The helicopter, engulfed in flames, was buried in the front of the building through what had been windows. He would say it was as if the building had grown a wing, just as he had. But he couldn't tell since the tail of the helicopter had broken off and fallen to the ground.
And it had...
It had hit a woman, breaking her legs. Anyone would say that he had been lucky. That he would surely be saved if he got help in time. But that would be a lie.
She wasn't alive.
She was breathing, but she wasn't alive.
There was nothing inside her anymore. Because the tail of the helicopter had also hit the child, the baby, that she had been carrying. What was left of the baby wasn't recognizable as a human being.
An anonymous jumble of flesh and blood.
That was why the woman was empty.
That's why she was screaming out her agony in a voiceless voice.... Yes. She didn't even have the strength to scream anymore.
And Desmond, in the skies like a bird, was watching it all without being able to look away. He had forgotten the situation he was in. He had forgotten even the woman in his arms. Nothing else entered his perception, his world had become as small as a clenched fist.
He had shot down the helicopter.
But it hadn't been his fault that this had happened. It had been... bad luck, plain and simple. Nothing more or less than that.
She could have moved out of the way in time.
Or the tail could have fallen on another of the citizens who hadn't yet evacuated the area.
Or, conversely, the tail could have wiped out everything and everyone on that sidewalk. It could have swept them over without leaving anything intact or behind.
No, wait, wait. Wait a minute.
He might not have killed them on purpose, but it was definitely his fault. After all, he was the one who had shot down the helicopter, the one who had caused it to happen. The question was, so what?
Did it matter?
Desmond shook his head.
The answer was, of course, no.
She was an Imperial. Imperials weren't human beings. He couldn't forget that fact or it would be his undoing. Like Laura. Like that shadow. He didn't want to end up like those dirty traitors.
The people of the Empire were animals.
And the ugliest part of their inhumanity was when they managed to imitate a hint of what they would never have, what they couldn't even dream of. That thing acted like a woman mourning the loss of her child.
Yet it could never understand the pain of losing a child. It was nothing more than that, an act.
Because it was not human.
She had lost him and now she was doing this pantomime. But she might as well have drowned him with her own hands in some puddle, after tiring of him, and gone on with her life so untroubled.
They weren't human. Never had been, never could be.
They didn't deserve his pity. His mercy.
His... empathy.
In truth, he should be happy. Even if by accident, he had killed two monsters who were better off dead.
He should be happy. And he was.
Desmond forced himself to smile.
He regained his senses. But a little too late. Before he knew it, he was falling. Just like before, as the building collapsed. And once again he tried to take flight. He tried with everything he had to regain control.
Once again, to no avail.
Desmond ended up like the helicopter.
He crashed into the window of one of those absurdly long buildings. The glass exploded, his body smashed through it. Skyscrapers, they called them, if he wasn't mistaken. Curious name. But it fit well. He had scratched heaven, if such a thing existed, more times than he could count.
But in the end he always came back.
Nothing could stay on the ground for long. He went through the window, fell to the ground and continued to slide across it, continued to roll. He hit something on the way, felt it crack on impact.
A bunch of papers flew through the air as if they were following him.
At some point, he lost his grip on Abigail, who was still unconscious.
Abigail stopped shortly after, when her back hit a pillar.
He continued to roll, dragged by the force of the momentum. He had to stop himself. With his hands, his legs.
With his wings.
Desmond lifted his feet a few meters above the ground.
Then he came back down, touched the ground.
He had landed in an office. Tables with their cubicles.
Papers discarded.
And, of course, animals. Out of their cages. Wings spread at full extension, he approached the fallen Abigail.
The animals reacted as one would expect, as these were the type that couldn't defend themselves.
The dogs of the Empire didn't deserve his empathy.
Not even when they showed reflections of humanity they could not possess....
That was true. Of course.
Nothing had changed.
However, what he told Abigail inside that facility was also true. That he couldn't afford to waste his time squashing cockroaches.
He had other things to concentrate on. Better things.
He reached Abigail.
He crouched down in front of her and was about to shake her awake, but she snapped her eyes open first.
As soon as she saw him, she smiled as if she couldn't have seen anything better.
Desmond smiled back.
"Where are we?"
"I pulled us out from under the rubble. And now..." Now, he wouldn't know how to sum up what had happened since she'd fallen unconscious. Although not much had really happened: no time, no things. "Now we're here."
Fuck.
How stupid that had sounded. No, not sounded.
It was stupid, period.
"I mean... How are you?"
Abigail reached out a hand, touched his chest.
"You're close. I can feel it."
Desmond frowned. But that was the same thing she'd said at the beginning. On the roof.
Had nothing changed?
Desmond had fallen, unable to control his flight, because... probably because he'd been shot. He didn't get accurate percentages on the status of his physical reinforcement. It didn't work that way. But he'd bet it wasn't too high now. Ten percent… Maybe that would be exaggerating. To be too pessimistic.
But less than half.
Of that, at least, he was sure.
Less than half. He was sore and tired and weak. A bullet had knocked him out of the air.
What would the next bullet do?
Finish it all off for good?
How long could he keep this up, in his condition?
"This is close... But I can't force things. If you keep fighting like this, you won't last. Let's run away."
Desmond was relieved.
.But, at the same time, he thought, if he would end up running anyway, she could have allowed him to run from the start and they would be in a better situation. Too late for regrets, though. Desmond was about to ask if she could get up now. That didn't even need to be asked. He would have to carry her in his arms anyway, since they were depending on his wings to get out of here fast enough.
He picked her up and walked over to the shattered window.
While he'd been having that little conversation, the room had been emptied.
Less clutter, he thought. All the better.
He dove through the hole in the 'window'.
Desmond took flight and kept rising.
It was risky to fly too high. If he made a mistake, if he got careless, he might not make it. That was true. But, at the same time, it was the only way to reduce the chances of getting shot down anyway. He stood at a distance where the soldiers on the ground couldn't hit him.
Forcing the soldiers to climb to the top of the buildings.
Or to shoot, those who could, from a helicopter. He had easily taken care of the helicopter before. No matter how many got in his way, the same thing would happen. That was, at least, what he had to tell himself to continue to hold his head high.
Not flinch.
His mind, as usual, was going a mile a minute.
And in circles.
Two helicopters were in pursuit.
He was fast, despite his inexperience with flying, and had a bit of a head start.
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Still, they would soon be on top of him.
Soon they would be close enough to fire without much chance of missing, even despite the shaking of the uncertain environment and the constant movement.
It would be so easy. It would be so easy for their guns to tear me apart. To have everything taken away from me, everything, everything, why is it so hard to get what I want even though I want so little, damn it?
I just want to be happy, I just want to be happy, shit, I just want to be happy.
He was being chased by helicopters. By the gunfire of the soldiers above him.
Chased.
Chased.
Hadn't he been aware of that from the beginning? That this was the life that awaited him if he chose to stay by Abigail's side?
Even if... when they escaped, it would not end.
Even if they escaped, they would not escape.
Not even if... he betrayed her in the worst possible way. To her and to himself. Not even if he abandoned her.
They would never stop pursuing him, with the goal of using him to manipulate Abigail. And of course Abigail wouldn't give up, either.
She wouldn't give up on the one who had come closest to giving her what she wanted in her desperate two-thousand-year quest, only to start all over again. One more time.
There was no escape.
Wherever he went. Whatever he did.
He did everything he could to avoid the gunfire.
Going all out, spinning, swerving. Up and down. But of course he couldn't keep it up for long.
Desmond was shot several times, and although he managed to maintain his flight thus far, sooner or later he would fall. And possibly he wouldn't get up again.
What finally brought him down wasn't a bullet, nor any other kind of projectile. It was something that enveloped him with force. It prevented him from spreading his wings, from moving them as he needed to fly.
Before he hit the ground, he realized what it was.
No, rather, he was forced to realize it. Because it could only be one thing. A spider's web.
After realizing that, it could only be one thing. And it turned out to be.
Desmond froze.
How could he not?
The shadow of death loomed over him. He was like a speck of dust under that huge shadow.
Desmond raised his head, still trapped.
Death itself loomed, close, as tall as any of the skyscrapers. They were going to deploy it in the middle of the city?
It seemed crazy. But there it was, right in front of his eyes.
He couldn't deny what his eyes were seeing.
He struggled to break through the webs, but found himself completely unable to do so. He was too weak to perform such a feat.
Shit. Fucking shit.
He wasn't trying with his bare hands, but helping himself with his sword.
Still, if he couldn't apply enough strength, he would get nowhere. Clearly.
Not just because Desmond was weak, but because his freedom of movement was restricted. If instead of being trapped inside the web he had to break through one blocking his way, then he would surely have been able to do so.
But being like this was a different story.
At any moment, the machine would set fire to it and everything would end in the worst possible.
I was warned from the beginning.
That this could only end one way. I should...
I have not made a mistake. Choosing Abigail can never be a mistake.
The web began to burn.
It was all over them, so it set their clothes on fire. Skin and flesh.
Them.
Sure, he wasn't alone. But even if he couldn't get out of this situation under his own power, he didn't have to.
He could depend on Abigail.
Weren't you supposed to save her, an inner voice whispered to him.
But he forgot that, as well as everything else, when the blue flames enveloped him as tightly as the spider's web. He'd endured pain like this before. But that didn't make it any easier. It could never be easier to burn alive. It was one of the two worst ways to die. Burning alive or drowning, and he wasn't sure in which order.
But there was nothing worse. About that he harbored no doubt.
Every cell in his body was on fire.
The wind whistling through his burns, like wind through the many holes of a cavern.
Just the passage of air was terrible agony.
Touching the ground, that too was agonizing.
All his senses conveyed nothing but agony.
And he was blind in one eye.
He knew why. There simply wasn't enough flesh and skin to sustain him. So his left eye was literally hanging by a thread. It wasn't that easy. He couldn't recover so easily from something like that. Fire engulfing his entire body. Burns all over his body. And it had been no ordinary fire, but the blue fire that represented the Empire to boot. Not to mention that he was already quite weak.
Would he manage to get up, to recover from this?
He lifted his head, again.
And even if he did, would it matter?
Even if he recovered, how far would he be able to? How much more would he be able to take? His wings.
His wings, too, had burned, and... he wasn't sure he would be able to fly with them again.
"Desmond," Abigail pleaded to the side. "You have to get up. You have to be strong."
He knew that.
And he had been. He had, at least, been trying.
For a long... For all too long.
This would be his reward.
Death personified was advancing toward him, making the ground tremble with every footstep.
Behind him, and around him, and everywhere, death also awaited him.
The time had come.
Desmond rose only to fall and he knew, the time had come.
The end of this farce.
He knew things would end like this from the beginning, he thought. Only that was no more than cold comfort. A poor way of fooling himself. He didn't know it. He had feared it, but the truth was this: he had hoped.
He had clung to hope to the end.
Because...
But there was a limit to everything. Desmond flapped his wings, but, just as he had thought, they weren't going to fly again. Not so soon. He would have to recover. He didn't have the time. And soon he would run out of the means.
"It's over. This is the end of the line," Desmond declared in a voice full of powerful emotion.
Abigail insisted, but Desmond didn't even move.
Well... He didn't move from the spot. But, instead, he moved his head to look at her. To take a good look at her. As if trying to burn every detail about her into his memory.
As if there was any chance he would forget her face as long as he was alive.
As if, no matter how hard he tried, there was any chance he would remember her face even after he died.
The first of the spears pierced his neck.
Desmond doubled over, but he didn't fall. Not that he was resisting. He had already given up. And he was going to let go. He just didn't go down. There wasn't enough to take him down.
But it wasn't going to last long.
He hadn't even seen the spear coming. That's how far gone he was.
He wouldn't last. Wouldn't last.
The second spear hit him in the stomach, piercing him from side to side. It hit none of his vital points.
It scraped his ribs, but it didn't cut his lungs or his heart.
Whether that had been on purpose or by accident, he could not tell.
One way or another, Desmond still didn't fall. He just bent a little more. Downward.
In a strange posture, like that of a puppet left on some shelf, to gather dust.
The third spear...
It didn't hit him, but Abigail. She had tried to avoid being hurt. But she was in no condition to fight as usual.
She wasn't the unstoppable force he had seen in action that night, and that other night.
So, the most she had been able to do was get in the way of the spear.
The spear hit her in the arm.
It dragged her to the ground, and left her pinned there, with a large hole in her arm.
Not her, he screamed inwardly. Me, me, not her!
But what was he so surprised about?
Desmond had accepted his defeat. That, naturally, meant not only condemning himself. It meant, more importantly, condemning Abigail.
What could he do, though?
He had already done all he could. He sincerely believed it.
It couldn't be said that he hadn't tried with everything he had.
So what, did that mean he could give up? That he could accept this?
Abigail had a grip on the spear in her arm.
She tugged at it, kept fighting, even though there was no hope to be seen anywhere. They had never had any chance of winning this fight.
But now, moreover, they had lost the means to flee.
So...
There was nothing he could do, but.... But something had pushed him this far from the beginning.
Love had pushed him. And it was still burning in his chest.
What mattered.
The only thing that mattered.
He staggered toward Abigail, still not quite sure what he was going to do or what he could do in the first place. But at least he got moving.
He dodged the fourth spear.
It wasn't on purpose.
Desmond simply lost his balance, almost falling, and the spear as a consequence passed him by. Over his head.
Just that and nothing more. Pure luck.
But the fifth spear...
The fifth spear shattered his knee. He couldn't reach Abigail. He got close, but... But he couldn't.
He reached out a hand.
It meant nothing, but he reached out a hand as far as he could.
Even that wasn't enough to reach Abigail.
She remained just out of his reach, but just barely. It only took a little more. If only his fingers were just a little, just a little, just a little, just a little, just a little longer, then....
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Their gazes met.
I'm sorry, he said. Meaningless words. As meaningless as his actions.
The spider was the greater threat, speaking in terms of raw power. But, even putting it aside for a moment, concentrating on the more immediate problem....
Where were they coming from, where were the fucking spears coming from?
He hadn't seen any of them coming.
He was as he was, blind, burned all over, and so tired that even the vision in his right eye was blurred.
But still, still, still....
Where were the damn spears coming from?
He couldn't dream of doing anything about it if he couldn't even see them coming.
He grabbed one of the spears, the one that had pierced his neck.
The spear wasn't red with his blood. It had been red from the beginning. It was just that his blood was painting it a different shade of red.
He pulled it out. Slowly and clumsily, but he pulled it out. He didn't break it in the process. It wasn't that strong. He'd barely had enough strength to pull it out anyway.
His physical reinforcement was practically gone, devoured by the flames.
If there was ten percent left, that would be more than he thought. It was practically the same as having nothing.
The only reason he was still alive, conscious, was his proximity to Abigail.
That was the only thing that allowed him to keep functioning.
Fighting.
He watched as the spear, wet with his blood, rolled across the ground, away from him. His eyelids felt heavy like the slab of a tomb. His tomb.
He wanted to close them. He wanted to give up.
Not only that, but he was tired of fighting.
Even more so when he couldn't even fool himself, convince himself that his efforts could have a reward.
He kept crawling towards Abigail, trying to make contact with her, despite everything.
Then... Then it remained to be seen.
A sixth spear shattered his hand before he could make contact.
A choked scream escaped his throat.
He had part of two fingers left. The rest was gone...along with a quarter, or more, of his right hand.
The pain was excruciating. No, the pain had long since passed unbearable.
Yet it was still here.
Pain like this, unable to die, unable to even escape by being knocked unconscious, if only for a little while....
Going on like this could drive someone completely insane. Easily.
About a dozen Empire dogs appeared. These attracted his attention because they were wearing that special armor. And spears. Most of them carried a spear like the ones buried in it in one hand.
In the other, they carried a more conventional weapon. For them. A firearm.
So... that's where the spears had come from.
Where had they thrown them from, to hit him without him seeing?
No, perhaps there was no need for such a complicated explanation. It wasn't that they had made a special effort not to be seen. It was just that he could barely see and had missed them.
In any case, they were here now. Right in front of his eyes.
What was he to do now?
What could he do? Nothing.
One of those dogs approached him. The spear stroked his forehead.
Desmond glared back at it, defiantly, with his one eye. An eye that could blow out at any moment. Like a malfunctioning light bulb.
He didn't exactly present an intimidating figure.
He thrust the sword into her chest, next to the other spear.
Blood rushed up his throat. Desmond swallowed it quickly, to avoid choking on it, but more blood quickly took its place. Not only had the spear stuck him.
The tip of the spear had torn one of his lungs.
But not the heart.
He was still alive, and... Once again, he hit hard reality. Against the fact that it didn't mean anything at all.
He couldn't see the face of the soldier looming over him.
Over the spears stuck in his gut.
Yet he imagined that face contorted in pleasure behind the helmet.
That he could imagine no greater pleasure than this.
Fair enough, I suppose, he thought, feeling a little queasy. I enjoy the pain of you bastards too.
Desmond spurted blood from his mouth. All over himself.
Even if he tried, he couldn't swallow it all.
Even if he tried, he would most likely manage to drown in his own blood, not avoid it.
So he spat out blood as best he could. On him, then he bent his head, spit it to the side, onto the street.
Abigail ran to help him, knife in hand. He was surprised she still had the strength to move like that.
Surely it had taken a lot of her to summon that strength.
And he felt... She felt a brief spark of hope.
However, Abigail was quickly shot down before she could get to him. Shot in the leg.
"What do we do with the boy?" asked one of the newly arrived soldiers.
The soldier kept silent. Then he dropped the bomb.
"Let it burn."
Desmond tensed. He had been prepared for the worst, for what defeat would mean. But not for that.
They were supposed to want to keep him alive.
They were supposed to need him alive, at least until they got what they wanted from Abigail.
Once again, the spider shot its web at him, enveloping him.
"Enough," Abigail said, lying on the ground, one leg broken. Her voice sounded like she was giving an order. But she lacked the power to give orders to anyone now. "I'll give you anything you want. Do you hear me? But don't touch him. Don't lay a finger on him."
Her prayers went unheeded.
They set fire to the spider's web. But he didn't dwell on that. Nor on the agony of the flames, which had earlier taken everything from him.
He concentrated on Abigail.
One of the soldiers grabbed her by the hair, pulling her back, exposing her neck.
Which he cut mercilessly. Deeply.
It was almost enough to rip her head off. Almost.
He dropped her to the floor.
If not for the drugs in her system, she would have recovered from a wound of that level possibly before she hit the ground, even.
But it would take a little longer.
He saw her milky eyes, staring into nothingness, and knew it would take a little longer.
And...
And...
He exploded.
Desmond thought he'd started to tremble. But then, he realized that the world around him was what was shaking.
The spider hadn't moved. It was still in the same position as before.
Waiting for orders.
That creature was not the cause. So...?
"What's that?"
"It wasn't supposed to happen."
Everyone was astonished.
Foremost, the flames had gone out.
Next, Desmond shredded the mighty web as if it were made of paper, rather than something harder than a steel door.
He rose to his feet.
His wings spread out to the sides.
Trembling. Trembling. Trembling.
The world was trembling. One of the buildings was ripped out of the ground by the tremors. That is, it ended up tilted to one side. Like a twisted tower. On the verge of collapse.
Pieces of buildings broke off, and glass exploded en masse, like the monstrous voice of some unknown creature, and the world wouldn't stop shaking, wouldn't stop.
The center of the earthquake...
No, of the storm that was passing through this area?
It was him.
His chest, in which two hearts beat clearly and powerfully.
"Shit. It was supposed to..."
The soldier closest to him took several steps backward, unsteady steps, clutching the spear in trembling hands.
Desmond fixed his eyes on his prey.
Cold, inhuman eyes, as if his insides had been poured out, emptied completely.
Shadows of war (4): FIN