Clementine [1]
As dusk set on the madder red sky, a signal flare was shot out through the dry air.
This is a desert in the northwest area of the Librey subcontinent in the southern hemisphere of the planet Palmis. In another 2 kilometers one would reach the west gate of the capital of the Avolga kingdom, Tranehole.
Before long, 2 more signal flares joined the first. That was the signal. The heavy doors of a fortress city in the distance started to open. The women were probably already waiting in the vicinity of the gate.
We're in the process of returning from a 2 week patrol mission. Even if it's all part of a strategy it was still an easygoing mission where we didn't even fire any guns. You know, like if you tell someone a group of people are in military formation, the person would be able to see it if they squint because you told them what it was.
As we approach the gate, the approaching gaggle of women let out an energetic cheer as they swarmed around the AT's legs. The voices only grew louder as the pilots of each AT opened their visors and poked out their faces.
Meanwhile, I watch out for our rear as always. After all, I'm the rear guard.
As always under the setting sun and the sky which took on a color reminiscent of grapes, pallid blue flames started sprouting up one after the other on the surface of the desert which had turned into a black silhouette.
"So they won't go in peace that easily, huh..."
They say those flames are the souls of only the worst of people.
The flames are the vestiges of a large battle that took place in this region some ages ago. Those harmless pallid blue flames that look full of grudges are in fact a chemical reaction resulting from leftover polymer ringer fluids that have leaked from the muscle cylinders of destroyed AT's and have seeped in and mixed with the desert sands.
"Quiet down! Don't you dare go being foolish and spreading rumors of the war's end."
The base commander had come out to threaten the AT pilots who had lined up outside of their machines.
"It goes without saying, but the end of this war means your unemployment! If the war ends you'll lose everything! Your women, your booze, and your gambling too! That's what it means to be a mercenary!"
The line of mercenaries once again lit up with chatter.
"But be relieved! This war will not end. This war that has carried on for over a century cannot be put to rest so easily! Thusly, your neverending party and your employment will continue! Enjoy it while you can! Dismissed!"
The soldiers scattered all at once.
Even though it was the capital traffic still became sparse once the sun set.
Dick's place was right in the middle of downtown. The shop front was simply lit with a neon sign that said "DICKS BAR" and had no bouncer in front of its thick doors. Those doors also served to block sight from the outside so no one could peek in. But for anyone who knows this and stands in front of the doors, they will open from the inside, and if you go in, it's an entirely different world.
If half of a soldier's livelihood is the exchange of life colored by metal and fire, the other half is women, booze, and gambling. And this store had it all. The dim insides of the shop was shrouded by tobacco smoke and choked by the scent of perfume and alcohol. Multiple silhouettes of entangled men and women overlapped upon one another, and in the intervals of viscous music were voices of laughter, or occasionally of anger and the breaking of objects. But all that noise stops in a second. This place has its own rules, and those who can't keep to them are thrown out into the back alley and made to kiss pavement. In the back of this spacious floor there is a casino, where usually flames of battle would unfold that would not lose to the war that goes on during the day.
Turning my back on all of that, I head straight for the counter alone.
When the bartender looks at my face, he emits an aura of welcome and wordlessly prepares me a drink. The alcohol was colorless and the condensation tickled my fingers as I drank it.
The clear drink with just a hint of smoothness slid down my throat and seemed to light a small fire in my stomach when it settled in.
"phew...."
Two weeks worth of thirst melts away in an instant.
"You never change, do you Fillow?"
Dick, the owner of this place, took a seat next to me.
"Don't even give a shit about women or gambling, huh?"
I chugged the rest of my glass in way of a reply.
"I'll take that to mean 'I'm alright as long as I've got alcohol.'"
"However! All of that ends here. I haven't been running this place all these years for nothing, I'll have you know. You'll definitely get hooked on this, I'll bet on it myself."
"Ha. hooked on what?"
Even as I gave him a half-hearted answer for some reason I couldn't bring myself to hate this old man who was emitting an incredibly fishy aura.
At that point a corner of the floor lit up, illuminating a young girl just in her 20's, standing by herself.
"And here, the story starts."
Without any introduction whatsoever, a song starts to play, and the woman starts singing. It doesn't even take a couple seconds for her voice to fill and control the building. All the chatter died and there wasn't even a cough to be heard. She sang 3 songs, about love, about home, and about fate. When she finished, applause erupted from the audience, even those rowdy people who would usually be indifferent to such things.
"Bravo! Bravo!"
Along with shouts of praise came a swarm of men looking for dance partners. Although the women hesitated at such numbers, everyone was paired up before long.
"The baby swan should just go back home!"
"Ha! No one asked for a sand rat!"
The men in white uniforms referred to as swans were a ceremonial unit of imperial guards, the rats in brown battle wear were mercenaries. These two groups were in an argument. In fact, these two groups could be seen arguing almost anywhere. The mercenaries were full of an envy and scorn for the elite, and the guardsmen returned those feelings in kind with a complex towards those who were actually sent to the battlefield combined with a backwards sense of pride.
But there was a man who split the crowd and walked through them even in that explosive situation. With carefully arranged hair, and a perfectly fitting ironed white uniform, with a supple and lively spring to his step, he overwhelmed the others with his brilliance.
That man stood in front of the singer, and giving her a greeting befitting of a lady, invited her to dance.
Just as the woman was about to accept and take the man's hand, however;
"Wait!"
What had I just done?! As if being dragged by my big voice, I left the counter.
"I'll be the one to dance with her."
The floor instantly heated up.
"FILLOW! FILLOW! FILLOW!"
"WHITEY! WHITEY! WHITEY!"
The cheers were split in two. That is, split between the guardsmen and the mercenaries, and number-wise both sides were even.
"Fillow, don't you go losing to that greenhorn!"
"Lieutenant! stomp that sand rat into the ground!"
At this point things won't be settled just with one of us getting to dance with a lady. As both group's tempers were getting ready to boil over;
"Stop! Don't you dare get violent in my bar!"
saying this, Dick barged in between the two.
"I'll have you settle this according to my rules. In return, I'll take care of all of your tabs for tonight."
"You go Dick! We'll leave it to you!"
And the floor heated up once again.
At Dick's signal a huge round table was brought to the center. The table's edges were lined with shotglasses, each filled with liquor.
"The rules are simple. Whitey is clockwise, Fillow is counterclockwise. Whoever downs the most shots wins! How's that, easy to understand, no? However! These are filled with Garacci from A Qova, and that's some hard stuff so watch out."
The crowd grew even more excited at Dick's explanation. Garacci is pretty much pure 100% alcohol. The two stood at the start line. The woman looked a little exasperated but didn't say anything. Whitey was the first to raise his shotglass;
"To your singing voice."
"Good idea!"
I also raised my glass.
"GO-!"
The two contestants fairly threw the Garacci down their throats at Dick's signal.
Whitey, or Vilje Yang Waulter is an imperial army ceremonial AT company first lieutenant and currently 21 years old. And Fillow is me. I am Bojil Don Haliburton, imperial mercenary guard company sergeant major, and 25 years old. Dick is the owner of "DICKS BAR", he looks around 50 but his real age and name are unknown. And finally, the songstress over there with the slightly troubled smile is Clementine Christie, just about 20.
And this story starts with a drinking contest using the hard liquor "Garacci" from Al Qove.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author: Takahashi Ryousuke
Mechanical Design: Oogawara Kunio
Illustrator: Shirayuki
Original website can be found here: Yatate Votoms
TL note: That bar name is incredibly unfortunate 😉. Also, wow the narration changes really fluidly between the first and third persons. Just think of it as Bojil (Fillow) narrating all the time and sometimes he likes to refer to himself in the third person.
Meanwhile, I watch out for our rear as always. After all, I'm the rear guard.
As always under the setting sun and the sky which took on a color reminiscent of grapes, pallid blue flames started sprouting up one after the other on the surface of the desert which had turned into a black silhouette.
"So they won't go in peace that easily, huh..."
They say those flames are the souls of only the worst of people.
The flames are the vestiges of a large battle that took place in this region some ages ago. Those harmless pallid blue flames that look full of grudges are in fact a chemical reaction resulting from leftover polymer ringer fluids that have leaked from the muscle cylinders of destroyed AT's and have seeped in and mixed with the desert sands.
"Quiet down! Don't you dare go being foolish and spreading rumors of the war's end."
The base commander had come out to threaten the AT pilots who had lined up outside of their machines.
"It goes without saying, but the end of this war means your unemployment! If the war ends you'll lose everything! Your women, your booze, and your gambling too! That's what it means to be a mercenary!"
The line of mercenaries once again lit up with chatter.
"But be relieved! This war will not end. This war that has carried on for over a century cannot be put to rest so easily! Thusly, your neverending party and your employment will continue! Enjoy it while you can! Dismissed!"
The soldiers scattered all at once.
Even though it was the capital traffic still became sparse once the sun set.
Dick's place was right in the middle of downtown. The shop front was simply lit with a neon sign that said "DICKS BAR" and had no bouncer in front of its thick doors. Those doors also served to block sight from the outside so no one could peek in. But for anyone who knows this and stands in front of the doors, they will open from the inside, and if you go in, it's an entirely different world.
If half of a soldier's livelihood is the exchange of life colored by metal and fire, the other half is women, booze, and gambling. And this store had it all. The dim insides of the shop was shrouded by tobacco smoke and choked by the scent of perfume and alcohol. Multiple silhouettes of entangled men and women overlapped upon one another, and in the intervals of viscous music were voices of laughter, or occasionally of anger and the breaking of objects. But all that noise stops in a second. This place has its own rules, and those who can't keep to them are thrown out into the back alley and made to kiss pavement. In the back of this spacious floor there is a casino, where usually flames of battle would unfold that would not lose to the war that goes on during the day.
Turning my back on all of that, I head straight for the counter alone.
When the bartender looks at my face, he emits an aura of welcome and wordlessly prepares me a drink. The alcohol was colorless and the condensation tickled my fingers as I drank it.
The clear drink with just a hint of smoothness slid down my throat and seemed to light a small fire in my stomach when it settled in.
"phew...."
Two weeks worth of thirst melts away in an instant.
"You never change, do you Fillow?"
Dick, the owner of this place, took a seat next to me.
"Don't even give a shit about women or gambling, huh?"
I chugged the rest of my glass in way of a reply.
"I'll take that to mean 'I'm alright as long as I've got alcohol.'"
"However! All of that ends here. I haven't been running this place all these years for nothing, I'll have you know. You'll definitely get hooked on this, I'll bet on it myself."
"Ha. hooked on what?"
Even as I gave him a half-hearted answer for some reason I couldn't bring myself to hate this old man who was emitting an incredibly fishy aura.
At that point a corner of the floor lit up, illuminating a young girl just in her 20's, standing by herself.
"And here, the story starts."
Without any introduction whatsoever, a song starts to play, and the woman starts singing. It doesn't even take a couple seconds for her voice to fill and control the building. All the chatter died and there wasn't even a cough to be heard. She sang 3 songs, about love, about home, and about fate. When she finished, applause erupted from the audience, even those rowdy people who would usually be indifferent to such things.
"Bravo! Bravo!"
Along with shouts of praise came a swarm of men looking for dance partners. Although the women hesitated at such numbers, everyone was paired up before long.
"The baby swan should just go back home!"
"Ha! No one asked for a sand rat!"
The men in white uniforms referred to as swans were a ceremonial unit of imperial guards, the rats in brown battle wear were mercenaries. These two groups were in an argument. In fact, these two groups could be seen arguing almost anywhere. The mercenaries were full of an envy and scorn for the elite, and the guardsmen returned those feelings in kind with a complex towards those who were actually sent to the battlefield combined with a backwards sense of pride.
But there was a man who split the crowd and walked through them even in that explosive situation. With carefully arranged hair, and a perfectly fitting ironed white uniform, with a supple and lively spring to his step, he overwhelmed the others with his brilliance.
That man stood in front of the singer, and giving her a greeting befitting of a lady, invited her to dance.
Just as the woman was about to accept and take the man's hand, however;
"Wait!"
What had I just done?! As if being dragged by my big voice, I left the counter.
"I'll be the one to dance with her."
The floor instantly heated up.
"FILLOW! FILLOW! FILLOW!"
"WHITEY! WHITEY! WHITEY!"
The cheers were split in two. That is, split between the guardsmen and the mercenaries, and number-wise both sides were even.
"Fillow, don't you go losing to that greenhorn!"
"Lieutenant! stomp that sand rat into the ground!"
At this point things won't be settled just with one of us getting to dance with a lady. As both group's tempers were getting ready to boil over;
"Stop! Don't you dare get violent in my bar!"
saying this, Dick barged in between the two.
"I'll have you settle this according to my rules. In return, I'll take care of all of your tabs for tonight."
"You go Dick! We'll leave it to you!"
And the floor heated up once again.
At Dick's signal a huge round table was brought to the center. The table's edges were lined with shotglasses, each filled with liquor.
"The rules are simple. Whitey is clockwise, Fillow is counterclockwise. Whoever downs the most shots wins! How's that, easy to understand, no? However! These are filled with Garacci from A Qova, and that's some hard stuff so watch out."
The crowd grew even more excited at Dick's explanation. Garacci is pretty much pure 100% alcohol. The two stood at the start line. The woman looked a little exasperated but didn't say anything. Whitey was the first to raise his shotglass;
"To your singing voice."
"Good idea!"
I also raised my glass.
"GO-!"
The two contestants fairly threw the Garacci down their throats at Dick's signal.
Whitey, or Vilje Yang Waulter is an imperial army ceremonial AT company first lieutenant and currently 21 years old. And Fillow is me. I am Bojil Don Haliburton, imperial mercenary guard company sergeant major, and 25 years old. Dick is the owner of "DICKS BAR", he looks around 50 but his real age and name are unknown. And finally, the songstress over there with the slightly troubled smile is Clementine Christie, just about 20.
And this story starts with a drinking contest using the hard liquor "Garacci" from Al Qove.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author: Takahashi Ryousuke
Mechanical Design: Oogawara Kunio
Illustrator: Shirayuki
Original website can be found here: Yatate Votoms
TL note: That bar name is incredibly unfortunate 😉. Also, wow the narration changes really fluidly between the first and third persons. Just think of it as Bojil (Fillow) narrating all the time and sometimes he likes to refer to himself in the third person.
Looks like we're waiting for this shit instead of yojo senki.
ReplyDeleteIt seems that it remains only to wait for yen press.