Kor Part 12
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Chapter Four
Forex was clean. Spotless. The last time he'd been anywhere this devoid of dust, grime, or evidence of occupation was when he'd inspected his platoon's barracks for the final time.
Other words came to mind, as well. Artificial, sterile, vacant.
"I have three roommates, but they're out working." Laren guided Kor through the spacious apartment. "You can clean up in my restroom, if you need to."
Kor stopped next to an abstract painting, which was no more than multi-colored blobs and shapes on a white canvas, eyed it and the mobile digital work that hung as a nearby partner.
"I don't understand."
"The art?" Driver asked from a little ways away. They'd changed their face ever so slightly, shifted back to something apparently more comfortable.
The old soldier turned, looked around at the sleek couch, the large dining room set in the next room, the quickcrete walls and faux-granite counters, the vaulted ceilings. "This." He nodded to the art on the wall. "But, that too, I suppose."
Laren Qivan smiled.
It was a small gesture, but one Kor realized he hadn't seen since he arrived on Varis I. Maybe since he'd left Zeus. No, not even then. Family long dead, he'd had no one to send him off on the freighter, to ask with concern in their eyes where he was going, why he wasn't embracing his retirement and just finding a partner. Why he wasn't allowing the council to trigger his deposits to begin gestation. After all, his older siblings hadn't made the final journey home, had long before taken the Ferry after being cut down. So why wasn't he simply allowing his body time to rest? All because of a stupid oath that he'd-
Laren snapped him from his thoughts. "Kor? Are you-"
"Fine." He shook his head, realized his voice had been more harsh than necessary. "Yes. I'm fine."
"I'm sorry, I just-"
"You said you had a place I could clean up?" His stomach suddenly grumbled, even as the pocket terminal Tisbel had sold him chirped inside his coat. "Food, too. Something spicy." It felt like weeks since he'd last slept on a bunk, or showered.
"Yeah," Laren said. "Follow me." They both went back through another hall. Laren touched long, graceful fingers to the wall as they went, and ambient lights slowly dawned into existence ahead of them.
"Posh," Kor said.
"Didn't expect a street rat to live this well, did you?"
"Didn't expect anything." Kor was lying. He'd expected a coffin motel or closet-sized apartment no larger than a ship's berth where he and Qivan would be standing on top of each other. Some place he'd be unnoticed amidst the masses, where it would be easy to slip in and out without security's notice.
This place was probably wired and chock-full of sensors and AI-dependent algorithms. Systems like this would analyze every piss and shit he took, would even know if he used his hand and memories to relieve some tension.
He needed to get out. Needed to find somewhere shady and dark, where the grime was more prominent than the decor.
"I'll be leaving soon, though. Just need a shower and a meal."
"No rest?" Laren asked as they stopped at one of the rooms, placed their hand on a nondescript pad mounted on the wall. A click sounded in the door as it swung ajar, just a crack. The lights went up as they stepped inside, dimmer than in the hall. In the poor illumination, Driver's piles of clothing strewn across the floor, bed, vanity, wardrobe, and desk looked like a gathering of shadow beasts and forest creatures, all defiant in the way they stood their ground.
"No. Still have someone I need to contact to get the ball rolling. Groundwork has been laid, but the intel nets are going to question what I'm doing planetside. Just a matter of time."
"You certain? There's billions on Varis." Driver went into the restroom, turned on the lights. It was disordered but relatively clean, with plastic and glass bottles arrayed in a tiny swarm around the faux-granite sink. Small metal canisters were set off to the side, seals and gaskets visible on them, their surfaces devoid of manufacturer labels or designs.
"Considering I've already maimed a squad's worth of people?" Kor asked as Laren stepped aside. "I'd say I'm pretty fucking certain. We've been on a timer since I disembarked." He paused, nodded to the metal canisters on the counter. "Those?"
"Mine. And personal." Laren gestured to the moisturizers and various facial tonics. "But you're more than welcome to the rest, if you'd like. Might smooth out the rough edges."
Kor grunted, ran a hand down over his craggy features. "Thanks, but no need. I have good genes."
"That so?" They both stepped out of the small restroom, and Qivan crossed the bedroom to the hallway.
"Good enough to survive thirty years in the Empress's service."
Laren laughed. "I'll leave you to it." They closed the door behind them, leaving Kor standing in the middle of their bedroom.
His assistant chirped again, and he pulled the attention-starved piece of electronics from his pocket. The terminal had connected briefly to Laren's home network, and Kor swore as he cut the link. No telling what it had pulled, but it couldn't have been much. He'd been careful to keep his plans and research off personal devices.
Frowning, he pulled up the mail client, fired off a message to his old battle buddy, Maximilian. He didn't have an address to give him, but wouldn't have given one in any case. Forex wasn't the place he wanted his friend to see him after two years of only typed messages.
Message sent, Kor stripped his clothes, went into the bathroom. He picked up one of Qivan's tonics, sprayed a fine mist in the air. Diana had used something like this, one time. Hers had smelled more musky, though, not as floral.
They'd been on a brief leave together, had holed up in a hotel room for the better part of their three-cycle pass. They'd only emerged for a single night on the promenade before tumbling back into the twisted sheets of their hotel bed, bodies entwining like two teenagers just figuring out that there were better uses of their time than studying or playing.
Kor smiled at the memory as he climbed into the shower, fumbled with the controls until a stream of cold water pounded him in the face. Cold or hot, it didn't matter. You used the tools at your disposal, even if it was a cramped shower.
He tried to take his time, to relax and enjoy himself.
Laren gave him a shocked look when he was out just over a minute later, the towel wrapped around his waist about as effective a covering as a wash cloth on a normal body. Their eyes, wide as shotgun shells, swept over him. "Damn, uncle, surprised you're not dead with all those scars."
He ignored their words. The scars weren't anything new to him, and he'd been getting them since he was a boy. "Laren?" Kor's voice was controlled. "Where are my clothes?"
They scratched the back of their head, an almost sheepish look on their delicate features. "Um, well, I sort of thought you'd be in there longer and-"
"I took my time. Longer than necessary." He took a step towards them. In retrospect, it had probably been menacing. But there were few things Kor could do without being menacing. "Clothes, Laren; where are they?"
Their hands were up in front of them, plaintive, a long stretch of crimson silk hanging from one bunched hand. "Hey, hey, Kor. All I did was start cleaning them, okay? You're acting like a stringer, okay? Just take a sedative, or some shit."
Kor's shoulders relaxed a little, and he shook his head.
"Left your gun alone, though." Seemingly as an afterthought, Laren raised the shock of silk. A smirk appeared on their face as they unfurled a long, crimson dressing gown. "Not much I own will fit you. But, figured it'd go well with your complexion."
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And here starts Chapter Four! This is a quieter chapter than the previous one. Much less action, much less running and gunning. But, in my opinion, will probably be infinitely important in the long run. Action is action, and it's fun, and it keeps the pace moving. But stories are as much about their ebb as they are about their flow. You need the quiet reflective times, for people to reflect back to the life behind them, or look forward to the future. Time to put their toes in the muck of the world you've created, dig their toes around, for them to bump messily against the other characters in small ways.
Action hardly every tells us much about a character. As I wrote somewhere else: We like John McClane from Die Hard because of his witty personality, and take-no-shit attitude, not because he kills people real good. There's countless action heroes who do that, do it even better. But we remember him because he has heart and personality.