STORIES TOLD BY CHANCE

LIVE LIKE THIS

MISTER WHEATHERBANE

Graham sat up from the bed. There was a faint scent of fruit in the air, and the curtains were flapping from the breeze coming through the slightly open window. It was a sunny day in Victoria. As sunny as it got, atleast. “Graham!” Called a voice like a heavy thud from beyond the bedroom door. 

“Coming!” he responded while getting off the bed. It was still a little tall for him. His parents had bought it with the thought of him using it until he was an adult. He slipped out of his pajamas and grabbed a coat. “Graham, we’re going to be late.” That same voice called out. Graham rubbed his eyes as he opened the door to meet his father standing tall above his head. “Go eat something quickly and brush your teeth. Those towers won’t build themselves!” Little Graham chuckled a little before he ran downstairs to see his mother. “Mama! I want breakfast!” he spoke with the joyful tone of an innocent child. A platter of diced apples and bananas was waiting for him at the kitchen table. “Dig in!” his mother’s voice said gently. For some reason, Graham couldn’t remember her face. It was delicious, however. The fruit was doused in honey and he was given a bar of chocolate to eat on the way to his father’s workplace. 

Once they arrived, the rugged workers shook hands with and greeted his father. “Mr. Wheatherbane!” His assistant called out by his surname. “How’s your wife?” It was a frequent question in Graham’s ears. His teachers asked him almost every day about his mother. His father’s cooworkers asked just as often. “She’s getting better.” The answer had been the same for a year, now. Graham and his father had said it so many times that it’d started feeling like a lie. 

Graham loitered around the workplace like every other saturday. His father was a supervisor engineer on a civil construction company, so he didn’t spend much time in one place. As a result, Graham had gotten to see most of what west Victoria had to offer. It wasn’t much. It also meant that he never had much time for playdates. His father insisted on taking Graham with him as often as he could, for reasons that little boy Graham didn’t understand. He would’ve been homeschooled, if not for his mother’s condition. 

It was a high-rise building, where his father was working. They went up to the tenth floor using the service elevator. Graham wasn’t afraid of heights. He wasn’t even afraid of falling. This is why he picked up the habit of climbing trees and looking over ledges. His father kept telling him to stay away from the edges of the construction site, since they had yet to secure proper guardrails on the roofs. “They’re getting to it,” Mr. Wheatherbane kept telling the safety inspectors. 

Graham and his father had to stay for a handful of extra hours, since there were some delays on the materials being delivered. Little boy Graham was growing a bit bored, and the sunset was much too beautiful over the vast city horizon. He was enamored by the beauty when he lay his tiny hands on the makeshift wooden railing that had been hastily propped up after one too many inspections. The blazing sun was pouring waves of tender heat onto Graham’s small face. It seemed to be burning off his worries, evaporating them into pleasant beauty, and assimilating them into the horizon. He didn’t hear his father call out to him when the nails started creaking. He didn’t hear the cement creak when the railing started to falter. Instead, he just fell. 

And fell.

And fell.

Graham didn’t ever stop falling. Not even when he woke up in a cold sweat. 

PILE OF SHIT

Once more, Miavelle sped through wet Victorian flagstones. This time, it wasn’t the seasonal downpour, but the blood of noblemen. It felt good, all things considered. 

The revolutionary army had overrun most of the streets of Stryxgarde, pushing out the Victorian forces. It was a victory that she couldn’t claim as her own. She could still see the cannonballs lodged into the surroundings from Jack’s surprise apparition. The Stalwart’s crew had remained in the city to keep all their soldiers in check while they droned through the streets in search of potential prisoners. 

A few eons passed before Miavelle reached the shoreline. The floodwaters were glistening in the orange light of dawn, disturbed only by a single figure on the horizon. She found him sitting on a log in front of a campfire. The vague scent of boiling meat was drowned out by the salty air of the sea. 

Jack didn’t turn around when he heard her footsteps on the sand. As he stirred the steel pot above the fire, he said softly. “Are you hungry?” Miavelle responded to something else entirely. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry for what I said at my office. I was unfair and unreasonable. I- It’s just that… I’m scared. I’m so, so scared. My father, he… He’s taken the Promise Stone. It’s made him and his Mages stronger than ever. I don’t know how I can stop him anymore… It doesn’t matter how many of his soldiers we kill, he just sends them back as mindless husks!” Her voice was frantic and her arms were tense. Her hands clasped into tight fists. Her tears were falling onto the ground once more. “He even does it to our own men, Jack! I’ve had to kill the same people so many times… I’m so scared. I can’t handle losing someone else. I can’t handle losing you again! I wanted to send you away, to keep you out of the fighting lines. I wanted to atleast protect you… But I can’t even protect myself. I’m too we-” “Miavelle.” Jack interrupted with a calm tone. “Sit down,” he said as he moved to the side to make space for Mia on the log. She was startled for a moment, but she wiped her tears and sat down. Jack noticed that she wasn’t wearing any makeup that day. 

Jack swirled the stew a little before Summoning a bowl and seving it. “Have some soup,” he simply stated. Miavelle grabbed the bowl with a bit of confusion. He gave her a spoon and she ate a bit. “How is it?” “...It’s delicious.” Miavelle hadn’t eaten anything since the previous morning. She sniffed a little before speaking with a wimpy tone. “You… I- You aren’t upset?” “I am.” He turned to look at her. Miavelle felt a shiver when she noticed that Jack Saltwater wasn’t smiling. His expression turned from the usual look of an impish pirate into the face of a tired warrior. His red eyes bore a look of calm wisdom. “Then…” Miavelle wondered the meaning of Jack’s demeanor. “You have enough to worry about. I won’t add to the massive pile of shit you’ve to handle by pointing my fingers at you.” Miavelle held her stew tightly. It was a thick, seasoned broth full of rice and vegetables. The scent was rather calming. “You were dumb and you were wrong. I can accept that,” Jack stated bluntly. “Besides, you’re here now. That’s all I care for.” With that, his smile faintly returned. Miavelle felt a certain warmth as Jack wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Miavelle had another spoonful of soup and Jack moved to serve himself. 

RIDICULOUS THINGS

“I’ll just find out myself, then.” He jumped out of the window after he said that. Miavelle chased after him, calling out his name. She watched him plummet to the ground from such a height and for a second forgot the hundreds of falls that Jack shouldn’t have survived. He didn’t look back up at her when he landed. He didn’t even say goodbye. Zach stormed into the room. “Mia?” He had taken off his armour, but he was holding his bow and his hair was tucked behind his long ears. “What happened?” He approached Miavelle and tried to hold her hands, but she pulled away. “Nothing happened.” She muttered in frustration. “Just…” Then Nemu burst in as well. “You said Jack!? Where is he?” There were bags under her eyes and her hands and face were stained with grease.  Miavelle turned her face away from the crew members. “He’s dead, Nemu. Don’t say ridiculous things.” With Jack’s overwhelming presence no longer weighing down Miavelle’s Willpower, she found it impossible to keep the sadness out of her voice, and the tears out of her eyes.  

…

Jack walked to the flood once more. He didn’t Summon the Stalwart, instead renting out a small raft from the local shipwright. He wondered why the man was awake at such an hour. 

BUILT ON A FARCE

“You need to rest, Mia,” said Zach as he lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can’t. I’ve to organize the fundings for the new outpost near Stryxgarde, and decide which teams to send.” “You can’t care about everything all the time. Spend some time caring for you.” Miavelle felt a stab of anguish when he said that. It was something Jack had once told her. “And from what I gather, you need sleep.” “I said I can’t, Zach. Don't insist.” She continued writing notes and flipping pages. Zach took a seat besides her, sliding over a chair. “Then let me help you, at least.” He pulled out a pencil and grabbed a clean sheet of paper. “I can’t do that either. This operation needs to go off without a hitch. The revolution may finally pick up some traction if we succeed.” She spoke in a severe tone, like she was foretelling certain doom. Zach let out a deep sigh and put his hand on her forearm. “You worry me, Mia.” Their eyes met, and Miavelle was reminded of who he was. 

Zach had been a constant presence. He’d taken up the role of commanding the crew after Jack’s demise, and he’d been the one to pull them out of that battlefield that took Jack’s life. I would’ve died there, if not for him, she thought, though she wasn't sure who she was referring to. She pulled her arm away. This is foolish, she told herself. “If you’re going to stay up, then I’ll accompany you.” Zach spoke. “If anyone asks, I’m on uh… bodyguard duty.” Ordinarily, Miavelle would’ve snickered at the silly comment, but she’d grown far too cynical in the last two years. It is a good idea. Never know when Lord Vanguard might send an assassin. Of course, it would take more than an assassin to take out Miavelle, but she’d thought the same about Jack once. Look where that got him. 

Zach pulled his talisman from his pocket, and a translucent wolf rose from his shadow. He sat on the floor, leaning on Mia’s desk, and said “Scream if you need me.” With his eyes closed, and his arms folded, Miavelle thought he was quite handsome. She turned back to her ledgers. 

The night advanced, and Mia’s workload was halfway through. She wouldn’t get the chance to sleep. She had a war effort to lead. 

Then, a dreadful presence was felt. Miavelle gasped under the immense change in pressure. It was Willpower filling the air. To Miavelle’s senses, it was like being submerged in gelatin. It slowed down her thoughts and dulled her senses. It reminded her of the miasma-like feeling of Willpower exhaustion, but it wasn’t quite the same. “Zach,” she muttered. She started tapping on his shoulder frantically. “Zach!” “I’m awake, I’m awake. What is it?” “Something is wrong.” He stood up, and two more wolves appeared. The beasts started looking around the room, sniffing for any discrepancies in the ambient Mana. “They smell nothing,” he said groggily, rubbing his eyes. “You… are you alright, Mia?” He turned with a pained expression. Miavelle had a hard time feeling ashamed, or thinking she might’ve been imagining things. “Something is not right. There is… there is a presence.” The pressure held an iron grip on her emotions. She wasn’t sweating in nervousness, and she wasn’t quivering in panic. She was calm and deadpan. But she didn’t feel right, either. The fact that Zach didn't seem to share that feeling only enforced it. “Someone’s…” Then she saw him, and her emotions returned to her. At first, it was confusion, then happiness, and then dread. It couldn’t be… Zach followed her gaze, and saw an empty window. “What is it?” He approached the window without waiting for an answer. He opened it and stuck his head out. Cold night wind blowed, and the crickets sang. “There’s nothing here, Mia. You should head to bed.” Her heart started racing. I must be mistaken. I saw him die. 

“Miavelle?” Zach approached her and held her shoulders. “We rest.” He spoke with conviction, as to make sure Miavelle listened this time. “... Fine.” That same apathy blanketed her once more. He pushed open the door, and held it open for her. It was a situation where Zach was beyond the door frame, looking into a part of the room, with the other obscured by the open door. 

Once she walked through the door and moved to close it, she felt a tap on the hand that was on the door handle. She snapped her head to see what it was, but her eyes met the room as it already was when she left. Except for the sense of dullness, which seemed to fade as she distanced from the office. 

She lay sleepless in her bed for a few centuries or seconds, thinking about Jack. He is dead. Don’t be foolish, Miavelle. She kept telling herself that but… Then who was that at my window? 

She sneaked through the halls, careful of creaking floorboards and open doors. The walk to the office took her a few thousand heartbeats, but when she got to it, there was a light coming from underneath the door. She took a deep breath and quietly opened the door. 

The window was open, so the air in the office was cold enough to freeze, but there wasn’t a breeze. That, and the crickets had stopped singing. She looked inside and saw the form of a man outlined in shadows. It was sitting with its legs on top of the office desk. She walked deeper into the room, only to find an impossible sight. 

THE REASON WHY

How many more must we hunt? Marcus thought to himself. Is this my seventh? My tenth? Why must I do this again? But then he heard the voice of his master, Ozymandias. Because people only serve two purposes. It had been a handful of years since he had been indoctrinated into the circus. Every day since that first one, he had wondered the same thing, and met the same answer. Because people only serve two purposes. The first is to serve me. To serve Ozymandias was a noble thing. He was a fair, level-headed man. He treated everyone equally, for everyone was a mere plaything to him. He was honest, for his intentions had no need to be concealed. He wanted to be entertained, is all. He is the reason why. Marcus finally remembered. 

His Stallion galloped towards the location The Hermit had indicated. His speed would have been blinding to any normal man. But Marcus wasn’t normal. He jumped from one rooftop to the other, his trot unseen by civilian eyes. As he moved, Marcus’ mind went back to a few hours ago. The sun was still up by then, and he wasn’t yet wearing his coat and gloves. The Hermit spoke to him: “... Your mission is not to capture them, nor to kill them,” they said in that unreadable tone. “Your mission is to bring them into the range of my Summoning, so we can secure an easy victory.” “Victory doesn’t tend to come to those who look for shortcuts,” Marcus protested. “Do not argue with me, Apocalypse,” the Hermit said sternly. “Simply do as you are told. You seem to excel at that.” With that comment, the Hermit turned and left, obviously expecting Marcus to work out the details of the mission on his own. Apocalypse. He thought. It was the name given to him by the Ringmaster. He didn’t hate it, yet he didn’t feel like it was his own. Marcus found the name imposing, commanding. He was neither. Marcus was but a pawn waiting to be played with. He wasn’t against his role as a pawn, though. It meant that the thinking could be done by others. He would just have to kill the occasional nuisance here and there.