The Edge of the Universe: Rebirth

THE EDGE OF THE UNIVERSE

A Series of Unfortunate Tales

REBIRTH

PROLOGUE

Days had passed since any land had been spotted. The ocean seemed to be a respite from the man- no, the creature that pursued the pirate crew that held me as it's captive. What had driven this once-feared crew to a such a state of terror was a lone assailant, who, over the course of months, had destroyed and eliminated nearly three hundred of the gang's number.

"Two hundred, and Seventy-one of us..." Lannister's voice called out to another man on the boat. The man jumped in his seat and turned to eye his compatriot with hatred. "... Sorry Vero... Didn't know you were that jumpy..."

"Don't I have a right to be?!?" Vero screamed. "It's almost midnight, and I can feel his eyes on me, I've felt them since we left Hass'var!!" Vero was losing his mind, it had been apparent since Port Vinnea. That's where we had first met the Beast.

And yes, I'll call him a Beast! There isn't a better word for the man! Brutal, yet kind, Incomprehensible, and yet simple, hardened, yet broken. "Beast" is what the gang, the Holden Marauders, had so eloquently named the man who has so thoroughly destroyed them. But, as usual, I am getting ahead of myself again; I should start from the beginning.

My name is Richard Mortiac, and the story I am about to tell you starts with a game of cards at the Edge of the Universe and ends with the fate of countless races, peoples, and cultures in the hands of three mortal enemies.

So set the stage of your mind, and prepare for a story

Of rebirth.

CHAPTER ONE- A Port of Questionable Motives

Port Vinnea, Last stop before the Edge of the Universe! Or so the shambling monstrosity that owns the almost fantastic space station would say that it was. It is a haunt of the mega-wealthy, the one percent of the one percent. Admission to the port for a day cost more than many folks would make in a hundred lifetimes; and a pass for a year? My, you could buy a planet and build a country with that money. But the people that inhabit this station were powerful, poised, and unrelentingly egotistical. So how then; pray tell, did a down-on-his-luck reporter for a news station halfway across the galaxy end up in the playground for the ultra-wealthy and powerful? Well... It has to do with a girl. (Doesn't it always?)

I arrived at Port Vinnea in the late autumn of the nearest solar system's cycle. I received a true red carpet experience; That was until I was discovered to be as poor as I was. And that I was a journalist no less. So for many long days and nights, I sat there, alone, in my room, typing furiously and hoping for a story to hit me in the face. It sounds silly, I know, to simply hope that the story of the century would be overheard by a twenty-one-year-old man in over his head by a million miles. The fascinating part of it all was that it seemed to work.

Writing tirelessly, I created a beautiful scenic composition; A setting fit for the front page and headline of every newspaper and television show! Alas... that was all the further I got. You see, I was from the far distant land of Helena, it's a modestly rich country on a mining planet. A year ago, however, a prominent, and eccentric lady, Elsa Kesselring, Vanished from the planet. She left her family, her company, her whole life! All so she could spend her wealth on some money, some chance to... Win her "Desire". You see, Port Vinnea has a great many attractions; gambling, spas, artificial beaches, fine cuisine, and the usual debauchery. But, there was a truly extraordinary attraction, that brought together all kinds of life to this land beyond lands: A card game. Yes, a simple hand of cards, a tournament played in thirteen rounds, with the winner being given their "Desire"... Outlandish, inconceivable, impossible, but yet, it's true! and it concerned our Elsa Kesselring. And yet, even as I write, I find no trace of her, none at all! It is infuriating! And all my hopes and dreams are anchored on this story I-

"Augh!" The notepad is flung from my hand as I run into a wall. I was far too infatuated in my own writing to tell where my feet were going. "Curse these feet and their stoutness! Who designed these, anyway!" I had a habit of shouting things that should rather be kept to oneself, and it had a habit of returning back consequences to me.

"I don't know, but whoever did, made a sorry job of it." A hand reached out to me, offering help up. I accepted it and was pulled to my feet by a man much taller and much broader than me, though given my state as an anemic asthmatic, that isn't much to say. "Keep your head high and maybe you won't run into so many people."

"Impossible, I do not run into people, my good sir!" And with a sudden attack of brilliance, I wish I could return the words I had spoken back to my mouth. I had indeed run into this gentleman, as there were no walls in a forty-foot vicinity of my personage.

"Really." The man was tall, stern and well built. His skin was pale and white, a stark contrast to his jet black hair and stubble. His eyes looked like pools of seething darkness, with a flash of purple dancing between the iris and the pupil. Just below the jowls on the right of his face, there is a patchwork of scars that reaches into his neck and disappears below his shirt.

"I-ah... I mean to say that I do not run into people that are as interesting as you! My good sir, You are... Not as... Genteel as the other persons that inhabit this fine establishment. Might I have a word?"

"That depends on what the word entails." This man astounds me. In a place where I have only seen dresses made of silk and gold, suitcoats and pressed shirts made of the finest linen, he wears a jacket made of black leather, littered with patches and stripes. On one side above a breast pocket is a name: "PETERSON". Underneath his jacket is a black t-shirt, bearing tally marks... It's hard to tell how many, and the dark crimson they are marked in tells me he doesn't like to talk about it.

"The word entails... A card game! The... Illustrious 'Game of Desire'!" I flashed my best reporter smile and hiked up my story as best I could. I was sure the man would take the bait.

"I've heard of it." His face rarely changed expressions as we talked, and I gathered it took much to impress or surprise him. For a man who seems to have his life written on his face, I can't tell what kind of life he's lived.

"Oh, then!" I smile, "Would you happen to know the prize for such an illustrious game?"

"Your greatest desire." His dry tone ate at me, but I ignored it and pressed on.

"You do know quite a lot, then!"

"I know that you're getting on my nerves with these questions." He begins to walk past me and I scramble to pick up my pen and paper and rush up to him.

"I promise, sir, these questions have a point!"

"Then I'd bloody wish you would get to it."

"Do you know of a woman named... Elsa Kesselring?"

He stopped, and for once, looked me in the eye, "What do you know about her?"

"A great deal!" I boasted, "We are from the same country! Helena!"

For a moment, he studied me, keeping his gaze locked on me, "Hm. I suppose I will have that word. But not here. Not now."

"When, then?"

"Get lost, and I'll find you when I want to talk."

"But sir!" I spun around in front of him, hoping to get his brisk walk to halt. Momentarily succeeding, I pant out my question, "When will that be? And what even is your name?"

He paused. "First yours."

"Richard Mortiac! A reporter for The Golden Herald! Here to investigate the tale of Helena Kes-"

"If I wanted your autobiography I would have asked."

"Sorry..."

"Michael Peterson."

"Ah, Mr. Peterson, what is it that you do?"

"There you go asking questions again."

"Well, it is my job, after all!"

Without so much as a word, Michael turned on his heel and stepped through an open door that we passed. At my brisk pace, I wasn't able to stop and turn back towards him before I was stopped by two guards. They were tall and crimson-armored, their gear glistened and shone, but the gleam of their armor could not erase their nasty reputation. The Holden Marauders, I'd done my homework on them. They raided shipping lanes outside of the Holden system, a neighbor to my homeworld of Irrigo. They did horrible things to women and children and weren't kind to the men either. However, four years ago they had left their pirating ways and undergone... "Restructuring". They shot their old leader and pulled a new man, a strong, levelheaded one up to the rank of Commandant. Herod was his name, and he was known to show mercy if he thought it was necessary. Herod took the marauders and moved them to Port Vinnea, making them the security for the establishment. Unfortunately, he never quite bred out the brutality that his men had, for the both of these guards grabbed me by the shoulders and flung me thirty feet backward, sending me skidding into a bench.

"No one is allowed into the lounge! It is reserved for the players of the Desire only!" One of them bellowed, hand on his gun, "And if I ever see you here again, I'll make sure you have worse things to complain about than a sore head!"

I was dizzy enough that I caught every other word of what they were saying, "Sincerest apologies, sirs... but shouldn't you have thrown out the man that I followed?"

The other huffed, and snarled at me, "He's allowed in, unlike people like you."

That settled it in my partially conscious mind. Michael certainly was a fish out of water, what with the difference in dress he had compared to everyone else, but this confirmed it all the more. He was a man looking to get rich by way of winning a game of cards. But who was the man? That bothered me endlessly as I stood up and dusted myself off. It was time to set my sights on a new piece of the Puzzle that is port Vinnea. Time to answer a question:

Who is Michael Peterson?

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