Episode Thirty - Pick Your Battles

Chapter Song Suggestion "Good Luck by Alexandros Kilias"

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THE PAST | Lars

"You wanted to see me?" he muttered defiantly, stepping in Strauss's office.

Strauss glanced up from his stack of paperwork and smirked. "Did you get into another fight again? Judging by that black eye, is it safe to assume you're the sore loser?"

He hated it when Strauss laughed at him. As always, he gritted his teeth with the effort to stay calm and quiet. If he didn't react, it would discourage the man.

"I see you're still an obnoxious brat," Strauss commented, tossing a file at him. "Open it."

Lars had no choice but to catch it. "What is this?"

"Last time you asked me for a reason." Unearthly blue eyes locked with his. "That's all the reason you need."

Piqued, Lars opened the folder and went through the papers. Disbelief possessed him, turning into simmering rage and full-on violence. His fingers dug into the papers, threatening to tear them apart. "This isn't true."

"Believe it, boy. Your father was accused of stealing classified information from the Ataxian government to sell to the rebellion. That's the reason why your family was executed. You were supposed to die with them." Strauss actually sounded amused, which angered Lars further.

"Why are you smiling?" Lars demanded hotly.

"Because I am the rebellion, boy. Your father was an upright law enforcer and citizen who never had a black mark in his record. He never worked for me, and he was obviously framed. Kasper Verhelst was a scapegoat Levente murdered to cover up his crime. My sources reported that your father stumbled upon information Levente doesn't want the public to know and he had to be silenced." Strauss held him in a challenging stare. "Tell me, Lars Verhelst, is that reason enough for you?"

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PRESENT DAY

The sound of his boots echoed in the vast, empty hallway illuminated by a soft neon glow as Lars carried himself to the Colonel's door. His mood was as foul as the storming weather outside, and his thoughts troubled. On his way here, he had bumped into his old mentor and friend, Mickael Strauss – also the man who had tamed him when he first came to Ataxia.

Fifteen years ago, Captain Strauss was a fiercely intense man who conveyed his words with piercing blue eyes alone, his favourite form of control – intimidation by observation. No one liked to be stared at for too long, especially by perceptive eyes that saw too much. Lars hated it, because Strauss seemed to know his every little thought, even when he hadn't realized his own feelings. Strauss's superiority grated on his rebellious nerves that worsened as he hit puberty.

Eighteen had been a nightmare for them both. Lars had been punished and put through hell because of his detrimental attitude. It took more than half the years they knew each other for Lars to lower his guard. The final wall crumbled when he discovered Strauss's identity – Rebellenfuhrer, the rebel leader.

"Now do you understand why I was harder on you than most?" Strauss had thrown him the question. "Because we need strong, aggressive fighters to overthrow the government and I chose you. I saw a fire in you — the anger in which I harnessed and fanned the flames. Sometimes I even see the boy I was in you."

"How can I trust you?" Lars bit out. "You work for them. How do I know you're not using me — manipulating me?"

"Everybody is using anybody in this new era, boy." Strauss calmly lit a cigar, taking slow, lazy drags. "You don't have to trust me. Trust your eyes, ears and most importantly, trust your guts. One cannot behead a monster without getting close to its head."

"At least give me a reason."

"Does a murderer's death have to be justified?"

Lars frowned. The Captain could never answer him with a simple yes or no.

"I can tell you this." Strauss rose to his full height, towering Lars by a foot. "Your parents' death was no accident, and there is one name you must burn into your head. Novak Levente. He is the one responsible for their deaths. Even if I am not your ally, I am not your enemy, Verhelst. Come and find me when you have discarded that foolish pride of yours. The rebellion has no need for a hot-headed brat."

That had been twelve years ago.

"Captain Verhelst," Strauss acknowledged, the corners of his eyes crinkling with emotion. Now, at fifty-two, he was still formidable, like an aged old era lion whom no one dared to mess with. Despite his salt and pepper hair, Strauss was in better shape than years – a sturdy chest, and guns for arms.

"First Lieutenant Strauss." Lars extended his hand. "It's good to see you after all these years."

Strauss eyed the boy's hand in distaste, slapping it aside, drawing Lars in for a hug. "It's Mickael, to you, boy. Have you turned soft on me when I wasn't around?"

Muscles relaxing, Lars allowed himself to sink into Mickael's fatherly embrace. Frankly, he wouldn't have believed that he would regard Mickael as a father figure but, he did. Lars admitted he wasn't the easiest boy to get along with, possessed by rage, resentment, and pain. He wanted to see the world burn.

Mickael could have given up on him many times but, the older man seemed to have relished the challenge and they had formed a strange but lasting bond.

"I have many things on my mind," he confessed with heavy reluctance. "I am on my way to see the Colonel."

One fatherly brow rose. "Is this the reason why you were absent from the first-tier meeting?"

"I encountered some…problems with my newest recruit."

Mickael's face morphed into amusement. "You? Having problems? This recruit must be something."

"She's the woman I told you about."

There was only one girl-woman Lars fixated on, and Mickael responded with an agitated frown. "This woman affected your psyche once. Are you sure it's wise to keep her close?"

"I love her."

Well, shit. Mickael was dumbstruck. His boy was all grown up if he could spout things like that with a straight face. He sighed. "That explains your uncharacteristic behaviour. I assume you already know that Levente's on your tail?"

That drew a twisted chuckle from Lars. "He was already onto my tail ever since he knew you're my mentor."

Pride unfurled in Mickael's chest. Lars Verhelst had come a long way from an obnoxious child to a reckless teenager, to a sullen young man and now, into a mature adult who knew how to use the word 'love'. When Mickael devoted his life to the rebellion's cause, he knew he would never have a family but, in some ways, he had been granted one – Freya, the love of his life and Lars, the son he never had. "If you're able to joke around, then I have nothing to worry about."

"The boy you trained isn't a weakling," Lars boasted confidently. "Unless it's life or death, I can handle this alone."

That part of him never changed, Mickael thought wryly. Lars's pride was still as strong as the first day, but at least, now he knew to ask for help when he truly needed it. "Since the tournament will begin in the next three days, come and find me when you're able. I have something important to discuss with you."

Lars nodded. "I will."

"Oh and bring your woman too. I think it's high time we met."

Lar's knuckles hovered over the Colonel's door. Taking a deep breath, he rapped twice.

"Enter."

He strode in with the confidence of a man facing an assassination squad.

"Captain Verhelst," Colonel Emory acknowledged from behind his desk. "How good of you to finally make an appearance." There was no sarcasm or malice in those words but genuine concern. "I trust you have an explanation for your continuous absence of four sunrises?"

Bowing at the waist, Lars apologized. "I have no excuses for what I have done, Colonel. There was an emergency that needed to be handled in which I am in no position to disclose at hand. I comprehend the meaning of my actions and will take full responsibility for it."

"Captain, you understand that a simple apology isn't going to cut it?" Colonel Emory reprimanded. "If this were between you and I, I would dismiss it – no questions asked. But you chose to defy the higher ups, an annual tradition they deemed sacred. Even if you are a Captain, may I remind you that you are not Ataxian born? You of all people should be aware of the existing prejudice against kill hunters. Now, I don't agree which such biased behaviour and you know I am fond of you, Captain but, this time even I am powerless to help you."

"I appreciate the notion, Colonel but, I won't drag you into this mess I created."

Colonel Emory set down his pen, leaning back in his chair to study the young man before him. The first time he met Lars Verhelst, three words entered his mind – morose, unfriendly, and unpredictable. In other words, Lars was more of a wild horse than a dark horse. Even so, Emory found himself watching Lars and eventually promoted him as the youngest Captain in Ataxian history. He cared less if others accused him of favouritism because Lars proved himself worthy with his competence and authority. Emory suspected Lars was uncommitted to the unit rankings, prioritizing quality over quantity. The Captain adhered to his own set of principles, making him a decent, honourable man compared to most individuals in Ataxia. Emory respected that about him.

"Lieutenant General Novak was most upset by your absence," Emory told him bluntly. "I don't understand his obsession with you but, it doesn't put you in a favourable spot. Thankfully, you have an admirable Vice-Captain who helped to salvage the situation and earned you a lenient punishment."

"Thank you, Colonel. I expected no less from Vice-Captain Denali."

"The Lieutenant General is willing to overlook this issue by punishment of whipping. The duration is three hours, and you will not receive the aid of Cell II for the recovery process."

Lars could take a whipping even in his sleep. "I humbly accept my punishment, Colonel."

"Good. You shall report to the disciplinary cellar in exactly one hour."

Before Lars could retreat, the Colonel stopped him. "Captain, you should be aware that I do not approve of the Lieutenant General's mandate. It would be wise for you to pick your battles. This is the only advice I can give you. It would be a shame if anything happened."

Lars reciprocated the Colonel's concern with a smile. "Thank you, Colonel."

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One hour later…

Lars blinked as the rows of neon, wall under lights illuminated the secluded chamber, bringing it to life. Raising his gaze, he spotted a few officials in the observation room, safely hidden behind an impenetrable glass but, only one man had his undivided attention. Smiling down at him with the arrogance of a self-proclaimed dictator was Lieutenant General Novak.

Lars's jaw clenched with suppressed fury. No doubt, Novak was enjoying this, and he would take every chance to degrade and sully Lars's name.

"I must say, this wasn't how I expected our next meeting to be, Captain Verhelst," Novak's voice filtered through the speakers. Translation: You were the one who gave me this opportunity. "It has been awhile, and I see you're in good shape."

Lars kept his mouth shut, although his eyes told a different story. His silence irritated Novak, and that childish side of Lars remained.

"Very well," Novak declared harshly. "We may begin."

A side door slid open, and a uniformed soldier entered the room, holding a coiled whip. "Please remove your shirt and kneel facing the observation room."

Shoving down his anger and internal revolt, Lars stripped and lowered to his knees, all the while keeping his gaze locked with Novak's. There was nothing else Novak could do to destroy him, and that was the rub – the reason Novak latched onto insignificant discrepancies like this. All the advanced technology and weaponry couldn't modernize a retrospective dictator.

As the whip came down upon his back, lash after lash, Lars thought about his dead parents and his conviction to cripple Novak's empire. He held back the roar of pain threatening to escape his lungs, grinding down on his teeth, and fisting his hands. Sweat dampened his skin as his blood splattered the spotless ground.

By the one hundredth lash, he began to falter, certain his back was nothing but a mess of minced meat.

Crack! His lungs seized and he cursed silently.

Crack! He swallowed a wave of nausea.

Crack! Crack! His vision dulled and he swayed.

"Hold steady, Captain. If you were a normal man, I would have spared you, but you are a kill hunter," Novak openly taunted, enjoying his pain. "If you cannot handle this, I can always spare you the responsibility of your title."

His lips curling in distaste, Lars shook the numbing haze of his mind. "After what you owe me, this is nothing, Lieutenant General."

Novak's eyes narrowed into glittering slits at the Captain's cavalier contempt. Lars Verhelst always did have too much pride. He pressed the communicator button. "Continue, soldier. I want you to continue even if the Captain passes out. You will not stop until the three hours are up."

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Eira woke up to a racing heart and shallow breathing. With a hand on her chest, she glanced wildly around the unknown basement. Anaelle had hidden her here on Lars's order. But something was wrong. It had woken her from her sleep – this heaviness of uncertainty, of peril. She felt cold funnels of perspiration beneath her clothes, damp patches forming significantly. She had to get out of here.

Yanking off the monitoring patches and IV fluid, she stood on unsteady legs and slowly fumbled towards the exit. Angry, hushed voices from the outside halted her tracks. Shifting closer with her ear to the door, Eira listened intently.

"What do you mean the Captain's being punished? I thought you had the situation under control!" It came from an incensed Anaelle.

"He came to find me after he reported to the Colonel." Florian's agitation echoed acutely. "It's been an hour. There are two more hours left until it ends."

"What was the punishment?" When Florian remained silent, Anaelle pressed angrily. "Tell me!"

"Whipping."

"That isn't so bad, right?" Anaelle sounded unconvinced. "It's better than the forms of torture I've heard. They usually administer Cell II for recovery aid."

"No, they won't be administering," Florian said dismally.

"But that's equivalent to condemning the Captain to death!" Anaelle raged.

Vi! No! Eira's eyes widened in horror.

"We have no choice, Anaelle. The Captain authorized me to handle his duties in light of the worst-case scenario. Lars is strong. He will survive this."

"How can anyone survive that much blood loss, let alone a mangled backside!" Anaelle retorted indignantly, her voice taut as a string.

Eira never heard Anaelle this distraught before. She was always so calm. It meant Lars's situation was beyond bad. Pulling open the door, she stormed out. "Where is he?"

"Eira?" Florian appeared confused. "Is that you? What happened to your hair? It's not…pink." He lunged to block the exit when she shoved passed him. "Where do you think you are going?"

"Step aside, Florian," she demanded, standing toe to toe with him. "Where is Lars?"

"You are not permitted to leave this basement, Eira. Captain's orders," Anaelle stated firmly.

"If Lars is in danger, I have to go to him! You will not stop me."

"Calm down, Eira," Florian placated, stuck in the middle of them both. "No one can get to him right now. Lars is in the disciplinary vault. They won't release him until he serves out his punishment."

"I need to get to him!" Eira attempted to shove him aside.

"Florian, hold her down." Anaelle uncapped the needle in her pocket, appearing beside Eira.

Wrapping his arms around Eira, Florian kept her immobile though it didn't stop her from cussing madly. "Let me go, Florian! You son of a–"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Eira Ulva."

Anaelle grabbed Eira's neck and injected the tranquilizer into her system. "We care about the Captain's welfare, Eira. If you cared about him, you wouldn't have dragged him down."

Eira's mind started swimming as the drug kicked in. "What are you...talking about?"

"You are the reason why he's being punished, Eira." Rancor seeped into Anaelle's words. "You."