless bird, one with no feathers on its wings. He was intently focused on the World Map, spread open before him on the table, a stack of historical texts beside it, clearly trying to decipher its intricate markings.

The sight was utterly unexpected, awkward, and deeply unsettling. The impostor froze, her mind struggling to reconcile this vulnerable, scholarly image with the ruthless persona she'd just witnessed. She began to back away, carefully, silently. But in her haste and the dim lighting, her leg brushed against a small side table. A delicate, ceramic vase teetered for a breath, then toppled, crashing to the floor with a sharp, undeniable shatter.

The leader spun around, his head snapping towards the sound. His glowing emoticon eyes widened in surprise, then immediately dropped to his exposed torso. With a gasp of genuine bashfulness, he instinctively threw his arms across his chest, attempting to cover himself. His obsidian mask, known for its cold, mocking emoticons, now displayed a simple, comically embarrassed emoticon, a single bead of sweat rolling down its side, a stark contrast to his usual smug display. He stood frozen, half-covered, his eyes fixed on the startled red-haired impostor.

"Please, try and keep it down," she replied, her calm tone utterly baffling him. "And you're right, I'm not actually one of you. Just as you say." With a fluid movements, she pulled off the ill-fitting pirate mask and hood, revealing her striking red hair and freckled face.

Recognition, and then a fresh wave of outrage, washed over him. "You're that girl who kept asking questions about the man in the photo! What on earth are you doing here? Sneaking onto my personal vessel? Do you have a death wish?"

"I know this is a little unorthodox," she began, a hint of steel beneath her composed demeanor, "and some might call me crazy—'crazy' is an understatement, actually. But I got the distinct feeling you know something about him, and I'm not leaving until you give me the answers I deserve." She crossed her arms, fixing him with an unwavering stare.

The leader's mask flashed a 'processing' emoticon before settling on pure annoyance. "Uh-huh. That's not happening. Ebony!" he snapped, clapping his hands together with a sharp crack. The study door slid shut with a definitive thunk, and a low hiss emanated from hidden vents. A sweet, cloying gas began to fill the room, quickly growing thicker. The girl's eyes widened, and she swayed, her limbs suddenly heavy. Her vision blurred, and she crumpled to the floor, succumbing to the soporific fumes.

The masked man watched her fall, a triumphant chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Foolish child," he muttered, adjusting the elastic band of his boxer shorts. He strode over to her unconscious form, intending to retrieve the World Map from the table nearby and then perhaps bind her. He looked down at her, a strange expression on his mask. "Wait a minute..."

His mask flickered to a wide-eyed, panicked emoticon. "Oh, blast it all to the Realms!" he groaned, smacking himself on the forehead. "I didn't put on my mask filter!" He coughed, a deep, rattling sound, his knees buckling. The world began to spin around him, the fumes he'd unleashed for his intruder now claiming him as well. With a final, exasperated sigh, the masked leader collapsed beside the red-haired girl, the World Map lying untouched on the table between them. Both assailant and infiltrator were now utterly unconscious, sharing an unintended, chemically induced nap.

A throbbing ache behind his eyes was the masked leader's first sensation. He groaned, a guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through his entire body. His consciousness returned in jarring flashes: the pungent, sweet gas, the red-haired girl, the crash. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head, and found himself upright, but strangely constrained. His back pressed against something solid, and a familiar faint floral scent wafted towards him.

"What in the tarnation this?" he demanded, his amplified voice still carrying authority despite his confusion.

"Sorry, Boss," a voice cut through the dimness, too close for comfort. It was Mohawk. "The deal's off."

The masked leader felt a jolt. "Off? Are you quite mad, Mohawk? Flabbergasted! I am utterly flabbergasted by this betrayal! I kept my end of the bargain! I paid every single one of you in advance when I recruited you for this job! What seems to be the problem?"

Mohawk stepped forward, his figure emerging from the surrounding throng of silent pirates. "It's true, you paid us. And the mission, so far, has been profitable. But we don't like secrets, Boss. Not from our leader."

The masked leader scoffed. "Secrets? What are you talking about? I have kept no secrets from you. I am simply a man of... calculated discretion."

"Oh, come on, Boss," Mohawk retorted, a sneer audible in his voice. "We may be pirates, but we're not stupid. Even a blind man can tell what those metallic marks on your skin are." He gestured vaguely at the masked leader's form. "You're a branded one. An outcast among the mercenaries. Exiled for what I believe would be deeds no man could even think of accomplishing."

"These old things?" the leader said with a dismissive wave, attempting a casual tone that didn't quite land. "Oh, no, Mohawk. You've got it wrong. Mr. Pewterschmidt, these are merely tattoos."

"Denying my claims, are you, Boss? Or should I say..." Mohawk reached out, his hand moving with a sudden, decisive motion. He ripped the obsidian mask from the leader's face.

A gasp rippled through the gathered pirates, some muttering, "It's really him!"

The red-haired girl, still bound back-to-back with the now unmasked leader, strained against her restraints. "What are you yapping about? What's going on? Let me see!"

Mohawk chuckled, a low, malicious sound. He stepped around, grabbing the back of her chair and, with a swift turn, rotated it. Her gaze immediately locked onto the face now revealed before her.

It was the man from her photograph. But more. Infinitely more. His skin, a deep, luminous chocolate hue, seemed to absorb and reflect the dim light of the hangar. He possessed a face of striking symmetry, with strong, elegant cheekbones that angled towards a firm jawline. His nose was aquiline, perfectly proportioned, and his lips, full and expressive, were framed by a meticulously kept, dark beard and mustache that added a mature gravitas to his features. His eyes, the color of rich earth, were intelligent, direct, and currently wide with a mixture of anger and raw exposure. It was a face that exuded power and inherent beauty, a visage that spoke of untold stories and a compelling, undeniable presence. The kind of face one saw in ancient tapestries of kings and legends, yet it was unmistakably the man from her photo, only older, hardened, and marked by a life far beyond her imaginings.

"Nana Kojo Ohene Asante," Mohawk announced, his voice ringing with theatrical flourish, "former right-hand man of the Mercenary Lord."

The red-haired girl's breath hitched. "You're him," she whispered, a profound realization dawning in her eyes. "The man I've been searching for."

Nana Kojo Ohene Asante, despite the awkwardness of his attire and predicament, simply gave her a dismissive glance. "Hardly the time for such discussions, girl."

Mohawk stepped forward, a glint of greed in his eyes. "I wonder how much the mercenaries are going to pay me for returning him to them." He gestured dramatically at Nana Kojo. "An exiled mercenary is supposed to rot forever on Rutok—an island specially made for the branded. I don't know how you escaped, Boss, but I'm going to make you wish you hadn't."

The red-haired girl, still staring at Nana Kojo's unmasked face, turned her attention to Mohawk. "Why are you so quick to trample your loyalty to the man who hired you? Who paid you?"

Mohawk sneered, a cold, hard edge to his voice. "You don't understand, deary. One does not simply involve himself in matters involving mercenaries without getting noticed. It was only a matter of time before they showed up at our doors, killing us and our loved ones. We're only trying to prevent that by handing him over before it's too late."

A pirate pushed through the surrounding circle, holding the World Map. He presented it to Mohawk, who took it, his eyes gleaming. "I think I'll just keep this," Mohawk declared, a smug grin spreading across his face. "I'll be able to accomplish great things with this."

Nana Kojo, in spite of the situation, let out a dry, almost amused chuckle. "Trust me, Mr. Pewterschmidt, it won't be of much use to the likes of you. Even I, with all my resources, have been unable to find texts on how to truly operate that device."

"You underestimate the lot of us, Nana Kojo," Mohawk retorted, clutching the map tighter.

"Or maybe you overestimate yourselves," Kojo countered, a sardonic glint in his eyes. "For starters, it was a rookie mistake to capture me in my own Void-Rider." His gaze swept over the pirates, a silent challenge in his expression.

"Ebony!" Nana Kojo bellowed, his voice echoing with an unexpected command.

The very interior of the Void-Rider seemed to come alive. From recessed panels along the walls, sleek, mechanical tendrils with glowing tips snapped out, coiling around the nearest pirates. Energy conduits that had been dormant along the ceiling now buzzed with power, discharging focused jolts that sent pirates spasming to the floor. The ship itself became a weapon, its internal defenses methodically incapacitating its unwanted occupants.

With a powerful twist of his hands, Nana Kojo flexed, and the cheap bonds securing him to the chair snapped with a sharp crack. He surged to his feet, eyes blazing. Mohawk, who had been watching the ship's uprising with a mixture of terror and disbelief, found himself frozen. Kojo moved with terrifying speed. He seized Mohawk's arm, twisting it back with a sickening pop, then snatched the World Map from his stunned grasp.

"This is mine," Kojo snarled, a cold fury in his tone.

Mohawk, whimpering, stumbled backward, his bravado utterly evaporated. As the Void-Rider's internal mechanisms continued to subdue the remaining crew, a fresh wave of panic seized the pirates. "The ship's gone rogue!" one shrieked. "It's alive!" another cried, as they scrambled for the exit hatch, desperate to escape the sentient craft.

Kojo cast a disdainful look at the cowering Mohawk. "Perhaps next time, Mr. Pewterschmidt, you'll think twice before cornering a man in his own home." With a firm kick, he sent the disgraced pirate tumbling through the open hatch, where he collided with a few fleeing comrades.

Only then did Nana Kojo turn, remembering the red-haired girl. She was still tied to her chair, watching him with wide eyes and a faint, rather awkward smile. "Uh, could you... untie me now?" she asked.

He scoffed, a single, exasperated sound, but knelt swiftly and severed her restraints. "Can you operate laser cannons?" he grunted, already moving towards the control console.

"Laser... what?" she blinked, utterly oblivious.

"Useless," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Just sit down. Somewhere. Try not to die." He gestured impatiently to a padded seat in the control center.

He slammed his hand onto a console, and the whale-shaped Void-Rider shot forward, blasting out of the mother-ship's hangar bay like a projectile. They hurtled into the open sky, a lone dart against the retreating pirate fleet. Almost immediately, the other Void-Riders, recovering from their surprise, turned. Streaks of crimson laser fire erupted from their hulls, converging on Kojo's ship.

The red-haired girl gasped, clutching the armrests of her seat. Kojo, however, was a master. He weaved and spun, the Void-Rider dancing through the barrage, evading most blasts with razor-thin precision. He returned fire with brutal efficiency, the ship's forward cannons spitting green energy bolts that tore through the pirate craft. Two Void-Riders exploded in bursts of light and debris, their forms disintegrating in the air. The girl watched, a mix of terror and awe gripping her. This was far beyond anything she had imagined.

"Hold on!" Kojo barked, already working furiously at the controls. A swirling vortex began to form ahead of them, a nascent spatial portal. This was their only way out.

But just as the nose of his ship plunged into the swirling energies of the portal, a sudden, concussive blast rocked the Void-Rider. A pirate shot had found its mark, slamming into their rear thrusters. The ship bucked violently. The portal, instead of providing a smooth transition, became a maelstrom of distorted light and sound. The Void-Rider jolted and spun, the navigation systems screaming in protest.

"It's malfunctioning!" Kojo roared, wrestling with the controls. "We're losing stability!"

The portal's light intensified, then spat them out with a violent jolt. They emerged not into the expected clear expanse, but into a bizarre, swirling expanse of iridescent clouds and violent updrafts. The air was thick, heavy, and the sky above them was a fractured kaleidoscope of strange, alien colors. The Void-Rider shrieked, its engines failing, smoke spewing from its damaged rear.

"We're going down!" the girl screamed, her knuckles white on the armrests.

"No kidding!" Kojo yelled back, his face a mask of furious concentration as he fought to stabilize the plummeting craft. But it was useless. The whale-shaped ship, once a beacon of stealth and power, now fell like a stone through the bizarre, alien atmosphere, hurtling towards an unknown, rapidly approaching surface.

The last thing they saw before impact was a flash of strange, pulsating flora below, then the sickening, crushing force of the crash. The world dissolved into jarring metal, splintering plastic, and the sudden, all-consuming darkness of unconsciousness.

 

 

 

 

 

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