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As he makes his way through the sands, Commander Fortsy wonders: is this worth it?
It’s not the first time he’s asked himself that. But he saw Foolish’s name on the list of candidates, and as far as he’s aware, the golden man has only one ally. No gear, no walls around his little pyramid home — one that’s far too easy to break into, if the happenings of the day prior indicate anything.
He’s vulnerable. Unprotected. Unaware of the danger to come.
Sure, there are other governor candidates — Fortsy has the full list, has all of their names memorized. But they’re part of factions, large ones at that.
And no, contrary to the belief of his closest comrades, this has nothing to do with Foolish’s previous…comments.
“Dang, you sound awesome! Are you single?”
A full laugh, one that sounds foreign to his own ears, bursts out of the commander’s throat. There’s another comment from the kangaroo hybrid beside the man, a joke if the sly grin on his face is anything to go by, but Fortsy doesn’t hear it.
Instead, all of his attention remains on this citizen’s sparkling eyes, green and bright and pleased, having earned a laugh from the highest ranking official in the district with little more than a question (and a bold one at that).
A name placard, required of all Imperian citizens, hangs lopsided around his neck.
Even so, the commander can read it just fine from where he stands.
Foolish
In the present, Desert Commander Fortsy forces himself to focus on the cobblestone path ahead.
“Follow my lead,” he tells his guards lowly, as to remain unheard by nearby citizens. “Do not speak unless addressed directly and do not hold any weapons unless a threat is present. We do not wish to incite fear. Understood?”
“Yes, Commander,” Nickles and Ramun reply in sync.
He gives a curt nod and continues onward, crossing over the bridge with his head held high.
The pyramid is in better shape than it was yesterday. Fortsy hadn’t seen the chaos for himself, but the reports painted a clear enough picture. Now, only two Imperia banners flap idly on the side towers. The commander goes to knock at a newly installed wooden door, but pauses upon seeing the signs above.
ENDORSED BY THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH
A shiver runs up his spine. There are twin endorsements for the ministries of defense and logistics, but to pretend they hold any threat in comparison to the center one would be naive at best.
“What was a minister of truth doing here?” the commander mutters under his breath.
The desert winds offer no answer. He’s learned to not expect one.
And so, he straightens his shoulders and knocks.
There’s a rustle from inside. “Coming!” an accented voice calls out.
A few more seconds pass before the door is swinging open, and a pair of mismatched eyes meet his own. “Oh— Commander!” Derapchu greets, blinking. A lopsided grin tugs at his mouth, and he turns back toward the interior. “Hey, Foolish! Come on out, we’ve got a visitor!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” the muffled reply comes.
The four of them wait for a few uncomfortable moments before finally, a man with golden skin and brilliant verdant eyes pushes his way past Derapchu.
“Fortsy!” Foolish greets brightly when he sees him. “Whad’re you doing all the way out here? To what do we owe the pleasure?”
The commander nods. “Evening, gentlemen. Foolish, I’ve come to request that you come with me to the central building. It’s an urgent matter.”
Both desert citizens blink at him, then look at each other, their eyes communicating signals only they can interpret.
After a moment has passed, Foolish looks back. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” he confesses. The usual laughter is gone from his voice, replaced instead with a sort of raw honesty — raw fear — that’s hard to witness.
Fortsy allows his expression to soften just slightly. “I understand your concern, and I am sorry I cannot tell you anything further, but I must insist we leave now. We have already wasted too much time.”
Foolish moves to follow, but quickly freezes. He looks back, eyes wide. “W-Wait,” he stammers. “Just me?”
The commander’s heart clenches. “Just you,” Fortsy confirms.
Horror dawns on his face. Foolish shakes his head, once, then another time, the navy fabric of his cloak shifting with his frantic movements. “I won’t go!” he yelps. “Not without Derapchu!”
Immediately, the kangaroo hybrid steps forward, paws extended outward in a placating manner. “Foolish, you’ve heard the rumors, we both know what’s about to happen. Maybe this is for the best—“
Foolish’s mouth drops open. He reaches out with trembling hands, pausing just before he makes contact. “But I…we made a promise—“
Derapchu closes the short distance between them, grabbing his friend by the upper arms and squeezing, a reassuring thing, then giving the golden man a slight shake. “I’ll be fine. You know I will,” he adds, something unsaid but understood passing between the two.
Foolish swallows, clearly still on the fence. Emerald eyes look to Fortsy, as if asking for guidance — for honesty. Something in the commander’s chest wrenches at the desperation he sees there.
Not knowing what else to say, he repeats: “Just you. I’m sorry.”
Finally, Foolish nods, even as hesitation can be seen in every twitch of his fingers, every flutter of his lashes. The golden man turns back to face his friend and practically throws himself at the shorter man, whose paws come to wrap around his back firmly.
They whisper something that Fortsy can only catch syllables of. He looks away out of respect, eyeing the sky warily as it fades from vibrant orange to bruised navy.
He hopes they can get inside before the first siren blares.
The embrace ends with a few final murmurs; and then Foolish is stepping back, shaken, but settled in his decision. He gives Fortsy a nod. The commander nods in return.
They start back toward the central building in silence, the kind that only the desert can create, the kind where the dryness of the air leaves words left unsaid, sticking to your tongue.
It remains that way until they reach the fields. And then:
“Foolish?” one citizen cries out, followed by another. “Foolish, are you okay? What’s happening?”
The Desert Commander opens his mouth to respond—
But he’s cut off by a laugh. Foolish’s laugh.
It’s far from the last time this happens, short though their journey is.
All along the way, they’re stopped by members of various desert groups. Even the Slimes call out, concern dripping on every word and worry wrinkling their brows.
It’s hard for the commander to not be struck by the way Foolish smothers his anxiety and plasters on a smile brighter than the sun. “Aww, don’t you guys worry about me,” he says each time, eyes squinted teasingly. “Fortsy here just wanted ta have a little chat about the elections, that’s all! I’ll be back before you can even miss me!”
Their eyes meet, once, after Foolish rattles off his script merrily. There’s something in those eyes the commander hasn’t seen before. Something wise, something knowing.
Something old.
Fortsy shudders and looks away, unable to maintain eye contact for reasons he doesn’t understand.
They arrive at the iron gates and make their way up the stairs just as the last rays of light fade from the sky. The commander’s heart pounds in his chest. It could be any minute now.
As soon as they pass through the security doors, the facades fade away — at least partially. Fortsy lets his neutral front drop into a deep, concerned frown. Behind him, he hears Nickles and Ramun chatter in hushed tones, words sharp and worry-laced.
And at his side, all the bravado Foolish armed himself with melts like ice under the unforgiving desert sun.
“Come on, come on,” the civilian mutters to himself as he fumbles with his communicator. Red flashes across the screen, and Foolish smacks the device. “Stupid— work, dammit!”
Realization hits at once. “You won’t be able to reach him in here,” Fortsy tells him. Desperate eyes look up, disbelieving. For the second time that day, the commander’s heart squeezes uncomfortably.
“Imperia cuts the signal off at the door to prevent communications between districts,” he explains. Apologies sit on his tongue, but around them swarms officials in armor, most of which is trimmed in deep scarlet and glittering teal. In the company of those outside his own battalion, Fortsy wisely keeps his mouth shut.
Instead, the commander straightens, far too aware of the many sets of eyes on them. “Follow me,” he orders, loud enough to snap Nickles and Ramun back to attention. He doesn’t look back; he simply starts in the direction of the prison ward with his chin held high, listening as harried steps catch up behind him.
The cacophony of sound fades into uneasy quiet the farther down the hall he walks. By the time they reach the prison block, it’s merely a din in the background. All the cells are empty, so Fortsy picks one at random. They’re all identical: a few square meters, a bed with thin coverings, a sink, and a toilet. It’s not like he could give Foolish any additional comfort if he tried.
Not that he wants to.
Anyways—
The Desert Commander clears his throat and opens the door with a swipe of his key card. It’s then that he finally looks back, seeing Foolish directly in front of him, and Nickles and Ramun a few dutiful paces behind.
His dual-toned eyes shift to land on his guards. “I can handle this,” he tells them, then glances back toward the main hallway. “Go gather the rest of the desert battalion for patrol. I’ll be there shortly.”
Fortsy can see hesitation as clear as day in their eyes, which fall onto the civilian before them. He merely gives them a subtle nod — one that they both know to mean “trust me.” The guards take their leave, though not without a few cautionary glances back.
As soon as they are out of sight, Fortsy draws his attention back to Foolish.
Emerald eyes, usually bright and sparkling, are filled with fear when they meet his.
“Right,” Foolish swallows. “I guess this is when I get into the cell?”
The commander sighs, but nods. “Yes. And it must be said that—“
“I won’t put up a fight,” Foolish blurts, interrupting him. “I know better than to do that. I’m—“ he laughs, and it’s more of a sharp breath than something born of humor. “I-I don’t know what I did to wind up here, but just please don’t take it out on Derapchu? Do whatever you want to me, but please—“
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Foolish.”
The golden man blinks. “I— you know, I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.” He stares at the commander with something akin to wonder, laughing, “Heh, I didn’t even think you knew it.”
Fortsy’s head rushes in a way that makes him wish he could sit down. “I…” he trails off, casting his mind back. “No, I said it earlier…didn’t I?” he ponders aloud.
Foolish’s nose crinkles. “Actually yeah, you’re right. Sorry, my brain’s just kinda—“ he waves a hand around his head, “—scrambled, and, um, stuff.”
An awkward beat.
Fortsy watches as the desert citizen takes in a shaky breath, brushing back errant ebony locks. “Right,” Foolish breathes. “So, I’m not in trouble. Then…why am I here?”
The familiar topic gives Fortsy some reprieve from the tense atmosphere. “You’re running for governor, yes?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
Foolish nods eagerly. “Yes! Well, no…maybe?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m still undecided. Derapchu wants me to drop out — says it’ll put a target on my back. After,” he cringes, “everything this morning, I’m kinda seeing his point.”
And this…this Fortsy hadn’t expected.
“Ah,” he replies, stilted. “I see.”
The other man nods once again. Then, he tilts his head. “What does that have to do with anything though?” Foolish asks. Understanding flickers in his eyes. “Was— oh, was I right? You wanna talk about the elections? That was really just an educated guess; somethin’ to tell everyone, you know? But if you wanna, then I’m down.”
Fortsy’s mouth feels dry. “I—“
He’s a fool. This wasn’t worth it at all. He’s brought a citizen into the inner workings of Imperia in the name of their safety, yet it seems his fears were completely unfounded. If anything, given how the people of the desert reacted to Foolish being taken away, he may be safer out there than in here.
And yet selfishly, Fortsy took him, out of reach of his closest friend and countless others who care for him deeply.
Nausea swirls in his stomach.
“—tsy? Hey, you there?”
A golden hand waves in front of mismatched eyes. Fortsy barely stops himself from smacking it away on impulse.
“Apologies,” the commander croaks. “My mind was…elsewhere.”
Foolish stares at him expectantly. Curse those gemstone eyes for finding the cracks in his carefully crafted armor.
Unable to find words at first, Fortsy merely gestures to the bed. Foolish takes the hint — he crosses the distance in three strides and sits down on the edge, one knee bouncing anxiously. Fortsy leans against the cold stone wall, arms crossing as he considers his next words carefully.
“In simple terms,” he begins slowly, “I brought you here to keep you safe.”
Dread falls over Foolish’s countenance. “So the rumors are true?” he whispers. “Tonight is gonna…”
Fortsy forces his voice to not shake. “It’s called the purge. And yes, it should be starting any moment.”
A tense second passes in silence. Fortsy swears he can see the cogs turning in Foolish’s mind. He seems to reach a conclusion quickly, because he jumps to his feet, startling him.
“Let me out,” Foolish begs, hands clasped together. “I can’t leave Derapchu alone out there all by himself! He’s strong, but he— I promised him we’d stick together this time!”
Fortsy’s mouth opens, selfish apologies on his tongue—
The starting siren wails.
Both of them wince in tandem, hands quick to cover ears. The siren echoes horribly against the stone walls, creating an ache in Fortsy’s head. Even when it stops, he’s reluctant to remove his hands from his ears.
But before he can get another word out, Foolish is in his face again.
“Please let me out,” he pleads. “I can’t even message him to know if he’s okay! You have to understand.”
And maybe, just maybe, if Fortsy wasn’t a high-ranking commander, he could have given Foolish at least a bit of false hope to cling to. But he isn’t, and that means he’s cursed with the knowledge of how precisely the purge works.
It’s with a heavy heart that he says, “The doors to the district are locked now — even my key won’t open them. They won’t open again until sunrise.”
Foolish reels back. “Shit,” he curses. “Fuck. God damn it—!”
“Commander!”
The citizen’s swears are cut off hastily, his shoulders stiffening. Fortsy can’t deny that his own do the same.
He exits the cell swiftly, an eyebrow lifted. “Yes?” he asks, careful to hold back his relief when he sees the familiar form of Seren.
The younger guard’s eyes flick back toward the cell curiously. “I— Ramun sent me. We’re all up on the walls waiting for you.”
The Desert Commander opens his mouth to respond—
A thump behind him has him turning.
Foolish sits, head in hands, on the bed — shoulders crumpled inward, breathy mutters spilling from his mouth, knees shaking, fingers grasping at navy fabric in quiet agony.
(Is selfishness destined to be his weakness?)
Fortsy makes his decision quickly.
His head snaps back to Seren. “Go fetch a spare suit of armor,” he commands. “In our colors. A shield, too.” He hesitates, then shakes his head. “And a baton. Go — now!”
Seren nods before running off, and the commander sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Please don’t let me regret this,” Fortsy murmurs to himself.
Then, he turns back to see emerald eyes and a wrinkled brow.
Fortsy waves a hand lazily. “Come on, get up. You’ve got food on you, yes?”
Foolish blinks, but stands. “I— er, yes. We, um, got prepared just in case.”
That knowledge settles something in the commander’s chest. “Good. You’re coming with me.”
“I—“ Foolish sputters, “We— you— what?”
The question is a touch too loud, making Fortsy narrow his eyes and put a finger to his lips. Foolish understands fast enough; he straightens up, eyes wide and mouth shut.
Fortsy takes a step closer. “You will join me with my guards up on the top of the wall,” he tells him lowly. “Communicators still won’t work, but you will have a good vantage point. It should be easy enough to keep Derapchu in your sights.”
The citizen looks like he’s both been punched in the gut and told it’s his birthday in the same moment. He nods eagerly, still not daring to say a word.
There are footsteps approaching.
Fortsy continues hastily. “Remove the cloak,” he instructs. Foolish scrambles to take it off as he adds, “Keep your head down and your name placard hidden. Don’t speak to anyone but me or my guards. Understood?”
He gets a shaky nod in return — and, well, that’s all Fortsy can really ask for.
Seren is at the door a moment later, blinking as he realizes who exactly is in the cell. Still, he hands over the armor upon his commander’s nod and even helps latch the buckles when Foolish fumbles with them.
When all appears to be in order, Fortsy nods. “Good.” Then, his eyes catch a smudge of ash he hadn’t seen before. “Ah, hold on—“
Cleanliness was an absolute must in Imperia. Any guard seen with grime on their face or armor would be subject to questioning. It was one of the many rules Fortsy had come to disfavor, if only for its pedantry.
That’s why he steps forward, Fortsy tells himself. Why he removes his favorite handkerchief from his pocket. Why he wipes the ash from Foolish’s cheek with care. Why he lingers a second too long, even after golden skin is spotless.
(God, is there truly no end to his selfish nature?)
The Desert Commander doesn’t realize how close he is until he feels a shuddering breath against his fingertips.
Amber and rust-red eyes blink.
There’s a cough. “Uh, Commander?”
Realization hits quickly, and he comes back to himself. “Right,” Fortsy says sharply, turning on his heel and strutting out of the cell. “Follow close. We’re headed to the top of the wall.”
He can’t hear their responses over the blood rushing in his ears. Blessedly, the hallways have emptied out, with everyone leaving to man their stations. Fortsy can only hope his absence has not been noticed.
Two sets of armored feet follow behind dutifully. The commander is relieved; at least Foolish is smart. Those with less intelligence rarely last long in Imperia’s walls.
Stars dot the sky when they exit the rooftop access. The quiet is…unsettling. The only voices he hears are those of his battalion, murmuring restlessly amongst themselves as they await his orders.
All of them snap to attention upon seeing him.
Fortsy watches their reactions unfurl in real time. Some recognize Foolish quickly, having taken many shifts roaming the district to ensure all was well. Others only know him from whispers and gossip, but a few furtive glances later, all are silently up to speed.
He gives them a firm look, one that quickly answers any unspoken questions.
Then, he settles his shoulders and lifts his chin. “With me. We’ll start counter-clockwise. Keep your eyes peeled for any incidents.”
“Yes, Commander!”
Fortsy has to smother an amused grin when Foolish parrots them, a second delayed from the rest. A giggle at the back tells him he’s not the only one who noticed.
And so, they set into motion. Almost every parapet along the wall has at least two guards stationed — but none of them wear the desert’s colors. The commander wonders if it’s the same in the other districts or if his alone has been chosen for higher levels of surveillance. He doubts he’ll ever get an answer.
Eventually they come to a section of the wall that has less officials, and Fortsy steps toward the edge with purpose, grabbing his spyglass from the inner pocket of his coat.
“Eyes up,” he reminds his guard. Immediately, he can hear the familiar sound of them fanning out. But there’s a presence closer, one whose breath is still a touch shaky.
“You’re doing well,” Fortsy murmurs. The only response he gets is a sharp inhale of breath. Trying to encourage the other more, he asks, “Do you see him?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Foolish whispers. “Everyone just looks like ants from up here.”
The commander allows himself a small chuckle. He brings the spyglass down and hands it over as casually as possible to not draw suspicion. Warm fingers brush against his as Foolish takes it, sending tingles up his spine.
(…maybe he should be selfish more often.)
Fortsy clears his throat. “Tell me what you see.”
Several tense moments pass, during which Fortsy hears only the clattering of armor and the whispers of guards as they pass.
Then finally, there’s a gasp.
“He teamed up with the DMC,” Foolish breathes, grip tightening on the spyglass. “Thank god.”
The corner of Fortsy’s mouth twitches up. He doesn’t expect to get his spyglass back anytime soon, not with how intently the golden man is staring at the quadrant below. He finds himself peering down as well, biting his lip to hold back a laugh when he sees the glint of iron armor on almost every citizen.
A thought strikes him. “Say Foolish,” Fortsy starts, voice smooth. “That ash on your face wouldn’t happen to have been from smelting iron ore, now would it?”
The man next to him startles. “No!” he squeaks. “O-Of course not!”
The commander allows his gaze to drift to his right, where Foolish looks at him with a mix of guilt and nerves. Fortsy eyes him idly, then looks back out at the desert. “Hm,” he hums. “Must have been from something else then. Cooking food, perhaps.”
Confusion practically radiates off the citizen at his side.
“Err…yeah, that,” Foolish eventually replies.
Fortsy opens his mouth to respond—
Then picks up the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the left. Fortsy turns, using his body to block Foolish from view.
A peace keeper — one whose armor is marked with scarlet instead of gold — stops a few paces away.
Fortsy lifts his chin. “May I help you?” he asks.
They snap a salute, then settle. “Desert Commander Fortsy, sir. The people in the district are getting too close to the walls. Should we ready our bows to fire?”
There’s a sharp breath behind him. Fortsy shifts, feigning to look out at the district below in contemplation, when in reality, his eyes flicker over to meet emeralds.
Foolish stares at him intently, quiet pleas shouting through his eyes.
(You know, perhaps being selfish isn’t so wrong if it makes him do things like this.)
The commander prepares his tongue to spin familiar lies.
“There’s no need,” he replies evenly as he turns back to the guard. “Imperia’s walls are far too strong for us to be concerned with a breakout. Besides, firing would only draw their ire at us. Let them become restless — they’ll turn on each other in due time.”
The guard nods stiffly, then walks away.
When Fortsy turns back, he catches strained relief on Foolish’s face.
“Thank you,” the golden man whispers, a choked sort of thing.
The commander does not reply, and only half of the reason why is the ping that comes from his communicator.
RAMun8 >> Capitol guards are saying Solev’s on the way. 5 min tops.
Fortsy’s grip on the device tightens.
The presence next to him shifts. “Fortsy? Is something—“
“Let’s fan out,” the commander calls out. “Nickles, lead your squad to the west tower. Keep an eye on the northern quadrant. Ramun, keep your squad here. I must go meet the president.”
“Yes, Commander!”
Fortsy turns sharply, muttering to Foolish, “Stick with Nickles. Keep your face turned away from us. I’ll come back once it’s clear.”
The Desert Commander expects what he’s seen all evening in those eyes — fear, hesitation, anxiety.
Instead, he finds something damn near unfathomable: trust.
Foolish smiles at him brightly, gemstone eyes glittering. He snaps up a salute. “Aye aye, Capt— uh, Commander,” he fixes, grin turning lopsided.
Fortsy rolls his eyes, amused. And then he’s off, making his way back toward the rooftop access as fast as he can without rousing suspicion. If he’s lucky, Solev will only want a quick word with him, as opposed to taking a stroll down the walls.
Oh, but when has luck ever been on his side?
Solev exits the access door just as Fortsy arrives. The president immediately struts in his direction and makes no move to stop, two guards flanking him on either side. The commander curses inwardly.
He steps into stride, staying half a pace behind. “President Solev, welcome to the desert,” he greets with a nod. “I trust you’re doing well?”
“Very,” he responds in that light, airy sort of way that always rubbed Fortsy the wrong way. “Snow and jungle are tearing each other apart as we speak. It’s a beautiful sight.”
The Desert Commander keeps his tone measured. “I see.”
They’re still walking, already only a few parapets away from Ramun’s squadron.
“Yes,” Solev replies. “So imagine my surprise when I arrive here and find all is well.”
And just like that, the invisible leash around his throat tightens.
Fortsy doesn’t say a word. Solev has that air about him — the kind that he’s learned to be wary of, the kind that’s proven to be a trap time and time again. Feigned lighthearted conversation that will soon turn dark and dangerous no matter what he tries.
They’re passing Ramun’s squad now. Fortsy can’t help but notice how they twitch, heads turning just slightly, listening carefully. But Solev is smarter; he doesn’t speak again until gold-trimmed armor is behind them.
Well, except for the second squad up ahead, one that contains an inconspicuous extra member.
Fortsy clears his throat. Solev must take it as a sign of disrespect or boredom, if the cool glare that snaps in his direction is anything to go by.
“As I was saying,” Solev drawls, and miracle of miracles, he stops at the nearest parapet, setting his hands upon the stone walls to gaze out upon his empire, looking every bit the tyrant he is.
Fortsy comes to stand by his side. He doesn’t miss how the guards encircle them from behind.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” the president continues lightly. “The other two districts are falling into line so easily — or, well, perhaps it is the opposite,” Solev chuckles. The desert commander’s heart races. He knows where this is going. “Whereas here, in the desert, it’s quiet.”
Solev’s lips dip downward into a sudden scowl, and his next word comes out as a hiss: “Peaceful.”
Cold grey eyes slide over to meet Fortsy’s. “Yet yesterday,” Solev says, tone smoothing out again, “When it should have been calm, your district was a madhouse. If I recall correctly, your peace keepers were harassing a man…oh, what was his name?” he pretends to ponder. “Ah yes: Foolish.”
Fortsy’s heart skips a dangerous beat. “Yes, I know of him,” he responds readily. “He is a candidate for governor. Do rest assured, President Solev, that all involved peace keepers have been properly and promptly reprimanded. We do not expect such an incident to occur again.”
Solev hums, a single unimpressed note. “I do wonder how it is that your district can be so riotous during peace and so peaceful during what should be mass bloodshed.” Lifeless eyes bore into his. Waiting for him to take the bait. “An interesting juxtaposition, don’t you think?”
The commander’s mouth goes dry. “They act…” he trails off, swallowing thickly, “…unexpectedly, that is for certain.”
And just like that, the facade falls in its entirety.
“Unexpectedly?” Solev repeats lowly. “That is your excuse?”
Fortsy’s mouth flattens into a thin line.
The president takes a single, steady step forward, then another, like a lion stalking its prey. “You expect me to believe that the citizens of the desert are, what? Special, in some way?” he spits. “An outlier? Well, commander, I’ll have you know they certainly are — because while snow and jungle have blood staining their soil, your sands remain spotless.”
The president stops mere centimeters before him. Fortsy can feel his breath on his skin, his eyes burning into his.
When Solev’s gloved hand reaches up, trembling in its eagerness, and stops, outstretched, just before the collar of Fortsy’s jacket, the commander’s vision swims with spots.
Behind him, there’s the sound of a crossbow string tightening.
“You know why it must be this way,” Solev reminds him darkly. “What we must accomplish. What we must prove.”
(Maybe that was his first act of selfishness — on that day ages ago when he no longer bought into Imperia’s lies.)
The Desert Commander swallows, not missing how Solev’s eyes track the movement. The corner of the president’s mouth twitches upward, pleased.
And so, Fortsy plays the role he’s meticulously perfected.
He makes a show of it: the way his lashes flutter nervously, how he struggles for the right words for a moment, only speaking after Solev raises an expectant eyebrow.
Then, he releases a shuddering breath, letting his shoulders fall from their upright state. “I understand,” Fortsy responds, his gaze flickering downward in apparent shame. “You have my word, Solev: if there is no bloodshed tonight, I will see to it that there will be tomorrow — by any means necessary.”
The commander raises his eyes again, fiery determination burning in them. “By my own hand, if I must,” he vows.
Solev hums.
The hand starts forward — just for a moment.
Fortsy can’t stop himself from flinching.
Cool eyes brighten with sick glee. “Good boy,” Solev praises. Patronizing. Just like the way his hand leaves the air near Fortsy’s neck to pass ever so gently over the curve of his cheek.
The only reason the commander doesn’t grit his teeth is because he knows Solev would feel it.
And then, finally, after another agonizing moment under the scrutiny of those soulless eyes, the president steps back. Fortsy resists the urge to take in a gasping breath, the invisible chain around his neck loosening.
Solev turns on his heel without so much as a glance backward.
“I want a death count report on my desk by morning,” the president says as he saunters away, guards falling in line after him. “If it isn’t up to standards, we’ll have a chat about plans for improvement.”
Fortsy nods, even though he knows it will remain unseen. Only once the president and his guard are halfway back to the rooftop access does he let himself a breath. It’s a shaky thing — a gasp, more like, that’s followed quickly by another, his hand coming up to rub at his throat without him realizing.
His eyes burn in the way only tears can cause, and he grinds his teeth together. He cannot fall apart. Not now, not when there’s still so much left to do. Fuck his dignity, he’ll endure as much of this torment as necessary if it means he can free his people.
It takes another minute to calm his racing heart, his racing mind, before Fortsy comes back to himself. Before he remembers who he is. He slips the role back on like a well-worn coat, his hand coming up as a signal.
When armored boots approach him from the left and right, he finds comfort in the familiarity of their cadence.
Although, there is one rhythm that stands out among the rest…
It comes to a halt at his right. So busy still sorting his thoughts, he misses the sheen of golden skin catching in the torchlight. At least, until he hears the murmured question:
“You okay?”
The commander startles. “What?” he asks, blinking at the citizen at his side in confusion. Had he really forgotten the stakes at hand? Had the collar choking his airways somehow cut off his ability to think, too?
“That seemed…” Foolish continues, hesitating, “tense, to say the least.”
“I’ll say,” Seren pipes up. “Solev tightening the leash on you again?”
Fortsy, finally coming to his senses, narrows his eyes at the younger guard. “Do not speak so freely in front of a citizen, Seren.”
“Aww come on,” Eivens protests, ever impertinent. “He has eyes and ears like the rest of us. You’d have to be a complete idiot to not see what’s going on.”
Foolish grins sheepishly at this, a silent confirmation that he was, in fact, very aware that he’s seen and heard things no civilian should — and Fortsy conceals the upward twitch of his own lips by forcing out a weary sort of sigh.
“Fair enough,” he acquiesces. The commander draws his eyes away, staring out over the district he treasures so preciously. “In regards to your former comment, Seren, I don’t know what you speak of,” Fortsy says smoothly.
He waves a single hand out toward the desert. “Amazing how Imperian governance maintains its influence even in its absence, isn’t it? I’ve yet to see a single death message. This peace can only be a testament to Imperia’s instilling of order — nothing else.”
The double meaning of his words dawns on his guards slowly, even though it’s far from the first time he’s spoken like this. He glances back, seeing the metaphorical lightbulb go off over their heads one by one.
“Huh,” Seren blinks, feigning innocence even as something devious sparkles in their eyes. “I dare say you’re right. Glory to Imperia!”
It’s with unspoken irony that the rest of the people surrounding them echo: “Glory to Imperia!”
…except for one.
Commander Fortsy’s eyes fall expectantly onto Foolish. The civilian had always been eager to chime in whenever the words were spoken…as far as Fortsy knew, at least.
But the reason for the accidental slight is clear enough: Foolish has the spyglass raised again, gaze focused intently on the group below, where a figure in a blue hoodie and iron armor can be seen.
In the end, it’s one of his guards that clears their throat, startling the golden man.
“Wha—?” he asks, blinking. “Oh! Yeah! Glory to the desert!”
Verdant eyes fill with panic a second later.
“W-Wait, shit! I mean—“
“Glory to the desert, hm?” Fortsy murmurs, cutting him off. He turns before the sly smile forming on his lips can be seen. “Now that doesn’t sound too bad, either.”
He can only imagine the mischievous grins spreading amongst his guards.
“Yeah, sounds familiar,” Nickles says, faux-contemplation thick in his voice. “Swear I’ve heard it somewhere before.”
Someone poorly smothers a snort behind him.
But Foolish’s eyes are wide with terror, flicking between Fortsy and the guards like he doesn’t know what to think, like he’s still anticipating some sort of punishment.
Taking pity on him, Fortsy gives him a conspiratorial wink.
The citizen’s jaw drops, and he stares, blinking rapidly. It’s like he’s seeing a new man in front of him, one he can’t comprehend.
But one that he likes, if the slowly growing grin on his face says anything.
Cheeks warming slightly, Fortsy looks back over the district and straightens. “Right, we’ve stayed here long enough. I suggest we split into two groups to patrol the walls.” He glances to the side. “Foolish, do you wish to remain here? I can have my medic, Paige, stay with you as a precaution.”
Emerald eyes peek down over the wall one final time. Then, he’s looking up and smiling brightly, snapping into a mock salute. “Lead on, Commander!” he chirps. “I’ll go where you go!”
The rest of the night passes without much incident, except for a citizen attempting to take a bunch of pigs for themselves. From the look of things, it’s quickly resolved — and by none other than the group Derapchu aligned himself with.
When morning dawns and the siren sounds, Fortsy and his guards escort Foolish back down to the ground floor, the doors to the district finally unlocked.
There are no words said, no goodbyes given. The golden man shucks the armor off as fast as he can, passing it and the other gear over gracelessly before he’s shooting out the door, sandaled feet meeting sand.
Fortsy watches fondly as Foolish nearly trips in his haste — and then he’s colliding with Derapchu just beyond the gates, large grins on their faces as they hold each other tight, unheard words spilling from their lips in rapid succession.
The Desert Commander turns to leave—
—but the steady gaze of a kangaroo hybrid stops him. Derapchu stares at him over Foolish’s shoulder, eyes shining with gratitude. Even at this distance, Forsty can read the words he mouths:
‘Thank you.’
Something warm swirls in the commander’s chest.
(…maybe being selfish can be worth it after all.)
Fortsy straightens and lifts his chin. Just loud enough for those in proximity to hear, he proclaims: “Glory to the desert.”
“Glory to the desert!” his guards repeat.