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ADMIRAL DEACON ROBUCKE
Admiral Deacon Robucke. Admiral of no sea, nor fleet. His ocean was his residence, a fully self-contained environment, with everything a totalitarian Ruler needed to live comfortably, but never leave his encampment.
The Beast of Albion, they called him, from a little piece of literature that described a place as Albion; the seat of a King. That suited him well. The Beast bit, however, came from his ruthless power-mongering, controlling every tiny aspect of Rule, from peasant to Prince, from Outhouses to Banquet Halls. And all from his expansive compound.
He was a short man with a bald head. Any hair that he had was in his nose and ears, and it was grey. He had a turbulent rise, did Robucke. He came from lowly stock, but never let people know it. Not that they could tease him with it though. He was always locked away, in his ivory tower. Only Devon Yeth spent any real time with him, and that man was strange, to say the least. Robucke tolerated him, only because he was efficient at his job. One wrong move, and he would hang the wretch from the tallest point of Rindlebrooke, much like he did to his opponents and predecessor.
Robucke bucked no failure - not one iota. He once had the fingers cut off of a scribe for leaving the letter E off his surname. Robucke made him fill in the E with the blood from the stump. A Food Server let one single, solitary drop of liquid hit Robucke's arm, and the server never walked again. Robucke had his legs cut off and the Food Server was thrown over the wall, where some rogue animal ate away at him while he tried to crawl to safety.
But the people were compliant in it too. Robucke never watched the punishments if he could help it, but the people carried them out anyway. Something about them being genetically predisposed to following rules, or something.
He had his moments though. His intent was never, in the first instance, to be such a ruthless man. He started as quite a moralistic man, with pure, noble intentions. But he had a past, as we all do. His past involved a driven Father, who pushed his son hard; he abused him mentally, bullied him to make him stronger. He beat him with a switch often, so he understood the world was tough, violent and ruthless. Once Robucke gained power, he wanted to repay his Father those beatings and that abuse, but the old shit died before Robucke could dissect the insect while he watched. It was an almost constant regret, and perhaps in many ways, went into creating the man he was.
Isolation hardened the man, if that was possible. Love was of power; sex was in employing that power. He needed no heirs nor wives. He didn't need the trouble. Control was his child - slowly, carefully nurtured until it became a concern.
He had no real sense of reality, only what he garnered from the people who came to visit on business, or the serving people, and occasionally Devon Yeth, though his reality was stranger than Robucke's.
This day, Robucke was visited by Geneter Faulton Mills, a man to which Robucke had owed. He owed him no more, and that was the topic of conversation. Robucke was uneasy when anyone was in his private quarters, so they were forced onto the long balcony, where was placed a table and chairs, surrounded by greenery, grown from Robucke's own gardens. Nothing much grew in the harshness of the Droke. What did was hardy, grim and rough, much like Robucke himself.
"What a view you have, Deacon!" enthused the Geneter, "Right over the Droke, almost? I can see the smoke coming from Freeride from here!" laughed Mills, slapping the railings in that enthusiastic way he did everything. It wore on Robucke. If he wasn't such an influential man, he would throw the idiot from the balcony to the rock-hard ground below.
"I have repaid my debt, Geneter Mills." explained Robucke, matter-of-factly.
"Ha! Look! There are the Machines of the Battle Grounds! Look at the rockets fly!"
"Geneter. If you would just pay attention a while -"
"Does this not strike you as overwhelming? Do you not look at this every day and - breathe?"
"I'm telling you our business is concluded, Geneter Mills. Do you not understand this?"
"Oh, I understand," said Faulton, turning to face Robucke, the inane smile still plastered on his face, "But I also understand it is not done, not yet. You still owe me, my friend."
"I am many things, but I am not your friend -"
"Oh, calm down, Deacon! Relax a little! You still owe me, and that is all there is to it."
Robucke's knuckles were turning white as he gripped tighter to the arms of his chair, "The job was completed. I know this, because I do not tolerate failure. If it was not done, then I would know and the responsible parties would be - dealt with."
"I demand a little more, I am afraid, Deacon. What you did for me, it was good. But my favour was worth much more, I think. Don't you?" a conniving grin fell over Geneter Mills's almost perfect teeth.
"I don't take well to blackmail, Mills."
"Oh, not blackmail, Deacon. I never blackmail. I just get what's owed to me."
"Don't push me, Geneter -"
"What can you do, old man? What is in you that can do anything to me?"
Robucke stood then, moving a few paces away to try and distance himself from the anger he felt. The insolence of the man! That he thinks he can come into my home and -
"Come now, let's be reasonable. I will tell you when the debt is repaid. Then you will be released from this burden."
Robucke reeled on Mills, advancing slowly, like a wired animal. A Beast. The Geneter's smile was slipping ever such a little bit, "Only one man talked to me like that before. That man was my Father. He's dead now. He spoke as you did. He intimidated, he bullied and he punished. Do you know what that gained me? Apart from a few scars that will never fade, about my back and legs? The much deeper mental scars that shaped me into the man I am today remains his legacy. That man was, is and ever shall be an utter, utter shit of the highest order." Robucke continued his advance. Something instinctual made Mills back away, but he was upon the railings and the only way was down, "Trust me, I tell you this not to excuse me, or indeed excuse you. No. I tell you this, so what comes next is no great surprise to either of us."
The fist, when it connected, was covered by a metal bar, a kind of improvised knuckle-duster. It connected hard with the side of the Geneter's head. Despite the warning, the Geneter was still surprised. He dropped to his knees. Perhaps he thought he was invulnerable, immortal? Perhaps he thought no one would have the guts to strike such an important man? Maybe, just maybe, he didn't actually believe what just happened had, in fact, actually just happened? It didn't matter, because soon after the first blow came the second, third, fourth, fifth - end over end the fists rained.
So much blood. So red, so fresh.
Pulsing from a handful of wounds, the Geneter lay bleeding, and yet the fists continued, "You bastard! I hate you! I hate you! Just fucking die, you prick! You piece of shit!"
It fell on deaf ears. Or, more accurately, no ears. What had been the man's face and head was now just a collection of blood, bone and brain. Devon Yeth, Robucke's Private Secretary, rushed in at that moment to see what all the shouting was about. He took in the remains of the Geneter, Mills, and a rabid, blood spattered Beast kneeling upon the dead man's chest. The familiarity of Devon Yeth pulled Robucke from his bloody mist and back to reality. He stood, looking down at the mess on the floor as though someone else had done it.
Robucke pulled his jacket straight, despite the outrageous amount of detritus that clung to him. He began to walk back inside, past the open-mouthed Devon Yeth, into his compound and into security once more - his safe place - when he turned suddenly, a finger raised as though he had forgotten something.
"Oh, Devon? Clean up this mess will you? Say - I don't know - say he got lost on his way or something? Say he was attacked by some peasants? I don't know, say he fell from the wall, for all I care - but get rid of him."
Admiral Deacon Robucke then put his hands behind his back and strolled gently back inside, closing the door behind him.
Click.
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