“Throughout human history we have put ourselves through the most incredible endurance of physical, mental, and emotional toil only to suffer the consequences of defeat. There will always be someone better than you––which only one person in the world can deny.”
– Render
But alter, he had done it. One of those Government weather towers, now in flames. You’d think they’d be impenetrable to fire if they controlled the weather, but they couldn’t anticipate his flamethrower, now could they.
Lucas stood and watched as the tower’s silver struts extending deep into the sky curled from silver into black. A Lowers cigarette in his right hand and his flamethrower thrown over his back. Damn, he looked cool. Maybe even cool enough for d’Voris.
She was dressed for mission in skintight dark purple across both legs and arms. Poised perfectly atop one of those minor weather towers, those really small ones that surrounded their parents in confusingly random locations. Her deep auburn hair knelt over her shoulders, somehow never obstructing her movements especially in this bitter, cold wind after 3 a.m. Eyes of a clear silver that rivaled his Savores.
She was looking up, at the clouds that were forming in the wake of their creator’s demise. Wasn’t looking at him, of course. Even if he had body-maintenance prescriptions like everyone above Lowers it wouldn’t make a difference.
But at least he could keep trying. He himself was wearing the usual, just a light vest in Lowers Kevlar, black gloves for gripping his Ustih, and the aura of cool. They'd broken the lone security guard’s receptor, Faer’s work, and Lucas had finally been able to put his Ustih into the field. A rookie but never as hot, freezing up the tower from the bottom up with its blue flames, and d'Voris didn't even have to do anything after knocking out the guard. If she didn’t want a fight, he certainly did. But after bypassing the rest of the security, again via Faer’s excellent hacking job, he did have to admit he was pretty damn comfortable observing the wreckage.
“Kotaro, Agents are coming.”
He had of course checked the guard’s emotions right before they were tossed into unconscious oblivion and if the guard had registered this location to the Agent listings or it was done separately and he and d’Voris had walked into this part of the levgion right into the Government’s embrace, at least the guard hadn’t known. Real surprise, colored like the pink flavon of Might sandwiches. At least that was what he saw surprise as in someone’s mind.
“Of course, Vor. You always want a good fight before heading back to rest on those hard crates up in HQ.”
She stepped off the minor weather tower and tied back her hair. “I see two. Coming from the same portal we used.”
Lucas took a casual puff of his cigarette. “I thought we invalidated the portal.”
“You know that’s not possible, and even if it were, it’d be just telling the Government we were right here.”
“Doesn’t matter to them, does it.” He kicked back his legs and forearms, getting them ready. He imagined pulling an invisible chain and summoning––
But he didn’t need chains when he had his Ustih-Frozen, custom make, firethrower and icethrower, or both. You couldn’t get much better with the parts stolen from Might V-stores or from any gaming factory in wealthier areas of Lowers. A full meter long, encased in striking blue materials, almost labeled LUCAS but on second thought easily renamed to LUKE, not his real name and not as cool sounding but saved time on the engraving. Orange slivers of fire painted on the muzzle, a small hatch marked FIRE for that option, and another on the back side marked ICE for the other. It was the coolest thing he had ever made.
And now he could see them. Two Agents indeed, one tall with hair that glimmered as dark as the evening blue sky and swinging a bright alter saber from side to side; he hated that weapon. The other was taller and carrying nothing. Perfect, one who trusted in the materials given them by the Government and one who trusted in their body. Agents they rarely encountered but when they did, he had to try, and run through his Plans.
He would face them with the Ustih of course, d’Voris with her body and Scion Emulus-enhanced physique. She’d be using her trait in battle, and he would too if it got to that.
But now they were but a few meters off, and the guy in front was heading straight for d’Voris, who went up to meet him, her hair swinging back and forth. “Aim for the one in back, I’ll take the eager one.”
He nodded and took aim, hefting his baby up on his right shoulder. He Thought into the encoder, let it calculate the distance and angle, and fired––it lit up blue, warming his shoulder, and released.
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But I am unarmed because I need no weapon. No tool to sully my hands which are the instruments of bodily agency I gave myself when I chose my name.
I am R’aegoth.
And they are human externally, as all Descendants are. Except for the minute Gene that gives them status for our purification. How cruel the world.
My ears are moved by a faint susurration and the slightest of temperature drops. My eyes cast to the direction as I leap to my right, a projectile swinging in my wake and followed by a thin trail of moistless cloud. I place right hand on charred earth, flip and land. I look behind me to see a minor weather construction encased in the bluest of flame, and turn back to see the Fury taking aim once again.
At the same time, the other Descendant leaps forward towards the Fourth Agent, who blatantly swings for her head. She ducks easily while swinging her own feet under him, to which he jumps while swinging again, down. Ah, poor Hector. He can only do what he must. That is, belittle. Himself––I easily dodge the Fury’s next shot.
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In a blur the unarmed Agent had dodged both his Ustih-Frozen blasts and was now suddenly upon him. Lucas flicked open the shorthand option and parried the first blow which almost blew him off his feet. He jumped back and placed Ustih on the ground, reached into his boots and pulled out his Savores, his twin alter titanium daggers––but his right hand was empty, and he quickly looked up and saw that the Agent was holding the Savore. When did he get that––
“I see that even self-funded rebels can afford titanium––or far more likely, steal from the Government,” the Agent said before flicking the Savore into the darkness behind him with his wrist. Lucas couldn’t even see it go, just the wrist. He met the Agent’s eyes and noted peripherally that d’Voris and the other Agent were engaged in a sort of wild dance, the former avoiding the other’s terrible swings.
“Tell me, Descendant. Do you fight for a reason?”
Mid-lunge with the remaining Savore, Lucas stopped. “What?” He pressed forward but was blocked, the Agent’s hand enveloped over his fist holding the dagger. He found himself attempting to wrest the Savore out of its grip but he couldn’t.
Plan A. He’d been in worse. He remembered that one time he’d had to face three Agents at once, and Nodari had come in, hands blazing. Lucas went completely slack, almost hanging by his hand in the Agent’s.
The Agent let go, Lucas dropped the knife, and using both his hands on the ground swung about for a double kick––landing hard on skin, and glancing up again from where his head was inverted, he saw that––the Agent’s right forearm extended over his face, Lucas let his feet fall, limbo’d up from them on the ground and narrowly avoided the Agent’s swipe with his left arm. Maybe he’d injured the right arm––
And fell back, his head hitting the ground. Ow. Without looking he saw the Agent had both his feet in both his hands, holding him like a Lowers cleaning implement.
If before getting his hand out was difficult, getting both his legs out from this was––No. He was a combatant of the Furies. d’Voris was watching. Hopefully. Plan B.
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With the same instinctual push he used for sending TM's, he looked into the Agent’s mind.
Resolute.
It was as clean and white and empty as if one of those High Governors’ Offices were recolored over by white, twice. Empty except for resolution. Resolve.
And he got out.
“Your energy is meager, Descendant. I will raise the question a second time. Why?”
“Kotaro, what are you doing?” came d’Voris’s voice. But Lucas couldn’t move. He worked his muscles every day, had been since he joined the Furies five years ago. But he couldn’t move his feet.
He dropped the Savore he still had. He saw that d’Voris was winning her battle, hitting the other Agent in succession. Most Agents reacted physically to having their emotions read. Most Agents couldn’t beat him in a physical bout. Only d’Voris and Valha’ya could of the Furies. And probably the bosses. Well, at least two of them. But this one was too strong, even for body-maintenance prescriptions.
Lucas had to ask. The Agents had many in their listings and most weren’t hard to handle. And Faer took note from every mission of the ones that were threats.
“What’s your name, Agent,” he asked, in the least cordial and polite way he could, as he felt his face tightening and beginning to redden from where he hung. Plan C involved both the Savores, out. Plans D and E would ruin his image because d’Voris was done, and striding over. Plan F––
Plan G it was, then. Put his own mind through the back door.
Lucas could read anyone’s emotions except for his own. But he could replace what he did have with any single emotion––risky at best––and he hated fiddling with others’ thoughts, even if they usually showed it on their faces.
He’d try it––Resolute.
“I fight for us to be who we are,” he said, as he heaved himself up like a very long sit-up while striking down at his encased feet with his Savore. The Agent let go, and while Lucas’s legs fell, he swung his arms forward––d’Voris came sailing in from the right, leg swooping in for a kick––
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And he does not know. As a member of the Furies I thought his answer would be real. For we are the ones who locate Descendants like them and purify them of the Magycal Gene, thus reducing them to the status of everyday, mortal human beings.
But the rogue’s mind is clouded. The two palms, the left foot, are blocked. Hector is incapacitated as usual, again proving his incapacity for Fourth Agent. As the yellow-haired Fury falls his eyes show a gleam of hardness, somewhat different than their prior tint of hardship. For he cannot understand the future any Fury is destined in this futile battle.
Arms, hands, and foot. A kick-and-strike by twenty-second century body combat style, another double-bladed gullet twenty-third century adapted. As to their reputation trained well.
But my left hand connects with ankle, turn and throw, swiveling back––repeated jabs denied––kick, punch, strike, holding both Descendant Furies by their necks. I see that the yellow-hair’s eyes are dimming to their previous glint, and that the amber-haired is glaring at me fixedly. Hector is yet unconscious on the ground, and I have not been given an answer.
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Alter and fuck.
They were down. He and d’Voris––d’Voris!––had lost. Not his first time. Not hers either but they always got something done, or burned, or marked. Like these poor weather towers big and small. All withered down to silver turning black, and as he watched the black restored itself.
Lucas wiped the sweat coming down over his eye with his right hand. Being held up by the throat was embarrassing. But seeing d’Voris held the same was even worse. The Furies, the best there was, nothing to a single, ordinary human being. He laughed, or rather, he coughed. The Agent’s skin was as clear as a calendar summer day.
He found himself trying to speak.
“My apologies––one cannot answer a question without being able to speak.” The Agent, for the third time in three minutes, let him go––but in the same motion struck d’Voris unconscious––was that two blows, or three? Lucas couldn’t tell. He winced all the same.
A quick breath, then––“You have terrible hair.”
“Concomitant to combat. Yours is not worth mentioning.”
“You’re gonna purify us. It’s over.” He gave the grimmest smile he could muster. “Does purification involve making me bald?”
“No, you will not be purified today.”
He imagined entering what a gloomy, dark and shadowed chamber the purification must be in, where Scions of all ages were put in and put back out––
“Wait––”
Had he heard wrong? No Agent––licensed and tasked to take in Scions, unknown to most citizens of the Sector––would choose to let one go. Not a Fury and he knew that most Scions these Agents discovered were weak. It was the nature of Scions to be.
Lucas considered for a second if Valha’ya and Nodari, prize combatants of the Furies and the only duo stronger than himself and d’Voris, would be in the same situation right now.
No, they wouldn’t. Nodari had an actual flamethrower. His hands. And Valha’ya––well, he hadn’t even seen her ability.
“We have members way stronger than us,” he said. “You’re making a mistake.”
“It does not matter, Descendant. We have members ranked higher than me.”
Ranked? The Agents didn’t have formal rankings. Everyone could access them in the listings on the Government’s Worldnet. Lists and lists of names, with chosen weapon… He almost checked at that moment.
“And as the entire conflict means nothing, nothing shall be done with you.”
Lucas gaped.
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I find that any further conversation would only derail my cause. For there are surely members of their cohort worth more conversation than this one with the yellow hair, and his companion of auburn; but on my own we have Mik’vael and Xeric above me.
I reach out with my hand, and close the Fury’s mouth. He shall speak no more.
I then walk over to where Agent Hector lies on the ground. I throw him onto my shoulder and return to the portal from whence we came. It is time to meet the Director, and move my subordinate to a more deserved position once and for all.
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A sword swings through I see it from my rear view behind me and it’s swung by the guy named Fictus Mane, his sword is way too strong. It swings through nothing and all things. Fibers plastic steel alter saber the black demon Roronoa or golden dust Saber carnival phantasm. Plantasm, plasmatic couldn’t be pulled out of the stone one piece of rocks where one side swinging cuts the other side somehow doesn’t and either side can kill somebody, please he says, running past, chased by two bigger kids, wielding these tiny swords that are just knives and they’re goddamn fake extra need a real cutting sword right now. It can be anything but this plain wooden branch I’m carrying just a stick, born in rubbish heap months ago and glue polishing reduced it to something I could write with. I mean train with. To swing at fancy old pieces of knight knives don’t have sides, kid they pierce either way and cut depending on how you swing cycles yet, I’m on the forties and taking years to get to one hundred with the other variations closing in on the kid, these youths are no slowpokes, they’re nearing the corner of my staff, my sword, my soul been using called it Utmost, it’s polished shine but holding it too tightly puts some strain on the knuckles turning white––
Holding Utmost and I begin running after the children. Do I know them no but any chance to practice swordsmanship known to be good and speeding after the youth being chased no stealing, Swiper no swiping older boys running their little feet pattering against the dirt insulted or trivial things boy being pushed back against the brick wall.
Holding Utmost I run after them. Do I know them no practice is good and reason for chasing little boy by fat men no they’re boys too. All little boys. Older boys chasing for some odd little reason for spite they pummel the smaller one with their fists and the young boy looks above my head, spinning Utmost, slowly, and I capture the boy’s attention and hope returns. Bigger boys are punching now. Boy falls.
That hurt. Utmost Cycle Four ready bring unleash release genkai wo koeru and it spinning into a flashing beam of light. The rabble stick of wood comes down against the boys, hitting them, hitting them head by head face face arms and elbow and knee. They are helpless. “Swing, turn, and strike” I say again and again. “I didn’t do anything” say the boys again and again. Boys fall face down on the dirt. Continue Cycle Five step and turn two boys down. One still breathing. But slow, and blood on his head.
Poor kid victim by other poor kids in a world we call the Lowers inferior to those in Might, Plent, and High we have our rich but they have their alter technology and we don’t have our magic. Isn’t magic just science we don’t understand yet which the upper levgions all have, all I do is slack in school swing this sword this branch I name Utmost reading all the old books and the new with magic. No magic here.
Judging the conditions young boy great good fine ok. Great good fine OK! The other two boys comatose, coma concomitant call me maybe. Blood is slowly pooling over his tingling forehead, marked by the star we call the lightning but maybe that’s ok. I kneel down and draw on it with the tip of my sword, and I quickly rip off a piece of the colorless fabric of my cloth shirt and am wrapping the boy’s forehead with it. It’s not tingling, and soon the blood stops. Thank Gaebus no one here to see. Ate too many mushrooms, hungry my stomach rumbling in the great inner cavern, no shoes to eat. Picking up Utmost it lies slick with sweat. Cycle Five ended in my hand, not my wrist work on improvement, Cycle Six, still Nine Hundred and Fifty Cycles left to create, given I Spy the little pieces of movement. Feet and arms. Sword and set. Strike! Move! End the position. Start anew. Sporadic mid-motion we go. Intensity and placement and destiny. One uses the environment like that great white bathroom up by the power plant, it’s nice and clean and welcoming for a good fight between gangsters or sorcerers the hard dirt beneath my feet I am moving away. I am moving out of scene because I am not a hero.
“Thank you––”
Who am I? Got Friday this day, school in a few and did I do the homework? No do I ever just joking in my liberation notes of laziness I do the thing I call it the Ultimate Desire to do the things only when you feel them, “Thank you, sir” the voice calls me to stop, swivel and leaning forward my hands on my knees with Utmost hanging off my jeans. Oh. Oh no. He sees me as his savior. Better go Revé––
And I see the boy pull out a pair of smartphones from his battered waistband. It stole from the two boys and he was the villain. Becoming some sort of hero, what am I, in this carefree part of the world with Edict technology cursed 21st century and enforced by––Older the better. More arcane.––That youth was not hungry, at least. He’s not guilty.
By now I’m walking over to see the youth as my rescuer the smartphone happy bird games on them. Utmost swinging happily by my side. I pat the dirt with my shoes. I stop and turn. The youth is speechless. I bow and give the kid a grand sort of greeting. “Thank you.” I say, and turn and walk away.
The happy birds are already dead.
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