Albel’s Fairy Guide

Albel “The Wicked” Nox hated many things in his life. In fact, he often made a game out of listing these irritations in his mind when bored, or when he simply didn’t feel like listening to what someone had to say. One of the things that he truly hated was any object, subject, or idea that he did not understand entirely the second he was introduced to it. Needless to say, aboard the Pangalactic Federation’s fabled Aquaelie Battleship, he was now confined to his own sort of specially designed Hell. One could, in a bizarre way, be proud of the fact that some higher, more powerful advocate of the whim of Fate had taken the time and energy to construct a custom-built realm of torture especially for you, but The Wicked One was too teeth-grindingly angry to delve into such abstract philosophy, just as it was for him roughly eighty percent of the time.

He had been aboard the Diplo as well, which wasn’t much better. No matter how much he saw of this new, amazing world, he couldn’t understand a thing. Just what in the world was the floor made of? It wasn’t wood, or stone, or even metal! He somewhat enjoyed the smooth texture of it beneath his feet…until he realized that smoothness also meant less friction, causing him to fall down quite a few times until he got his bearings. Someone even had the gall to laugh in ridicule of one of Albel’s follies. Who did he think he was? Did he think he was superior? Did he think he was stronger? The way he stared, laughed, moved, and even attempted to help Albel to his feet was absolutely uncalled for. Of course, after pulling the uniformed soldier into a particularly dark corner of the Aquaelie’s corridors and calmly explaining why what he did was so rude, the soldier politely apologized and went about his duties, after making a quick trip to the infirmary to treat the bruises that he had received when he fell down a, quote, ‘flight of stairs’.

Albel had thought that, perhaps, with a new world he could have a new beginning, a new life with new challenges, expectations, and possibilities. That was already ruined now. Surely, the majority of the Aquaelie’s crew thought him a fool for his ignorance of their marvelous, technological miracles. It was always like this! No matter what it seemed like he was to always remain inferior! From the Dragon Brigade to whatever hierarchy these maggots possessed in their own culture, he was doomed to a life of obscurity. That’s why he had to become smarter, stronger, fiercer, and, above all else, better.

Albel the Wicked: That’s what they called him. Even though he was still seen as pathetic by members of the Dragon Brigade and that conceited King Airyglyph in that old world of his, that title exhumed respect (Or fear. Same difference) each time it rolled off of one of his subordinate’s tongues. They knew him. They knew what he had done, what he was doing, and what he would do. They trembled whenever he passed them, standing rigid and at attention when he writhed the clawed fingers of the artificial gauntlet that had replaced his left arm some time ago. And yet…there was Duke Vox…and Count Woltar…and even Shelby, his own second-in-command, that all knew of his failure during his Accession of the Flame ceremony, of his stupidity and weakness, of his arm and his father. Yes…his father. He still remembered it…still smelled the flesh as the smoke rose into the air. He still felt the flames lick at his shoulder, slowly clawing through his skin until it hit the hidden treasure of muscle and bone. It was all him…all because of his limitations. He had hoped, prayed that he could have a second chance in this new world…but that was already stripped from away due to the mistakes he had already made.

Even now, he was still left wondering about this new technology, but afraid to ask questions in fear of more derision from his ‘comrades’. He stood in the center of his assigned room, his scabbard and katana placed neatly on the lower left corner. He refused to wear their clothes, keeping his revealing midriff and flowing skirt. Why? To show them his strength of course. His body was toned to perfection, slender but muscular, quick and deadly. Let them admire his physical perfection. Let them drop their heads in shame and let their eyes shine with envy as he passed. He didn’t wear it in a ‘Look at me!’ fashion, but in a ‘I dare you to comment on my clothing’ sort of fashion. Of course, along with that there was his mutilation of an arm, now but a metallic gauntlet on a deformed stump. It had been a complicated process, hiring Aquarian Runologists, before the conflict with his kingdom and theirs of course, and having them imbed the gauntlet of Albel’s choice with their special Runes. It had worked…but it still continued to attract stares, which only made Albel want to show them exactly what he and his artificial arm were capable of. He had ordered the gauntlet forged with razor-sharp claws for a reason. He made his handicap into one of his greatest strengths.

His hair was another anomaly, black trimmed with pale blonde, bangs whispering delicately at his chin while two long braids swayed at his back. The reason for this? Well…he had no reason. He was just fond of it was all. Nevertheless, while these traits gained him unwanted attention on Elicoor II, the effect was multiplied exponentially in this new world. This world confused him as much as he confused them, so it seemed like a fair trade.

He hated the room that he was assigned, just like he hated every other room of the ship. He hated his room a bit less, however, simply because it was his. Everything felt so synthetic. Everything felt so…fake. The light was lifeless and dull, the walls sterile and without soul, noises of mysterious machinery droning monotonously, as if to sap the life force from the listener’s very husk. And now…there was this…what these maggots referred to as a ‘bed’. Albel knew what a bed was. It had posts…it had legs…and it was large and plush. This…was no bed. This…was the worst imitation of a bed he had ever seen. It was like stabbing a dog with acupuncture needles and calling it a porcupine.

It was thin…uncomfortably thin (At least it seemed that way. Albel hadn’t gathered the courage to lay on it yet). It had no posts…no legs…it was simply connected to the side of the wall by a pair of thin bars. Could this contraption even support his weight? He’d prefer to simply sleep in the hallway as he had done on the Flagship Diplo (Quark and the Pangalactic Federation were apparently enemies in some way. Maybe he should’ve slept on the Diplo. The beds couldn’t be worse than this. If they were anti-federation, maybe they were anti-stick needles into dogs), however, his back was killing him. If he didn’t rest on a mattress, or whatever these fools had replaced the proper mattress with, he wouldn’t be in shape for whatever tribulations that awaited him on Styx.

And so…there stood Albel the Wicked…staring at a simple bed as one would stare at an unguarded money clip, greedy but frightened, or, in Albel’s case, weary but wary. Would he dare lower himself to such a pitiful level of degradation? Normally, no. With a bad back, of course.

He approached his target cautiously, taking short, crawling steps. He knelt to one knee, the edge of the bed coming up to the middle of his abdomen. He ran his good hand upon the white blanket, pressing his fingers downward in an experimental gesture. He was amazed! It was so thin…but so soft, even seeming to conform to the shape of his fingers. He withdrew his hand, this time actually daring to sit upon the apparatus, allowing himself a careful bounce upon it. This wasn’t so bad. In many ways, it was better than a conventional bed. It wasn’t as bulky, hence making it easier to climb onto. Albel gave a rare but fleeting smile as he kicked his feet over the edge, laying down upon his new bed with his flesh and blood arm positioned behind his head, his gauntlet hanging over the edge, as it would probably not feel very comfortable as a pillow.

The former Black Brigade Caption gave himself permission to heave a relieved sigh as the soreness oozed out of his aching spine, closing his eyes and allowing his consciousness to wander. He turned to the side, as he slept better on his side than on his back, but perhaps leaned a bit too far, as he heard a sudden ‘Fmph’. He automatically recognized it as one of those hopelessly annoying sounds the doors of the ship made whenever one was opened, but soon discovered it wasn’t a door as his face met the unforgiving wall, his body becoming cramped and compressed between two flat objects. He struggled his eyes open, only to see darkness. He writhed about, getting nowhere, as something constricted his movement. What was going on? Had the bed eaten him?

His breaths came in quick, panicked gasps as his eyes scanned the darkness around him. He kicked his legs, his gauntlet arm flailing as the claws ripped through whatever surface it scraped against. He heard material rip, metal clawed away as he fought whatever creature had possessed the egotism to attack him…to attack the fearsome Albel the Wicked. Whatever he did, it worked, as he was greeted with the same vexing ‘Fmph’, the wall behind him giving away as he rolled and fell to the floor. He scrambled into the lower corner, grasping his heavy katana, unsheathing the weapon quickly as he snapped around with gritted teeth, wine-red eyes burning with venomous vigor…before he nearly dropped the sword to the ground, gaping in a dumbfounded manner as the bed retracted into its storage space in the wall.

A folding bed? What kind of idiot would invent something as ridiculous as that? Who would want to fold into a tiny, claustrophobic hole in the wall as they slept? Albel could imagine someone saying something idiotically similar to ‘I have far too much room for my limbs as I sleep! Why can’t someone invent a bed that restricts my movement entirely!’ Albel dropped his sword’s scabbard to the ground, ready and willing to section this abomination of a sleeping apparatus into palm-sized cubes.

“Mr. Albel? What are you doing?”

For once…The Wicked One was angered at the fact that the annoying ‘Fmph’ hadn’t preceded someone’s entrance. He must’ve looked ridiculous, sword in hand, sneering in fiery rage at a bed of all things, not to mention the deep claw marks that now resided on the wall during his initial struggle. Wait…someone…was in his room? Had strolled in…unannounced…into his room? Who in their right mind would dare to insult him in such a-

Albel turned, ready to verbally, and perhaps even physically, assault whatever foolhardy worm had dared to impede upon his privacy, only to find no one. He blinked rapidly, his mouth agape, before looking downward to see a glittering pair of bright green eyes staring upward at him.

The girl cocked her head curiously, her mouth pursed in confusion, her finger placed adorably on her chin in whatever constituted thought for someone of her age. A small white pouch was held in her opposite hand, dangling flippantly with the weight of whatever it held. In fact, she was a bit older than most would think by her odd mannerisms, personality, and petite frame; about thirteen or fourteen. Her skin was unusually tan, her obviously reveling in the time she spent in the sun. Her hair was unusually blonde, almost white, and styled into trendy pigtails. Perhaps she died it? Albel couldn’t tell. After all, many people thought Albel’s hair to be of artificial color, but, surprisingly, it was all-natural. The child’s cheeks were full and red with zestful color, brightening up quickly during moments of even mild excitement, along with the passionate sheen that often accompanied her eyes.

Her clothing was almost as outrageous as the garb of Albel; a pink tank top underlined with a series of three belts (Lord knows why someone of her size would need them) along with a skirt of the same color, black leotard shorts under that. She also adorned a rather elaborate red cape, the ends attaching to the heavy bracelets on her wrists, two large red balls weighing down the ends. In fact, the cape made a very useful makeshift weapon when needed, having the effect of a lesser mace or flail.

Her charming smile and movements constantly made Albel nauseous. Sickeningly sweet, one could say. Why had Leingod decided to drag her along again? Despite her athletic ability she was still young, not to mention an idiot. It seemed obvious to everyone but Leingod and that girl that seemed to hover about him that this circus performer would only get in the way. That Traydor woman had expressed Albel’s exact opinion on bringing her…but he still didn’t like her. He’d be damned if he admitted he was fond of any of them.

Albel growled, an almost feral, inaudible expression in his throat. “What are you doing in my room?”

“What are you doing attacking the bed? Has it been naughty or something?”

The Wicked One’s eyebrow twitched indignantly, his lips curling downward into a frown. “Tch…yes…it’s been a very bad boy.”

“Huh…”

The dancing girl scratched the crown of her head stupidly as she contemplated the remark before shrugging and stepping forward to be bed, which was now ripped and, to Albel’s surprise, flowing with some kind of blue ooze rather than feathers or even cotton. The girl brought her hand over her head, and smacked it roughly upon the face of the gelatin-filled mattress several times. “Bad bed! You be nice to Mr. Albel!” Albel simply pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand in disbelief.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

“Hm? Weeellll…you said that the bed had been bad. So, I’m giving him a spanking. He won’t bother you again, Mr. Albel.”

The girl giggled, turning on her heel with an innocent smile. Albel flinched slightly every time she took a step, her oversized dancing shoes clanking upon the smooth surface of the floor, joining with the jingling bells atop them and the constant whir of the machinery that trapped him aboard the ship to create the sound of, to Albel at least, utter chaos. This girl was the worst kind of intolerable. She spoke as if she were actually doing a favor.

After several seconds the girl’s expression turned to shock, her hands covering her mouth as if Albel had just said the most appalling, yet mildly entertaining thing imaginable. “Oooooh…you just cursed, Mr. Albel!”

“What?”

“You just said the ‘H’ word! You’re not supposed to say that! It isn’t nice!”

She just now realized he had said ‘hell’? Were they absolutely sure this child was a toddler and not a teenager.

“Feh…I’m older than you…I’m allowed to say it.”

“That’s not very fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, brat.”

The girl’s expression changed quickly as she drooped to her knees, drawing a perpetual circle on the ground with an outstretched finger as she often did. “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? Why do you have to be so mean?”

“Why can’t you shut the hell up?”

The girl sat fully on the ground now, her legs crossed over each other with her hands in her lap. Albel scoffed at her idiocy, inclining himself to the wall, rather than toying with that ill-conceived deathtrap these jackasses called a bed. They remained in silence for some time, Albel slipping into his familiar coffin of dank, brooding negativity while his unwanted companion drew imaginary figures on the floor with the tip of her index finger. The Wicked One tapped his foot impatiently after several minutes, capitulating that taking the initiative of breaking the silence.

“Well?”

The girl made a soft sound, it being inaudible, traveling through the air as a lethargic mumble.

“Well? Speak up, maggot!”

The girl looked up in visible confusion, large dewy eyes blinking sadly. “But…you said you wanted me to shut up.”

The swordsman smacked his forehead in vexed irritation with his flesh and blood arm, letting the fingers run down his face slowly as he seethed. He considered giving the girl the same treatment that he been presented to that ill-fated soldier that held the absolute temerity to try and lift him to his feet, but that would be a bit too much even for him considering who he was dealing with.

“Why are you here?”

“Weeellll…”

Albel winced at the disgustingly cute way she stretched out the word.

“…I thought you could use some company. You seem to be alone a lot of the time. ‘Sides, I was bored, and you’re the only one I haven’t really talked to. Fayt’s nice, Sophia’s cute, Mirage is smart, Cliff’s funny, Maria’s stern, but the only thing I can think of you is-“

“-Scary?”

The girl blinked incredulously, taken aback by his rather brusque intimation. “Why would you think that?”

“You did refer to me as, and I quote, the scary one.”

“Weeellll…yeah…but I really didn’t mean it. It’s just the only way I know how to describe you. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want to find something…um…er…”

“Something good to say about me?”

“Weeellll…I guess you could say that.”

The girl’s voice lowered to a meek whisper as she said something that was actually halfway mean, poking her fingers together nervously. In a split second that almost seemed a bit creepy she shook off her solemn words and stood with a wide smile, picking up the white bag she was carrying and rose it up to Albel’s nose, standing on her tiptoes to do so. “Anyway, you want one?”

“Want what?”

“Jellybeans. Mirage gave them to me. She said that Maria has a sweet tooth, and she gives her something sweet to eat every day, but she decided to give me some too. Wasn’t that nice?”

Jelly…beans? Beans filled with jelly? Hell, the bed was bad enough, but whoever thought of this must’ve been smart enough to somehow perfect a method of filling beans with jelly but dim-witted enough to actually think it was a good idea. Quite possibly, these culinary abortions were conceived by the dumbest genius of all time.

“I don’t like sweets.”

Technically, that was a lie. Even Albel had been known to indulge in a piece of that new invention called caramel every once in a while. He also rather enjoyed a sour pastry, the bitterness of it matching his personality perfectly. Did these people even know what caramel was? With their technological advancement surely they would’ve thought of something as brilliant as caramel before a murderous bed and jelly-filled beans.

The girl seemed impossibly disappointed at that remark, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, rather than the thrill of living, at her social blunder. She shrugged a second later, smiling and skipping about, perhaps thinking something along the lines of ‘More for me!’

“Know what?”

“No…I don’t. Please, enlighten me.”

The Wicked One’s voice reeked with the burning stench of sarcasm. The girl, being either immune to his hurtful tone or ignorant to such complicated concepts, wasn’t phased in the least as she opened up the pouch and popped a red, oblong-shaped object into her mouth, causing Albel to flinch at the thought of a navy bean puffed with cherry filling.

“Jellybeans are…oh…um…what’s that word again? Oh yeah! Jellybeans are very passive-aggressive.”

Albel offered her a stare that most would only give who…well…someone who poked a dog with acupuncture needles and called it a porcupine. “…What?”

“I mean, you have great flavors like cherry, watermelon, green apple, lemon, lime, blueberry, orange, tutti-frutti, and toasted marshmallow, but then you get to things like sizzling cinnamon! Blech! Oooh, or even buttered popcorn! Ewww! Ugh, and then there’s-” she paused perhaps for dramatic effect as she announced the most dreaded of all flavors, acting as if she would burst into flame for doing so. “black licorice! Agh! If you don’t have anything to wash it down with you just have to wait for that nasty taste to go away! That’s why jellybeans are passive-aggressive. Kind of a bittersweet relationship. Know what I mean?”

“No…no, I don’t. But I’m sure your right.”

Albel gave a huff, cracking his neck violently to one side as he awaited for himself to snap and kick the girl out, for her to leave on her own, or for someone else to drag her off. What was it about this girl? She always brightened up a room, and despite her childish ways and obvious inferiority on the battlefield, not many people seemed to want to push her away. What made her so special? What made her more acceptable than him? This pus-filled maggot was hording her success over him, invading his space for the sole purpose of torturing him. She would tell what happened about the bed. She would make people hate him, make fun of him, laugh at him, and want him to go away.

“Albel the Lonely.”

“Huh?”

Albel snapped out of his envious daze, staring at the enigmatic girl as she spoke up, placing her bag of candy to the side.

“That’s what you are. You’re not wicked or scary, you’re just lonely. You think that if you aren’t the best in every way, that people would reject you. That’s how I see you now that I’ve talked with you. I mean…you’re miserable. You laugh and you make fun of people, but you really hate only yourself for being so arrogant, jealous, and callous.”

Albel stared in disbelief at the girl, almost not believing the words that had just sprung from her mouth. She was asking, no, begging to be hurt! To be thrown out of this room just like…just like every other person in Albel’s life. If you push them away then they won’t know about you, and if they don’t know about you then they can never hurt you.

“You say I’m miserable? Heh…what’s wrong with being miserable? What’s there to be happy about? You’ve seen the world! It’s in turmoil! We’re small, insignificant in comparison to everything around us! What could I possibly be happy about?”

The girl paused, staring intently at the ground beneath her, collecting her thoughts and feelings, desperately seeking a method in which to express them properly.

“I’m happy…simply because I’m alive. Look around you. At your surroundings. Don’t interpret them, but see them. See the color, the light, and the objects that are happy just being here. There’s nothing wrong at this moment. We have nowhere to go but up if we try our best. We can believe in ourselves, in life, and we can overcome. Touch what’s around you…feel it…remember it. It isn’t the past or the future, it’s the present. This moment is perfect…and if we really try we can make our future as perfect as this. We should only go into the past or future for fundamental reasons. All that we do is in the present. I’m happy because I can be happy, and because that happiness can make others happy. But not you…instead of feeling good that I’m happy, you hate me for being something you aren’t. You think you’re not strong…no, that you can’t be strong. That you can’t be good, or confident, or friendly, or understanding, or…happy. But you can! We all have the same potential to be! Understand?”

Albel stood in dark silence, his eyes pasted to the image of his feet. He had no reply. He had been rendered speechless, incapable of forging even a tiny spark of precious ad hominem. He had nothing to state…but he had everything to ask.

“Who…are you?”

The girl smiled, bounding to her feet energetically, giving an elegant twirl as she clacked her heels together, her hands clasped sweetly behind her back.

“I’m your Fairy Guide, Peppita Rosetti, silly! I thought you knew that by now!”

Peppita shrugged, grabbing her bag of goodies from the ground before heading for the door, her work with big bad Albel the Wicked now complete, only to be stopped by a sudden verbal protest.

“Wait…”

“Yeah, Mr. Albel?”

“…Could you…show me around? I don’t know much about this technology, this world of yours. Of course, I won’t pay you for it, brat.”

Peppita giggled teasingly, wagging a finger from side to side knowingly. “One condition.”

“What is it?”

“You have to eat a black licorice jellybean.”