The Scarlet Woman, Part I Chromalore

The Emerald Imperial City of New Periopolis; 1 Month Prior to the Battle of Snooland

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This is some bullshit, Masked thought to himself, I told them not to vote for me. Now I have to move here for part of the year and pretend like I give a damn.

The new Governor of New Periopolis(and still Lt. Governor of the VU) lurched out of his chair and shambled to the refrigerator. His face twisted in disgust on the sight of an near empty refrigerator.

Fuck me. How do people expect me to lead this territory if the people can't even follow simple instructions like 'Put some beer in the fridge before I get there.' Assholes. Now I have to get up and get it myself.

Masked put on a heavy coat and made his way to the exit of the dingy hotel he was staying in. Halfway across the lobby, he caught sight of the night receptionist out of the corner of his eye and decided to give her a piece of his mind.

"Did you not get my message? I explicitly asked to have beer put in my fridge."

"Sir, we are not your liquor store," the receptionist scoffed, "I don't know what you do in the VU, but this is New Periopolis. People here don't even sell liquor on Sundays."

"W-what? That can't be right."

"Oh yeah, back when this was Oriesty-whatever, apparently it was a dry province. Religious zealots and whatnot. Although their power has waned over the years, we haven't been able to get that last blue law overturned. Mostly, it's due to the old Orangered loyalists being unwilling to work with Periwinkle. It's been 30 years, their obstructionism is petty and pointless now. They aren't going to make Orangered a thing again."

Masked laughed, "For a receptionist, you have a pretty good handle on politics."

"You can call me Erika. I'm a political science major. Not that it's done me any good anyway. All college has given me was debt and STDs. Now I'm here, working a shitty job so that I can fund another enhancement. Gotta keep what friends I have left from thinking I'm a normie."

Masked nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait, Governor!" Erika called out, "There's a few messages for you here."

Masked took the messages, mumbled his thanks, and walked out into the night. The chill hit him immediately, even with the coat it was still irritatingly cold.

Shit. Now what. If nobody's selling alcohol tonight, then what am I going to do? I don't know anyone here except Morgan, and she doesn't drink. Hell, she could get fucked up on a glass of grape juice. Jensen's not going to be here for another week. Might as well read these things.

Masked pulled the messages out of his pocket. The one on top looked like it was written by a toddler. Masked groaned and opened it up.

Deer Jerk,

I hate u. lots of pepul hate u. die u scum

Luv, Oraistedearg Oskar

Masked crumpled it up and threw it away, then moved to the second, which was from The Tang of the Month Club.

Dear Mr. Masked,

Your shipping address has been updated. We here at the Tang of the Month Club thank you for your continued support and patronage.

Warm regards,

Julie Melcher, Tang of the Month Club, LLC

The last message didn't seem to have any identifying markings outside of the text "For the eyes of Governor Christopher Masked only".

Hello, you don't know me, but I need your help. I have come across some of the terrible secrets the Crimson faction doesn't want you to know about. Now they're coming for me, and if you don't do anything, you'll be next. Crimson desires nothing more than the complete extermination of anyone who might be considered sympathetic to Emerald's cause. I didn't want to take a side in this, but fate has taken a side for me. I implore you to give your aid, for you are my only, and last, hope. I am waiting for you at 230541 Criel Avenue. Come before dawn.

-Jamie

Masked shook his head and pulled out his phone to call Morgan. She'd be pissed I woke her up, but I think I'm going to need a friendly face around.

"Hey, Morgan."

"No disrespect, sir, but what do you even want? It's 3AM, you know. Normal people sleep right now."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Get some pants on and head to the Mega Cheapo Motel on 5th and Garrison."

"Argh," Morgan groaned, "Why does this have to happen now? Can't it wait?"

"Just do it. I'll explain when you get here."

"Fine. If you were anyone else, I would have told you to fuck off."

---

30 Minutes Later

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"This is clearly a trap," Morgan mused, "Seriously, it's written so awkwardly that it sounds like one of those old Aliquamian prince email scams. Just ignore it."

"I'm fully aware of that, but what if we played along for a bit? If we are able to turn the tables on them, we could possibly find out what Crimson's planning. There is no way that they are only targeting me. Also, seriously, what kind of name is Aliquam for a territory, anyway? Orangered can't name anything worth a shit."

"Uh huh. Back on topic. Perhaps your plan could work, but it is incredibly dangerous. Are you sure you want to go through with this, sir?"

"Yes. I've taken the liberty of having some backup forces stake out near the area. We won't be going in alone."

"We? Rather presumptuous, don't you think?"

"Yes, we. She will likely expect to me go alone, allowing her to attempt to seduce me. Having you there might throw her off."

"Wait, are we sure this is a woman we're talking about? Jamie is a gender-neutral name."

"Well, the letter kinda implies..." Masked sputtered.

"That's what they want you to think. He or she, I'm leaning he, by the way, is trying to lure you in with this ridiculous story, thinking that you're the chivalrous type."

"Maybe. They... ugh, I hate unisex names. If I see someone's name, I should be able to know their gender immediately. None of this Jamie or Robin nonsense."

"Or Morgan?"

"Well, yeah, but that's your last name. I don't see a whole lot of male Audreys running around. Anyway, we'd better go. There's traps to be sprung and beer to be confiscated."

"Wait, what? Is that the whole reason you're doing this? You ran out of alcohol and you hope this 'Jamie' has some, don't you?"

Masked laughed, "I am predictable, I guess. Let's roll."

---

This is getting much longer than I thought it would, so I'll finish this later. I haven't even gotten to the title character yet. Hopefully, I'll get this wrapped up tomorrow.

Submitted April 08, 2017 at 08:46AM by the_masked_redditor http://ift.tt/2o7USvA Chromalore

"No. 5, 8 ABF" Chromalore

His fingers flicked through the large stack of vinyl in an old milk crate stuffed full. After a brief search he found what he was looking for; a worn LP jacket with the title “Kind of Periwinkle - by famed jazz musician Davis Miles”. The young man smiled warmly, thinking of the time he had listened to Miles’ work with his grandparents as a boy. Sliding the record from its jacket, he placed it on his turn table and gently placed the tone arm on the grooves. As he switched it on, he felt the organic passion from the music run through his body. He rolled up his sleeves, lit his cigarette, and grabbed a large, open bottle of cheap mash before walking over to his canvas.

On the floor of his cabin lay the large canvas frame that took up nearly two thirds of the floor space in the room. Surrounding it was an array of paint cans, some unopened, some with the crusty remains of dried paint spewed along the sides. He took a long swing of his drink, his cigarette dangling from his lip. With his free hand he snatched up a collection of frayed and bristled paint brushed, and placed his drink on the ground. In his each of his hands he held two small paint brushes, clutching them between his fingers. One of the brushes he stuck in a can of black, oily paint. Another he stuck in can of maroon, a third in a can of yellow, and the last in a can of a concrete shade of white. Pursing his lips, he blew out a long puff of smoke. After a few seconds of letting the brushes drench in the paints, he picked up the one with in the black can with his left, the one in the concrete can with his right.

At this point, the man almost went into a seizure like state. Clearing his mind, he jerked violently as he flung drips of paint all along the canvas. Energy surged through his body as he alternated back and forth with the paint brushes. The wild and random dance of the paint on the canvas encompassed the raw outpouring of emotional energy and creativity; he felt it as a reflection of his mind and soul was being poured from his hands onto his medium.

He continued onwards, slopping up thick globs on paint on the brushes; the wet paints mingling and mixing with each other and the seeped over the canvas. A few hours had passed before he felt he could do no more. He slouched back on his hands; sweat beading off his forehead, strands of hair dangling over his face. Around him were the cluttered mess of crumpled cigarette butts and the emptied bottle of alcohol. The turntable had gone silent and hour ago; he was too caught up painted to bother to change it to the B side.

Standing up, he walked to his motley kitchen in the adjoining room to grab another bottle of alcohol. He opened the refrigerator, the stark, pure white inside glaring back at his. His collection of unmarked bottles of alcohol filled up most of the fridge. Before he reached for one, he heard the crunch of a car’s tires rolling on the gravel road to his secluded seaside Kyanite cabin.

“Light dammit…” he moaned. He grabbed the neck of a bottle and slammed the fridge shut. Scuffling towards a window by the cabin door, he drew the blinds back and peered out, being as inconspicuous as possible. Outside was a large, black van with tinted windows and government plates. The rumble of the engine and the black exhaust cut through the peaceful and serene seaside environment, at great annoyance of the man. A few second later and the engine stopped, and two people opened the van doors on either side. On the passenger side was a middle aged women, her hair up in a bun and wearing a suit. The van’s driver was a man in a light purple jacket and kakis, with the letters “PBI” in big yellow letters typed on the back. He leg had a pistol in a holster attached to it, and a belt with a phone clip wrapped around his waist. Looking significantly younger than the woman, the man assumed that the woman was the jacket boy’s boss or sorts.

The artist let go of the shades and leaned over towards the door, then cracking it open. “What’dya want?” he asked drunk and angrily.

The woman addressed him formally, here tone professional. “Is this the residence of Paul Luuvuk?” she asked.

“Yeah, so?” he snapped back. He opened the door, fully exposing himself before taking a sip from his drink.

The woman and jacket boy stood a few feet from Luuvuk’s door. “I am Ms. Burnett and this is my colleague Mr. Hill. We would like to come in and discuss a proposition with you.”

Luuvuk, too drunk to put up a fight, begrudgingly let them inside. He took another gulp and plopped on the floor beside the painting he was working on. Hill and Burnett continued to stand, glancing around at the spartan living arrangements of Luuvuk. “So….. prop’sition huh?”

“Yes Mr. Luuvuk. The government, more so us at the PBI, have taken an interest in your work. We would like to fund you work for the immediate future, put you art in the galleries from Bezold to Periopolis. All we ask of you is to keep making you art in the way that you so choose.”

“Excuse me?” Luuvuk asked, dazzed. “Why’d you gover’ment fucks wanna fund me? You old farts all seem to hate my shit.”

“Well Mr. Luuvuk, I will let Mr. Hill explain.” She said, gesturing towards him.

“As you are aware, sir, we are currently at war with the Orangereds. The continents been divided up, and we need some way to win both militarily and ideologically, if you get what I mean, sir.”

“I… maybe understand. But what’s that gotta do with my work? I don’t make shit propaganda for the sheeples. My work is… “Abstract expressionism” I think would be called. ”

“That’s exactly why we want you to keep making art. We want your art to be globally recognized as Periwinkle art. Your art… it’s very PERI in a way, or at least, what we want to make Periwinkle out to be.”

Ms Burnett chimed in. “The ministry wants to make Periwinkle stand for “freedom” and to be at the fore front of all developments culturally and artistically. Your art is free of traditional and conventional methods; there is controversy it if what you do IS art at all, to no offense.”

“Yep, like I haven’t ‘eard that before…” he mumbled, sighing and drinking more.

“In addition, this goes against the predominantly realistic form of art done by many of the Orangered artist, especially in propaganda.” continued the woman.

“Essentially, we want you to help us wage a cultural war against our enemy; engage in cultural imperialism. We have to win hearts and mind in as many ways as we can.” said Mr. Hill. He grabbed a large stack of bearer bonds and tossed it Luuvuk, worth some 50,000 dollars.

“We hope you take our suggestion into consideration. We wish you good day.” Said Ms. Burnett, faking a smile.

“More will come later once you competed… whatever this is going to be” Hill said, refereeing to the painting that still lay on the floor.

Before Luuvuk could respond, the two PBI agents walked on the door and drove away as quickly as they had came. Looking puzzled at the wade of wealth in his hands, he chugged the last of his drink before passing out.

---

The crowd stood in anticipation. Journalists from across the Kingdom were there, art critics and enthusiasts eager to see the piece that had gained so much anticipation. Paul Luuvuk, in far more causal clothing than the rest of the crowd, approached the large painting that was draped over top. Clutching the curtain he pulled the cover off, reviling his latest work. Cameras clicked and snapped; the crowd gasping and gaping awe....

Submitted March 15, 2015 at 07:45AM by Red_October42 http://ift.tt/1FhOfKl Chromalore