OH, [DEAD/INACTIVE/DAMAGED] [BOY/MEAT/HUMAN]
[DIMINISHED/POOR/SUFFERING] [DEAD/INACTIVE/DAMAGED] [BOY/MEAT/HUMAN]
[WHAT/WHICH] HAVE THEY [INFLICTED/EXECUTION/DONE] TO YOU?
Transmission recovered from the P-Network by the Pandershi Foundation, Context Unknown
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Skipper's blood boiled.
In a way, he welcomed that sensation. A long time ago -- when he'd been with the Widow -- he'd felt as if he'd been as cold as her, like his veins were frozen over. There hadn't been room for anything but the mission -- not even for emotion. Anything that didn't involve killing had been unnecessary.
Since then, though, his life had become… warm. It had become something he'd made for himself, with his own hands. Friends, happiness, something approaching a family… he’d spent years and years making his way towards the sun, but it was feeling like he’d been doubling back recently.
For the time being, though, he still felt that warmth. But the source…
Heartbeat Bayonet shredded the main hall of the cathedral, annihilating everything save for Dragan's battered form -- which was floating in the air. The dark-haired man who'd been attacking Dragan had turned and fled, punching right through the great doors and onwards.
As scraps of wood and dust fell to the floor like snow, Skipper let out a deep breath. He'd pushed that attack to its limit. He hadn't needed to go that far, but the sight of Dragan in that situation had pushed him beyond his reservations.
"Skipper…" muttered Dragan, his voice faint -- and then he fell to the ground, blue Aether zipping around his missing body parts.
He'd been a fool. What had he been thinking? While he'd been in there negotiating with the Chorister -- which was necessary for the mission -- Dragan had been fighting for his life. Where were Ruth and Bruno? Were they okay?
Back there, he'd told the Chorister he'd had full faith that his companions could handle any danger. He realized now that he'd just been pushing them out of his mind.
Once again, there was a sliver of ice in his heart.
Skipper ran towards Dragan, dropping to his knees before him. For a second, he thought he was too late -- Dragan was missing an arm, the bottom half of his body, and there was a sizable hole in his stomach -- but then he realized what had happened. Dragan had recorded those body parts into Gemini World, no doubt as part of his strategy during the fight.
The Cogitant's eyes were closed, but Skipper could still hear him muttering unintelligibly to himself. Was he still conscious? Please let him be conscious.
Skipper leaned in and spoke authoritatively. "Kid! Can you hear me?!"
No reply.
Skipper pressed on. "Listen! You need to manifest what you recorded again! Like I taught you, back on Taldan, remember?!"
No reply… save for the faintest groan of discomfort.
Skipper leaned in further, sweat pouring down his forehead. "Dragan! If you let go of your Aether, those injuries will become real! They'll be fatal! Bring those body parts back, now!"
Somehow, Dragan must have been able to hear him. The hole in his stomach slowly closed, blue Aether writing it back into existence line by line like a printer. It took nearly fifteen seconds, but the gap in his body filled. The bottom half of his body began to restore as well, one leg fully manifesting in another few seconds.
Skipper breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, now you just need to…" The words died in his throat.
The glow behind Dragan’s eyelids vanished -- and his Aether went with it, the fuzzy static in his stumps becoming real missing flesh. Blood steadily oozed out from the wounds. His head fell back on the carpeted floor as he fell truly unconscious.
Skipper's heartbeat was like a wardrum. There was no time to get Dragan to a hospital -- if they didn't act quickly, within the next few minutes, he would die. No, he wouldn't die. Skipper wouldn't allow it.
He can't die, an old and insidious part of him whispered. We need him for the mission.
His emotions wouldn't help here. Skipper forced them to a grinding halt, steeling himself as best he could. Now was the time for calm and mechanical logic.
The first thing to do was stop as much of the bleeding as possible. With practiced hands, he tore off two strips of his long coat and infused them with Aether, using them to make torniquetes that would hold at least for a little while. Then, carefully as he could, he slung the unconscious Dragan over his back.
This was no ordinary ship: this was a base used by the Quiet Choir, a group of assassins. No doubt they sometimes came back from their missions injured. There'd be Panacea aboard to treat those cases. All Skipper had to do was find it.
Skipper let loose an Aether ping, his essence crashing through the ship and showing him the locations of other Aether-users. He could feel a group of three some ways below -- Ruth, Bruno and a third he didn't recognize. If it was two against one, he should be able to leave them to it for at least a while longer.
Then, there was the Chorister -- back in his office. An irrelevancy right now. No matter how sharply Skipper questioned him, he wouldn't talk until after Dragan had already expired. Skipper wasn't good enough at torture to break a man like that quickly.
That left the presence that was rapidly fleeing from this room, ascending upwards. It had to be the bastard that Skipper had just stared off. He'd been missing an arm -- he'd be heading for the Panacea, same as them.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
All they had to do was follow.
Skipper blasted off with Shotguns from the soles of his feet, flying towards the great doors and smashing them open with another blast projected from his forehead. Beyond, he saw the red armour and spherical helmets of the Vox Dei. Four men-at-arms, two holding plasma rifles and the other two holding spears. Guards left behind to cover the coward's retreat.
He didn't have time for this.
Skipper twisted in the air, avoiding the first two plasma shots -- then fired Shotguns upwards through his free shoulder, forcing himself down to the ground. He smashed down on the nearest guard foot-first, crimson armour cracking from the impact -- and as he landed, he felt the satisfying crunch of the man's throat beneath his heel.
Heartbeat Landmine.
The other three soldiers went flying backwards as a pulse of sound erupted from his body. Before they could so much as hit the ground, Skipper screamed out: "MOVE!" This was not a command.
It was ammunition.
As the noise came out of Skipper's throat, he sculpted it into three Bayonets, each one finding their flying targets. One soldier was cleanly decapitated, the sound-blade cutting through the tiny seam between his neck and body. Another was sliced vertically in two, his insides freely littering the ground. The third got off easiest -- the blade whistled around him and sliced at his heels, merely immobilizing him.
The poor guy crawled backwards on the ground as Skipper advanced, holding his hands up beseechingly. His helmet had been shattered by his fall, and he was bleeding from his head.
"Please," he breathed, hyperventilating. "Please, please, please, no…"
Skipper looked down at him, eyes wide. "The Panacea. Where?" He could only use short sentences. Anything else would betray his anger.
"I don't --"
The slightest sound, and the soldier's ear fell off. The man put a hand to his fresh wound, shaking like a leaf.
"Medbay is two floors up," he whispered. "That's where the Panacea is. Please…"
Medbay wasn't an option. If Dragan's opponent was headed there, there was a chance he might try to finish the job.
"Where does the Panacea come in?" Skipper asked. "Where does it arrive?"
"Cargo Bay three," the man gulped. "Same floor, but you go left at the -- at the elevator instead of right. Just keep going until you reach the end of the deck. It's there. I swear, please. I -- I don't know what else you --"
Heartbeat Shotgun.
The man didn't say anything else after that.
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Ants. So many damn ants. Ruth was sure she'd dream of ants that night.
Every time she swung her claws, she cut half-a-dozen ants in half. The enemy had played a card called Ant Motherbase or some shit, and now it was producing ants faster than she could kill them. Ants ants ants. A sea of ants. Flying ants, crawling ants. A few ants even exploded like bombs.
Ants.
Another wave of ants erupted out -- at some point, another Ant Motherbase had been played -- and Ruth resumed her slashing. Advancing was not an option. To move from this position would mean falling to the ants. The tide of ants was inexorable.
She couldn't see the card-user anymore. Was he even still here? Ruth's arms ached from repetitive movement, her Aether sputtering around her. She had no energy with which to consider the question.
More ants.
Ants going for her legs. She sliced.
Ants jumping for her head. She mauled.
Ants leaping for her stomach. She slashed.
Her claws dripped with viscous green fluid, drowning in insect blood. Her breathing was ragged, laboured. Her legs trembled beneath her. How much longer could she keep doing this? Five minutes? Ten?
Bruno was saying something. Ruth didn't move -- she couldn't -- but she listened.
"Ruth! We've gotta get out of here!"
He sounded far away. She risked a glance behind -- he'd climbed up the machinery that surrounded the room, making his way to a vent cover that he'd forced open. They hadn't seen the actual exit to the room, but that would work as an escape route if nothing else.
But the ants…
No. She'd killed all she could. If she kept going, all she'd accomplish was wearing herself out for no reward. This wasn't even a battle anymore, just labour. Ruth did the smart thing.
She turned and ran.
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Skipper put Dragan down as gently as he could in the medical bay of the Slipstream. They'd really moved up in the world: the last Slipstream had just had some first aid supplies. He let out a deep breath.
Two canisters of Panacea were attached to Dragan's pale form, one fixed to each of his bloody stumps. Slowly but surely, new limbs were growing in their place -- trees of bone and skin iterating until they found the proper form. Skipper had never been a huge fan of Panacea, but after what had happened recently it gave him even more of a shudder.
At any rate, the limbs were regrowing properly.
Skipper breathed a sigh of relief. He'd gotten Dragan there in time -- that hadn't been a certainty. The golden hours for Panacea varied from person to person, and there was no guarantee it would have taken to Dragan if much more time had passed.
"Skipper?" He heard Ruth's voice from behind him. "What happened?"
"Dragan ran into some trouble," he replied brusquely, stepping back from Dragan's sickbed. "Managed to snag him some Panacea, so he should be alright…"
He ran a hand through his wet hair as he turned towards Ruth and Bruno, the exhaustion of the last few days finally starting to set in. As he faced them, however, they stepped back -- their eyes wide with shock.
For a moment, he furrowed his brow in confusion. Then he realised the problem.
The entire front half of his body was covered in blood, after all. He'd run into more enemies on the way to the cargo bay. He'd done what he had to do to keep Dragan safe, but still… he imagined it must have been a shocking sight.
Would it have shocked him too, once upon a time?
The moment passed nearly instantly. Bruno marched past him to check on Dragan, his expression twisted in concern. He put a hand to his mouth as he saw the extent of Dragan's injuries.
"God," he breathed. "What happened?"
Skipper rubbed the back of his neck. "Some asshole ambushed him, from what I can tell. He did some damage to them, too, but it's best we get out of here before they try their luck again."
"We got teleported away…" Ruth whispered, pained. "If we'd been there…"
"It is what it is," Skipper said. "Keep watch on him and tell me if anything goes wrong. I'm gonna get us gone, yeah?"
He moved to the front of the ship, retreating away from the light and noise of the concerned crew, and threw himself down into the pilot's seat. It didn't take much thought on his part to begin the takeoff cycle: across all the ships he'd had, and all the Slipstreams, the general principles had stayed the same.
Absent-mindedly, he tapped at the button to increase the heating. Then, a few seconds later, he tapped it again. No good.
He still felt cold.