The Versailles Outcasts

Dakota coiled tight, muscles tensed, before unleashing. French soldiers closed in on him, the bayonets glinting with deadly promise. With a sudden sidestep, he dodged the first thrust, his tomahawk arcing through the air, the blade finding a home in the soldier's chest. He yanked it free, the sound muffled by the cacophony of battle cries and clashing steel.

"For the tribe!" Dakota bellowed, his voice slicing across the battlefield.

Gunfire cracked from all directions; the sharp scent of black powder bit at his nostrils. Cannon blasts shook the earth, rattling the shock right through his bones. The British lines stood firm against this onslaught, their red coats stark against the blood-stained ground.

"À gauche!" someone yelled, and Dakota's head snapped left. A knot of Frenchmen had broken through. No time for fear. He lunged, his tomahawk swooping in a vicious arc to intercept a sword that sought his life. Metal clashed against metal, sparks flared like fleeting fireflies within the growing dusk.

"Avancez! Avancez!" the French officers ordered, pressing their men forward into the storm of conflict.

The earth rumbled again as another explosion rent the battlefield, a rhythmic symphony of war that underlined a bitter conflict between empires. The British artillery thundered an answer in return, a relentless force voicing the power of the empire.

"Stand your ground!" a British sergeant roared, somewhere behind Dakota, his voice thick with accent amidst the chaos. The line of redcoats moved forward, muskets aimed over his shoulder, firing volleys that cut down the advancing French.

Dakota danced between friend and foe, the very personification of the battleground itself–hard-fought, contested, and alive. Every breath was defiance—every heartbeat, an adrenaline surge to assure his survival.

Dakota wheeled around, muscles coiling for a leap to the next wave of French soldiers. He was a storm—defending his tribe's land against foriegn encroachment.

"All together!" His voice sliced through the wall of sound, galvanizing his brothers-in-arms. From his words came an echoing chorus of defiance, their voices rising high. Moving as one, they presented an impenetrable wall of flesh and iron.

He saw a young warrior stumble—a French bayonet pierced all around him. With wild agility, Dakota closed the gap, his tomahawk finding its mark on the assailant's side. A nod of gratitude flashed between him and the young warrior, but the warrior was spewing blood from his flank, Dakota standing over him while he realized the mortal wound was stealing the boy's life. The gunsmoke cleared into a fine mist surrounding them.

"Traitor!"

The accusation cut more keenly than any blade could. Dakota whirled, eyes searching through the madness. One of his kin pointed, his face twisted in anger and fear.

"Betrayal! He communes with the enemy."

It was a ludicrous, poisonous assertion. Yet the seed of doubt spread like a forest fire among his people, questioning glances piercing him from all sides.

"No!" he roared over the cacophony, desperate to be heard, to be understood.

"Banish him!"

They pulled him from the heart of the battle, pulled him from the land that coursed beneath him, alive and pulsating.

"My brothers, please!" His words disappeared and wailed in the cannon fire.

Bound by the warriors he had fought alongside, Dakota watched helplessly as his world fractured, a mosaic of loyalty and love disintegrating before his eyes. Banished. Alone. The horizon darkened, not just with the onset of night, but with the shadow of an uncertain future.

Exiled. The forest loomed above, uncaring of his turmoil. Betrayal gnawed at him, an unyielding hound.

"Stop."

The word arrested him, not the voice of his kin but British. Dakota's fists knotted, the weight of the musket in his grasp strange.

"Your marksmanship," a voice called out again, level and commanding. "Impressive."

Dakota turned slowly, wary. A British officer emerged from the shadows, uniform stark against greenery. Keen eyes appraised Dakota, missing nothing.

"Who are you?" Dakota demanded in a low, tense voice.

"Captain James Bennett," the officer introduced himself, stepping closer. "I have watched how you fight. You are wasted on them—the ones that cast you out."

The words were bait, hook poised to catch. Dakota's heart hammered out the rhythm of wariness and resentment. To join those that might as well be another face of the enemy? The thought was appalling.

"Justice," Captain Bennett said, perhaps reading his thoughts. "Redemption. We can offer you that."

"Justice?" Dakota spat out the word as a curse. "You promise justice when your war feeds this chaos?"

"Sometimes it takes fire to fight fire." Bennett didn't flinch. "You want to prove your loyalty? Clear your name? Here is your chance."

Dakota's mind spun. Every fiber screamed no. What was he to do? Exile was a slow death. Here, at least, was action.

"Prove it," Dakota challenged, his voice low and thick with defiance. "Prove you offer more than empty words.

"Join us. Train with us. Use that fury to strike back at those who wrong you." Bennett extended a hand, not in dominance, but an offer—an equal.

The forest held its breath. Dakota looked down at the hand and then back into Bennett's unyielding stare. Uncertainty twisted inside of him, a feral battle between honor and survival, truth and necessity.

"Your people or your pride?" Bennett pressed.

"Neither," Dakota said, his voice nothing but steel. "Justice."

The British officer extended his hand.

Dakota met his gesture, the rough texture of his skin an obvious contrast to the smooth finish of the officer's gloved hand.

"Is it really about justice?" Dakota's voice came out low, almost a growl as he eyed the red coat that Bennett wore, a beacon of allegiance to the Crown.

"Justice is a sword with many edges," Bennett replied, his tone measured, betraying none of the urgency he knew must be simmering beneath the surface.

"Your edges cut my people," Dakota spat, eyes narrowing. "Joining you. How can I face them after? How can I wear your colors when every fiber screams betrayal?"

"Sometimes the greatest acts of loyalty come from the hard decisions," Bennett shot back, gaze steady. "You know what is paid for standing alone.

"Alone has been my shadow since they turned their backs upon me," Dakota said, with a voice laced with bitterness. A flicker of pain crossed his features, soon masked by the stoic resolve built like armor around himself.

"An outcast or an ally," Bennett said without mincing words. "Those are your options. We could use men like you, men who do not fight with brawn but with heart. Your tribe may have cast you away, but we value you. Use your anger, and fuel your need to vindicate yourself. Help us, and in turn, help yourself."

"Help myself?" Dakota repeated, a mirthless laugh escaping him. "What good is helping myself if it means turning my back on everything I've ever fought for? My land, my people."

"Think of it not as turning your back, but taking a different path to the same destination," Bennett suggested. "Vengeance can be a powerful ally when channeled rightly."

"Or a venom that consumes from within," Dakota shot back sharply.

"True," Bennett said, "but so does regret. Regret for what was left undone. For letting those who wronged you go unpunished."

"An outcast forever," Dakota whispered, almost to himself. "A life in the shadows, whispers of treachery my only legacy."

"Or a man reborn through fire," broke in Bennett, his voice more incisive now, like the sudden crack of a whip. "Revenge, redemption, reclaiming your honor-these await on the path we offer."

Dakota's clenched jaw held his verdict in the balance. To go with the British meant embracing the unknown—to move into a world wherein he was neither a friend nor a foe but something in between. Yet to stay as an outcast could offer no respite, no chance to prove innocence or protect his land.

"Alright," he said finally, a sense of resolve settling over him like a cloak. "I will join you. But hear this—I do it for justice. Not for you, not for your king. For the truth to be known."

"Then let us begin," Bennett said, the faintest hint of satisfaction coloring his words. "Welcome to the ranks, Dakota. Together, we will forge your new destiny.

Dakota's knuckles whitened around the hilt of his training sword. Beading sweat was on his brow; his muscles were tensed and coiled like a spring. Every strike he delivered was precise, every block instinctual. The British uniform chafed against his skin, a constant reminder of the choice that had brought him here.

"Again!" barked the sergeant. The voice was like a whiplash in the crisp morning air.

Dakota lunged—his opponent, a seasoned soldier with the scars to prove it, barely dodged in time. He was quicker now, deadlier. Every grueling day in training he honed not just his body but his resolve. This was for his tribe, for justice-not for the crown, not for allegiance to this foreign power, which saw him as little more than a tool.

"Footwork, Dakota! They'll eat you alive if you don't move!"

"Better! But your enemies won't tire," the sergeant pressed, as merciless as the clock.

"Neither will I," Dakota panted back between gasps for air, his chest heaving.

"Good." The sergeant nodded, a flicker of respect in his eyes. "Now, strategy. You're not just a fighter anymore. You're a spy. Think!"

"Use their momentum against them," he said, his hand moving in a wide gesture toward a sparring pair.

Dakota bent over, breathing heavily.

"Dismissed!" The word brought some relief.

Dakota's shadow stretched out long across the wall of the barracks as the sun lowered, bathing the yard in an orange mist. A door creaked, and he materialized-Pierre, spymaster, a ghost in the twilight of espionage. Behind eyes seemingly holding less emotion than an empty keyless lockbox, secrets were kept.

"Walk with me," Pierre said in a voice barely above a whisper. Dakota fell into step with him—the rest of the world blurred to a vague backdrop.

"France is a nest of vipers," Pierre began, handing Dakota a folded piece of parchment. "Every smile hides a dagger. Trust no one."

"What!? I am being sent to France?"

"Did you think that you would stay here?" Pierre laughed. "You bring to us a huge advantage with your French-Iroquois childhood. But Always remember Dakota—your status as an outsider is your blade," Pierre continued, his eyes sharp as flint. "Use it. They'll underestimate you."

They stopped in front of the quartermaster's tent. Pierre flung back the flap, and showed long rows of tailored coats with rows of brass buttons, and snowy breeches. The odor of new cloth and leather came out.

"Fine clothes," said Pierre, as if he read Dakota's thoughts. "Your new skin."

Dakota picked up the coat, its weight alien in his hand. The wool was coarse but structured, a jarring contrast from the soft leathers of old. He slipped it on. The fit was snug and constrictive, like a second layer of armor.

"Stand tall," Pierre instructed, straightening Dakota's collar. "Your posture speaks before your mouth does."

He watched Dakota in the mirror, an outline of himself overlaid with this new identity. Pierre's hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder, a reassuring touch, but more a gesture of solidarity in the face of what was to come.

"Remember," Pierre said, meeting Dakota's reflection. "In France, every step is a battle."

"Then I shall make my steps count," he replied, his voice steady.

"Indeed," Pierre said, his turn toward the entrance of the tent said volumes about the end of their secret meeting. "The ball is now in your court."

As night began to fall, he walked away from the tent, his mind reeling with strategy and subterfuge. The game was set afoot. The pieces were in motion, and Dakota was ready to play.

Dakota stood at the edge of the clearing where the forest whispered secrets to the night. He turned back, one last time, to face the few still believing in him. In the firelight, their faces were stoic, but a sea of unspoken emotions betrayed them. His heart clenched.

"Brothers," he began, his voice barely above the sigh of wind, "sisters."

An elder stepped forward, Old Bear they called him, for his strength and gruff warmth. "Your path leads beyond our reach," Old Bear said, voice crackling like dry leaves. "But not beyond our spirits."

"Walk with the Great Spirit," a voice murmured from behind a painted mask.

"May your arrows fly true," another added.

Before him loomed France, a gilded cage in which he would dance with danger. But he would report to Boston first to meet up with his British intelligence contacts.

Dakota's steps were measured and deliberate. With the horizon bleeding the first hints of dawn, he crested a hill that gave a glimpse into the distance, into his destiny.