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At the tender age of 18, Quatre Asselin hadn’t quite built the stomach for human suffering that he’d eventually build up over the course of his career in the armed forces. He’d never been a sheltered child either, but he’d never had the misfortune of witnessing a man’s probable death with his own two eyes. Which is exactly why said eyes were now transfixed on the racecar chassis that had just sailed past him, an incomprehensible failure of aerodynamics causing the vehicle to flip then briefly take to the sky, before slamming against the surprisingly sturdy trackside fence – which, against all odds, prevented said chassis from crashing into stands.
It was only the second lap, and a red flag was already waving over the inaugural heat of the 2370 Universal Formula season. Quatre Asselin did not believe in “bad omens”, and he hoped the Terrans didn’t either – because this was certainly a bad omen if there ever had been one.
As his eyes were still glued to the now-smoking wreckage, a shallow stab into his side brought him back to Earth figuratively and literally – reminding him of his purpose on the far-away planet. He had, indeed, been brought along from Avignon by crown prince Renard DeColde as a “plus one” of sorts – mainly as his friend knew he enjoyed formula racing quite a bit, and figured taking him to witness the return of the ancient sport to its most legendary venues would probably help eroding the wall Quatre had erected against the prince’s romantic fixation.
A date, in layman's terms.
Judging by his equally shocked look however, the prince didn’t expect his “date” to be seasoned by the very real possibility of casualties – the stab into Quatre’s side being the prince's elbow, trying to grab his companion's attention as he covered his mouth with his other hand.
“Q-quatre…? What...what just happened...?”
Quatre tried to focus on the seconds prior to the wreck: a collision into the circuit’s first corner between Antoine Morel, the primary driver for Avignon’s flagship team, and some kind of gold-plated, tiger-striped eyesore belonging to the Sirius Combined Mercantiles - or SIRCOMER, for short. The latter’s involvement in the accident might have been the reason why, before the prince’s companion could make his dissertation, a pair of power sabers had been drawn and were now squarely pointed at their throats. Power sabers which, judging by the luxurious attires of their wielders, belonged by two scion warriors from Sirius’ own diplomatic delegation - whose representing dignitary had just now risen from his seat, which happened to be right behind theirs.
“What was the meaning of that maneuver, upstart?”
The dignitary, a broad figure covered in a long, gold-trimmed robe exploding with color, let very little audible anger slip from behind his words. He sounded, at best, like a mildly angered school teacher - but the whizzing blades resting centimeters from their necks told a different story.
Renard’s face, while still clearly perturbed, turned to stone. Whereas Quatre flinched at the blade’s electromagnetic field scraping his skin, Renard appeared to barely register the whole thing, glaring round-tipped daggers into the dignitary’s eyes as the whole VIP paddock gasped and stepped away from what looked like a fast-approaching international incident. For a moment, it appeared as the rain itself had frozen mid-air, waiting with bated breath for the conclusion of this impromptu standoff.
“Monsieur Varnaka, we have genuinely no idea of what just occurred - but we can assure you the FUA will handle the situation with poise and grace, as they are known to do. May you please sheathe your blades, so that we may discuss the situation calmly?”
It was Renard who responded first, in a tone that Quatre found uncannily like that of his mother, empress Marise DeColde herself.
It was rare to see him this focused.
“I do not believe you, princeling: our pilot would not dare to make a mistake on this most profitable day. As such, I would like you to explain why yours would - himself being a man of great renown in automotive diversions such as these. So, if you please…”
“...start talking!” One of the scions snarled, hovering the blade millimeters from the prince’s neck. Renard, still unshaken, did not comply - mainly because he had genuinely no idea of what could have caused a 700kg car to simply up and fly away at the merest lovetap.
Quatre, however, probably did - and he felt the moment was ripe to actually come out and say it, lest he suddenly found himself standing tall in front of Marise - having to explain to her why her dearest son had been gutted under his supervision. So, he gathered what little composure he’d been regaining after the initial shock and swallowed. It was now or never.
“Messieurs! Please forgive my interjection, but I would like to offer a provisional breakdown of the incident! Let us not forget the significance of this day - we have not gathered this far from our homeworlds to spill blood, have we?!”
The words rattled from his mouth like machine gun fire, the prince’s companion doing his best to maintain composure under the looming threat of decapitation. The dignitary, whose attention had been focused exclusively on the prince, looked slightly confused - as if he’d just noticed Quatre had been sitting by Renard’s side the entire time. He then glanced at the warrior holding that saber to his neck, whose equally confused glance betrayed a very clear “No, I don’t know who that is either”.
Quatre didn’t really care for fame or political clout, but something in the way he’d been just dismissed by a man who’d been threatening to end his life until that very moment had somehow really pissed him off. He tried his best to conceal that, but he was sure his eye had just twitched under his sunglasses.
“The princeling’s lapdog, I presume? I did not expect his chosen aide to be so…diminitive. Why, exactly, do you expect your words would sway me? You’re nothing, little man.”
As the dignitary spoke, the swordsman grazed the edge of his saber against Quatre’s neck - a brazen move he knew they couldn’t afford to pull on the prince, lest their cities be leveled from orbit by the time they’d gotten back to the Sovereignty. Quatre felt the tiniest sliver of blood drip from his neck - likely a consequence of the blade’s high vibration frequency - and caught himself flinching.
Varnaka’s bodyguard cracked a grin at the sight, baring two rows of gold-plated teeth.
“You shouldn’t have done that, scum.”
Renard’s voice was a whisper now. A hateful little hiss, spoken through gritted teeth. Quatre could just barely hear it, but his breathing had gotten heavier too.
What Quatre could not see was Renard reaching for the short scabbard on the back of his uniform’s belt - an odd place to put a knife, he’d remarked as he’d helped him dress for this rapidly-degenerating “big day” of theirs. Decades later, numerous historians would wonder how much the fate of the Avignon Empire would have changed, if not for a well-timed…
“Oi, Sinthe?! The hell are you doing with the Avignon guests, you big buffoon!”
It was a man in an otherwise unremarkable black jumpsuit, vaguely militaristic in its cut. Nothing really adorned it aside from a stark white globe & laurel pin - the national symbol of the Terran Protectorate, making this in all likelihood a Terran Protectorate dignitary. A dignitary whose voice carried an echo of the accent Quatre had come to know as “Aisnese Highlander” - but that on its birthplace of Earth was known as “Scottish”.
A dignitary and a local. Things had just gotten quite interesting.
“Ah fuck’s sake, Apologies for Sinthe’s behavior there Comrades: he’s used to western-style diplomacy, you see. We do things a little rougher here in the Inners, but I can assure you he’s a lovely man when he’s not all uppity about his profits. Isn’t that right, you paper tiger?”
Sauntering into the paddock from a door on the left side, the rough-bearded dignitary had now put his arm around the shoulders of his Sirius analogue, whose expression had now shifted to flux of emotions conveying an otherwise very simple idea:
Please, fucking kill me.
An order was spoken, but it carried the weight of a frustrated plea more than any expression of command or dignity.
“Rakesh, Vinay - at ease. Sit back down.”
Thus, power sabers were sheathed and the jovial Terran dignitary had now joined Avignon’s royal duo in their front-row seating - by shooing away a diplomat from one of Terra’s new Inner Colonial territories. Whoever this man was, he clearly held a considerable sway in both foreign and internal affairs, a thought which somehow worried Quatre just as much as having a power blade graze his neck - as he’d been told many-a-times to never trust a chipper-looking diplomat.
“Ah, there we are, Comrades! Simon Hunt, head of the Protectorate's Commission for Mutual Harmony and Marshal of the European Prefectures - which do include these jolly little isles. I was born just north of here, as a matter of fact! As for you, you must be…”
Renard’s hand practically lunged for the Terran’s in a handshake that, for all intents and purposes, looked more like a snake lunging for its prey than it did any sort of formal greeting.
“Renard DeColde, crown prince of the Avignon Empire. The man beside me is Quatre Asselin, my chosen aide and…”
Promised consort, Quatre thought to himself. He'd heard the exact introduction many times before…but didn’t expect him to trail off like he’d just done. What was he-
“...dear friend.”
Huh?!
Once again, Quatre was glad to have worn sunglasses despite the day’s weather looking dreary as dreary could be - since he was certain his eyes had probably shot open just now.
That amount of respect for his own sentimental boundaries was certainly new.
“I see! Pretty thoughtful of you to bring him along, Comrade-Prince. I respect a thoughtful man. And you, Comrade Asselin…”
The Marshal’s hand now firmly wrapped around Quatre’s, in an unsurprisingly vigorous handshake he did his best to match - still somewhat reeling from the close shave he’d received minutes earlier.
“You said you had a bead on what just happened down on turn 1, didn’t you lad? I’d actually love to hear it. Been down there myself just now, checking on the scene for foul play. I’m not at liberty to say whether I found any or not, but-”
“Shit, you were down there?! Is everyone alright?!”
Quatre spoke without thinking, letting himself swear from the entirely new kind of stress he’d been feeling since the SIRCOMER machine crashed into the catch fence. The prince glanced at him disapprovingly, but Comrade Hunt didn’t seem bothered at all - patting his cheek the same way his father would occasionally do, the few times they’d seen each other in the past few years.
“Alright is a big word, lad - but nobody’s dead, if that’s what you’re wondering…”
…were the magic words that made Quatre feel as if the weight of one of such chasses had been finally pushed off his stomach. However, it wasn’t all the Marshal had to say.
“...buuut the whole incident was pretty suspect - in that there’s no way Morel didn’t see the other guy turning into him. Hard to miss a car whose chassis is mostly covered in bloody goldleaf.”
Suddenly, a tiny cry of protest rose from the row behind them - specifically, that of a visibly fuming Sirius dignitary, still trying his best to conceal his rising anger.
“Nowhere did the rules forbid the use of goldleaf as a hull plating material, Hunt.”
When the Terran turned to face him, some of the people sitting around them instinctively reeled back - likely familiar with the way discussions between the two polities tended to go, if local news broadcasts were to be believed.
“Well, that’s because nobody writing the bloody rules ever thought there would be someone who’d seriously sit down and think “yes, I will cover my entire fucking racecar in the heaviest precious metal I can find!”. Excellent bloody thinking, Sinthe.”
Before the latter could respond, one of his bodyguards put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear - causing the man to reluctantly pipe down and focus on the view outside the panoramic window. There were two cranes now lifting the SIRCOMER wreck away, in fact: the second one likely needed for the added weight of all that gold.
“Anyway, Comrade Asselin - I’m all ears, what do you reckon happened down there?”
Quatre let out a sigh of relief, thrilled to have been finally given a chance to speak about something he was actually knowledgeable of in the midst of all this regional feuding. He gave it a second of thought, looking around to see if any of the surrounding telescreens had begun showing the replay - which they hadn’t yet, meaning it was all down to his memory for now.
“So, what I think happened was actually pretty simple: Morel did see the SIRCOMER driver, but he expected him to leave more space into the upcoming corner. Close as they were, the SIRCOMER driver also saw Morel - and likely did not expect him to send it down into the corner like that. That’s a-”
From behind their seating row, one of the two scions spoke up - a less subtle hint of vitriol in his voice than his master’s.
“His name’s Agung Pratama. He’s my cousin, and a mobile armor pilot of immense skill.”
Between Varnaka’s embarrassment and the shared confusion of the front row trio, nobody really knew how to respond to that.
So, they simply did not - letting Quatre continue with his appraisal instead.
“Monsieur Pratama, who I am very glad has not passed away, doesn’t seem to be aware of the unspoken rules of positioning that come with overtaking in open-wheel racing - and Morel, on his part, did not expect Pratama not to. This kind of accident is usually seen when younger, less experienced drivers begin their tenure a bit too early, and are thus thrust in the same league as career pilots with a dozen or so seasons to their names.”
Pratama’s saber-wielding cousin looked just about ready to plunge his blade into Quatre’s chest, when it was Varnaka who put a hand on his shoulder this time - an inquisitive look in his eyes, one implying more than a little collusion on the scion’s part. The Marshal, on the other hand, was stroking his chin and nodding along - his look one of intrigue and mild curiosity.
“Yeah, makes a lot of sense honestly. Are you a racing fan, lad? You sound like you know your stuff, it’s a pleasant surprise: half the people I’ve been speaking to during this event have never even changed a tyre in their life, you know?”
In an uncharacteristic display of self-consciousness, Quatre looked away - treating Renard with the sight of his otherwise cool-headed companion allowing himself to blush at the dignitary’s compliments. He was, after all, rarely letting anyone privy to the one topic he considered himself a nerd for. Anyone aside from Renard, who mostly just smiled and sighed dreamily every time his companion got into a rant about tyre strategy or aerodynamics packages.
“Thank you, Monsieur. I’d say I’m indeed an admirer of Antoine Morel, which is why this accident was such a shock. He’s quite the decorated driver, as even Monsieur Varnaka seemed to be aware of: he’s won five Avignon Super GP driver’s titles under LaFayette Automobiles by a margin of a 135 points on average - which doesn’t make him the best in his series, but probably one of the greatest talents of the current era. Still, he’s not that far from the current greatest driver - which would be Patroklos Severini, who ended his career with nine driver’s and five constructor’s titles across three different teams. I’m quite young, so I’ve only known him as a commentator, but my father was my age during his prime - and took to recording many of the broadcast races along with my grandfather. One might say I was raised watching that man drive, and I’m thankful for it. It’s more or less how I’ve come to love this sport, needlessly romantic as it may sound.”
Comrade Hunt let out a hearty laugh, before patting Varnaka on the shoulder and nodding towards Quatre - clearly having a blast, and wanting what the pair now assumed was an old time friend/political rival in on it.
“Fuck’s sake, Varnaka - your lads were about to decapitate the only interesting guest in Silverstone! Glad you waited to give the kill order, like I suggested you do last time this happened. You never know what kind of interesting characters you might meet if you just cut their heads off on suspicion alone, you know?”
For once, the Sirius dignitary let out a chuckle of his own - slowly shaking his head as his analogue spoke his piece.
“You’re one to talk, Comrade. Who was it that had my nephew shot down in the middle of a joyride over the border, again? And don’t give the children over here the same spiel you gave us - his yacht did not have the same radar signature as a mobile armor. You did it for fun, admit it.”
Quatre, whose face went from flush to pale, immediately glanced over to Renard - whose expression was frozen in a blank courtesy smile. In the background, the two dignitaries continued their back and forth with seemingly little care for the gravity of the matters discussed.
“Ah shut up, Varnaka! That little shit was flying drunk anyway, he would have found a way to crash that thing into a SysDef barge. Don’t listen to him, lads - Vaishiya fatcats like Sinthe all employ backup clones anyway: I could shoot Sinthe right now if I wanted to, and the old codger would be back here tomorrow morning - with a mole or two in the wrong place, but the same shitty attitude as ever. I’ve done it a few times by now, wanna see?”
As Quatre almost pleaded the Marshal not to shoot his analogue for the prince’s amusement, Renard stood up and put a hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“Messieurs - while meeting the both of you was truly a pleasure, I’m afraid we may need to take our leave for a few moments. We would like to check on the LaFayette pit crew, make a quick morale tour before this “red flag” is lifted - right, Quatre?”
Hunt gave them a shallow bow, and Varnaka let out a curt “hmph” before taking out a small golden tablet and beginning to type on it. The two youngins thus rushed into the hallway, tenser than they’d been after their first live-fire exercise. Once outside, Renard stopped in his tracks and gave his companion the tightest hug he’d ever received.
“My consort...”
Quatre let him, reciprocating with a comparatively milder hold that he hoped didn’t come across as any less affectionate. He was, in fact, very glad for his head to be still on his shoulders.
“I would just like you to know that, if the Terran madman had not intervened, I would have gladly gutted that bloated slumlord like a pig there and then.”
Quatre, actually somewhat touched by the thought of Renard causing a major diplomatic crisis for his sake, brought a hand to the prince’s head and ran it through his hair.
“Thank you for holding back, my friend.”
Renard, pulling back and crossing his arms in an attempt to mimic Quatre’s own cool dude ways, simply chuckled in response - although the words he would speak afterwards would swirl inside his companion’s head for the next twenty years.
“Don’t count on it happening again. I’ll have to bare my own fangs one day.”
- C'EST FINI -