Edward Crichton - To Crown a Caesar

Then he spoke.

In English.

“Stand down!” He bellowed — to everyone it seemed.

His men lowered their rifles, except for two, who already had their rifles slung and were tending to a small figure resting on his back. The one who held the orb.

Another fucking orb.

Those of us with weapons lowered them as well. The lead figure took a step forward in my direction. He was wearing a type of balaclava, revealing only his eyes. His entire appearance surprised me less than what I saw in those eyes.

Recognition and relief.

He took another step and reached up to pull off his mask, and my eyes grew as large as his own. The guy looked like a model, or an actor, or any number of those kinds of people who were too good looking for their own good. He had blond hair fashioned in a longer style crew cut, bright blue eyes, a chiseled jaw line, and shallow cheeks. The guy’s look screamed, “d-bag,” and I knew it was true.

He smiled a toothy grin and opened his arms wide in a friendly gesture.

“What’s wrong, Jacob?” He asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stared at him.

“You know this clown?” Santino asked, still peering over his gun sights.

I did know this clown. I knew him very well, in fact.

I rose to my feet painfully, motioning for Helena to stay back and took two steps closer to the blond haired phantom. I knew he had to be a phantom because he was right. I was seeing a ghost. He was dead, after all. At least, he was assumed so. Two months before I’d activated the orb, this man had been sent on a mission, one he had not come back from. No one had seen him since, but his locator beacon had placed him deep in the North Korean mountains where it had continued to pulse for months, unmoving.

Since I knew he had to be dead. Therefore a phantom. Therefore not real. Therefore a ghost. I had absolutely no problem with what I was about to do.

Taking one last step forward, I reared back with my right arm and jacked him in the face with a very solid, Helena worthy, right hook. He went down hard and his troops raised their rifles again, but he motioned for them to stand down almost instantly. I stepped forward to loom over him and pointed down at his face, ignoring the blazing pain in my side.

“That’s for Artie, you backstabbing piece of shit!”

That felt good. Very good. Great, even. I’ve wanted to do that for over five years. Too bad he was just a figment of my imagination and the real man in which I could truly relieve my frustration on was stuck back in the 21st century, if he was even still alive.

The man sat up and spat out a glop of blood. He wiped his mouth and stared up at me.

“I deserved that, Hunter,” he admitted, “I really did. But I’ve made my peace with her.”

“Fuck that!” I shouted, our interchange seeming more and more unreal with every word.

“You can ask her yourself,” he said, pointing behind him towards the figure holding the orb.

I shifted my attention. The figure was smaller than the rest, but not overly so, but now I noticed more curves. The man was in fact a woman.

Once she pulled off her mask, my suspicion was confirmed. The blue eyed bastard had been right.

It was Artie.

I took a step forward, my heart beating faster than it had during Bordeaux’s charge and unable to believe what my mind was telling it. The shock of seeing both these people was completely drowned out by my excitement at seeing this particular woman. She wasn’t supposed to be dead, and seeing her told me these people were, in fact, real.

“Artie?” I called out tentatively, trying not to get my hopes up.

I took a wobbly step towards her, oblivious to my friends’ stunned reactions over the interchange occurring before them, still in awe of Artie’s presence and still aware of the pain in my side.

The woman looked up at me. “Hi, Jacob.”

I smiled down at her. She smiled back. She shot to her feet like a jackrabbit and ran the few steps to me in a blink. She threw her arms around my shoulders and I didn’t even care that it hurt like hell. I wrapped my non-bound arm around her back and she hung there while I rocked her before Helena stepped forward, coughing politely into her fist.

I pulled away and looked into her jealous face. Besides Agrippina, she’d never seen anyone offer me anywhere near as much affection before. And I wouldn’t even call what Agrippina offered me as affection. I laughed at the whole thing.

“Sorry, Helena. This is Artie. She’s…”

“Good evening, mademoiselle ,” Santino interrupted, brushing past me to take Artie’s hand so that he could kiss it gently. “Jonathon Archibald Santino the Third, at your service. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Helena looked at me. Archibald? she mouthed.

I shrugged. I thought he’d headed his mission entry with that.

Onions indeed…

“Ah,” Artie said, her voice high and smooth, not quite at the annoying pitch. I smirked at how she drew out the sigh in knowing recognition. “So, you’re Santino…”

He smiled dashingly, but I shoved him to the side and out of the way.

“Artie, that’s Santino,” I said, waving my hand dismissively at him. “And this is Helena van Strauss,” I said, indicating Helena. “Helena, this is Artie, but her actual name is Diana Hunter.”

Helena snapped her head to look at the young woman.

“Diana?” She whispered.

Diana “Artie” Hunter.

Engineer. Astronaut. Genius.

My little sister.

Diana was tall, not quite as tall as Helena, and weighed about a buck forty. She and my mother always used to argue over who was taller and in better shape, so I knew their details only all too well. The two had been as competitive as Wang and Santino, only far more loving. They’d practically been like sisters for the few years between when Diana had entered adulthood and mom had died. It was unfortunate it hadn’t lasted longer.

She had dark brown hair, more so than mine, and kept it about shoulder length. Dark brown eyes and a cute round face gave her features more like dad’s, but she was just as lovely as mom. That said, she was my sister after all, and while to me she had proportionately pleasant features, I wasn’t an objective source of criticism. She’d been good looking enough to date the D-bag I’d punched out a few minutes ago, so that must have counted for something.

Her nickname came from our mother. An avid reader of anything she could get her hands on, my mom had read everything from romance to history, mysteries to biographies and the classics, but her passion had always rested in mythology. Later in my life, I’d always found it odd how much she’d enjoyed the subject, considering her staunch Catholicism, but it didn’t matter which society the stories came from because she loved them all.

As for Diana’s nickname, it came straight from Greco-Roman mythology. Diana was the Roman derivation for the Greek goddess, Artemis, Apollo’s sister and goddess of the hunt. Mom used to love telling infant Diana all of Artemis’ stories, about how independent and strong she’d been and about how she never took crap from men and always blazed her own path. After a while, my young sister started saying the name Artemis in that cute little gibberish way kids that age do, and after a while, mom just started calling her “Artie,” and the name stuck.

Santino was as confused as ever.

“Diana? Hunter?” He asked as he turned to look at me, his hands on his hips. “You never told me you were married!”

I rolled my eyes while Helena answered for me.

“She’s his sister, you dimwit.”

Santino looked between Artie and me, back and forth, disbelief still evident. He pointed a finger at her and scanned her from head to toe. “This… this is your sister?”