Of the other soldiers in her unit stationed on this base, Anya knew Raethor the best by far as he was her commanding officer and the one who had convinced her to join up. He was an unserious man that wore a V-shaped uniform because his superior officers didn’t like visiting this place and no one else would stop him. It looked ridiculous and the fact he wore no pants made it worse, but she couldn’t dare comment on it without being teased with words such as “Why are you looking at my bulging, rippling six foot three muscular glutes?” and if she responded by saying she wasn’t looking at his glutes but the fact he was constantly flexing and unflexing made the ripples very distracting he would simply retort that she was, in fact, looking and should stop. The muscles only distracted her because she let them, he would say. It didn’t make the situation better, but his constant absurdities made the inherent tension in working in a place like this just a little more bearable. Perhaps it was intentional on Raethor’s part, but in this moment he wore an expression of deadly intent. There was no permanent smile glued to his face. There was no twisting of his handlebar mustache in contemplation of what must come next. Even his rippling muscles ceased their continuous and distracting striation and unstriation for the first time in what felt like ages.
He shouted, but Anya heard no sound. There were four others in the mess hall with him: Chris, the stick-thin deaf blind mute wearing a spartan-style full-face helmet with magic in the slits to prevent his face from showing; Peter, a scientist type with the best shot she’d ever seen, capable of exploding a peach at five miles shooting from the hip; Luther, the fat black man that stuck to Raethor’s hip as if glued to prevent vicious mockery and bullying at the hands of Will and Jesús; and Yuna, whose legs were crippled and used the new flesh to compensate, also a hip-fly of Raethor for the same reason as Luther. The others sprinted off out of the room as Raethor gestured to his ear, screaming loud enough Anya could feel the teeth of mouths open on the walls floor and ceiling of the mess hall vibrate from without.
Though she hated it, Anya opened an ear. It was of course impossible to open one ear, so a hundred folds of skin spiraled out of themselves and a hundred cochlear nerves switched on to the cacophony of a thousand cicadas and a million stabbing needles from all directions. The ears, of course, being in a military base, all had tinnitus. This meant Anya was now assaulted by both the intense cacophony of having a hundred ears, and by the fact they were all ringing. Though she was already on the ground, her head had been slightly raised and her body slightly tense. Now it was not, instead every strand of hair had found itself forced upright, and her muscles had all released themselves without conscious intent. Not because there was too much to focus on— which there was— but because they would shortly begin violently spasming as though Anya was having a seizure because though she was among the most capable of tolerating the base’s endless nerves, even she had limits. Raethor waited for the nearest ear to twitch, showcasing it was online, and then quickly spoke as softly the burly man could— that is to say a shout toned down just one bar below permanent hearing damage. Anya’s body started convulsing immediately, but to her small relief he finished speaking quickly.
“Get the others to block forty-six— Central Command is to be assumed compromised under code fifty-two!”
Anya had known this of course, but under the stress of it all had forgotten. Block forty-six was close enough to Central that it was probably fine, but given this was a direct order from Raethor, the man known to only ever give increasingly forceful suggestions (and being her direct superior officer) she could not refuse. So Anya continued to convulse as she tried her best to move the open ears from around the mess hall to around those she had not yet issued the correction to. Her body would take it fine, it wasn’t like she was incapable of a little pain, and in her current state even if her skull violently struck the floor it would leave her only somewhat disoriented. The concrete itself would be broken— shattered to dust— but she would be ok. The only true problem was that she would be exhausted for a few hours afterward, and her mind reeling back from being stretched far past its limit. But if Rathor was to assume direct command, Anya’s mind wasn’t necessary, and if the others were to join her as a full squad in a rare moment of unity their power could not be contained by anything short of a necrosis bomb. Her own bodily power was therefore unnecessary. And this was doubly true if they were to secure a single fortified position.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The first to grab Anya’s splintered focus was Melissa— their medic. Her average height and thin frame hardly stood out, but her neon blue hair and green nails contrasted sharply with the coiled white-black snake tattoos wrapping her arms, the black irises and their white pupils that punctuated her flat and uninteresting face, the dull concrete walls of the toilet she had found herself in, and the general pallor of her skin. Anya’s mouth opened from behind her head and she watched Melissa jump upright.
“Ignore previous instruction (though it seems you were already doing that). Report to block 46. Whatever your status—”
Anya didn’t bother finishing the statement, as Melissa had started screaming in response to the concrete flesh hole opening up and speaking six inches behind her ear, then smoothly transitioned to a series of slurs that made it quite clear she wasn’t listening anymore.
It didn’t require the open ears to understand the content of her words. Something to the effect of “What the fuck?! Don’t do that to me you whore-loving, mother-fucking bastard!” in her characteristically vulgar mother-tongue, and though the onslaught of curses didn’t stop at just those fourteen words, Anya was quite sure the message had reached her— you don’t delay in a code fifty-two. Whatever the bodily needs, you can’t take a detour to the toilet nor continue one already started beforehand. The mission comes first, and if the body wets itself during its course then so be it. Perhaps she had grown soft— even if there was blood in the toilet bowl, what did it matter now?
Henry was next to catch Anya’s attention, sitting in the corner of his bunk-bed alone, chewing on his fingernails as he put his shoes and uniform back on. Every so often he would flick his hands to fling the blood dripping from his fingers into a trash can he had prepared by the bed to avoid staining his furniture and uniform, but nothing else about him was notable. His average height and frame with their brown eyes and black hair betrayed nothing abnormal nor interesting, but the coward had delayed as Melissa had in their all-important purpose. He should have been dressed in his bed, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. It was a stressful situation, but as a soldier they must always be prepared to charge headlong into danger at the drop of an imperial dime. Anything but this was a betrayal of their reason to exist. She shouted at him to get moving towards block forty-six, and though he wore an expression of confusion, his words reached her open ears through the static and the ringing with a perfect clarity.
“We will make our enemies weep tears of blood.” He said, standing with his shoes finally on and beginning to march with characteristic rigidity. Why he couldn’t have done this without her prodding was beyond understanding, but at least he was moving forward now.