Concept art of The Expanse’s Ceres Station …. in this Sol universe known as Arcturus Station, a marriage between Ceres and Omega (Mass Effect).

Arcturus Station was nothing but a glorified port on a giant spinning rock.

It was also one of humanity’s most crime riddled, destitute and lawless stations ever conceived. Originally designed as a mine, it evolved further than what anyone had anticipated. Least of all the original mining company, whose company and board were swiftly taken over by a criminal gang upon discovery of Nitro onboard the asteroid.

However, like all good news, it soon spread quickly amongst the criminal elite, and a vicious war was fought over the asteroid, with the station slowly built further and further as more and more pirate ships were docked and abandoned when they died aboard.

Now resembling a brain-stem like shape, with the asteroid’s craggy surface serving as the “brain” so to speak, and the mass of metal and engine parts as the spinal cord, Arcturus was as lawless and derelict as it looked.

The only reliable place, to be found, was the port, which welcomed all vessels regardless of affiliation and charged exorbitant prices for air, water and nitro.

Whoever controlled the docks, controlled Arcturus.

The Icarus IV slowly came in, after receiving a hail from the port-master, whose voice sounded eerily familiar to both Raikkonen and Kournikova.

“Come on in, my winged one. Docking Bay 95.”

Raikkonen stared at his sensors and activated the retrojets to begin the deceleration process, as he spun his ship to face opposite the station, and fire the MPDrive in the other direction to slow it down.

As the Icarus IV neared the large squarish bay doors, an mechanical arm reached out, and gently clamped itself around the Icarus and cradled it in.

Raikkonen switched off the MPDrive and looked at Kournikova, who was already unbuckled and putting on their armour.

Custom-built by Kournikova, using the livery of the ship as the aesthetic, the Icarus IV’s combat armour was built to withstand heavy attacks and ensure survivability in space and low-oxygen environments.

An open face helmet, made of crimson reinforced glass allowed excellent peripheral vision, allowing the pilots to see out, but nothing could come in nor see in.

The armour itself was reminiscent of knight plate armour, with many layers interlocking into each other to ensure maximum coverage.

Armed with wrist mounted pistols and submachine guns, as well as shoulder mounted grenade launchers, the combat armour was dubbed Phalanx by Kournikova, in keeping with the Greek theme of their vessels.

It was also startling beautiful, with a mostly white ivory base, red accents and a fading geometric pattern on their weapons and helmet. Kournikova’s one was more silvery, whilst Raikkonen was predominantly scarlet.

Underneath the Phalanx, Raikkonen and Kournikova kept their jumpsuits on, designed to be tightly sealed to their body, to keep them warm in space, and to prevent any excess material from interfering with the armour.

The words Icarus IV were emblazoned boldly across the back, as well as the Finnish and Russian flag printed onto their shoulders, as well as a small Formula 0 insignia on their chest.

Raikkonen waited for the slight hiss of air, indicating that the armour and jumpsuit were airtight, before activating the oxygen supply around the rear and performing a comms check with Kournikova.

“Can you hear me Frost?”

“Reading you five by five Iceman.” replied Kournikova.

Activating their magnetic boots, by tapping the heels together, they landed on the Icarus‘ deck for the first time in their long voyage and opened the airlock to Arcturus.

Before leaving the ship, Raikkonen sent out a signal to the mother-ship, Daedalus, indicating their status and where they were. Taking a look around, he blew an imaginary kiss and sealed the airlock shut.

Looking out, Raikkonen and Kournikova walked the skinny gantry to the main entryway, their eyes alert and arms ready to fire.

A loud disembodied voice came over

“Well, well. If it isn’t the famous Europa couple come to grace my port. Come on in, we’ve got you covered.” said the voice jovially.

Kournikova looked over at Raikkonen who smiled back at her.

The entrance to the docking bay’s airlock opened and air hissed in. Checking his helmet, Raikkonen took a breath of fresh air, and took off his helmet, clipping it to his waist.

Kournikova shook free her blonde hair, styled in a short bob and stared ahead, wondering if the voice she heard truly was who she thought it was.

The other doors to the airlock slowly revealed an old associate of theirs, James Hooper, a pit mechanic from Mars who used to work on the Icarus IV before the FIA (Federation Internationale de l’Automobile) kicked him for stealing parts. Raikkonen had protested but were overruled.

The last Raikkonen had heard of him, he was making a living repairing civilians ships. To see him here, was surprising but not unexpected.

Hooper opened his arms and hugged them both tightly.

“Jean, Lada!” he exclaimed. “It’s been so long!”

Kournikova kissed him on the cheek. “How have you been?”

“Well, as you can see … quite well” he smiled, patting a generous belly that wasn’t present during their time together. “I got a new boss now. She pays very well. I have to go introduce you guys to her, but first, what brings you here?”

“The Aurelius.” said Raikkonen casually as he continued to scan his surroundings.

Hooper stared at him in disbelief. “THE Aurelius?”

Raikkonen nodded.

“Jesus Jean. We better tell the Baron. Let’s go.”

The three of them began walking to the maglev train that would take them down into the lower levels of Arcturus. Much like Dante’s Inferno, the lower the levels of Arcturus you went, the smaller, and more dangerous it became.

At the bottom of the “brain stem” design, was the ruler of Arcturus’ office, a sheer glass nightclub made of countless windows, twisted metal struts and dark ambience, known only to Arcturus residents as “Limbo.”

Everywhere on Arcturus was dirty, rundown and littered with abandoned transport crates, the stench of decomposing flesh hidden somewhere pungent in the atmosphere. Long ago, the mining company had installed realistic screens that depicted Earth’s blue skies, but now they were broken beyond repair, with cracks running across the entire expanse; the occasional rainbow flash of tech trying to start itself up, the only sign of life.

The maglev train went in a circular motion, concurrent to the asteroid, which was constantly spinning, courtesy of an attempt to impart artificial gravity. A noticeable Coriolis effect was observed due to the curvature and size of the station and taken into consideration for life onboard Arcturus.

Drinks had to be held at a certain angle, to allow for it to “semi float” into the cup. The horizon was never straight, the drop off always visible and for many newcomers, this created a sharp loss of balance and wonderment at whether Arcturus would ever end.

Gravity also only increased as you went lower and deeper into the station’s “brain stem”, the Limbo nightclub itself boasting the strongest gravity of the entire station and thus symbolic of the ruler’s status. It also served as a defensive mechanism against those who would revolt against Arcturus’ baron, impacting their offensive capabilities as those from outer planets would struggle to adapt.

Hooper kept an running commentary as they travelled further and further into the depths of Arcturus. Describing the various gangs that controlled the many levels of Arcturus, the Red Suns who dominated the area near the port, the Sidewinders who governed the middle sector and finally the Emperors who were loyal to the Baron who had access to the best of the black market equipment and served as the de facto military of Arcturus.

As Hooper continued to point out landmarks on Arcturus, miserable, emaciated people shuffled on and off the maglev, their misery evident on faces, as they cowered from the stronger, tougher thugs in armour, their demeanour, stance and equipment similar to Raikkonen and Kournikova.

As the maglev reached the final section, loud throbbing electronic music could be heard, its’ dark, heavy and seductive beat piercing through the walls of the train. When the doors opened, 4 armoured men stood at attention at the station, their helmets covered by heavy metallic mandibles that gave them an insect-like look.

Lowering their arms, when Hooper stepped forward, the leader, an imposing 2 metre tall man known only “Bouncer,” jerked his head and with a voice modulator said “Go ahead. The Baron is waiting.”

Walking the short distance to Limbo, the music only ratcheted up its volume, and both Raikkonen and Kournikova started to sense headaches develop, the pulsing sounds burying itself deep into their brains.

Limbo, itself was spectacularly dark and a testament to hellish interior design. A huge circular design, with a huge light shaft down the middle, where neon red and green patterns pulsated, Limbo had numerous platforms where nude twisted women and men danced constantly, their necks fed the same cocktail of drugs to combat G-forces. The floor itself was made of reinforced glass, to allow the stars to shine through, and have people believe they were dancing in space.

The bar was situated at the base of the light shaft, wrapping around it, the bartenders working half blind due to the intensity of their environment. Drinking here, was almost guaranteed you two option … an endless high, savouring every star that appeared beneath your feet, every touch, every breath or a gutter crawl, as people took away your possessions whilst you were dying from some stomach virus.

The best and worst drinks in the galaxy. Welcome to Limbo, where you wish you could leave, but can never do so. So to hell with it, dance, drink and destroy your life away.

Raikkonen and Kournikova kept their eyes peeled, astonished at the sheer amount of people waving their arms and legs in ecstasy or pain, faces wet with tears from crying or laughing, every spectrum of emotion, except boredom, on display in full force.

Hooper made his way past a giant woman, who towered above him, her skeleton stretched by Arcturus’ weak gravity. Leaning down she whispered at Raikkonen

“Hi honey” her voice dripping with promise. “Get out of that armour and slip into me instead.”

Raikkonen gently pushed her away, and kept going, ignoring the slur she directed at his back, and walked up a staircase designed to give the best defensive coverage in case of attack.

At the top of the walkway, reclined the Baron, an attractive woman of mysterious origins, flanked by her bodyguards, all of whom had kill switches in their armour, in case of betrayal.

Rumours and deceit followed the Baron whenever she was discussed. Some claimed she was a Martian Marine Corps deserter, able to access Martian technology. Others believed she was raised a whore on another station, but rose to dominance through her appetite and lust for power.

However outlandish the tale, the Baron did nothing to rescind or confirm them. All that mattered was that she was the apex predator atop one of the toughest food chains in the galaxy and every single organism beneath her had to pay her respect.

The Baron itself, was a name that had long been established as the title for the ruler of Arcturus, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to keep it that way. Out here, the politics of Mars and Earth mattered little.

With long sable hair, piercing purple eyes and a statuesque body, she stood tall at 185 centimetres, and was muscularly lean, her strength matched only by her skill with a experimental pistol she kept strapped to her thigh.

The weapon itself, was capable of a rare ability to “trace” targets via its’ onboard computer. Able to intercept incoming rounds and find heads, the Baron’s pistol was a one-of-a-kind weapon platform, needing only to cool down, to reuse after prolonged firing.

Clad in a white/blue jumpsuit that ran black from the waist down, and styled with a inner scarlet colouring, the collar was bared high around her neck, and the neckline was plunging, revealing her ample breasts. Her sable hair was often shaved in a styled mohawk, and concentric lined tattoos ran across her neck and collarbone. Expensive black combat heels and knuckled gloves completed her look.

She was every bit a pirate queen. Fierce, attractive and strong.

Hooper presented himself before her.

Raikkonen and Kournikova felt the presence of the paranoid Emperor guards, whose white and blue armour glowed menacingly under Limbo’s lighting.

“The famed Europa team.” intoned a husky voice.

“What brings you to Limbo?”

Author’s Note

This is largely inspired by the Afterlife club as seen in the amazing sci-fi series, Mass Effect. I mostly wanted to mix Ceres Station’s design and realistic approach to space station design, with the bizarre and foreboding atmosphere of Omega from Mass Effect 2 and 3.

This went a lot smoother to write and I was pleased to see the story grow a bit more concretely, after a shaky first two chapters.

I am also loving the Youtube Sci-Fi club mixes that people like Gaming Ambience have developed, really allowing me to get into the mood of my story. Forever grateful for such great audio mixing.

~ Damocles.

The MCRN Donnager of The Expanse fame … the inspiration for the RMSMC Aurelius. I won’t lie, this whole series is just poor fan fiction of The Expanse series. 

The twin Pilum torpedoes weaved through space, their onboard guidance homing in on the rear tail of the Icarus IV. 

Onboard, Raikkonen waited calmly, as he looked at his monitor and watched the weapons close in, his moniker “Iceman” proving not to be false advertising. Behind him, the strained voice of Kournikova came through loud and clear in his helmet.

“2 missiles inbound! Closing in fast, 50K clicks and counting down! Preparing countermeasures.”

Kournikova’s hands flew over her holographic screen, as she pulled up the Icarus IV‘s only defensive option: highly experimental flares, that Raikkonen had designed himself.

This would be the first live trial of the flares, dubbed Sprites. In his many experiments, Raikkonen knew that he had to deploy them at the very last second, otherwise their effectiveness would be highly compromised by distance.

But in order to do so, he had to let the torpedoes really close the distance. With each torpedo able to close nearly 10,000 kilometres in 1.5 seconds, timing was everything.

“20,000 clicks!” yelled Kournikova, at Raikkonen, whose stillness made her afraid.

Raikkonen permitted himself a small smile and waited for a single beat before activating his experiment into the field.

Packed tightly into hyper-velocity pods that launched from ejection tubes alongside the Icarus IV‘s retrojets, the sprites were always packed into pairs. Whilst only one was needed to eliminate a missile, Raikkonen knew better than to believe in chance, and always preferred redundancies.

Using advanced electronic warfare suites, the sprites would attempt to scramble the torpedoes onboard computers, causing them to decelerate, and turn into useless space debris.

Failing that, the sprites would seek out the torpedo itself and intercept them mid-flight, creating a small proximity explosion to nullify the incoming missile.

This would be their first live fire test.

Aiko Cicero onboard the RMSMC Aurelius stared intently at her screen, monitoring the twin Pilum torpedoes flight path, as they made a beeline towards the Icarus IV. Her plan was to allow them to overshoot the racer, and then detonate them at a safe distance, forcing Raikkonen to slow down.

But just as the Pilums nearly reached the Icarus IV, she saw a tiny blip appear from behind the Icarus IV, split into 4, and almost immediately she lost all connection to her torpedoes, staring in concern at her screen, as it began to flicker and a large “CONNECTION ERROR” sign appeared across the schematics of her weapons.

Frowning, she double checked her sensors, and zoomed in with an external camera tracking the torpedoes.

To her complete surprise, the two Pilums were not inert, and unresponsive, floating aimlessly in zero gravity, spinning in every direction, as four unknown crimson lights hovered near them.

“Praetor Quintus. You better come over and have a look sir.” suggested Cicero, the puzzlement in her voice evident.

Quintus looked over the weapon specialist’s shoulder and at her screen. The four crimson lights looked like missiles themselves, their sleek design sporting a similar livery to the Icarus IV.

“Perform an analysis scan on them. I don’t want the Aurelius to be hit by whatever the hell that is.”

“Copy sir. Give me a minute, read-out to your war-desk upon completion.” said Aiko, as the Aurelius’ onboard computers and sensor suites began to scan the outline of the sprites.

Quintus looked over at Vorenus, who made a motion about going around the blast zone of the Pilums. Nodding his affirmation, Quintus wondered What the hell is this … and how did Raikkonen get his hands on this type of tech?

Previously, anti-missile duty was performed with PDWs (Point Defence Weapons), hard-points on a spacecraft’s superstructure that had retractable Vulcan chainguns with complex computer algorithms to intercept missiles in mid-flight, and provide near 360 degree coverage in SCM.

It was a risky defence grid, but such was the reality of space warfare. No matter how bad-ass a ship was, it was still just a tin can in a hostile environment humans weren’t designed for. No amount of armour on a hull could withstand a railgun round nor the tungsten bullets of a PDW.

Could the Icarus really have counter-missile tech? If so, who gave it to them?  pondered Quintus.

A tiny ping signalled the arrival of the readout on the war-desk, and Quintus read over the report. Smiling, he looked over at Cicero.

“Confirmed sir. The Icarus IV has interceptor missiles for our torpedoes. I saw a small signature emerge from the rear of the Icarus when our Pilums were 10,000 clicks from impact. It split into two and the four managed to successfully scramble both of our Pilums onboard computers.”

“Clever sonvuabitch. Icarus must have designed them.” said Quintus with admiration. “XO.”

“Sir?”

“Set a course for Arcturus Station. I want to be there as soon as possible.”

“Understood. Plotting a course for Arcturus. ETA … well, we’ll be there after the Icarus. Hopefully not before they leave … Sir.”

Quintus merely shook his head in bemusement, and went to the Aurelius’ mess, to grab a cup of coffee. It was going to be a long shift.

The Icarus IV kept on going, its’ journey unimpeded by any future threats, Kournikova inside breathing out a huge sigh of relief.

“You crazy son of a bitch. Never do that to me again!” she yelled at Raikkonen who spun around and gave her one of his rare smiles.

“It worked didn’t it?”

“Too damn close Jean! My God.”

“How close is Arcturus?” asked Raikkonen as he inspected his instrument panel.

“It’s close. We can probably nitro-burn it there now and still have enough time to refuel and recharge and get away from the ship behind us. It’ll be at least 2 days before we can dock with the Daedalus.”

Raikkonen nodded to himself. The sooner they were away with their cargo, the better.

Reading his thoughts, Kournikova called out “Jean? Want me to check on it?”

Shaking his head, he unbuckled himself from his seat and allowed his body to float in zero g. He would do it himself.

As he floated past Kournikova, he kissed her gently on the cheek before moving to the doors that led to the engine room.

As the doors slid open with a metallic hiss, he beheld his beautiful Icarus IV‘s modified MPDrive.

Shielded by reinforced glass to prevent radiation leakage as well as allow visual inspection, the glowing ice-blue MPDrive was an scientific breakthrough that was made spaceflight possible and colonisation of the outer reaches of the solar system a reality.

Shaped like an cylinder, the core of the MPDrive was a centrifugal system, that allowed for the burn of the element known as “nitro”, a highly rare and stable fuel that granted vessels two types of speeds, sublight and NFTL (Near Faster Than Light) travel or more colloquially known as “nitro-burns”.

Current development of the MPDrive was still underway, with many scientists saying that they could still unlock more speed out of the engine. Raikkonen, with his modifications, owned one of the fastest vessels ever made in human history, courtesy of stolen Martian space-tech but even he knew that to push it further would risk destroying his spacecraft.

Nitro whilst highly efficient could only be “burned” for so long. This was the key problem with the MPDrives. The engines could only sustain a nitro-burn for a set amount of time, before its’ nitro supply would deplete. Pilots had to be extremely careful with such burns, otherwise they would risk floating in space for an eternity.

So many Formula 0 racers had overestimated their nitro-burns, and thus DNF (Did Not Finish) their races, not accounting for the supply needed to sustain reasonable sublight speeds.

However the Icarus IV had a glaring weakness. Whilst its NFTL speeds were the fastest ever built, its’ sublight speed was woefully inadequate, thus Raikkonen was forced to store a large abundance of nitro onboard, to “nitro-jump” most of his races, using controlled bursts of speed to gain and maintain distance on his rivals.

This weakness was what allowed the RMSMC Aurelius to catch up, its’ quartet of  MPDrives sublight speed much quicker than the Icarus IV‘s. However, due to Martian doctrine, it could only nitro-burn in the most desperate situations.

In spite of its’ poor sublight speeds, Raikkonen loved his Icarus IV. It was his pride and joy, his one true love, beyond Kournikova.

Icarus allowed him to escape Earth, venture amongst the stars and almost touch the sun.

But he had risked it all, for the crimson red cylinder that was secured in a strong  metallic case, attached to the wall of the Icarus‘ hull.

This is the future thought Raikkonen as he checked over the case and saw the 5 green lights, indicating its’ structural integrity.

What is in this case, could revolutionise everything. Time itself will be faster.

Patting the case gently, he spun around weightlessly and moved back to his chair and strapped the harness around his chest.

Giving Kournikova the thumbs up, he watched as she flicked him the trajectory to Arcturus Station and they both felt their chairs recline down, to lock itself into place as Raikkonen commenced the nitro burn.

G-forces slammed the breath out of their chests, and the Icarus IV’s blue MPDrive glowed icy white as nitro burned and the engine began to spin faster and generate more and more energy.

Raikkonen and Kournikova allowed the Icarus IV‘s auto-pilot to take over, as their bodies slowly succumbed to the immense G-forces and knocked them out, sinking their world into a high-pitch screams of engines and darkness.

Onboard the RMSMC Aurelius, Praetor Quintus and his crew could only stare in astonishment as the Icarus IV literally rocketed off their screens and sensors and into the emptiness of space.

So that’s the power of a Formula 0 racer mused Quintus.

Author’s Note

Apologies for the delay in between posts.

My schedule is now more or less normal, so I hope to keep pumping this out soon. I might do a bit of different writing just to get my juices flowing again, but I will not be abandoning this world.

~ Damocles. 

Quite possibly one of my favourite shape-ship design ever, the Razorback from The Expanse TV Series. The whole series just has a fantastic aesthetic to all their spacecraft. 

It is the year 2279.

Humanity is now master and commander of the entire Sol region of the Milky Way, with colonies that stretch all the way to Uranus. 

Mars is now a Empire, calling itself the Royal Martian Systems (RMS), ruled by a mysterious Emperor obsessed with Ancient Roman mythology and culture. 

Earth is a shadow of its’ former self, governed by the United Nations Federation, clinging to former glory, deeply beset by internal in-fighting amongst various factions vying for power.

Both sides are locked in a cold war, limited only by their technology, which revolves around Magnetic Pulse Drives (MPDrives), advanced engines that can achieve nearly 10% the speed of light. 

MPDrives require highly specialised minerals, known as Nitro, that allow the engine to burn at steady rates across large distances. While the mineral has an extremely long half life, this has sparked a resource-race, reminiscent of oil in humanity’s past, for reserves of Nitro. 

Controlling this race, is the Quintant Mining Corporation, greedily monopolising the few reserves that can be found across the Sol system, trading with both sides with impunity.

This is the world of Sol, a solar system that shows, even with the ability to engage the stars, humanity will never truly learn to live together. 

~ 

Europa floated gently on its axis, its bone-white surface, marked by thousands of soft brown cracks and streaks, a serenely beautiful moon, oblivious to the drama several thousands kilometres above its’ icy crust. 

Jean “Iceman” Raikkonen glared at the blue holographic screen that showcased the trajectory of his beloved Icarus IV, as it rocketed through Europa’s gravitational pull, using the orbit as a sling to accelerate further out into the vastness of space.

A warning alarm pealed loudly in his ears, as he felt immense G-forces assault his body. Behind him, Raikkonen could hear the pained gasp of his co-pilot, Lada “Frost” Kournikova as their chairs injected a cocktail of drugs into their necks, to prevent blacking out.

With such immense force being applied to their body, Raikkonen and Kournikova could only stare at their screens, and watch as their racing craft began to peel away from the malignant blip behind them, until it was out of immediate danger.

Raikkonen, using the armrest controls, gently began to ease the acceleration of the Icarus IV, and ever so slightly, the huge weight on their body began to ease, as the vessel began the process of deceleration.

Kournikova’s thick Martian accent came from behind; deep, low, husky and gravelly.

“Do you think we lost them?”

Raikkonen stared at the holo screen, and shook his head, even though he knew Kournikova couldn’t really see it.

“No. We’re still in range of their scopes and missiles.”

Kournikova looked at her own screen, doing mental calculations of the distance between them and the pursuing vessel.

Frowning at the result in her mind, she pulled up a star-map, and began to look over the Icarus IV, noting the fuel load, and the stress the vehicle was under and where it was in relation to other colonies.

Kournikova found herself sweating profusely, nerves and fear and exhilaration racing through her body. Gingerly lifting her right hand against the G forces, she pressed a button on the left side of her suit, and felt her skin tighten as it was sucked against her suit, voiding the interior clear of sweat.

Sighing, she turned her attention to the screen again, and noted the critical systems status.

“We still got our full payload of counter-measures and enough Nitro to make it to Arcturus Station.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.” said Raikkonen quietly.

“OK. Let’s do it. If we continue this speed to maintain distance, and we should be able to Nitro-burn the final straight to Arcturus. I think.” said Kournikova, as she punched in the necessary calculations.

Spinning on a gimbal, Raikkonen turned his chair around and looked at his co-pilot in the eye. It was rare for her to second guess herself. But then the entire scenario they were in was alien to them. It was his idea to pull this off. His responsibility.

Kournikova looked through the holo screen, and felt her fear begin to fade, as she beheld her best friend’s blue eyes.

“Everything will be alright Frost.” said Raikkonen calmly, and holding out his hand, he squeezed Kournikova’s gloved hand reassuringly before readdressing his screen.

Shaped like an arrowhead, the Icarus IV was a crimson-silver bullet in space. Raikkonen affectionately once called it “an MPDrive with seats” and in essence, that was all it was.

Like most Formula 0 racing crafts, it was extremely lightweight, durable enough for the rigours of high G-force turns and reliable in most circumstances. Equipped with retrorockets near the base of the MPDrive’s main thruster, it could effortlessly spin around in any direction, and re-engage its MPDrive within a second of shut-off.

Yet acceleration was its primary purpose, capable of nearly 11% the speed of light, however after extensive modifications by Raikkonen and Kournikova, it was now on the apex of achieving 12%. But such speeds were unable to be proven, as both pilots would black out before they could hit such velocities.

With its’ distinct crimson and silver livery, the Icarus IV was a legendary racer, having already won several Formula 0 Grand Prixs and setting the fastest lap records for multiple inter-planetary-courses.

Which was why, the Captain of the RMSMC Aurelius was so utterly confused as to the reason why his ship, the flagship of the Martian Marine Corps, was chasing it.

At an imposing 2 metres and 20 centimetres tall, Praetor Deckard Quintus was as typical as a Martian could get; dark features, a tall, lean muscular frame and a deep guttural voice.

Aged 45, Quintus was one of the Marine Corps youngest and most exemplary officers/strategists. His numerous victories against several smuggling crews and pirates vessels earned him the title of Praetor, one of the highest honours bestowed upon anyone in the Royal Martian Systems, a rank only succeeded by Consul. 

Taciturn, experienced, unflinchingly loyal to his men, and a surprising teetotaller, Deckard Quintus was a typical example of the type of men and women that were lost to Earth, during the Mars Revolt against the UNF.

As Quintus stared down at his war-desk, the Captain’s station on the bridge of the RMSMC Aurelius, his XO, Marcus Vorenus, came alongside him and saluted.

Looking across at the slimmer, younger man, who Quintus treated like a son, despite not ever having any children, he raised an eyebrow in question.

Marcus gestured at the war desk, and Quintus opened the readout his XO had sent.

“Arcturus Station hmm?” mused Quintus.

“Yes sir. We compared their Nitro load to other typical Formula 0 racing craft, and based on their current velocity, and trajectory, that is their most likely destination.” said Vorenus, curtly.

“Any chance we can make it there before them?” queried Quintus, with bemusement, knowing full well the answer.

Vorenus smiled back. “No sir. Definitely not.”

“Pity. If we can’t race them, give me options to slow them down.” said Quintus, with a wolfish smile, wondering which of the Aurelius weapon platforms could perform the job.

Vorenus walked over to the weapon specialist, Aiko Cicero, a tall, attractive young Asiatic woman who was now busy flicking through multiple options.

“What do you have for me, Principales Cicero?” asked Vorenus.

“Sir, they are out of our SCM (Space Combat Manoeuvring) range, so our only option is to use our torpedoes and set it to proximity.” replied Aiko

“What are the odds, it will destroy Icarus IV?”

“If we detonate 10,000 clicks ahead, it should be OK. At the very least, it will cause them to slow down or take evasive manoeuvres. We can always direct the missile away, further sir.” said Aiko confidently.

Vorenus clapped Aiko’s shoulders and reported the news back to the Quintus.

Nodding his approval, Quintus gave the order.

“Fire, 2.”

“2 torpedoes. Understood sir.” Aiko glanced at her holographic screen and with a flourish, tapped a button.

“Torpedoes away. Controlling proximity detonation.”

Seen from the outside, the RMSMC Aurelius was a incredible feat of engineering, a true military vessel, that had little penchant for flair, except in its brutal aesthetic. Coloured in orange and black, after its’ homeworld’s distinctive soil, the Aurelius was one of the most advanced and sophisticated warships ever conceived by man.

Essentially a tree-trunk styled vessel, with 4 large MPDrives at its base, and featuring multiple railgun turrets with a sharply defined nose section, the Aurelius was classified as a Decurion-class frigate, one of the biggest sized vessels in the system, dwarfed only by the Centurion-class capital ship.

The Aurelius’ front bays opened, and out shot two Pilum torpedoes, glowing blue as they engaged their small MPDrives, accelerating quickly and shot out in pursuit of the Icarus IV.

Author’s Note

This is the first time, I have ever ventured into the sci-fi genre and what a ridiculous struggle it was. I don’t think I have ever even tried to build a world before.

I realise now, how easy it is, to get lost into the descriptions of things, and lose sight of the characters.

I scrubbed this story, 5 times, before being satisfied with how it starts. That meant 5 attempts to write the first 400 words and deleting it all to start afresh.

Fans of The Expanse show will see obvious parallels. I truly tried to differentiate it, but since I am currently watching it, and was so inspired by it to write sci-fi because of it, I ended up borrowing almost everything.

Hopefully by the second chapter, I will be able to start pumping differences between this story and The Expanse, but I love the show so much, that I suspect this will just seem like a hollow fan fic story.

I will also start reading The Expanse stories relatively soon, because …. you can’t write sci-fi without reading sci-fi.

I will probably need 2 days to write chapters, instead of pumping them out day by day, because this is such a challenge for me to write.

I don’t know how many parts this will be either and I am definitely concerned I will run out of good images to use for this story.

Anyway, I got to think about the next chapter.

~ Damocles

Alex Ryder walked in, his heartbeat abnormally fast, his mind whirring at a thousand thoughts a minute, and his hands clenched into fists.

Liverpool guided Alex into the centre of the apartment, which was spacious, and had two connecting rooms; a bedroom and a bathroom. Like most modern designs, it was all about clean lines, a simple contrasting colour theme (black, white, grey, with a splash of dark brown) and slightly dull aesthetics.

It was as sterile an environment as it could get.

Flat Cap sat on a couch nearby, inspecting a small suppressed pistol, his hands at ease with the weapon.

“Easy mate. Our boss will be with us temporarily. He’s just dealing with a Frenchman at the moment. Why don’t you take a seat?” said Liverpool cordially.

Flat Cap pulled a chair from the nearby kitchen and slid it into the centre of the room.

“Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you. We just want to talk.” intoned Flat Cap candidly.

Alex sat down, wondering where the hell Eveline could be. Thinking to himself, how he allowed this to happen.

Liverpool and Flat Cap watched with amusement, at Alex’s fury. Liverpool even placed a placating hand on Alex’s shoulder.

“It’s alright mate. Everything will be explained soon.”

A knock at the door stiffened both men.

Liverpool checked the peephole, whilst Flat Cap hid the pistol behind his leg.

Motioning the all-clear, Flat Cap relaxed and Liverpool opened the door to reveal a mountain of a man.

At an imposing 2 metres tall, with a muscular frame, and dark eyes, the Jackal looked like if a bodybuilder was smashed into a scholar, his face was avuncular and intelligent, with soft brown eyes and a wry smile playing across his lips.

Expensive glasses were perched atop a sharply bridged nose, and the Jackal dressed more like a university professor out on a forest stroll than a highly trained, and lethal mercenary.

A dark brown tweed coat bedecked the muscular body, with a striped blue/green soft wool scarf tied loosely around his neck. A handsome classic umbrella was held loosely in his huge tanned hand, and in the other, gripped a large briefcase.

The Jackal, when he spoke, had a soft deep voice, his tone and inflection curiously flat. He spoke English, but without any trace of an accent. Not Australian, not English like his henchmen, and certainly not American.

It was a truly neutral accent. A voice you would hear in a strange forgettable dream.

“Alex Ryder. Private Investigator. I’ve been following your hunt with great interest. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alex said nothing, as the Jackal came in, and gently placed the briefcase on the kitchen table, and grabbed a chair to sit in front of Alex.

“I must say, when I came after the former Francois Dujardin, I didn’t expect that there would be so many players involved in this … quest for a Cezanne.” said the Jackal with slightly bemusement.

Alex’s emerald eyes narrowed at the use of the word “former.”

“Oh yes. He … won’t be joining us. He has lost his usefulness. A pity. I would have liked to have seen the little stash that he kept hidden away. But I find myself unable to crack the code.”

The Jackal reached behind him and grabbed the briefcase off the table, and popped it open to reveal a convincing fake of The View Auvers-sur-Oise.

Alex stared at it. So this was the tiny 46cm by 55cm painting that had everyone searching and upturning Melbourne for.

“I think both you and I are aware this is a fake. The late Mr Dujardin kept two copies of this lovely painting. He commissioned a fake one so that he could actually keep one in his house, however, he never did so. He kept both in his vault.”

“How do you know it’s a fake?” asked Alex, curious despite himself, drawn in by the landscape.

“It lacks Paul Cezanne’s signature here, in the bottom left corner. Plus the brushwork is a little bit sloppier than the real one. However, the artist did an overall good job. I am impressed. A lesser student might not have been able to tell the difference.” said the Jackal softly.

Placing the replica away gently, the Jackal handed the briefcase to Liverpool who took it away.

“You may be wondering, what this all has to do with you, Mr Ryder. Well, the thing is … Ms Eveline Winston has actually double-crossed you. She sent you here, and promised Francois Dujardin that she would wait for him in this very room as well.”

Alex swallowed hard and felt fury like he had never experienced before.

“We actually were very surprised that you turned up. We knew that Dujardin was meeting us at the Central Pier, but I am sure you can imagine our shock when Ms Winston wasn’t in this room, that we found this room empty.”

“We were vastly disappointed of course, that you turned up. But it does allow us to dot the i and cross the ts.” smiled the Jackal.

“I already have Ms Winston’s phone number. I’ve tracked it. It’s at the bottom of the Docklands pier. So I doubt we’ll see any more of her.” said the Jackal with cold amusement.

A trace of emotion crept into the Jackal’s voice.

“I’ve spent the better part of a year chasing this painting, Mr Ryder. It has always been my desire to secure a Master’s work for myself. I will only ask you this once.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Alex ran through all the clues and decided to tell the truth. Survival was paramount here, not his revenge or anger.

“No, I don’t.”

The Jackal’s copper brown eyes scanned analytically over Alex’s emeralds.

Nodding to himself, he stood up and motioned to Flat Cap.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut.

Soft chuckles erupted from Flat Cap and Liverpool, which prompted Alex to open his eyes again.

To his surprise, his laptop was in his lap.

The Jackal looked at Alex seriously.

“I believe you. I suppose my only way to the Cezanne is to find Eveline hmm?”

Alex nodded wordlessly, fear and shock still burning through his system.

“Thank you for your assistance Mr Ryder. I don’t need the access Mr Dujardin’s stash. However, if you would indulge me, how do you solve his encryption?”

Alex took a ragged breath and softly replied “Caesar’s cipher.”

The Jackal smiled coldly and looked up momentarily.

“Ah yes. Niagara Lane. Most clever.” he whispered.

With a cold nod, the Jackal left the room, and Liverpool and Flat Cap, smiling in his wake, gave mock salutes to Alex and disappeared with the mercenary.

Alex stared at the open door, before rousing himself and grabbing his laptop and wondering what the hell just happened.

Tucking his laptop under his peacoat, Alex was about to leave, when he realised that the Jackal had left the fake painting behind.

You’re not going to get paid anyway. To hell with it. thought Alex, and he grabbed the briefcase, opened it, and tucked his laptop under to stop it from getting wet from the rain and then left the accursed Docklands to head home, on a lonely tram ride, with another precious cargo on his lap.

~ A month later.

The Atrium on 35 was Alex’s favourite haunt. A drink there was an affront to his bank account, but he had recently solved another case, involving a cheating husband and his concerned wife, so the bank app showed that he was flush with funds for now.

It wasn’t going to last long at the rate he was burning through classic cocktails at the Atrium, but the spectre of Eveline, and the Cezanne still lingered in his mind, so he needed more.

Set inside one of Melbourne’s most exclusive hotels, the Sofitel, the Atrium on 35 was a luxuriously quiet and elegant bar, that mixed Arabesque elements into its interior design and boasted the best toilets with a view in the entire of Melbourne.

Going into a toilet, was like stepping into a room made of glass, and it offered spectacular views of the MCG, and Parliament, often stunning patrons who were about to relieve themselves, only to be distracted by the magnificent scenery.

The Atrium on 35 itself was decorated by gorgeous gold diaphanous silk that hung from invisible wires, creating waves above the seated occupants, and beautiful amber honey lighting from the enormous roof above, lending the entire proceedings with a rich, private vibe.

The bar itself was circular, and it served classic cocktails, like Mojitos or New York Sours to grateful hotel patrons or diners who had just left the No35 Restaurants. Alex was a well known patron, the manager often reserving a private space near the edge of the bar, so that he could enjoy his drinks alone and in silence.

Nursing a neat whiskey, Alex stared at the amber liquid, forlornly considering the case that nearly killed him and robbed him of his dignity.

His paranoia was also at an all-time high, his nightmares often involving Flat Cap and Liverpool following him, causing him to always check behind him and walk around the block twice, before meeting anyone now.

Worse, Eveline’s blue eyes still haunted him, the scent of her perfume, the soft warmth of her curvaecous body and the taste of her crimson lips tormenting him with their broken promises whenever he tried to sleep.

As Alex took another sip, and tried to chase the buzz, his phone vibrated next to him.

Hoping it was a new case, Alex opened the message and frowned.

It was his bank, telling him that a lump sum had just been deposited into his account.

Enough to cover 9 month worth of bills.

Enough to grant him opportunities to eat out more and afford better clothes.

Enough to live like a stable person.

Plus change.

His phone vibrated again. An unknown number. No identity.

Alex thumbed the text open, his heart beating quicker as he recognised the tone. He heard her soft voice in his mind as he read the text.

 

Alex.

As promised, here is the money I signed off to you, plus a little bonus.

No doubt, you’re probably wondering whether I meant anything of the last text I sent to you.

Some of it rang true at the time. But you know how it is. I don’t think anyone else understood that about me. You did, just for a little bit. That was enough.     

You won’t hear from me again.  

But I am grateful.

E.

 

Alex’s finger hovered over the delete trash-can icon … but he ultimately didn’t press it.

Instead he locked the phone, took another sip of his whiskey and thought about the fake Cezanne that hung over his office.

He knew whose signature deserved to be on that painting.

Feeling the demons subside a little bit, Alex could sense that closure was all he really needed, even if it came from a cold bitch like Eveline Winston.

Studying the amber liquid in his glass, Alex gave a rueful smile and raised his glass in an imaginary salute.

Bye bye, blackbird. Enjoy the view.

Author’s Note.

That concludes my first attempt at writing a proper short story in a long, long time.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed what has essentially been a live-crafting of a first draft for a story.

I know there are plenty of errors, from “past/present senses” switching, and probably numerous spelling mistakes, as I wrote this on a far less precise keyboard at work, whilst serving customers at my retail job.

However, I am overall pleased with how everything turned out. I wanted it to end on a bittersweet note, as is the common thread with most crime noir stories, especially the ones by the great Raymond Chandler, who, whether I realised it or not, had a huge influence on my writing style for this story.

I will write a reflection piece that dives deeper into the crafting of this story, but for now, this note is about this final part, which proved really difficult to write and tie up.

I actually had to think hard and write down notes for this chapter, something unheard of me, as usually I follow whatever hops into my mind. I rarely ever script things in advance, I tend to let things unravel.

So this chapter was a bit uncharacteristic of my writing style and approach.

I originally had Eveline tied up in the room, and somehow Alex would contrive to rescue her and himself from the Jackal, Flat Cap and Liverpool.

But that didn’t fit the narrative, the whole “explosive” ending that I felt cheapened and made it too Hollywood.

Instead, I dove deeper into Eveline’s character, what type of person she is. If she truly is the femme fatale I wanted her to be, it only made sense that she would double-cross Alex in the end with the bait.

Alex, still in love with what might have been between them, would go and be confronted by a cleverer villain in the Jackal.

After all, she only sleeps with Alex, because she wants to manipulate him and Francois into working for her. But there is a strange connection there, so hence she gives him the money in the end.

I will explain in deeper details about characters and how I originally planned it all out, in my reflection piece!

However, a big thank you for all who have been reading along so far. I hope it’s been entertaining and that this ending wasn’t too much of a bust for you.

~ Damocles.

 

Alex stared at the grimy screen, a borrowed pen in his mouth, as he looked at the precious excel sheet. 

He had lost his laptop and now his phone to Francois and Eveline. This left him with no choice but to spend a dollar at the nearest 24 hour gaming lounge.

All around him, the cacophony of mechanical keyboards, and optical mouses rattled away, as young men tapped away at their computers, oblivious to the private investigator searching for a Cezanne.

The room smelt rough, with cheap deodorant, spicy 2-minute noodles and arid energy drinks suffusing the atmosphere.

Chairs squeaked as gamers rocked back and forth, thoroughly engaged in their virtual world; numbers, lights and colours flashing across their tired, intent faces.

Alex jotted down on his notepad, and finally broke the 4 cryptic sentences and the strange caption that ran across the first Excel sheet. He arranged the letters and in a grid, fascinated as he saw one of the first examples of cryptography come to brilliantly to life, Roman ingenuity at its most innovative.

To solve the cipher, Alex merely arranged the long sentences atop of one another and read down.

CIPHER:

3AAEETOONO1A.

1GLBMAVMAN2S.

NAAAELEBT39H.

IRNSNCCCII19M.

 

CAPTION:

VOVUS

IFERE

EASOC

WUSIZ.

 

SOLUTION: 

31NIAGARALANEBASEMENTALCOVECOMBINATION311299ASHM 

VIEWOFAUVESSUROISECZ 

 

Alex added in the spaces.

31 NIAGARA LANE BASEMENT ALCOVE COMBINATION 31 12 99 ASH M

VIEW OF AUVES SUR OISE CZ

Logging off the PC, Alex dashed out, and began his run from QV to the small, cobblestone alleyway, that held the Cezanne.

Alex ran down Londsdale street, the small decline in the topography of Melbourne assisting his speed. Buses blurred past him, as did hundreds of waiting passengers. A couple in a ramen shop, stopped slurping noodles for a second, as they beheld Alex in a full blown sprint, blast past their window and nearly careen into a mother with a pram.

Tram drivers pealed angrily as Alex sped across the tracks on Swanston St, and was now surging his way past Uniqlo and the iconic skyway that linked the two major shopping hubs, Emporium and Melbourne Central above him.

Two blocks were covered in less than 5 minutes, as Alex panted his way down, through Elizabeth Street and then up a small incline towards Niagara Lane.

A young, pretty girl, exiting the local Korean grocer, gave a muffled scream of surprise behind her face mask, as Alex shot his way up, nearly scattering her groceries everywhere.

Alex saw the blue and white sign ahead and performed a hard left turn at Club Retro, the loud disco music blasting the eardrums of a surprised bouncer who wondered why so many people were going down this alleyway.

Breathing hard, Alex pulled a powerful, rugged torch from the inside of his peacoat, and began to scan the alleyway.

Atypical of Melbournian alleyways, Niagara Lane was paved with uneven cobblestones that had a distinctive inward slant towards the middle, that allowed for drainage.

The lane itself, was wide, and featured several unique entrances to apartments, shops, and obscure law firms and private clubs. Small alcoves dug into the walls of the alleyway, with little concrete lips where people liked to smoke, obscuring the curious windows that allowed voyeuristic snapshots into basements.

31 Niagara Lane was signalled by a circular frame that proclaimed in faded gold text: 31.

To his disappointment, Alex was too late. The elaborate door, an imposing wooden modern design, was ajar, and the amber light inside left on, because doubtless Francois and Eveline had already absconded the premises.

However, clues needed to be found, so Alex found himself switching off his torch and wandering down the old concrete steps into a veritable valuables stash.

A shelf lined the wall on his left, a stout beautiful mahogany study table in the centre, against the back wall, and on his right, littered on tables, the floor and rudimentary shelves, were artworks and stolen antiquities. The rustic brick interior was beautifully lit and shadowed by an art-deco lamp, that cast a cheerful amber light over the entire cache.

Alex whistled to himself. Take one, no one will know it’s missing. said a voice in Alex’s head. I wouldn’t know what to do with one. answered Alex, as he held up an Impressionist piece.

Alex kept his eye on the open door behind him, as he looked around, paranoid that Flat Cap and Liverpool would enter and mess everything up. When he finally came to the back desk, he noted the wall safe next to it. It was locked.

Remembering the deciphered code, Alex keyed the code 311299 ASHM into the keypad and watched as the door slowly sung open on its hinges.

He was surprised by the sight of his phone lying there, in place of the Cezanne it would have held.

Frowning, he used his thumb to unlock the phone and saw that he had received a text message from Eveline.

Alex, 

I swear to you, that what happened between us, wasn’t nothing. There is something there, I promise. 

Francois and I are on our way to the Docklands, at the Central Pier. I didn’t tell Francois did, but when you used my laptop to access the files, I actually solved the cipher before we met and I already took the painting with me. 

Francois is currently holding a fake one, and just before the meeting with the Jackal I will disappear. 

If there is anything between you and me, if you feel the same way, please meet me at Astra Apartment 79.

Yours, 

Eveline. 

Alex frowned at the implications of the message.

Don’t do it said his mind.

Alex turned off the lamp in the treasure trove, and closed the door behind him as he re-entered the alleyway. Marking it in his mind, Alex felt torn between desire and paranoia.

Gritting his teeth, and knowing he had to see it to the end, Alex cut through more alleyways and made his way onto Bourke St, where he caught the 86 tram to Waterfront City, Docklands.

The tram was packed, filled with Melbournians who were quiet, silent and wet. Almost everyone had earphones in, their heads and hands subtly moving to the beat of their music. Alex watched as nearly three-quarters of the entire tram population got off at Southern Cross Station, Victoria’s most advanced looking train station, a mass of steel, glass and plastic, modern design at its finest.

He watched as people ducked for cover, as a deluge of water came rushing in, the soft howl of the wind abruptly cut short by the tram’s closing doors.

Enjoy this. thought Alex. In less than 10 minutes you’ll be doing the same thing as everyone else out there.

The tram slowly rolled past the huge Melbourne Police Station, the uniforms inside completely unaware of the treasure hunt that was happening in their precinct, before accelerating across a bridge that offered a spectacular view of the ever-pretty, but forever quiet Docklands.

The Docklands was evidence that no matter how much money is injected into an area, it is the people that drive popularity, not the other way around.

Despite the local government’s best efforts to drive the people into the area, from renovating the area into a glistening architectural hub of modern designs, creating Harbour Town with its affordable shops, and the huge Melbourne Star Ferris Wheel, no one lived there.

Apartments were highly affordable for those who worked in the city, but its emptiness,  lack of activity and the freezing chill that came in from the ocean caused the entire area to be disliked.

There was something strange and artificial about Docklands, as if it tried to capture everything Melbourne in an area, but failed to truly replicate its essence and unique style.

However it was pretty despite its artificial charm. The huge West Gate Bridge towered over the area, Melbourne’s very own Brooklyn Bridge, complete with imposing concrete towers that glittered red to warn incoming aircraft of its’ height.

The water was tranquil and still, playing host to dozens of expensive boats, and even a restaurant boat moored at the Central Pier.

It was an area that spoke to those who enjoyed solitude. The urban sprawl, the modern designs, the silent shops and the lack of people on the streets, created a strange ethereal atmosphere, that made you think you were alone in a pandemic that caused everyone on Earth to disappear.

Alex recalled all of this from his experience and time, as the tram slowly descended the bridge. He also wondered about how many bodies were going to be dropped into the docks before the end of the night.

Patting himself down, he knew that he had nothing to truly protect himself with. All he had was a pen, a notepad and his powerful flashlight.

A pitiful collection.

Sighing, he waited for the tram to stop, before walking out, the shimmering water reflecting moonlight across his face. Rain lashed away at him, and Alex popped the collar of his peacoat and began to make his way across, ignoring the Central Pier, where the deal between the Jackal and Francois was taking place.

He was walking directly towards a uniquely unattractive apartment complex, its’ white exterior marred by thousands of hole cut into its shell, to allow for windows and balconies. It was triangular in shape, but curved at all the sharp edges, creating a rounded effect to the entire structure.

The Astra Apartments was also in one of the quietest areas of Docklands, with barely any souls walking the streets after work hours. It was a place where empty shop windows featured nothing but promises to be filled and residents were eager to get home and never leave.

Alex ducked for cover under overhangs and the shadows of buildings whenever he could, trying to get less wet, as the rain intensified and his thoughts threatened to overwhelm him.

His silhouette presented a strange sight, under the bright lights and rain, a lonely figure on the streets of an empty city.

When Alex finally reached the Astra Apartments, he buzzed the apartment number, 79, the designation indicating the 7th floor, 9th room.

The electronic doors silently slid open, and Alex was greeted by ambient music, soft white lighting and modern aesthetics.

Calling for a lift, he could feel his heartbeat grow quicker and quicker, as he wondered whether he truly would see Eveline waiting for him.

Padding quietly across carpeted flooring, and an empty hallway, Alex knocked on door 79 and waited for the reveal.

A smile and a thick Liverpool accent greeted him.

“‘Hello luv. Come on in, we’re just about to fix tonight’s entertainment.” said Liverpool jovially.

Author’s Note

You ever write a story and find that it’s hard to wrap things up?

That’s what I’m going through.

If the finale is horrible, I apologise in advance.

If the final is decent, I too apologise in advance, because I should have made it perfect.

The end of the story is paramount to the success of whether people think it’s good or not.

I spent most of this part setting the stage for the finale.

Let’s hope it all pays off.

~Damocles.

 

Joel McNamara nee Francois Dujardin, stared at Alex, confusion etched across his handsome face.

The antithesis of Alex Ryder, Francois Dujardin was the consummate European gentleman, with attractive soft features, that made him more beautiful than handsome.

A strong patrician nose, high brow and luscious, wavy brown hair perfectly complemented the square jaw that had just the right amount of scruff.

He was impeccably dressed for a man on the run, with an expensive dark brown waistcoat, that contrasted well against his bone white dress shirt. The trousers matched the cut and colour of the waistcoat, and Francois had added a turquoise kerchief to the breast pocket.

In his frozen right hand, was a French crime book by Pierre Lemaitre, whilst his left hand grasped a Cabernet.

The differences between the gaunt Alex and the healthy Francois was like making a comparison between charity and welfare.

The only similarity they shared, were the intensity of their eyes, Francois’ sapphires matching the piercing quality of Alex’s emeralds.

“What the hell do you want?” shouted Francois with indignation, as he placed the book and wine glass down gently on a table to the side of the luxurious bed.

Alex looked at Francois coldly.

“A View of Auvers-sur-Oise, if you don’t mind.”

Francois’ eyes widened further, and he gasped “How do you know?”

“A goddess showed me.” said Alex drily.

“Merde.” whispered Francois under his breath. Recovering from his shock, Francois tried to re-establish the equilibrium.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr …. Ryder was it? If you don’t mind, starting from the beginning, as to how you found me, and who sent you, I would much appreciate it.”

Francois looked at Alex’s expression and hastily added “I won’t run, I swear.  You’ve caught me. I just want to know who sent you.”

Alex relented, but he kept his guard up, worried that Francois was hiding some kind of weapon in the drawer next to him.

“Eveline Winston.”

“Eveline …” whispered Francois. “Of course …”

Francois leapt off the bed and advanced towards Alex. Alex held his ground, prepared for an attack.

But instead Francois took him by the shoulder and urgently asked. “Is she alright? The Jackal hasn’t killed her yet has he?”

That’s the name of the mercenary thought Alex.

“No. She’s safe.”

“Thank God.”

An awkward silence descended on the room. Francois looked away from Alex’s unwavering gaze and began to pace the room. Alex, on his part, stayed silent, preferring to sweat Francois.

After what seemed like an age to Francois, he seemed to arrive at a decision and looked directly back at Alex.

“Do I have your word, you will not harm me if I show you the way?” implored Francois.

“Depends on whether you actually have it or not.” replied Alex.

“Believe me I do. It’s not here. I’ve hid it somewhere close and safe. But I can tell you the whole story behind this accursed Cezanne.” said Francois ruefully.

Alex checked his watch. He wanted to get Francois back towards Eveline, but a part of him wanted to hear the story of one of the most daring art thefts before the turn of the century. Giving in to his curiosity, Alex grabbed a chair from a baroque desk and motioned Francois to sit on the bed in front of him.

Francois, confused, sat down and was astonished when he heard the words; “Go on. Tell me.”

Francois found himself resisting at first, after all, who was this stranger to demand such information from him? But suddenly the urge to boast and tell a story he had kept hidden for years overtook him.

He had kept it within him for so long. It needed an appreciative audience. What better audience than the man who managed to crack and solve the secret vault he had made? Any man who had worked out his Venus de Milo secret was worthy of this tale.

But more importantly, it would also buy him time to formulate an escape plan. The private investigator may have earned his respect, but he would never deserve the prize.

Francois grabbed the Cabernet from the desk, swirled it in his mouth and swallowed. His voice was deep, articulate and wistful.

“I was much younger then. Younger and more skilled. By the time I was 25, I had already stolen lesser art from 7 museums around Europe. The papers called me le renard. For a time, I was famous. Everyone was looking for me, but none ever came close. I miss those days still.”

Francois saw the intent concentration on Alex’s face and knew he had him captive.

“But I longed for a bigger prize. My collection was not complete, without a master’s work. I love art, you see. I steal art because I obsess over them. I still remember being entranced by a lesser artist when I was much, much younger. I loved the brushwork, the serenity that comes with staring at a beautiful picture. My cravings only demanded more, after I stole my first one. I couldn’t stop at one painting. I need more to fill my bare private room.”

“It was then, I heard about a Cezanne being exhibited at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford University. The wonderful Paysage d’Auvers-sur-Oise. My collection was crying out for a landscape and a Master. This ticked all the boxes.”

Francois’ voice dropped slightly. He was walking down memory lane now.

“So I flew to England, along with two of my crew. Throughout our entire career, nothing had ever gone wrong. We didn’t use guns. We didn’t knock out guards. We went in, sliced the paintings out the frames and went out, with people none the wiser.”

“Security in the 90s could be defeated easily. I mean they let terrorists onboard planes with guns, so why wouldn’t they let a man with a box cutter into a museum?” laughed Francois.

Sipping his wine, Francois felt himself come alive as he relived the fateful night.

“This job was probably the easiest thing we had ever done. It was like stealing candy from a baby. We could not have found an easier mark. Everyone was out, celebrating the turn of the century. It was New Years Eve …”

“This gave us cover and would overwhelm the security guards. The Ashmolean at the time, was also undergoing repair works. So there was a scaffolding that we could climb to get to the roof.”

He paused, a smile creeping across his face. Alex stared intently at Francois, mentally matching the plan he had read on the Excel sheet to what he was hearing.

“We left our safehouse at 11pm, and took the bus to Oxford. Have you ever been Mr Ryder?”

“No? It’s a lovely campus. Lots of gorgeous old buildings and green grass everywhere. No matter where you look, it’s impossible not to be distracted by the history on display.”

“The Ashmolean Museum is equally attractive. I must say, whenever I think about iconic Museum designs, I always revert to that place. The walls, the columns, the frames they use … are exquisite. It’s the classic museum. If there were pictures in dictionaries, the Ashmolean would be next to the word museum.”

“But I’m getting off topic … forgive me. Where was I?” asked Francois, to the silent Alex.

“Oh yes … we were mingling with all the university students who were out and about ready to celebrate the New Year. We had all our equipment in our bags. We didn’t need much. Just a good hammer, a pick, a sharp Stanley knife, a rope ladder and a flashlight. One of my crew managed to source a smoke grenade from a mate of his in England. You know, those surplus stores?”

“Anyway, we partied with everyone else, and had a good time. We were meant to blend, and my God, did we blend. I think we all drank a bit too much. But it didn’t stop us.”

“At exactly 11.45, we made our way to the scaffolding, after jumping the fence. There were crowds of people everywhere, so no one noticed we were gone.”

“One of us stood guard outside, while the other guy would support me, as I made my way down through the skylight via the rope ladder. There was a very convenient air-conditioning unit that we tied the ladder to, so that made our life even easier.”

Francois’ voice was picking up in speed, his body excited to be reliving such drama.

“Boom!” exclaimed Francois with glee.

“We smashed the skylight with our hammer when everyone was lighting their fireworks. My comrade lit the smoke grenade and threw it inside. The smoke would obscure my movements, my face, the alarms and the cameras. I had walked the Ashmolean a hundred times before, so the moment my feet touched the ground, I knew exactly where to go.”

Francois mimed his movements.

“I ripped the painting off the wall and smashed the frame on the ground. This popped the priceless Cezanne right out from the frame and I barely had to cut anything.”

“Alarms were going off, but I didn’t care. Our plan was flawless. People who saw the smoke would assume it was a fire. Fireworks and crowds would delay the security response and cover all our noise.”

“All I had to do, was literally shove the painting in a large briefcase, clip it to my belt and climb up the ladder.”

“The whole job, took me 3 minutes. It was flawless. A masterpiece of thievery” exclaimed Francois.

“Security had no idea who or where we were. By the time they investigated and found out what we had done, we were already on a bus back to our house. We disappeared into the crowd, like a fox before dawn.”

Francois sat back and finished his Cabernet, a smug smile on his handsome face.

“It was that simple. 3 minutes was all it took for a Cezanne to end up in my hands. I often think back to that night and truly the stars aligned for me. It seemed like fate that, that Cezanne would end up in my possession.”

Alex sat back and evaluated the vain, arrogant Frenchman before him. A reality check was needed.

“So why do you want to sell it to the Jackal? What happened to you?”

Francois turned away in disgust, shame suffusing his face.

“One of my crew ratted me out. The cowardly bastard revealed where I was. The Jackal tracked me here. He was the one who killed Candice because I … messed up.”

“How?” asked Alex with more concern than he wanted to admit.

“You saw the CCTV footage on the SD card yes? We met, but I didn’t bring the painting. I thought I could fool him. I bought a poster instead.” groaned Francois.

“He saw through my stupid ruse straight away, he told me that I could either bring the real Cezanne, or watch another one of my girls die.”

“Eveline.” whispered Alex.

“Yes. Candice died because of my miserable stupidity.” breathed Francois. Anger ran across his blue eyes as he paced the room furiously.

“I refuse to see Eveline die for another one of my mistakes. The Jackal, gave me two weeks to bring the painting. But I need the SD card that I hid in my Venus. Unfortunately, I have been unable to go home, because of the murder case built against me.”

“But …” Francois continued “You saw it didn’t you? Do you have that card with you?”

“No” admitted Alex. “But I made a back-up.”

“Please, show me.” implored Francois.

Alex paused a beat, considering his options.

“No.” said Alex coldly.

Francois stared at Alex incredulously.

“No?”

“Not until you come with me, to meet Eveline. Then, we shall hunt for the Cezanne.”

“Wouldn’t that just put her in more danger?” asked Francois.

“If you love her, you’ll protect her.” replied Alex, struggling to keep his own feelings in check.

Francois sighed. “Very well. Let me get my coat.”

Alex waited, and without losing sight of Francois, he texted Eveline.

MEET ME ON COLLINS ST AT THE DOME. I FOUND HIM. 7PM.

Francois, now layered up with a long coat, walked out in front of Alex, and they both bid farewell to the Pink Palace, as Francois fired up the gold Renault and drove to the city in silence.

Pulling up into the central business district, Alex noted that the rain that had plagued him this entire case was still prevalent, its’ rhythm forever etched into his mind, as he looked up and down Collins street, wary of Flat Cap and Liverpool. There were hundreds of people everywhere, most of them eager to get home and out of the rain.

All sorts of colours were represented by umbrellas, as they bobbed up and down, weaving to and fro, avoiding people, avoiding other umbrellas and street furniture.

A tram buzzed past the pair of them, its’ plaintive bell pealing at jay-walkers who crossed the street with reckless abandon. Taxi cabs honked at each other, as a poor newcomer to the Melbourne struggled with the concept of hook turns at a busy intersection.

The Dome on Collins St, was an architectural marvel. The mosaic-tiled floor, was already arresting enough, but it was the Domed Chamber that stole the breath away, with its Baroque and Italianate elements, the arches, windows and pillars cascading together to create elegant, intricate symmetry.

Beneath the natural shafts of dying grey light that came through the windows, stood Alex Ryder and Francois Dujardin, two men whose fates were now connected by a woman and a painting.

As they waited to the side of the main doors, Alex kept a watchful eye on the elegant surroundings; the distinctive flooring of the Dome issuing a sharp clacking noise as women in heels strutted past the pair.

The distinctive soundscape soon became mundane, as Eveline walked in from the other side of the Dome, her beauty apparent, as yellow lights from old-fashioned lamps reflected across her pale skin.

Francois’ breath caught in his throat, while Alex did his best to control his jealousy. The night of passion they shared must have meant little to her, as she walked towards them, her blue eyes fixed on Francois.

Francois ran towards her and held her tight, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso, as they hugged under the Dome. Alex noted that the kiss was equally rapturous.

They make a beautiful couple thought Alex traitorously to himself. He allowed himself a rueful smile, and began to mentally shove his feelings into a box, to be processed later or perhaps even better, never.

Francois turned back to Alex and and motioned, without letting go of Eveline’s hand.

Alex wordlessly handed over his phone. Francois smiled in triumph as he opened the excel sheet that he had designed, before glaring at Alex to step back.

Alex hesitating, relented and stood out of earshot.

Francois turned back to Eveline, and began to whisper urgently, not knowing that Alex had activated a voice-recorder on his phone and was currently listening via a bluetooth headset.

“I created this map years ago, using a simple encryption system, that only I know. I didn’t trust my comrades back then, but I trust you, Eveline. I am so happy that you are not hurt. I’m truly sorry that I bought you into this whole mess of mine.”

Eveline, nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

“This is the key to this map, all you have to do is remember’s Caesar’s Box. Always place everything in 4 grids and it is very easy to solve. OK? Now, we have to lose this detective. You must come with me. I can take you to the painting and we can run away together my sweet.”

Eveline looked over at Alex, who was looking back at her, with an open expression. She tried to convey something to him, but it was futile.

Looking back at Francois, she nodded.

“What should we do?” she whispered.

“Distract him, then run out the door. I will have the car ready for us.” promised Francois.

Eveline nodded and was about to walk over to Alex, when he held up a hand and tapped the headset to the side of his head. They both stared at him, shocked.

Alex smiled coldly at the pair before running out, shoving the great doors open and disappearing into the street.

Francois swore and grabbed Eveline, and they ran out, but it was too late. Alex had already disappeared into the rush-hour crowd.

Author’s Note

This was difficult. You take 2 days off from the story and suddenly you feel like your writing is awful.

When your hand is off the rhythm, suddenly a lot of things don’t flow, and your morale takes a hit.

It wasn’t until I reread and edited certain parts, I actually realised, that it wasn’t as horrible as it seemed.

I apologise for the delay in the delivery of this part. But I got my hand back on the throttle and things should be a bit quicker now.

The main focus of this part was to flesh out the main antagonist, and make him oddly endearing. Francois turned out to be a very difficult character to write, as I wasn’t quite sure how to make his dialogue smooth.

But I tried and I keep forgetting that this is my first attempt to write a short story in a very long time. It’s not meant to be perfect. It’s just designed to get me writing again, consistently and fluidly every day.

So apologies if the quality of each part varies a lot from shite to decent, and then back to shite again.

~ Damocles. 

It was the next day, and Alex found himself alone, cold and sleep deprived. 

The passion that had fuelled last night had worn off and Alex found himself longing for the warmth of Eveline’s slim body as his body shuddered in the cold dark, and he padded naked to the shower to restore some heat in his body.

She had disappeared shortly after they made love twice, citing that she needed to prepare for work the next day.

“Promise me, you won’t keep me in the dark, Alex.” she had whispered as they laid intertwined on his small single bed, pale moonlight shining through, and illuminating her blue eyes.

Alex had silently nodded, his paranoia still screaming in his mind. He didn’t trust himself anymore. Things were moving so rapidly that he wasn’t sure how to feel, behave or act.

Eveline sealed his lips with a kiss, before slipping her clothes on and walking away with her laptop.

Alex didn’t sleep at all, choosing to stare at the ceiling and just appreciate sex for the first time in many years.

When he felt energised to move again, he booked a PC at the local internet cafe and went through the footage, making a phone call to trace the garbage truck’s route with an irate operator.

By the time it was 5am, Alex was jumping onto a train, to the city where he would walk the rest of the way to South Melbourne.

He had passed through the suburb earlier, on his tram trip to St Kilda, but he was venturing on the elite side of the neighbourhood, with its’ high rises, corporate buildings, and brothels.

The entire area, was split by St Kilda Road, in which multiple tram tracks and roads ran down, into the centre of the Melbourne CBD. On one side, it was dominated by the Royal Botanic Gardens, a beautiful parkland that was guarded by the Shrine of Remembrance, a stunning replica of the ancient Wonder, known as the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.

It’s presence, a sobering reminder of the ANZACs that fought for Australia since its inception, a place all too familiar to Alex.

However Alex was walking on the other side, a strip that boasted luxurious apartments like the Melburnian, with its sweeping, ultra modern sleek design, and another reminder of his past, the Victoria Barracks, its tall stout brick exterior betraying nothing within.

However, the true undercurrent that always accompanied the military, were the numerous brothels hidden and scatted amidst all this honour and prestige. They could be found tucked next to tall buildings, their single storey design, unassuming and innocuous, barely risque signs at the front, with vague promises, like The Cherry Blossom. 

Alex, already harbouring suspicions about Francois’ whereabouts, had already googled the Pink Palace, and noted that it was not on the route that the garbage-men took. However, the brothel was only less than a kilometre away at certain points.

Candice the Collateral thought Alex, as he recalled the image of the slain prostitute whose services Joel nee Francois frequented. She was attractive in a heroin chick sort of fashion. Her features were similar to Kate Moss in her hey-day, with sharp cheekbones, straight blonde hair, doe-eyes and a sensual mouth that was perfected by a small sharp chin.

The similarities between Eveline and Candice’s facial structures were striking, however Eveline’s eyes were far too cold and intelligent, giving her a razor-sharp maturity and mystery. Her figure was a classic hourglass, the silhouette strong and curvaceous.

Candice’s eyes, even in death, were tragic and soft, her body more girly, with smaller breasts and a slimmer profile hinting at innocence and purity, an irony considering her job.

The two women provided a fascinating dichotomy in Francois’ taste and an insight into the man himself.

It also solved the mystery as to who the red Agent Provocateur bra belonged to. It was Candice’s.

Wondering what she might have been like, Alex kept walking along the garbage truck route, as the rain slowly intensified until it reached its zenith, before subsiding into a soft mellow rhythmic pitter-patter that coincided with his footfalls in puddles.

His peacoat soaked through, Alex ignored the water that sluiced its’ way down his neck, and kept following the route, until he finally came across an alleyway.

The emerald eyes widened in recognition as he recalled the work car that was parked behind, and the angle of the bins.

Taking a brief look at the front, the shop that had all the drama, revealed itself to be Alan Grant’s Antiquities, a store that specialised in European furniture and French decor.

Alex smiled to himself, and wandered around the back, looking for clues.

The footage from the video played constantly in his mind, as he mimed it, in the drizzling rain, and paid extra care as to whether he could see any tracks left behind by Francois’ Renault.

Determining there was nothing he could discern, Alex looked hard at the rear door and the size of the alleyway. Making a face of consternation at the mental calculations he performed in his head, Alex moved away and began to make a beeline to the Pink Palace.

He took the most direct route, pretending that he was driving a gold Renault, and to his shock, after 15 minutes of walking he saw such a car parked at the Pink Palace.

Incredulously, he walked closer to the hatchback, and confirmed the number plate.

9KM 87L – Victoria The Place to Be.

Was this really where Francois, the man who was accused of murdering his mistress, was hiding?

Was the art thief on the run from a shady Mercenary, cavorting his way through women?

After all this searching, had Alex really found the notorious owner of a Cezanne?

Alex, remembering his encounter with Flat Cap and Liverpool, kept ambling past the Pink Palace, painstakingly checking his tail for a solid walk around the block, before walking back to the Renault, which was parked at the rear entrance of the Palace.

Alex, shaking his coat to get it something akin to dry, walked in and was assailed by 70s nostalgia and neon pink.

Disco was playing softly, the music giving a fun and energetic vibe to the brothel, emphasising the carefree nature of the transaction that was about to take place.

Amber striped walls, with erotic photos and artwork were accented by honey coloured lights and neon lava lamps. The carpet was a psychedelic cascade of circles, swirls and spirals, that reacted crazily to the lighting.

Even the smell of the Pink Palace, hinted at its unique groove; sweet, sharp and citrus, the neon orange diffuser in the corner of the reception desk pumping out its sensual mist into the foyer.

A neon pink sign hung behind the attractive receptionist, clad in the stereotypical sexy secretary garb.

TRY NOT TO BLUSH

“How can we help you today stranger?” said the receptionist sexily.

“I would like to see the Madam of the house, if you don’t mind” replied Alex.

The receptionist lost her smile, replacing it with a frown of confusion.

“OK,” said the receptionist recovering, “just give me 5 minutes.”

Alex nodded and looked around, noting the thick book on the table, which allowed visitors to look at bios and photos of the girls they wanted for the night.

About a third of the way through, there were empty sleeves, no doubt the bio for Candice removed and the Madam of the Brothel unable to find a replacement girl just yet.

“How can we help you?” said a husky voice coldly.

Alex turned around, and saw the receptionist standing behind the Madam of the Brothel, a pale, tall curvaceous woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. The Madam looked like a pin-up woman come to life, the thin eyebrows perfectly arched, the red lips wrapped around a cigarette and the curly sable hair parted just so.

“Don’t you recognise me?” said Alex with a smile.

The Madam stared at Alex for a moment, before her lips curled upwards in a smile.

“Alex Ryder. I haven’t seen you in over 4 years. Now here you are, even skinnier and closer to death than when I last saw you.”

“It’s good to see you too” remarked Alex drily.

“Now what trouble are you bringing to my establishment Mr Private Eye? You scared Tilly here a bit with your attitude.”

Alex made an apologetic face to the receptionist who pouted prettily back.

“I’m here about Joel McNamara.”

The Madam raised a perfect eyebrow. “Joel?”

“Joel.”

The Madam stared at Alex’s emerald eyes, questioning his motives, looking for any signs she could actually trust him to do right by her and her girls.

“You can trust me. I helped you once, that wasn’t just a one-time thing. I can help you again. Let me help you. This isn’t just about Joel. It’s also about Candice.” said Alex gently.

The Madam sighed in an exasperated manner. She turned to Tilly. “He was exactly the same way when we first met. I can’t deny him when he talks like that.”

“Very well Alex.” sighed the Madam, relenting. “I had a feeling someone was going to come for him sooner or later. Better you than some asshole who wants to hurt one of my girls. Take this card. You’ll find him in the Pink Room. Tilly, show Alex the way please.”

“Thank you.” said Alex gratefully. The Madam nodded and blew a kiss his way, before walking back to her office, disappearing behind a curtain.

Alex followed Tilly up the affectionately named “Stairway to Heaven”, Tilly taking the time to study Alex’s gaunt features and his intelligent attractiveness. She smiled to herself. If only all clients were so unique looking.

They passed down the hallway, filled with alluring pictures, warning posters about condoms and the rules of the brothel.

The hallway itself was hazy, dim and alluring. The sounds from the speakers was rhythmic and throbbing.

It was the music of improper girls, doing naughty things to bad, bad boys.

Alex thought he could hear soft moans, but ignored them, keeping his eye open for fire escape doors and quick exits. Tilly paused outside a beautifully crimson door, with the words The Pink Room labelled in cursive script.

“Here it is, Mr Ryder. Knock first and then slide the card the Madam gave you OK?”

Alex nodded his thanks and she pouted prettily at him, before flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder and making her way back to the reception desk.

Alex looked at the door, and found himself shaking his head.

A French art thief caught in a brothel. How novel.

Alex knocked twice and entered, using the keycard. He stood in the doorway, a barrier for any escape and looked cautiously in the room.

Designed after the infamous Red Room in Twin Peaks, the floor was black and white, with scarlet curtains covering the walls. The bed was black to match the couch in the show and beside it stood two simple lamps. Much to Alex’s surprise, another replica of the Venus De Milo statue was also staring at the bed, mirroring Joel’s house.

Joel McNamara himself, was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

Alex wondered whether he was in some surrealist dream. Shaking himself out of his paranoia, Alex shut the door behind him gently and introduced himself.

“Mr McNamara. The name is Alex Ryder, private investigator. You’re a hard man to find.”

Author’s Note

The story is being made up as I go along. But I can definitely feel the world starting to become more real in my mind.

In this part, I wanted to add a few more layers to the subplot about Francois being a suspect to a murder, but I will be the first to admit, it’s a weak one and I kind of want to remove it. However this is what it’s all about, making mistakes and learning to tighten things in future stories.

So I tried to flesh out Candice, the murdered girl more. But it is very weak and probably my least favourite part of writing this story so far. I wanted to show that Francois was possible of loving two girls, hence the similar facial structures, but he had to want more than just what Eveline offered to him, hence the variance in body style and shape.

I might find a way to strengthen this subplot, but I get the feeling, it’ll be too much of a distraction to the real plot, regarding the Cezanne.

I also wanted to just subtly hint at extra parts to Alex’s past. I won’t mention any details, as it is important to me, that you, the reader, have your own image of Alex and fill him out with your imagination.

Your interpretation of him, is just as important as me writing him.

The featured picture is an legit photograph of The Pink Palace in South Melbourne. However, it has long been sold and renovated into something else. I was struck by the interior design, as it was built during the 70s and knew I had to incorporate it into my story somehow.

I also hoped the details about interiors have helped you, the reader, better picture the place in your mind. I really wanted them to stand out as unique locations in this story. The idea for Joel’s French-centric design was born out of a pure random flash of inspiration as I wrote it, and that literally let to the idea that he was an retired art thief, who adored his home country and wanted to own a piece of artwork from his culture.

I will get into more detail about the Cezanne robbery in the next chapter, but note it will be a fictionalised version of the real heist itself.

Part 5 will come soon.

~ Damocles.