This Part of the site holds several Short Stories that are tied up in the Book, and though they may explain a lot, they may also reveal a lot of the plot. If you are the type who likes to read the whole book before discovering pieces that happen inside it's pages, I advise that you do not read these until you have finished Internal Breakdown Itself.
Thanks all your support and encouragement,
-Saul Arthus, 1st December, 2008.
Proteus Hand trudged through the snow, the thick slush oozing across his battered combat boots. He did not care for the bite of the wind on his exposed face, nor for the bullet wound that had torn through his right shoulder, lodging halfway out of what could have been an exit wound.
He was a man searching for an answer. A man searching for his soul.
Stumbling slightly, he grunted as his heavy backpack cut into his shoulder, but still refused to cry out. He had not cried out as his lover has plunged from the cliff-face, and had no reason to cry for his own, exterior pain.
There it was again.
Amoret’s face. Her Turquoise eyes shimmering as he struggled to get a grip on her arm, the terrible ice making his efforts futile.
And then, that final moment, the moment when he knew he could not hold on, but could not let go. Time stood still, as a pale grey iris gazed into a soft, greenish one.
“I love you.”
He considered pushing his body forwards off the ledge, to fall with her, and to be the one who carried her spirit into whatever came next.
But it was too late.
Amoret was gone.
The Snow began to pummel down, mixing with hale, and he shook his head angrily, having let his grief get the better of him, once again.
But that thought had led to yet another.
Romulus Hand straightened himself up, and stared into the weather beaten face of his brother.
He said nothing, he did not need to; Proteus knew what came next. What should come next.
But it never did.
As Romulus Raised his weapon, Proteus instinctively lunged, biting and scratching at the neck of his kin, like an animal.
A gunshot, the pain, and running. Leaving his brother in the snow. Leaving his Amoret.
Engines sounded above him, and he knew at last that His Brother’s last gift for him had saved his life.
The Merczateer Drop ship began to descend, the rear Gunner acknowledging him with a wave of is hand.
“General Romulus Hand?”
“Aye.”
Proteus raised his beacon identifying himself as someone whom he was not, and, as the craft’s landing gear became erect, began to plan on how he would kill the crew and return to The Woofer.
His thoughts returned to his crippled shoulder.
Perhaps he would remain there for awhile, before striking.
The Previous Piece of Text is a Back-Story for Internal Breakdown, Written by Saul Arthus.
Internal Breakdown, and all related items, © Copyright of Saul Arthus, 2008-2009
[Agathea,
The sun was bleeding over the twin mountains of Gathirium and Slavyas, causing orange sunlight to leak onto the open courtyard of the
By AR Standards, the building was relatively dilapidated, mainly used for Veterans who needed Counselling, and private Meetings amongst the Lower Command. Today, however, it was expecting a special visitor, and the Janitorial staff had spent the early hours sweeping floors, straightening desks, and making sure that the Regiment of cockroaches that resided in the building were nowhere to be seen.
In the middle of the courtyard, standing erect beside the Memorial Stone, a man with snow white hair, the strange light bathing it so it appeared strawberry-blonde. His posture was that of a confident young man used to such places, but beneath the cold exterior, his mind was in turmoil.
The Alliance Troops stationed to guard the building skirted around the outsider in their midst, his uniform and appearance openly admitting to whom he served, and yet his accent was Jayerian. They found that strange, but when it was mentioned, the man was dismissed as a turncoat, or perhaps a spy.
“Proteus.”
It was a statement, rather than a question, for the ginger haired man who now stood beside Hand, who had slipped into the courtyard silently did not need to hear the idle gossiping of his men to know who this figure was.
Proteus Hand turned to face the man who stood before him, a look of scorn and hurt passing briefly across his usually emotionless face as he surveyed the figure.
“Admiral.”
The Ginger man seemed disappointed at his response.
“I am sorry that you see it that way.”
Proteus snorted, his eyes the only thing betraying his anger, now.
“Had you ever wanted to be anything else, we would not be standing in this place, meeting. We would be elsewhere, talking.”
The Admiral sighed with remorse, and motioned for Hand to follow him, swiping his ID Pass into a small, well concealed control near the main gate.
With a metallic hissing, the steel parted, yet more sunlight pouring into the area.
Gravel crunched as the two boots made their way up the mountain path in silence, only broken when they reached the peak, and Jim Herbst turned to face his son.
“It has been too long.”
Proteus shook his head. “I only came here because I want answers. I was in a bar in Badnarik, and told that I had a son by a man whom, an hour later, was lying dead on the paving outside. Is that any way to be given such information?”
Herbst drew breath to speak, but Hand interrupted him.
“Is it true, and if so, how?”
Herbst bowed his head.
“Your informant spoke the truth on that night.”
“What does the boy know?”
“He believes that his parents were working for Alliance Navy Intelligence, and that they died in a shoot out with Boris.”
“No doubt you wish that were the case.”
“No doubt I do.”
Proteus paused, caught out by the heartless response that reminded him of his own, characteristically harsh comments.
“How is it possible?”
Refusing to meet his eye, Jim’s reply was unrewarding. “I am afraid I do not know.”
“Is she alive?”
Jim brushed his overcoat down and turned away, facing the valley below.
“The Past is there to be forgotten. Yours, at least.”
Livid, Proteus grabbed his father and hurled him to the ground, the limp figure landing inches from the ledge.
“Is she alive?”
The words were spoken with such force that Herbst looked momentarily shocked, though his cool demeanour quickly returned to his face.
“Killing me will not get you answers. If you think it helps, do so, and get it over with. I have already told you, I do not know.”
Refusing to meet his son’s eye, Herbst stood up and dusted himself down, before turning back down the path.
He did not look back, but two words exited his lips, unheard by their intended target.
“I’m Sorry.”
The Previous Piece of Text is a Back-Story for Internal Breakdown, Written by Saul Arthus.
Internal Breakdown, and all related items, © Copyright of Saul Arthus, 2008-2009
[Rymeria, North of the Agathea Border:]
A sense of grim foreboding hung in the air on that day.
As the small craft began to touch down on the overgrown lawn, and it’s pilot – a figure in pristine white uniform and peaked cap exited, the air seemed to crackle with static.
Respectfully picking his way across the weeds, the young pilot stopped in front of a badly maintained door, and knocked quietly. At first, the building seemed deserted, but then there was the sound of a bolt being drawn across, and a light flickered on behind the grimy glass.
Standing in the doorway was a man of about thirty, his dark brown hair appearing greasy and unwashed. He radiated Hostility upon seeing the Pilot.
“What?” he asked bluntly.
The Pilot retained his air of respect, and his reply was quiet and moderate.
“Mr. Hoyle, My name is Mazer Ludd. I’m here about your son – May I come in..?”
Though his blatant dislike of Ludd’s Uniform remained, the man in the doorway stepped out of the way to allow him entrance, and they found themselves in a surprisingly cosy looking living room. On the sofa, a woman of about the same age as her husband, her face so lined for one so young.
Mazer remained standing as Hoyle took a seat, running his hands through his hair nervously and he wondered how to begin.
“I’m here on behalf of the Alliance Republic Admiralty.”
Hoyle Snorted, the dislike on his face obvious once more.
Pausing, his demeanour dropping for the first time, Ludd raised his eyebrow, before his previous expression returned, and he opened his mouth to continue.
“There is no easy way of saying this-”
The woman buried her head in her hands.
“Your son was killed in a roadside bomb just outside of Badnarik. He was on his way back from a successful Operation.”
Reaching into his pocket, trying not to look at the weeping figure before him, or the glaring man just to the side of him, Ludd pulled a shiny medal with the symbol of the Alliance Marine Corps etched painstakingly into the middle.
“I know it’s not much, considering your loss.”
He handed it to Hoyle, who raised his head, a sneer becoming clearer with every
second.
“You come here. Sent by your Fancy Admiralty, you didn’t know James. They didn’t know James.” He glared at the piece of Metal in his hands. “You’re pathetic.”
This time, Mazer let his mask fall to the floor, his rage all too visible.
“You assume so much, my good sir.”
Hoyle opened his mouth to interrupt, but Mazer was too fast for him.
“I knew your son personally. I fought with him, I fought for him. I was with him when it happened. But you don’t care about that – You don’t care that your son was a hero. I’ve read your file, Hoyle. You’re an ignorant fool.”
Though he seemed to wish to continue, It was Hoyle who spoke this time.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
Offering no Argument, Mazer turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.
In her bedroom, a pretty girl of Fifteen sat at her window and watched the Aircraft take off. She’d heard every word of the argument between her father and Ludd, and as she heard the footsteps on the stairs, she knew what was coming next. She did not even bother to try to block the door. What was to come was inevitable.
The Voice echoed through the room.
“Renn.”
She wouldn’t giver him the satisfaction of opening the door. He could open it himself.
Ray Hoyle kicked the door angrily, and forced it open. His imposing figure making the room seem smaller, darker.
“It’s All your fault.”
Renn shook her head at the words.
“You told him to join up. You said he’d be ‘A hero’, and he believed every fucking word.”
Turning to face her father, eyes ablaze, Renn raised her own voice.
“I told him to follow his dreams. He did. I told him this because I believe in making this world a better place. I believe in helping people, instead of imprisoning and controlling them.”
Her last words were tipped with a venom that held some private meaning that Ray obviously grasped. An ugly mixture of shock and dislike flitted across his face, as he raised his hand and hurled the medal, hitting her in the face.
Refusing to Flinch, Renn continued.
“I’m glad he died the way he did. Instead of dying here, after having a pathetic life. I’m glad he didn’t have to see you like this. To see what you’ve done to mum – to yourself.”
Bellowing like a wounded animal, Ray Hoyle lunged at her, repeatedly smashing her over the head with his fist.
Through the blows, the tears in her eyes becoming more apparently, she forced more words out, determined to hurt him the way he was hurting her.
“The instant I turn sixteen, I’m going to join the Republic Fleet Division. I’m going to finish what James began”.
Pain rained down on all sides.
*Agathea would later become Tethys, the Alliance Republic Aerial Fleet Headquarters, and prime shipyards
*In "The Impossible Child", Proteus's accent is described as 'Jayerian'. Jaytheria is what is left of America, a group of former states annexed together under a single banner.
*The Memorial Stone in the center of the Agathe Station is to comemorate all of those lost in the First War.