Blood of the Corse - Printable Version

Two fighters were making their way to a remote part of the Provence system, far from all eyes. Today was the day of initiation into the Unione Corse of Camille Beaucoeur, for she had shed blood in the name of the Accord. Camus, her sponsor and the figurehead of the Accord, remained silent for the duration of the short trip. He was not to temper her expectations, after all. This led butterflies to flutter in her stomach, adrenaline kicking in thanks to the unknown awaiting her.

"So. I cannot help but be a little excited."

Perhaps it would surprise some that Camus would not be in charge of such a ceremony due to being the public face of the Accord. To those familiar with the Corse's methodology however, there is perhaps only one thing they respect more than ambition, and it is their Elders. Pierre MacMahon's ship soon came into contact range. A truly old school Corsican, he is often thought to be Camus' second in command or even equal. There was truly no better man that could oversee this ritual, in Camus' mind.

"We've not kept you waiting long, have we Pierre?"

Camus offers as they finally rendezvous with the man, cutting his ship's engine at a safe distance within the asteroid field. Camille's own vessel followed suit. Pierre's tone was one of no nonsense, and he made it immediately clear that he was not there for small chat.

"Not at all. Approach, Supplicant."

Perhaps it was simply how gruff Pierre's tone was. Perhaps it was simply due to how inexperienced she was, in the grand scheme of things. No matter what the reason was, Camille carefully drifted her vessel to face Camus, the back of her vessel directly facing Pierre. This made Camus nervous, as though he knows Pierre is an understanding man, this was already a breach of the protocol and could perhaps be seen as an insult to the Senior present. Yet, Camus was a man that rarely lost his cool, and played it with ease.

"Pierre, not I, my dear."

Camus carefully worded his statement as both a warning and a bit of reinforcement for her to stay calm. Thankfully, as much as Pierre can be short tempered on some issues, he saw the humor of the situation and did not budge. Camille engages her engines once more and flips her vessel nearer towards Pierre's.

"Apologies... Alright. I'm good now."

With the Supplicant's nerves finally settled down, the ceremony could commence. A beacon suddenly pings on a nearby asteroid, drawing her attention. A small purple light in the void. Her radar now detected a small entrance opening within the asteroid, like a miniature bay - one so small it could never harbor a pod, let alone a ship. One last trial before her acceptance, she tells herself.

"Exit your ship and enter, Supplicant."

Pierre then led by example, making sure his flight suit was sealed before opening the canopy and kicking off towards the now open ring in the asteroid. His exit was soon followed by the hiss of the canopy of Camille's fighter, the Discotheque, which surely blinded the soon-to-be-Corse in the disorienting show of light her vessel produced. Clad in a burgundy space suit, Camille exits the cockpit and aims for the ring as well, soon clearing the distance between her and her ship and reaching the ring, though not without use of her EVA thrusters.

"You as well, Camus, you are her Sponsor."

Camus had been delaying briefly himself. Was he getting nervous? He could feel sweat trickle down his back, as he idly played with his lighter. God, he could use a cigarette right about now. Why was he feeling so off? He glances towards the ring, and despite the distance, the figure of Camille is indistinguishable. It's almost as if he was the one being tested today.

"Very well then."

It took a near superhuman effort to speak those words, somehow, but thankfully what was to come was second nature for the man. Having grown up moving from station to station, moving in zero-g was, for him, as natural as breathing or walking. Elegantly flipping himself towards the ring, he uses this comforting moment of familiarity to center himself. Though that cigarette could still do quite a lot of good at this moment.

Once all three of them make their way through the small ring into the asteroid, Pierre reaches out, flicking a switch that he seems to not even look at, the port sealing shut behind them. They are bathed in complete darkness save for their suits' light sources. The flicking of the switch followed by a rumble and hissing that becomes more and more audible, lights slowly flickering to life revealing a narrow passageway further into the rock. Camille exhales, knowing that there would be no turning back, not anymore, and that she had made her choice in life. Once a noble girl, now turning to a crime syndicate. Camus meanwhile remains right behind Camille, trying his best to repel this assault of emotions that have struck at him, from his pride in Camille to doubt in his own judgment.

Pierre then releases the latch of his helmet, taking it off eagerly. His impressive bulk, especially considering the feminine figure of Camille and the androgynous frame of Camus, takes nearly the entire width of the tunnel they were heading into, making an effective barrier between Supplicant, Sponsor and what lies ahead.

"Follow me. Leave the helmets behind."

Camille mumbles under her breath. Even for a former freelancer as herself, this was becoming a bit much.

"Très dramatique…”

Camus follows closely behind, taking in the serenity of the moment. He knew he was in good hands, he may be familiar with this place, but Pierre had much more experience in this regard.

Finally the passage begins to widen into a small chamber, a rough table carved out of the stone in the middle of it. Upon the table stood a large round stone, obviously not the same type of rock that the asteroid surrounding them was made of. It was an almost shockingly bright white along the extreme edges, sun bleached for untold time until it had seemed to absorb the very brightness that had shone upon it into itself.

In sharp contrast to this purity in color, the top of the stone, from the rounded top and reaching almost all the way to the edge was a deep red that almost neared black, this color running along like it had chosen where to stain the stone with its presence, almost seeming like someone had poured the thickest of ink onto the stone.

Beside the stone was a sharp blade, as well as an antique firearm, sending a sinister message to the Supplicant. Camille drifts along the room, her attention turning to the objects, the rock in particular catching her eyes, but it would not be long before Pierre brought Camus and Camille to heed him.

"Approach."

Magboots echo through the chamber as the duo take their place by the table. Camille stands upright, arms parallel to her body as a parade rest, while Camus seems to instinctively try to reach for a non-existent pack of cigarettes every so often. Pierre then grins widely, both in pride of what they are beholding, and in eagerness to welcome a new member. He gestures to the stone before them.

”This is the Rock of Monaco.”

The statement seems to surprise Camille, perhaps because the sanctity of this place had brought her expectations up. There is a slight hint of irreverence in her voice.

"Monaco, like... the station?"

Pierre had expected the dissatisfied answer. This was his favorite part of the entire affair, after all. He gives Camus a knowing side glance before continuing his explanations.

“The opposite. According to Corse legend, this stone is from Earth, and came all the way to Gallia from there centuries ago.The founders of the Unione, seeking something to unite them, used the stone for such. It represents the bond that all Corse have, bound by blood and sacred tradition.”

The key word here for Camus of course was ‘legend’ as a semblance of a smile appears at the corners of his lips. Opinion on the Rock of Monaco varies from member to member of the Unione. Some believe the Rock to be a metaphor, similar to the Olympic torch never extinguishing, while others believed the Rock had been taken from the peak of one of the mountains near the Mediterranean Sea back on Earth. before the launch of the Gallia II. Other stories include the first rock to be mined out of the Monaco asteroid, or a stone of significance from planet Marseille, though this would make the rock only a few centuries old at best. Pierre then elaborates on its significance.

“You, earlier today, spilled blood on behalf of the Unione. As such, you may now become blood with us.”

The words gave a strange feeling of satisfaction to Camille, to be one of blood. Both the praise and the implications gave her a rather rare feeling of pride these days. She manages to keep her composure despite her growing excitement. Camus straightens himself, realizing his nervous tics are getting in the way of the ceremony. Pierre spoke up again, beginning the next stage of the initiation.

“Supplicant, state your name.

The question posed to Camille would have seemed innocuous enough to most, but it took on special meaning for her. She had once gone by another name, been the son and brother of another family. A family that she rejected, one that had cast her out, had scorned her and hunted her for the offense. But in this new beginning, she would show the vestments of her old life before she cast them off, fully committing to what lay ahead.

“Once, I was Emile de Chevallieux. Now, I am Camille Beaucoeur.”

What followed was a solemn series of questions and declarations between Pierre and Camille, each of them becoming more firmly anchored in their beliefs.

“Camille. Do you wish to be one of the family, to be of the Unione Corse?”

“I do.”

”Do you swear to uphold our most sacred of traditions, to give your blood to the Unione, so that you may protect it, and it you?”

“I swear it.”

”Do you swear that you will do so, knowing that if you betray these traditions, your blood is forfeit to the Unione, to do as we see fit?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

The bare walls of the chamber made their words echo back to each other in the small space, their statements reverberating through them as if they were becoming a very part of themselves. The moment passes as Pierre then calls out to Camus.

“Sponsor, do you swear to the purity of character of the Supplicant before us?”

Camille’s eyes set upon the wiry, bronze toned figure of the Corsican beside her. His hair was a mess from flying, and he was sweating more than he liked to admit. Instinctively, he once more tries to reach for a smoke, which just won’t magically appear. For the first time Camille can truly feel the hesitation of Camus, yet as his eyes meet hers, it is as if a lifetime of conversations happen between the two of them. Finally he relaxes into his stoic persona, and wanting to dispel any doubt Camille may have, he speaks up.

“I, Khalil Benali, known as ‘Camus’, swear of the purity of character of the Supplicant.”

Though Camille stays stiff and composed, the shock of Camus revealing his name to her, something he had evaded for weeks now is evident in her eyes. Yet she is reassured as she once more faces Pierre, who merely continues the ceremony.

“Very good. Sponsor, take the blade and wet the stone, so that the Supplicant's blood may combine with it.”

He gestures to the stone, the dark stain running over the top of it having an explanation now, only adding to the depth of the stone’s purpose. Both Camus and Camille remove their gloves in anticipation, the latter showing burnt, scarred skin, reaching out for the knife early in her eagerness, yet Camus firmly holds onto the blade and motions for her to wait.

The traditional way of bleeding oneself to not cause long term damage is a quick slice on the side of the arm, behind the wrist. Something Pierre had reminded Camus of just before the ceremony, knowing the love of theatrics of the young man. However, Camus disregards such wise counsel from his elder and places the blade over his palm, firmly squeezing it as he draws it back out.

Blood pours forth from the wound, stitches or gel may be required, but he simply clenches his hand once he pulls the dagger free. His blood begins dripping onto the stone, both a gesture of devotion to the Unione as well as to Camille, before passing on the implement to her. Pierre watches the blood trickling without a hint of emotion, until his voice booms once more.

”Now your turn, Supplicant.”

She takes the knife in her still-gloved hand. Despite Pierre's advice for the cut she follows Camus’ example, slicing a gash into the exposed, scarred flesh of her palm, letting the blood flow down to the stone. She winces and grunts at the sharp pain coursing through her as her blood dribbles onto the stone. Pierre then silently asks for the knife with a simple gesture of the hand. The weapon is now drenched in blood as it is passed on, yet Pierre handles it with practiced ease as he gives himself the proper slice on the arm, just behind his wrist.

Their blood blends together upon the ancient stone, sealing Camille’s fate to that of the Unione, her very essence now a part of that of all of the Corse. Every member of the Unione, both past and present, the exalted and the long forgotten, are of this same shared blood.

”Wetted by the blood of the Sponsor, joined by the blood of the Supplicant, sealed by the blood of the Senior. You are now of the Unione Corse.”

Now that it is done, Camus allows himself a moment of appreciation for the new member. Though the Accord was not a traditional Famille, they were still all Corse, and it was a joyous moment for him to have someone like Camille at his side. Wanting to be the first to welcome her, he interjects with one of his spartan phrases.

“Félicitations, consoeur.”

Camille exhales a breath that she did not realize was held, giving a small smile and a chuckle at his congratulations, tension released. What was done was done, she was one of them now. Meanwhile, Pierre reaches into a pocket and slips out a set of bandages from it, first cleaning his wound and his hand, followed by the blade. They bask in the silence for a while longer, as Pierre produces another set of bandages, along with a lapel pin, handing them to Camus and Camille.

The pin was in the shape of the symbol of the Accord de Zurich. The colors of the pin itself represented the Zurich system where the Accord was first formed, while the golden lion on a blue field represented their heritage in the Unione. Yet most importantly was a checkered field, the white representing the purity of their intent and the red being that of the blood of the Corse.

Before even cleaning his wound, Camus offers Camille a handshake, his bleeding palm to hers. He isn’t certain what drives him to do the gesture, but Camille does not hesitate, and their blood binds together at the palm. Not a word is shared between them, while even Pierre can be seen giving them a rare smile, before beginning to declare the final details of the ritual.

“A few final things. As a blooded member of the Unione, you may now own property on Marseille, if you need it the details will be sent to you. You also now hold the right to challenge another member if you find you have been betrayed by them. Lastly, if you have any children, as they are of your blood, you may choose to teach them our ways as they come of age. They must still earn their place once they come of age, but you may teach them our ways beforehand.”

The last detail seems to bring some concerns out of Camille. Her circumstances, from the radiation burns to her journey through Sirius, have left their marks upon her body. Her hand instinctively comes to rest on her stomach while a concerned gaze is directed to Pierre.

“Does this apply to adopted children? I am... regrettably infertile.”

Perhaps inappropriately, the question makes Camus chuckle as he crosses his arms together, the soft gaze of his eyes clearly expecting some sort of ridiculous answer from the older gentleman.

“Oh, let’s hear the Old School answer, oui?”

Again, Camus had been overly cocky, the younger man finding a piercing gaze directed at him from his elder. Pierre knows Camus’ type all too well, a young man that has perhaps risen in station more quickly than is proper, leading to a bit of brashness and an unsurprising amount of disregard for tradition. Thankfully, despite his disapproval of the way Camus has spoken to him, Pierre shows that he is willing to overlook this small slight as he replies to Camille.

“If you are willing to perform a similar oath as to the one performed here, it can be done, though you may also use a surrogate.”

Pierre flashes a quick grin at Camus, knowing that he had upset his expectations, yet the younger man brushes him off.

”So, not all that old school. Must be one of his younger mistresses…”

Though the comment clearly amuses Camille, Pierre gently shakes his head, once more correcting Camus. A far off look coming over him, he seems to be looking into a void rather than at either Camus or Camille, his thoughts seeming to take all of his concentration for a brief moment.

“My wife, actually, she is the same as Camille in that regard.”

Camus turns pale at the reply, while Camille gives an empathic look to the tall man, one of understanding of a shared fate. Pierre’s eyes turn towards the younger man, that small grin from earlier still lightly tugging the corners of his mouth up, his well kept mustache forming a dark line that almost hides his mouth. Raising his gaze to meet the elder man’s eyes, Camus realizes that the smile doesn’t seem to reach them.

Instead the eyes looking back at him seem to have lost their normal warmth, the rich brown almost seeming to have darkened to a pitch black. Camus may be a relatively young man, but he recognizes the eyes of a predator when he sees them, suddenly recalling that there are few who can say they have crossed the man before him and lived to tell the tale.

Realizing his error, Camus nearly stutters over himself in embarrassment, but finds the words to express sincere regret. What was meant to be a playful jab at a friend, had instead turned into an unintentional sucker punch to a man that didn’t take kindly to disrespect.

”I apologize for being out of line, Pierre.”

Pierre looks back into Camus’ eyes for a moment longer, those chillingly dark orbs suddenly seeming to grow warm again, while the corners of his own eyes squeeze in as his grin spreads up from his mouth again.

“You didn't know, brother, it was a private matter. It's also why she encourages the mistresses. Something about increasing odds of experiencing motherhood. This initiation is now at an end. We may return to our ships.”

The trio, cleaned and bandaged, begin to make their way back up to the entrance to the small asteroid. Sliding their helmets back on and pressurizing the seals to prepare for the vacuum that awaits them, each of them checks over the other before they are ready to leave the small asteroid. Pierre seems to reach out into bare rock as he flicks the switch to reverse the process he had started when they first arrived. The lights flicker off one by one as they can feel the slight movement of air around them, before the hatch before them slowly begins to open, being greeted once more by their fighters floating in space.

”Better be quick, before someone confuses the Discotheque’s lights for a distress signal.”

Aiming for a fighter which is drifting in the void of space is unsurprisingly more difficult than aiming for a relatively large asteroid, yet they still return to their ships safely. As she was just about to regain her seat, Camille observes the fresh burn marks on her ship, not dissimilar to those scarring her own body. A giggle comes out of the girl that was exhausted and drained from such a long day of fighting, and now this initiation she had been put through.

“Well, I don’t think the Outcasts appreciated the lights either!”

Camus retakes the seat of his fighter, and immediately winces as he grasps the controls. His fresh wound was giving him hell, for all the machismo and bravado he was putting up before. Still, he was not one to shy away at a bit of self-deprecating humor.

“See, this is why we do not slice the palm.”

Pierre climbs back into his fighter with surprising ease for a man of his bulk and stature, while quickly replying matter of factly to Camus, remarking on something that in hindsight was rather obvious.

“I warned her, she still would rather impress you.”

There was no hesitation in Camille’s voice as she simply spoke her mind as the three pilots powered up their engines, the soothing vibrations of the Noir shipline guiding their senses.

“I felt I needed to follow suit.”

The sincerity and the innocence of the answer gets a chuckle from the two other Corse, as coordinates are being punched in and cruise engines are engaged, their engines nearly showing bingo fuel as they begin making their way back towards Marseille.

“Peer pressure, the true killer. Let us head back to Cannes. But first… How do you feel?”

Camille stares at the void of space, at the rapidly approaching Planet Marseille in the distance, at the scanner signal that showed two friendly contacts flying in formation with her. A tired smile comes to her lips.

“I both feel different, and just the same.”