Cody Franklin - The Atlantropa Articles

What an absolute waste. Such a fine drink was now spilt onto the floor, mixing together with an ever-growing pool of blood from a Marian whore. Imagine that whiskey’s journey. The time and effort it must have taken to reach perfection. Brewed and bottled, then put into a crate and transported all the way south to the edge of civilization… simply to be ruined in such a callous manner. It was an expensive bottle, and I’m certain the price matched the work. I was quite looking forward to enjoying such handiwork. Yet instead, all of it is now a puddle of glass and blood at my feet.

Dumb bitch.

I sit here in this booth waiting for somebody to settle the matter. Few patrons in the bar glance over, and those who do quickly turn back to their drinks. An injured bar-whore on this ferry is not a tragedy to warrant more than a few seconds of curiosity.

She will just not stop shrieking. The shaking mess is curled up next to the table she clumsily knocked over. She’s wailing like a banshee, and it’s getting on my nerves; her good hand is clutching the Reichsmarks that she stole from my pocket.

She had sat on my lap, slipped her hand in my pocket, and taken the money inside, thinking I wouldn’t catch it. As she gripped the money, I in turn gripped her twig of a forearm and shattered that fucking thing in half. Bone is piercing out of the flesh, some red pulp is dripping onto the wooden floor… serves her right. She tried to get away and toppled everything over with her. The table… the drink… my patience.

A dark, cardinal-red river is flowing down her pale, fair skin. I was very eager to get acquainted with that body before we made landfall. She seemed like a quality girl. Blonde, an abundance of curves, smooth pearly skin. If she had made some good life decisions and weren’t a bar-whore, I figure she could have made a fine Aryan wife. Just my luck the best looking specimen tries to be a thief. Pity.

I motion for another drink and for somebody to take this whimpering mess away from me. Four girls scurry into the bar. One hands me a new bottle of liquor, the second places a mat over the pool of blood, and the last two drag away the sobbing bitch. It was a nice little display.

One of the girls snatches my Reichsmarks back from the bleeding bar-whore’s grasp and places the money firmly into my hands. As the rest leave the room, she gives a gracious bow, apologizes in a regretful tone for the inconvenience, and finally floats out of the room to leave me in peace.

“What was that for?” a voice calmly says at the other end of the bar.

I turn to face its owner. His slim figure is draped in an overcoat that flows down to his knees. On top of an already bulky coat is a shell of metal-armored plates. They are golden, just like his features. Blond hair slicked back, with a short-trimmed beard to match. His youth of twenty years really contrasts with my own aging exterior. Even though we are only ten years apart in age, I can’t help but notice the difference.

“You saw what she did, Ulric,” I say, pointing to the mat which had been laid down to cover the puddle of blood. “Had to protect my money.”

Ulric makes his way across the bar toward me, setting his attention on the still sideways table.

“Problems are settled differently down here.” I explain to him in a collected manner, as we both prop the table back up.

“Quite different than Germania, I guess….” Ulric hesitantly rationalizes, as he joins me at the booth. His voice is laced with nervousness. I expected he’d be a little uneasy, considering this is his first deployment down south. My brother has lived a quiet life in the pristine capital of the Reich. A place of beautiful monuments, tall winding towers, and dense green forests.

“Sometimes I don’t know the strength of this thing,” I say, shifting to display my left arm, or what is now my arm. Drops of the girl’s blood paint the side of my rusted mechanical limb. I probably should wipe that off.

It’s common practice to put artificial skin over such a thing, but I just never bothered. Fake skin never wrinkles: it stays in the same perfect condition forever, unlike the rest of me. I’ve already seen my skin age and wrinkle, even if it was just a bit. At least as the metal rusts, my body degeneration will be a uniform and balanced process.

I take a napkin and begin cleaning the blood off of my limb. I don’t get why this arm is always the dominant one. Even ten years after losing it, it still thinks it’s in charge.

“Don’t you think there could have been another way handling that situation?” Ulric says, while watching the cleaning display. “Could have just stopped her and got the money back… she was just a little thing.”

I nod in aloof agreement while cleaning away the last bits of blood. It was the same dark crimson as Ulric’s uniform—standard for an S.S. Knight. The gold eagle and skull pinned to his chest shines against the lamp hanging above us.

“I wouldn’t get caught up on it, Ulric. It’s not like it was that much of a loss,” I reason. “If you knew how many girls go through every season, you’d know she can be replaced like that.” I snap my fingers, “Don’t get queasy. I know you’re a pacifist and all…”

“I’m not a pacifist,” Ulric defends. “I just have never seen violence like that before.”

“Not a pacifist, sure…” I joke pointing to his uniform.

“The Knighthood maintains cultural integrity…” Ulric explains, his hands clenched together as his body slouches over. “We aren’t some peace organization.”

“So getting caught up on a bar-whore is maintaining culture?” I laugh, looking around the dim room. Not one of the occupants was looking back at us. The bartender was cleaning one of his glasses, having a quiet conversation with a man in a grey uniform. None pay much mind to my brother and me.

Ulric’s eyes lock on the last drops of blood I am wiping from my limb. It’s as if he has something to say, but instead he simply lets out a deep breath, unclenches his hands, and orders another drink.

“The Knighthood is about protecting the tribe,” he explains.

“The only way to protect the tribe is to make sure we aren’t attacked by another tribe,” I state.

“There are many ways to protect a tribe, Ansel,” Ulric lectures, his eyes narrowing, “such as respecting your fellow Aryans.”

I chuckle to myself, almost spitting up my drink. Ulric wrinkles his brow at me with an expression of annoyance.

“Are you saying that I should have respected that whore just because she’s an Aryan?” I choke out through spats of laughter.

“A tribe that fights amongst itself is bound to collapse,” he concludes.
“We’re not going to fight some great war just because I broke a thief’s arm,” I say, “If anything, you should be lecturing her for stealing.”

Ulric slouches down into his seat. His hand loosely grips the handle of his pint.

“That woman was still an Aryan.”

“That woman was still a thief,” I say, taking a large gulp from my new whiskey.

We sit by a small window that overlooks the sea. A faint rumble permeates the walls as waves splash against the ferry. It always surprises me just how loud the sea is—a thousand little movements working in sync to create that recognizable hum. It’s a rhythm in tune to the slow churn of the ship’s engine.