Chapter Text
The Polemarch’s armies send their best to man the walls, many of them soldiers for decades and many of them missing limbs. In the dark and quiet nights the people whisper that Captain Lalonde is too young, too inexperienced, too new to the battlefield to shoulder her duties and lead the wallmen. These people Captain Lalonde invites by for a cup of tea and shows them a duty record longer than her arm. Sometimes, if they are especially rude at her door, she will let them see the turquoise circles tattooed on her palms, and then they shiver and bother her no more. In this way has Captain Lalonde simultaneously charmed and terrified Consequence City into adoring her. Captain Lalonde is from the windswept crags of Arceum, a greasy little smudge of a village far beyond the walls of Consequence City, where the rites of adulthood are pit fights and the best are marked with the circles. Strider inked the circles on her palms the night before she left for Consequence City, to trap the strength and fury of youth in her body. Now, years later, the ink has yet to fade and there isn’t a person in the city that doesn’t know what to expect when they come out. “Captain? Ma’am.” Captain Lalonde turns. Two people in the doorway, only one she recognizes. Mekhit was born in the wall barracks and never left. The stranger is one of the strange little grey people that have been appearing in the last few years, built like thumbtacks tangled with caltrops and baling wire. His eyes are startling primary colors and he looks like comes up to Captain Lalonde’s chin. “Is he wearing sneakers in my office, soldier?” Captain Lalonde asks Mekhit, who immediately goes red. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am. Momentary lapse of concentration.” “See it doesn’t happen again. You’re dismissed.” Mekhit salutes smartly, turns smartly, and walks out smartly. Captain Lalonde sits at her desk and gestures that the stranger take a seat as well. He sits in the chair in front of the desk, folding up like a glowering pixie. “Well, who are you, then?” “Sollux Captor,” he says. His sibilants are faintly lateralized, probably from a childhood lisp. “Your accent is very convincing,” she says, “but you’re pretty obviously Alternian. Military? Were you sent by Maryam?” Captor doesn’t bother looking affronted, just shrugs. Lalonde briefly worries his shoulders will jam into his chin. “Nominally Spec Ops, but I’ve been on leave for nearly, what’s the human conversion rate, two and something, sixteen months now? Wasn’t sent. Your military broadcasts continent wide for recruits, you know, I came to sign up.” “So why’d you come to me? I don’t often take in noncoms to man the wall.” “I heard you only have the best up here,” Captor points his thumbs back at himself, “and that’s me. Single best slicer in the business.” “We hardly need a slicer here, Mr. Captor.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’d nearly look desperate if he wasn’t smirking. “Captain. I’m not just a slicer. Let’s cut the shit and stop pretending you don’t know who I am.” Lalonde tilts her head, smiling. “Sollux Captor, pissblood, mutant, Gemini caste, slicer. The most powerful psionic since pre-Expansion. We’ve certainly heard of you, even without cracking Alternian packets. I’ve got a file on you as thick as my hand in my desk.” Captor smirks wider. “Rose Lalonde of Arceum, one brother, no children, no spouse, captain of the city wall, rumoured to have steel instead of bones. Only survivor of the October Revels and only known host of a godhead.” Lalonde lifts an eyebrow. “Very few know about the godhead incident.” “I’m one of them.” "Your superiors will have no idea you're here, I assume." "Is it a common human practice to warn your superiors when you're deserting? Besides, this just as easily falls under the jurisdiction of a diplomatic rendezvous. I could be here to negotiate an alliance." Lalonde looks at him like she might at a particularly dense small child. "While we're not at war, cultural differences preclude an alliance. Your reputation precedes you. Soon as you cause trouble among my people I'll gut you myself and drop you outside the walls for the chimaera to hunt, " she says with a pleasant smile. "Welcome to Consequence City, Mr. Captor. I hope you enjoy your time on the wall." Captor's grin could do funny things to a vascular system if he didn't have lamprey teeth. It really just makes him look a bit like a monster that belongs under a child's bed. They stare at each other for a moment before Lalonde realizes Captor is waiting for a cue. She stands and gestures him up with Archon-worthy imperiousness. "Well, come on. You don't have a damn thing, do you?" He stands and shrugs, following her down a long cavernous hallway. "Clothes on my back and a couple of sopor supplements." Lalonde turns into one of the supply closets, flipping through folded shirts. These closets are every few feet. They go through a frightening amount of fabric on the wall and the quartermaster quit in frustration a year ago, so now it's easier to store things where they're quickly accessible. The process rapidly got haphazard and there’s shit everywhere. The wallmen are hoarders. “Dunno what sopor is, hope it isn’t important, though. You’re not likely to get much in the way of troll things down this way.” Lalonde shoves two of the smaller, less scratchy blue shirts into Captor’s arms, stoops to examine the shoes, then straightens and drops a pair of mostly-new boots on top of the shirts. “Pants will be your responsibility. I don’t envy whoever has to tailor your clothing. Keep everything clean, patched, all that, we don’t get shipments from the city, so I suggest you make it a routine to stop by the commissary on your off days.” Lalonde begins to walk down the hallway at a speed that generally has newbies trailing behind. Captor steps to pace without a change in demeanor, although he fumbles a bit to balance the boots. “Roll call is at dawn and dusk, you will start off on evening patrol,” Lalonde checks his face, then turns forward, apparently satisfied. “Trolls are nocturnal, I’ve been told, so I hope that will be sufficient. Mind your own business, keep your head down, do your duty, and above all, do not spread heresy among my men. I know who you are, Mr. Captor, and I know what you did in Black Harbor. I will not watch my soldiers be executed because of things you whispered them in the dark. It would be a pity if you became chimaera bait.Mekhit!” They reach the mess hall, suspended in a hollow halfway down the innermost wall. In the corner is a precarious, winding staircase that leads to a crack in the ceiling and then a ladder to outside. Mekhit snaps to attention at the sound of her name. “Captain?” “Mr. Captor will be joining us on a provisionary basis. Take him to, to,” Lalonde waves her hand in the general direction of away, “the commissary and the barracks. Settle him in. I’ve got paperwork to do. Afternoon to you both.” “Yes, ma’am,” Mekhit says wearily and takes hold of Captor’s forearm. Lalonde does her vanishing thing. Like all of the wallmen Mekhit adores the good Captain, would die for her without pause, but the Captain is a particularly exhausting woman to be around and Mekhit is a favorite to delegate to. “She’s frighteningly competent,” Captor says, staring down at his shirts with the gaze of one who has looked long into the abyss and thought maybe the abyss could use a bit of light so you could figure out what was actually going on down there. “Just frightening, more like,” Mekhit says with a grimace.
There are things that everyone in Consequence City takes for granted. The streets are patrolled from dusk to dawn, the Archon and Polemarch have tea and hear grievances every Friday at three o clock, the armies are always victorious, the rain will fall, the sun will rise, and above all, the Lattice and the walls will keep them safe.