Chapter Text
In the summer of 2400, if you were a citizen of the Tremerine Union, it was somewhat likely you’d heard of a musical act called “La Femme Cosmique”, especially if you were a fan of discotheque tunes from “back in the day” - when the Tremerine Union was still called "Avignon Empire".
Lulu Rembrandt, known by the stage name “La Femme Cosmique” was a Lutesse Funk producer whose renown belonged squarely in the 2370s. She’d been a dancefloor sensation back then, her tunes a mainstay in DJ sets across Avignon space. Somehow, that didn’t translate into the kind of chart-topping sales which should have catapulted her to the heights of all-time greats like Funktion 75 or Adam Seville - but she never seemed to care for that. Even a full decade into her career, she kept showing up at the same clubs she’d begun playing in with no loss of enthusiasm whatsoever. That kind of drive alone, according to most connoisseurs, undoubtedly made her the most underrated artist in the Lutetian Funk scene.
In 2384, her life would be cut short by a CSO (Commission Spéciale de l’Ordre) raid sent to the wrong address.
USDF Adjutant Officer Quatre Asselin had never quite forgiven his dear emperor for that one.
He knew her death had likely been a sick accident, but somewhere in the back of his mind he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man who’d thrown himself at him for the entire time they’d known each other likely harbored some equally one-sided hurt feelings towards the woman Quatre had foolishly confessed to have been his very first heartthrob.
Not like it mattered now, anyway.
“Everything alright, monsieur?” the bartender, likely worried by his longest-running regular spacing out as “Téléporte-Moi” by La Femme Cosmique came on the radio, had gently leaned into his peripheral vision. Quatre stared at his empty wine glass, and left a 100 Réal bill on the counter.
“I’m good, sorry. That song takes me back, is all”. Which wasn’t a lie, per se. It just didn’t take him back the way most things usually took people “back”.
The bartender smiled knowingly, sliding the bill into the cash register with a practiced swiftness.
“My old man was a fan too. I’m not a disco guy myself, but I can see the appeal. Shame it ended up like it did. Those fascist morons…” The younger barista trailed off, not sure if he should have pushed the story further, given his patron’s seeming emotional distress at the recollection.
“...couldn’t even read an address right. I was there, I know.” Quatre finished his sentence, his tone nonchalant as ever when recounting his time serving the old regime.
“Something for the road, monsieur?” the bartender smoothly changed the subject, asking as he always did.
“Not tonight, Remy. Merci beaucoup.” was likely not what the barista expected to hear from the old regular, who usually bookended his trips to La Cure Qui Brûle by purchasing the bottle of whatever drink he’d chosen that particular night. They both knew the officer’s countryside villa had its own wine cellar, stocked to the brim with the kind of stuff Remy Dujour would have potentially strangled someone for - and thus, his purchases were more of an extended tip/open donation than anything else. Remy appreciated that, despite envying him somewhat.
On his part, Quatre didn’t feel like drinking on the way home for two reasons: number one, he actually needed decent sleep tonight, as he was going to evaluate a new batch of potential USDF pilots tomorrow; number two, a group of youths covered head-to-toe in black market chrome had been eyeing him up the entire night, and he felt somewhat on guard about it - especially as he noticed them leaving La Cure only a few minutes after him.
Seemingly with the intention of tailing him.
Now, this wasn’t the first time a group of chromeurs had eyed him up in a bar before. Usually, the whole interaction resolved with an awkward rejection, as he found himself once again invited to some kind of three-to-eightsome on account of his dashing looks and new exotic augmentations - by Union standards at least. Recently added to his kit was, in fact, a suite of nanite-based neural augmentations meant to “supplement natural tactical capabilities” and “increase individual lethality in worst-case scenarios” - which, to him, both read as “give his old butt a boost”. A boost he insisted he didn't need, having only recently turned 47 - but age didn't seem to matter, as operatives half his age had also been stung by that very same needle before him.
That said, these particular chromeurs had not approached him during the night - instead limiting themselves to chattering behind his back and exchanging suspicious glances. These particular chromeurs were also visibly armed, with retractable batons hanging from their belts and, in one case, a low-frequency wakizashi one of the youths had been filing her nails against.
So, before leaving the bar, he’d swallowed an electrolyte pill and chased it with a glass of mineral water, letting his nanos power up as he turned away from his usual return route into a maze of side-alleys he’d come to know very intimately in his younger years.
Just as he predicted, the chromeurs took the bait.
With a decade or so of intelligence tradecraft behind him, Quatre felt pretty comfortable about having the upper hand over some chromed-up twenty-somethings. He kept it simple, following a seemingly random route and leading them deeper and deeper into the maze that was the St. Louise Quarter, a residential sector surrounding the old Academie Militaire. He cut line of sight as often as he could, but never quite made an effort to disappear - as to not throw them off completely. No, the adjutant officer felt curious tonight: he actually wanted to know why they were as intent on tailing some Volga has-been and mildly controversial political figure at best. It couldn’t be as simple as a robbery, would it? That would have been disappointingly dull.
So, once he’d found a suitably dark corner, he simply drew his own service-issued stunner knife and waited, raising the sensitivity on his augmented hearing system to better track them as they waltzed into his reasonably competent ambush. It wouldn’t take long for their voices to appear on the upper left corner of his eye, neatly rendered as real-time subtitles.
“...dude, how’d you let him take off like that?” A young male, his voice slightly altered by some sort of internal scrambler.
“Oh get off my case, man! I looked at my phone for one second and he just poofed!” Another young male, probably. Their voice was scrambled even further, and he couldn’t quite remember their face from the bar.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t look at your fuckin’ phone every five seconds. You thought of that, you gonk?” This was the girl with the wakizashi, likely the only girl in this particular group - gonk #2 ’s actual identity notwithstanding.
“And miss out on the engagement ? Fuck off, man! The 900 Stalefish I did over that mech this morning is still getting views! When’s the last time one of your clips even broke 300, scrub? ”
“Both of you, stay on target for fuck’s sake. He can’t have gone far. Not sure why someone like him would be hanging around these parts, but we can’t take any chances. You guys wanted that new plasteel printer, right?”
So there was a financial motive. Maybe a kidnapping? Maybe a ransom?
Quatre decided he’d ask one of them once he’d knocked the other two out, which would be in about…
Count to three, inhale.
“Yo, you guys sure he went this way?”
Count to three, exhale.
“This is the one alley without weird little sidepaths, dude. Put your fuckin’ phone away.”
Now.
“It’s in my pocket man! You sound like my fuckin’ mom! Fuck…”
He willed it, and his reflex boosters presented him with a still portrait of the chromeurs’ shock as he pounced on the first one, pressing the “stunner” side of his blade onto his neck and slamming him onto the ground before swiftly moving onto the group's apparent “leader”. His eyes did their best to track Quatre’s movements, but from his perspective the older man must have appeared as little more than a blur - and worryingly enough, Quatre really enjoyed the idea.
Maybe a bit too much.
Last but not least came Wakizashi Girl, still trapped in the bubble of her own human reflexes as Quatre dashed towards her, ready to disarm her and pin her to the wall for interrogation. Or at least, that’s what he would have done if said girl hadn’t parried the strike aimed at her cybernetic arm at the very last second, which should have been impossible unless she also…
Yeah, yeah that checked out.
Stunner knife and shortsword clashed as time resumed its regular flow, and the young swordswoman cartwheeled away from him, drawing a second blade and assuming what looked like a ready stance partially cribbed from LIFE.CUT - a hot new anidrama whose protagonist had become a common sight on the city’s many new billboards.
Quatre, his knife held in a more orthodox guard stance, quickly shoved a hand into his jacket and felt around for something else - wasting no time drawing it on his opponent before she could do anything else.
“Are you sure you’d wish to do this, young lady? ”
Unphased by the .44 caliber, electrically-accelerated revolver pointed squarely at her, Wakizashi Girl spat on the ground before some kind of side-split visor closed over her eyes with a loud clack .
“Any time, piggy . Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Quatre had gone way too long without the tension of a duel sending a shock down his fight-or-flight instinct.
God, how much did he miss it.
Without warning, he fired four of his six shots in the general direction of Wakizashi Girl - all misses, he didn’t need his HUD to tell him that - before dashing at her, reflex boosters back on.
As expected, the swordswoman deflected all four, only noticing she’d been baited into doing so once Quatre had closed the distance and could potentially end things there and then. So, she went for his right arm - hoping to once again catch the edge of his blade with hers - only to be hit by a one-two combo of pistol whip to the neck and knee to the stomach, which sent her reeling against the wall behind her.
Satisfied by this first assault, Quatre gave her time to compose herself - straightening his jacket and idly spinning his sidearm in his hand. He’d thought of taunting her further for a moment, but he figured it was still too early for that: a proper taunt hit the best when the opponent was exhausted, after all.
…wait, how long was he planning to go at this again?
Unfortunately, he’d have to figure that out as he went, at it looked like his opponent had no intention to fold any time soon. In fact, she was now coming at him with a respectably bold move: hopping onto a dumpster and kicking off the wall behind it in some kind of downwards “cross-slash” attack. Even with his reflex boosters kicking back on, Quatre had a few moments to decide how to counter it - and so, he took the easy route, stepping to the side and letting her crash onto the cobbled street in an attempt at some kind of “action hero landing”.
Without a word, he raised his pistol to the side of her head and gave her a little “tut-tut”, causing her to snort in mounting rage.
“That was a cool move, honestly. Probably bad on the knees, but I do respect the commitment. How come you didn’t Reflex at the end though? I know you’ve got one.”
Wakizashi Girl hissed, still frozen in the pose she landed on - with both of her blades pressed against the cobbled street. Quatre noticed she was shaking slightly, and he considered lowering his weapon.
Then he remembered they were likely looking to ransom him, and quickly reconsidered.
“I’m out of juice, pig. Some folks don’t get reups for free.” Wait, what? He didn’t get his own electrolytes “for free” either. The adjutant officer was going to have to look into this later. Before that, though…
“Right, that word: “pig”. I’m not an actual Gendarme, you know? Why’d you keep calling me that?” Admittedly, Quatre likely knew the answer - but he liked playing with his food, when he had someone in a checkmate like he did just now.
“Oh shut up, pig! Gendarmerie, USDF, GPEU, WTF, BWL - arrange the letters however you want, it’s pigs all the way down! I know why you’re here, don’t you fuckin’ play dumb with me!”
Quatre cocked his head, squinting at the chromeuse in visible confusion. The hell did she mean with that? He’d taken a random route this whole time!
“Oh you must think I’m some total gonk , huh?! Like you’re not here for the-”
Suddenly, a sound resembling a small explosion shook the ground underneath them, and a manhole cover to the adjutant officer’s left flank shot up in the air as if it weighed nothing at all. Unfortunately, as the both of them jumped from the unexpectedly explosive interruption, Quatre’s opponent slinked away from him and back into her anidrama stance. Further complicating the situation, three more equally-augmented youths also emerged from the manhole, waving visibly DIY firearms in his general direction.
“Yo! Waki! What the fuck girl?!” the first spoke up: another girl, holding a pair of 3d-printed semi-autos resembling toy guns more than any real firearm.
“We got’em we got’em we got’em, where’s the pigs?! Where’s the pigs?!” The second, a shirtless male of particularly lanky physique, wielded an antique assault rifle patched up with both stamped and printed components. He was feverishly checking his sightlines, seemingly expecting a much greater opposing force than the lone USDF officer out for a stroll that night.
“Oi, where’s Duo and Radome?! Oh fuck they’re right there - did they get’em?! They alive?!” The third, slightly more diminutive chromeur was holding an over-under shotgun which somehow looked too big in their arms. Much like with gonk #2 , an excess of vocal scrambling paired with a set of thick AR goggles and surplus military respirator made it impossible to determine their gender or age.
Outnumbered four-to-one despite the clear gap in experience and equipment, Quatre began weighing his options - as he didn’t really plan to spend his sunday night fighting punks in a back alley. It was doable , but he’d been apparently caught in some kind of misunderstanding in the first place - making any further fighting both a needless waste of very pricey electrolytes, very precious sleeptime and generally a dick move, even if these were anarchist punks wielding very illegal weaponry.
So, he just holstered his weapon and lit himself a cigarette.
“So, why were you following me?” the adjutant officer asked, curt and to the point.
Wakizashi Girl and her band of merry gonks exchanged progressively puzzled looks before one of them - the smaller one - cautiously began lowering her shotgun.
“We…weren’t? Wait, do you know who we are? Like, at all?”
Quatre took a drag and exhaled, staring at the cigarette in his hands for a few moments.
“Should I?” The question was genuine, but it still seemed to leave the tiny gunner somewhat disappointed. The lanky one snorted, trying to stifle a chuckle. He did not, however, lower his own rifle.
“So much for the engagement… ” Wakizashi Girl added, her blades still trained on the smoking pig.
Then, something interesting and potentially very demoralizing dawned on Quatre as well.
“...Do you know me?” he asked, not without a hint of dread in his voice.
“...sooooorta? You’re like…a Volga guy? And like…in the military, also? Look, I don’t watch that stuff at all, but like…” Akimbo Girl replied, somewhat thrown off by the question.
“Radome does, heh…” The lanky one again, nodding towards one of the youths Quatre had swiftly knocked out earlier.
“...I see. Well, I ask because your friend “Radome” earlier was acting as if-”
Before the adjutant officer could finish the sentence, a freezing mass of water came crashing down on the lot of them, seemingly dropped from one of the apartments overlooking the alleyway. Before long, the voice of an extremely angry old lady echoed into the Lutetian night.
“ΣΚΑΣΤΕ ΡΕ ΜΑΛΑΚΕΣ ΚΟΙΜΆΤΑΙ Ο ΚΟΣΜΟΣ!" she shouted, foregoing the planet’s lingua franca in her blind rage.
In a somewhat farcical turn of events, this literal cold shower defused whatever tension was left in their nightly standoff. A heavy, embarrassed silence fell between the parties, before Wakizashi Girl finally decided to break it.
“...you wanna come down real quick?” she spoke as if she hadn’t tried to decapitate the older man but a few minutes prior.
“...what?” Quatre couldn’t bring himself to say much else. Although the situation itself wasn’t exactly unfamiliar to him. It had only been…twentyfive odd years since he’d been given the water bucket. He wasn't even sure people did it anymore.
“We got a dryer.”
The lanky one, his rifle still trained on Quatre, glanced at her like she’d just gone insane. The other two were just…kind of standing there. Not really sure where this night was going - much like Quatre himself.
“Hey, as long as he don’t snitch, right? I think he knows I’ll just…”
She made a “cutting throat” gesture, accompanied by a somewhat comical impression of a death gargle.
“...if he does. He’s good, but he’s not like.. that good. I can take him.”
Quatre chuckled at her appraisal, then tossed his now-drenched cigarette in the same dumpster she’d used to try and cleave him in two earlier on.
“Fuck it, why not.”
He was likely going to regret this, but it wouldn’t be the first time caffeine would carry him through an evaluation day anyhow.