Threes
This was written. Then I realized, you know, this has a lot to do with threes. So I changed it around a bit.
How many threes? (Note: It may be best to read this after. It may not.)
Three narrators. Three time periods. Three point-of-views. Three fates. Three jobs. And one family, which is a fact never mentioned in it.
An interesting note: Reverse the order of the first letters of each job and get the first letters of each name. Bodyguard. Mercenary. Assassin. Aleksander. Martin. Bryan.
That has way too much purpose, right there.
And the story.
Aleksander
This is getting really boring.
-Stop glaring at me. If you’re going to do something, do it.-
And so I roll my shoulders a specific way, feel the old friend of metal slither down my arm and jam into place. Make sure the little launcher’s in the right place, perfect for a quick draw. It is. Like always.
-Why are you doing this?-
Such a moron. -I’ve explained. Shut up.- Naturally contradictory. Such a talker.
And there’s the click-clack. They’re getting slow. Damn.
-Stay still.-
Touch the wall with the off-hand. ‘Course, gotta take the hand off the shot, but risks must be taken. Remain seated, natural. There, climbing. The wall’s shaking a little; I’d expect him to notice. Moron’s too busy hating me, though.
The chimney opens on the roof. It was built for being entered. Wonder if he’s trapped it…
They know I’m here, then. So they’ll be coming…
The door explodes into splinters.
Through there.
-What are you doing? That’s my door!-
Impressive though his ability to be concerned over his door whilst someone is charging into the room is; the someone charging in is more so.
Flight or fight time.
Kick the table toward the door. It won’t slow him, but maybe it’ll obstruct the rest. Or not.
Roll the kick into a twist, go under the strike, pray to god he wasn’t expecting that, and strike at his neck. He knew about that one, so stand, ram the knee into his face, and he took that one.
Only now there’s another in the door, so pull the launcher and use it. He goes down, looking kinda surprised at the bolt in his chest.
Damn. There’s a quartet.
Dogs.
First they taught me how to fight. And anyone with sense knows to fight dirty. So duck again and this time hit the first someone with a chop from the palm-knife to take him down.
Four.
First crossbow bolt cuts the shoulder open quite nicely. The second misses, only as I dive, though.
Ten minutes ago there I had a dozen daggers. Yes, there’s a difference between daggers and knives.
No, I don’t have the time to explain it right now.
I’m down another dagger, but the third man is down his life. Lucky, lucky, lucky me. Pity I’m out now.
And the last drops his crossbow because he has half an ounce of sense. Cuss their competence. And of course he has a rapier and mien gauche because they’re Godless pigs like that.
And god-curse, the moron didn’t trap the chimney. And that asshole has a crossbow. He doesn’t bother waiting to shoot at me, though it goes kinda wide. Nicks my shoulder, really. Damn.
Then he drops the bow too and pulls some sort of blade that’s curved like a bow. Awkward. Two of them.
The difficulty goes up. Lets see, one on one, I coulda won. His rapier doesn’t have an edge, and the mien gauche is too short. Well, it looks like that from here. Maybe not. But that curved blade… cuss and double cuss.
Well, I’ve still got a knife.
A knife only has one edge, okay? Get off my back.
So pull that, and realize how hopelessly outclassed I am. Oh dear.
And they near each other. They stand just far enough apart such that the curved-blade has enough room to swing, and the rapier-boy can do his thing.
Step aside and be lucky that the rapier doesn’t touch, contort such that the mien gauche only barely grazes the gut, but damn it was poisoned, cut his arm deep. Artery? Ah well. Mine’s poisoned too.
Bloody being a lefty.
Damn that curve. And my left arm’s down, can’t move it. No shoulder muscle. I hate these men. So much.
Rapier steps back a little so he can stab around curve. A twisting-writhing-curling snake in the chest.
Interesting, kinda, how they’re totally disconnected. Whyfor?
Hard to see…
Slowing…
End it…?
Rush. Blade cuts-twist left bicep. Slide down. Panic, see? Cut neck via the old friend.
Rapier? Came from?
Through?
Clever pig.
Martin
You step over the body, and wonder how it got there. It’s not whole, but how usual is that, now?
Revolutionaries. You spit on the dirt, trying to get the grease-taste out of your mouth. It doesn’t work.
Cradle the rifle like it’s your babe, they told you. And always, always take the rod out.
You stretch. Legs first, they’ve been cramped too long, and then shoulders-back-abs all at once. Arms come last because they take longest, and you take extra care with your fingers. You need those.
You’ve got a headache, but you don’t go to the medic. All they can do is amputate, and maybe, if you’re lucky, bleed you. And if you’re unlucky, they bleed too deep.
The stock’s a little shorter than you are tall. Just long enough to be awkward to carry. So you’ve left it against the wall because, well, you can get it before anyone gets close enough to shoot you anyway.
-What in the name of…-
You turn to look at the speaker. John, his name might be. Maybe James. Not like he knows your name either.
There’s a ship you’ve never seen before anchored about ten feet off shore. Judging by its profile, it’s lucky to have found the only place it could anchor close to shore for leagues. Or maybe it’s piloted by those as hired you. In which case, it’d probably be best to greet them and do it right now.
Of course, if John doesn’t know who they are…
Maybe he’s just an idiot.
You look at the rifle, then the ship. The ship isn’t flying a flag, but no one with a brain would fly a flag here. One side has no flag anyway.
It’s more complicated than it seems. The amateur might say, -Take the rifle, fool. They would admire your caution.- but while that may work for the well known, reputed folk, it would merely be pretension to do it here. People don’t think you that good.
But still. It could be an enemy. Enemies, those are bad.
But John’s still there. So maybe, maybe he can watch your back while you greet them. And if they are enemies, he can give you time to get your rifle back.
The innate absurdity of one man with a rifle holding off a ship with cannon strikes you.
The innate absurdity of two men with rifles holding off a ship with cannon strikes you.
You think you may be trapped in a Catch Twenty-two. That just right pushes some buttons. Only really, it isn’t a Catch Twenty-two because if you’re a little lucky you’ll get out fine.
And if you aren’t, that’s bum luck right there.
So you slink on over to the edge of the cliff, and notice John’s still dumbstruck, go with he’s a moron, and squirm your way over to the ramp. This is about when you realize that something is wrong.
John’s the only other person there. Alive, leastways. Which natural means that everyone else is… not there. Or dead. Like that one you had to step over. And the mud’s red.
Oh.
Well.
Awkward.
And that probably means the cannon…
Yep. They’re still smoking.
So that’s what woke you up. Oh blast.
Of course they didn’t kill everyone. They need information, almost as much as those as hired you do. So really, you’re damned lucky. That right there is disconcerting knowledge.
So, you start to scurry back toward your rifle. Naturally it’s precisely at this moment that six things happen.
First, the absurdity of a rifle against cannon strikes you again.
Second, John actually moves. Well, it’s only a blink, but it happened.
Third, an earthquake goes off.
Fourth, the enemy starts down the gangplank.
Fifth, the lack of a powder horn makes itself quite known.
Sixth, you realize that you’ve got scurvy because one of your teeth falls out.
In the wake of all this, you’re thrown to the ground, damn near fall into a crack, and cling desperately. The enemy on the gangplank is thrown everywhere, back onto the boat, into the water some twenty meters below, and, God cuss it, onto the land. And they, naturally, have powder horns.
Isn’t this just peachy?
The earthquake ends, and you have to vomit because you’re not used to them. The enemy, apparently, is (or maybe it’s just because they’re seamen. God damn their mortal souls to all hell), and so they regain their footing, charge like angry mammoths, and just because they can’t bring you in fine and dandy, stab you in the calves.
They drag you aboard, being none too gentle, and chain you down. Not like you could walk anyway.
Formalities.
God curse all papist dogs.
Bryan
He steps off the plane like nothing’s wrong. Of course, it’s not, so that’s nothing unusual. Really, it’s not like he’s the one lying in the bathroom with his pants down and a newspaper over his face.
And three bullet holes in his back.
Nor is he the one lying buried in the countryside, ground into pieces under a boot, wondering why he was discarded so quickly after he was made. Sometimes he feels a little guilty for that. But then, sometimes he doesn’t.
Cheerfully he goes over his mental checklist (pick up bag, find keys, start car, drive home, find other keys, enter home, eat) as he strolls easily off the plane. He slept on the flight, two hours, so he’s ready and excited to go back to work. Construction is so much fun.
Pity it doesn’t pay as well to be a demolitionist. And there’s the whole loan issue, of course.
He’s almost run over in the parking lot.
That would be absolutely hilarious. He could practically see the headlines.
No, wait. His Tylenol was kicking in.
Trippy.
His car moves like liquid through the streets. It’s quite graceful, to see. But then, it’s also slow as all hell, seeing as it moves like melted sugar. It’s about the same color, and smells just like it too.
By god, he needs a new engine.
There’s a brief moment of profanity as a car runs a red light and rams the car in front of him. In accordance with the law, that makes him laugh when he thinks of it, he has to pull over and wait to give testimony. On the other hand, he doesn’t have to call the police, a good thing as his cellular phone is still listed under the name from last week, which doesn’t match his identification.
So an hour or two later, after giving his testimony, it also amuses him to note that the person rammed was a teenager of seventeen years with his parents in the back, and his contact information, he drives on home. In his car. Dans son voiture.
French is so stupid.
He’s cool as a cuppa joe sittin’ in hell, and his walk tells it. He walks like he’s about ready to break into a song and dance routine. And by god, soon as he shuts the door, he does.
Its times like these he’s really, really glad he lives alone. Or at least, such is the thought he thinks he should have, and does, really, as he proceeds to strip down to his underwear and mosey on into the kitchen, wherein he seizes a knife, proceeds to threaten the sink with it, cuts a lemon in two for no apparent reason, puts the knife away, and hipthrusts into the dining room.
Whereupon he discovers the most horrifying fact he’s discovered since he was fourteen and found his parents having sex.
He is not alone.
There is a woman in his house.
There is a woman in his house.
Why in the name of all that is holy is there a woman in his house?
This necessitates thought. Right off he can determine that: One, she isn’t related to him; Two, she expected him; Three, she’s not here to kill him (unless she’s really, really stupid); and Four, she’s blonde.
Capital A Awkward moment, right there.
Reaching into the very depths of his memory, he thinks maybe she’s there to deliver payment, but that’s not right because none of his clients know where he lives. That’s just bad for business.
Which means there are really only two possibilities. One, she’s some sort of demented stalker. Two, someone’s decided he’s getting a little too big for his britches, as it were.
-Nifty,- he says, choosing instead to focus on the fact that she’s blonde.
She does not appear to share the same sentiment. In fact, she seems to be magnetized in the opposite charge. And as such, she hits him with about the same result as a seventy two volt system clasping hands with just one LED.
Bad Things proceed to happen.
She appears to think he’s some sort of chauvinist that wouldn’t hit a woman no matter what happened because women aren’t worth hitting. Well, he’s played that persona for years, just for such an eventuality. Of course, he isn’t.
But the weird shit is: she’s not really surprised when he hits her back.
It strikes him that maybe he should pay a little more attention to her and her fists and a little less attention to her hair, which is about six seconds from getting him beaten to a piece of well spiced potato. Poe-tay-toe. Not poe-tah-toe.
Yes, he is going to change Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Genus, Species and Family.
Well damn, as he gets his nose broken in exchange for an armlock that’s going to be difficult to get out of as they roll across the floor, she’s a hardcore bitch.
Almost worthy of a partnership.
Then she shakes him loose, because being the genius-bitch she is she’s realized two things already. One, he’s enamored of something about her, and two, blood makes a pretty nifty lubricant in sufficient quantities.
And he revises that statement to: worthy of a partnership.
-So,- he says, -what’s your name?-
She doesn’t relax, approval rings in his head, and she says, -Alex.-
And that’s all.
How many threes? (Note: It may be best to read this after. It may not.)
Three narrators. Three time periods. Three point-of-views. Three fates. Three jobs. And one family, which is a fact never mentioned in it.
An interesting note: Reverse the order of the first letters of each job and get the first letters of each name. Bodyguard. Mercenary. Assassin. Aleksander. Martin. Bryan.
That has way too much purpose, right there.
And the story.
Aleksander
This is getting really boring.
-Stop glaring at me. If you’re going to do something, do it.-
And so I roll my shoulders a specific way, feel the old friend of metal slither down my arm and jam into place. Make sure the little launcher’s in the right place, perfect for a quick draw. It is. Like always.
-Why are you doing this?-
Such a moron. -I’ve explained. Shut up.- Naturally contradictory. Such a talker.
And there’s the click-clack. They’re getting slow. Damn.
-Stay still.-
Touch the wall with the off-hand. ‘Course, gotta take the hand off the shot, but risks must be taken. Remain seated, natural. There, climbing. The wall’s shaking a little; I’d expect him to notice. Moron’s too busy hating me, though.
The chimney opens on the roof. It was built for being entered. Wonder if he’s trapped it…
They know I’m here, then. So they’ll be coming…
The door explodes into splinters.
Through there.
-What are you doing? That’s my door!-
Impressive though his ability to be concerned over his door whilst someone is charging into the room is; the someone charging in is more so.
Flight or fight time.
Kick the table toward the door. It won’t slow him, but maybe it’ll obstruct the rest. Or not.
Roll the kick into a twist, go under the strike, pray to god he wasn’t expecting that, and strike at his neck. He knew about that one, so stand, ram the knee into his face, and he took that one.
Only now there’s another in the door, so pull the launcher and use it. He goes down, looking kinda surprised at the bolt in his chest.
Damn. There’s a quartet.
Dogs.
First they taught me how to fight. And anyone with sense knows to fight dirty. So duck again and this time hit the first someone with a chop from the palm-knife to take him down.
Four.
First crossbow bolt cuts the shoulder open quite nicely. The second misses, only as I dive, though.
Ten minutes ago there I had a dozen daggers. Yes, there’s a difference between daggers and knives.
No, I don’t have the time to explain it right now.
I’m down another dagger, but the third man is down his life. Lucky, lucky, lucky me. Pity I’m out now.
And the last drops his crossbow because he has half an ounce of sense. Cuss their competence. And of course he has a rapier and mien gauche because they’re Godless pigs like that.
And god-curse, the moron didn’t trap the chimney. And that asshole has a crossbow. He doesn’t bother waiting to shoot at me, though it goes kinda wide. Nicks my shoulder, really. Damn.
Then he drops the bow too and pulls some sort of blade that’s curved like a bow. Awkward. Two of them.
The difficulty goes up. Lets see, one on one, I coulda won. His rapier doesn’t have an edge, and the mien gauche is too short. Well, it looks like that from here. Maybe not. But that curved blade… cuss and double cuss.
Well, I’ve still got a knife.
A knife only has one edge, okay? Get off my back.
So pull that, and realize how hopelessly outclassed I am. Oh dear.
And they near each other. They stand just far enough apart such that the curved-blade has enough room to swing, and the rapier-boy can do his thing.
Step aside and be lucky that the rapier doesn’t touch, contort such that the mien gauche only barely grazes the gut, but damn it was poisoned, cut his arm deep. Artery? Ah well. Mine’s poisoned too.
Bloody being a lefty.
Damn that curve. And my left arm’s down, can’t move it. No shoulder muscle. I hate these men. So much.
Rapier steps back a little so he can stab around curve. A twisting-writhing-curling snake in the chest.
Interesting, kinda, how they’re totally disconnected. Whyfor?
Hard to see…
Slowing…
End it…?
Rush. Blade cuts-twist left bicep. Slide down. Panic, see? Cut neck via the old friend.
Rapier? Came from?
Through?
Clever pig.
Martin
You step over the body, and wonder how it got there. It’s not whole, but how usual is that, now?
Revolutionaries. You spit on the dirt, trying to get the grease-taste out of your mouth. It doesn’t work.
Cradle the rifle like it’s your babe, they told you. And always, always take the rod out.
You stretch. Legs first, they’ve been cramped too long, and then shoulders-back-abs all at once. Arms come last because they take longest, and you take extra care with your fingers. You need those.
You’ve got a headache, but you don’t go to the medic. All they can do is amputate, and maybe, if you’re lucky, bleed you. And if you’re unlucky, they bleed too deep.
The stock’s a little shorter than you are tall. Just long enough to be awkward to carry. So you’ve left it against the wall because, well, you can get it before anyone gets close enough to shoot you anyway.
-What in the name of…-
You turn to look at the speaker. John, his name might be. Maybe James. Not like he knows your name either.
There’s a ship you’ve never seen before anchored about ten feet off shore. Judging by its profile, it’s lucky to have found the only place it could anchor close to shore for leagues. Or maybe it’s piloted by those as hired you. In which case, it’d probably be best to greet them and do it right now.
Of course, if John doesn’t know who they are…
Maybe he’s just an idiot.
You look at the rifle, then the ship. The ship isn’t flying a flag, but no one with a brain would fly a flag here. One side has no flag anyway.
It’s more complicated than it seems. The amateur might say, -Take the rifle, fool. They would admire your caution.- but while that may work for the well known, reputed folk, it would merely be pretension to do it here. People don’t think you that good.
But still. It could be an enemy. Enemies, those are bad.
But John’s still there. So maybe, maybe he can watch your back while you greet them. And if they are enemies, he can give you time to get your rifle back.
The innate absurdity of one man with a rifle holding off a ship with cannon strikes you.
The innate absurdity of two men with rifles holding off a ship with cannon strikes you.
You think you may be trapped in a Catch Twenty-two. That just right pushes some buttons. Only really, it isn’t a Catch Twenty-two because if you’re a little lucky you’ll get out fine.
And if you aren’t, that’s bum luck right there.
So you slink on over to the edge of the cliff, and notice John’s still dumbstruck, go with he’s a moron, and squirm your way over to the ramp. This is about when you realize that something is wrong.
John’s the only other person there. Alive, leastways. Which natural means that everyone else is… not there. Or dead. Like that one you had to step over. And the mud’s red.
Oh.
Well.
Awkward.
And that probably means the cannon…
Yep. They’re still smoking.
So that’s what woke you up. Oh blast.
Of course they didn’t kill everyone. They need information, almost as much as those as hired you do. So really, you’re damned lucky. That right there is disconcerting knowledge.
So, you start to scurry back toward your rifle. Naturally it’s precisely at this moment that six things happen.
First, the absurdity of a rifle against cannon strikes you again.
Second, John actually moves. Well, it’s only a blink, but it happened.
Third, an earthquake goes off.
Fourth, the enemy starts down the gangplank.
Fifth, the lack of a powder horn makes itself quite known.
Sixth, you realize that you’ve got scurvy because one of your teeth falls out.
In the wake of all this, you’re thrown to the ground, damn near fall into a crack, and cling desperately. The enemy on the gangplank is thrown everywhere, back onto the boat, into the water some twenty meters below, and, God cuss it, onto the land. And they, naturally, have powder horns.
Isn’t this just peachy?
The earthquake ends, and you have to vomit because you’re not used to them. The enemy, apparently, is (or maybe it’s just because they’re seamen. God damn their mortal souls to all hell), and so they regain their footing, charge like angry mammoths, and just because they can’t bring you in fine and dandy, stab you in the calves.
They drag you aboard, being none too gentle, and chain you down. Not like you could walk anyway.
Formalities.
God curse all papist dogs.
Bryan
He steps off the plane like nothing’s wrong. Of course, it’s not, so that’s nothing unusual. Really, it’s not like he’s the one lying in the bathroom with his pants down and a newspaper over his face.
And three bullet holes in his back.
Nor is he the one lying buried in the countryside, ground into pieces under a boot, wondering why he was discarded so quickly after he was made. Sometimes he feels a little guilty for that. But then, sometimes he doesn’t.
Cheerfully he goes over his mental checklist (pick up bag, find keys, start car, drive home, find other keys, enter home, eat) as he strolls easily off the plane. He slept on the flight, two hours, so he’s ready and excited to go back to work. Construction is so much fun.
Pity it doesn’t pay as well to be a demolitionist. And there’s the whole loan issue, of course.
He’s almost run over in the parking lot.
That would be absolutely hilarious. He could practically see the headlines.
No, wait. His Tylenol was kicking in.
Trippy.
His car moves like liquid through the streets. It’s quite graceful, to see. But then, it’s also slow as all hell, seeing as it moves like melted sugar. It’s about the same color, and smells just like it too.
By god, he needs a new engine.
There’s a brief moment of profanity as a car runs a red light and rams the car in front of him. In accordance with the law, that makes him laugh when he thinks of it, he has to pull over and wait to give testimony. On the other hand, he doesn’t have to call the police, a good thing as his cellular phone is still listed under the name from last week, which doesn’t match his identification.
So an hour or two later, after giving his testimony, it also amuses him to note that the person rammed was a teenager of seventeen years with his parents in the back, and his contact information, he drives on home. In his car. Dans son voiture.
French is so stupid.
He’s cool as a cuppa joe sittin’ in hell, and his walk tells it. He walks like he’s about ready to break into a song and dance routine. And by god, soon as he shuts the door, he does.
Its times like these he’s really, really glad he lives alone. Or at least, such is the thought he thinks he should have, and does, really, as he proceeds to strip down to his underwear and mosey on into the kitchen, wherein he seizes a knife, proceeds to threaten the sink with it, cuts a lemon in two for no apparent reason, puts the knife away, and hipthrusts into the dining room.
Whereupon he discovers the most horrifying fact he’s discovered since he was fourteen and found his parents having sex.
He is not alone.
There is a woman in his house.
There is a woman in his house.
Why in the name of all that is holy is there a woman in his house?
This necessitates thought. Right off he can determine that: One, she isn’t related to him; Two, she expected him; Three, she’s not here to kill him (unless she’s really, really stupid); and Four, she’s blonde.
Capital A Awkward moment, right there.
Reaching into the very depths of his memory, he thinks maybe she’s there to deliver payment, but that’s not right because none of his clients know where he lives. That’s just bad for business.
Which means there are really only two possibilities. One, she’s some sort of demented stalker. Two, someone’s decided he’s getting a little too big for his britches, as it were.
-Nifty,- he says, choosing instead to focus on the fact that she’s blonde.
She does not appear to share the same sentiment. In fact, she seems to be magnetized in the opposite charge. And as such, she hits him with about the same result as a seventy two volt system clasping hands with just one LED.
Bad Things proceed to happen.
She appears to think he’s some sort of chauvinist that wouldn’t hit a woman no matter what happened because women aren’t worth hitting. Well, he’s played that persona for years, just for such an eventuality. Of course, he isn’t.
But the weird shit is: she’s not really surprised when he hits her back.
It strikes him that maybe he should pay a little more attention to her and her fists and a little less attention to her hair, which is about six seconds from getting him beaten to a piece of well spiced potato. Poe-tay-toe. Not poe-tah-toe.
Yes, he is going to change Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Genus, Species and Family.
Well damn, as he gets his nose broken in exchange for an armlock that’s going to be difficult to get out of as they roll across the floor, she’s a hardcore bitch.
Almost worthy of a partnership.
Then she shakes him loose, because being the genius-bitch she is she’s realized two things already. One, he’s enamored of something about her, and two, blood makes a pretty nifty lubricant in sufficient quantities.
And he revises that statement to: worthy of a partnership.
-So,- he says, -what’s your name?-
She doesn’t relax, approval rings in his head, and she says, -Alex.-
And that’s all.