Jean Rombaud - May 19, 1536

"Her eyes, I could've loved her."

The morning has a foul stench in the air, the stench was not of corpses although plenty were about. The stench was of a bloodlust I have come to detest and yet, come to know as fact. Sword ready at my side, my evil eyes peer over the crowd that has gathered. Scattered throughout, I spot sympathizers, family and friends. They are but raindrops in an ocean of bitter ignorance. These people came here to see a show, a sermon and I am their priest.

I hear activity from the White Tower, my lady wears a red coat complementing the event in a grim way. She is already a ghost, for she is already dead to us all. She floats through the crowd, now silent as night. For a moment I see something unfamiliar to someone in my line of work; a hesitation. Her presence alone brings with it a reflection that no man can resist. I feel the blade beneath my clenched fist tremble, all I can do to control it is put it aside. Solemnly she rises up the platform, I make a cardinal mistake. Our eyes meet, in that brief moment I realize something my soul shall not dare repeat for fear of a wretched death.

Her eyes, I could've loved her; I could've made this woman a wife, a mother, a happy soul. If I were not who I was and she not condemned, we could be anyone. By all appearances and indeed presence, this vision was not for lacking of love. Any man could and would melt for her; I even find myself wanting to save my maiden. Kill anyone who stands in my way, mortal or divine. Sweet Anne Boleyn, I knew of your plight and I now understand what the almoner described; a sweet victim of monarchic insanity. She speaks, I dare not interrupt for all the angels of this earth and the next.

Her speech sincere, glorious as if written in the divine book itself, torn from the pages of a lost chapter. If not for the milk and honey of her voice, it would not have pierced all as it did. The raindrops of the ocean have become as the ocean itself, not a person standing there would dare wish this flower come to harm and yet I am to bring her harm; the ultimate harm. All I can do to hold back the tears is bite my lip, I draw blood and not of my charge. She finishes all too soon. She turns once more to me and it's more than I can bear.

"Please ma'am, kneel now before the block," my voice croaking as if I've swallowed sawdust. She obeys and I wish my mouth dared not speak it's horrid despicable words. The blood tastes of iron and steel in my mouth, I pick up my own steel. I ask her to stretch out her hands; she trembles, but bravely complies. I hear her last words for surely she repeats them with sincere conviction. "To Jesus Christ I commend my soul..." I take one last look around almost instinctively for a divine escape. Surely the lord she prays to will send angels to save her. "...Lord Jesus receive my soul." She looks at me one last time, how can I slaughter the lamb whose eyes pierce mine. Not for this brave soul's sake but my own, I must divert her stare.

It's all I can do to keep from insanity. I call out to beyond her sight, "Where is my sword?" She gazes off for the instrument that will befall her, but it was a ruse for it comes swift. It descends upon her sweet swan neck in the distraction. With a thud, she is in two. Not a sound is uttered as all stare on in silence. 

A great evil has passed over the courtyard this morn and it's hand is my own. I shall never wash this blood from my soul.

Malcolm Rice - September 13, 1940

"I'm a Pacifist Goddamn It!"

It goes to my nature to leave things to the last minute, but this time my nature has betrayed my own interests. I shoulda left when I first heard about the draft, now I got a measly three days. I've worked for them Nazis before, they ain't the type of people you go to war with. Willing to use their sweet mama as shields if given half the chance. Worse still, I'm not gonna to be forced to potentially kill another man over flawed ideals. I'm heading underground, I should be safe at the estate in Majorca if I lay low.

If I'm to get out of here in one piece, it's got to be on the hush hush and it's got to be now. Why I picked the most god-damned bustling harbor in the great United States? Chalk up another letdown to my nature. This rickety boat is all I got to hope on; Evening Phoenix. Seems fitting, let's hope...what's this?

"Good evening monsieur." She says, her jade eyes cutting beneath her beret. I'm almost breathless, but this is not the time nor the place; okay maybe it is the place besides. "Good evening ma'am, have you seen the captain about? We need to move now." I may have put too much emphasis on the now, hopefully I've not let on too much. Her thick French accent makes following this broad almost unbearable, but I can make out that she is in fact the captain. I don't care either way, I just want to leave Lady Liberty and all her little tin soldiers to live my life on a beach. Then I hear em, them sirens; it's too soon. I run over and jump into the boat, tripping on my way in; jewels fly across the deck. I look up her stockings guilty of more than one crime now, she just grins.

"It appears as if this little trip is more than a holiday," she states as with an intuitive haste casting off the docking ropes. Like a cold fish I just watch her even while the sirens approach ever closer. It mighta been one thing to skip the draft, it was another to knock off Tiffany's on the way out. She starts the engine of the boat picking up a six-shooter, "Will we be needing this?" I cringe at the sight of the gun. "No guns, never cause I'm...

A bullet hits the window of the cockpit as my instinct kicks in and I dive backward onto the deck. "...a pacifist Goddamn it!" The French captain-ess in one motion puts the boat into reverse while sliding around the side to get a position on the shooter. "Monsieur, that is not a policeman." I see him, Jack Williams, PI, your friend and mine.

"They coming Malcolm, they will find you and so will I." He wouldn't shoot me, it would be too easy from this distance. I'm his prize he wants me alive. "I'll miss you Jack, I honestly will. Chasing me from coast to coast, but I'm expanding my horizons you see. You should too, get out while you can. This war is bigger than the both of us." Jack fires just off to the left of the boat as I dive. "You're a coward Malcolm, you always have been. Real men stand and fight." I found at that point it probably was easier for Jack to say that behind his revolver. With no response I heard Jack roar at the moon with a final shot.

Being out of earshot and staring up at her highness Lady Liberty I took in one last look at the Big Apple. I would miss her and all the opportunity she presented me growing up. Now hourly boats would be coming in from Europe full of the disheveled injustices of the war looking to her for inspiration. Me, I gave her the finger and headed straight into the abyss. "Monsieur Malcolm, I have you a cocoa." At this point is was difficult not to appreciate this Sheba, six shooter and all legs. "What's your name sugar?"

"It's certainly not sugar monsier," she winks. Sometimes my nature gets it right.