The wall shook as the rears of the armored vehicles breached it in several places. Those bastards who drove high-speed bikes outside, and the artillery softened it up, and the troop carriers did the rest. Veronika never panicked; her calm commands brought relief to the regulars, and the soldiers assembled close to the houses, making a space between themselves and the wall. At the lieutenant’s command, a series of reinforced panels rose from the ground, forming barricades. The retreated soldiers helped the wounded to safety, and their allies took aim, opening fire at the stuck vehicles.
Blue laser beams linked to the lids, melting the strange golden alloy that adorned the outside of the troop carriers. Bullets pounded on their surfaces, but the foes held on, waiting until more of their forces got into position, and then the heavy lids flung open, slamming so hard that they entered the wall.
The first foes stepped into Just Peachy. Giants clad in strange hodgepodge power suits. In certain areas, metal-overlapping plates shielded the exposed wires of the suits, while in others, they seamlessly integrated into the sleeves. The sleeves themselves belonged to various different types of suits, but unknown mechanics fused them into individual power armors. There was no uniformity in their defensive gear, as some used visors, showing exited oriental eyes, and many more had yellow lenses. Gold alloy created fancy patterns on the armor, and heavy chains held ornate overcoats and jewelry closer to their bodies. They moved swiftly, breaking rubble beneath their armored legs, a heavy rifle in one hand and a curved saber at their hips. Mirko struggled to believe it, but each raider had spears strapped to their backs.
They marched on, enduring firepower capable of downing a rabid New Breed. Laser beams melted parts of their gorgets, creating running-down streaks of molten metal and gold on their helmets. The bullets and heavier rounds dented the armor. Acid grenades shredded cloaks, and still the raiders advanced. They were big. Mirko even thought the invaders were fat, but when the intense fire knocked down one bastard and he rose, his body exposed in several gaps in his ruined chest plate, the sergeant understood he was only half-right.
There was an abundance of fat, for sure. But it served as extra armor, cushioning small-caliber fire’s impact and gulping bullets while the wounded attacker fired. The heavy rounds of his oversized rifle broke a corner of the wall of an apartment building, showering the soldiers in dust, bent a raised platform, and tore away a soldier’s arm. The remaining assailants joined in, and a wall of bright flashes hid them, forcing the regulars to take cover or perish.
More foes took advantage of this, surging from the armored trucks. These had a smaller build; their bodies weren’t as round as the initial assailants; their armor had less golden decoration; and they carried rifles in both hands. They added their fury, keeping the soldiers pinned as the long-range artillery began hollowing the damaged walls. The first giants and smaller raiders reached the barrier and ducked, taking advantage of the reclaimers’ defenses.
“And now you die.” Mirko heard Veronika’s cold voice in the helmet of a soldier, who also hurried to the wall.
The regulars weren’t helpless cusacks, ripe for slaughter. Wyrm Lord recruited them from the farthest reaches of the Wastes and Ravaged Lands. Hunters, mutants, former bandits, steely-eyed immigrants who had imbibed the desire to struggle for life along with their mothers’ milk. Even former murderers, seeking a better life or trying to start a new one, often filled the ranks. Many officers, under the supervision of Captain Murzaliev, drilled and trained them to excellence, expecting them to hold and repel any situation that came their way, no matter how dire.
Because civilization always triumphed in the end, and it brought many gifts. The lieutenant used one such gift, known as tactics. She lacked the time to create a proper battle strategy, but her merciless training bore fruit, and the regulars maintained discipline, luring the enemy in. Their comrades on the far walls moved the mortar emplacements into the streets, saving them from the artillery fire. The automatic defense system retracted the platforms occupied by the enemy, leaving them wide open in crouched positions.
A killing field. This was what Veronika Eenpalu created as her troops returned fire, their lenses relaying the coordinates for an allied bombardment to the mortar teams. Windows in the apartments opened, soldiers and civilians showed up, firing at the invaders, and fireballs blossomed on the long stretch of land separating the wall from the town.
“The Reclamation Army greets you, bitches!” Mirko chuckled as the wind whipped from him, knocking the obese invaders off their feet. These were New Breeds and if they were close enough, no Normie would stand a chance in hand-to-hand combat. “Don’t worry, we’ll use your corpses for fertilizer! Now act like cusacks and WHEEEE as we butcher you!” his voice boomed over the battlefield, and the regulars laughed as they fought for their homes.
Mirko hovered over the center of the allied forces; his misty form harmlessly ate the incoming rounds. Torn holes closed at once, the occasional temporary loss of vision when a shot disrupted his ethereal eyes did not bother him. It didn’t matter what part of him was destroyed; the very air was his element, and the sergeant rebuilt himself anew, shielding his allies and assaulting the invaders.
A group of raiders broke away from the main force and charged the regulars to the west. Their shots turned the people in the windows into crimson tatters, and they almost reached a road leading into the town when Šime stepped in.
Šime’s gift made it impossible for him to use military equipment. It transformed him into a fierce predator—a monster whose claws gouged crimson gashes at a surprised raider. The tendrils and appendages on his head and neck moved independently, sinking their talons into the lenses and joints of his armor. The raiders gurgled as the carnivorous appendages injected the digestive fluids and paralyzing venom into their bodies, softening and drinking the humans as a spider does its prey.
But in this state, Šime lacked any proper control over his body. He admitted to Mirko that he still saw and experienced the adrenaline and voracious hunger of his combat form, but it also reduced him to a passenger in the driver’s seat. He could merely direct his aggression, telling the beast ‘not to eat allies’ or ‘devour this one’.
He suffered for it, as the fat raider took a long slice across his chest and fired into the monstrous chest. Šime, or rather, the thing ruling Šime’s body, let out a thin, barely audible cry and retreated rather than attacking, still carrying the husks of dead raiders on its appendages. The raider followed after the thing, keeping firing the mass reactive rounds that cratered into the younger sergeant’s chest, shaking his body enough to bring it to a halt.
The creature hunched low, dodging a slash of a curved blade aimed at his ribs, his clawed hands closed at the tall man’s ankles, and yanked him to the ground. In a burst of movement, Šime mounted the opponent and bit into his neck, mercilessly chewing through metal and stabbing with his appendages until the body below him moved no longer. Smooth skin has already covered his chest, removing any injuries.
We are winning this. Mirko decided. The intensity of the fire had killed several larger raiders, wounded the rest, and many smaller ones lay in pools of their own blood. And then the wall collapsed and bright spheres flew in, bypassing his air wall and tearing chunks out of the soldiers’ bodies. What? thought the sergeant, stunned by the sudden turn of events.
Hoverbikes raced in, flying nimbly over the barricades and avoiding hitting their allies. The similar giants as the ones who had first assaulted the place were driving these hoverbikes, and when they reached the frontline, the sharp blades attached to the prow and sides of these strange vehicles cut through both the defenders’ armor and the bodies within. The raiders’ engines emitted terrifying noises, not so much roars as deafening screams, as if they were torturing the air with their passage. They skillfully aimed their unique weapons, unleashing pulsating energy towards the defenders, disregarding Mirko’s attempts to obstruct them.
The invaders shouted a battle cry of sorts, filling the night with their guttural voices, and reached for the spears, hurling them at the regulars. The weapons pinned some soldiers, and Mirko managed to deflect several spears, but the rest exploded, throwing the orderly ranks of the slowly retreating soldiers into chaos long enough for the bastards to close in. Even the smallest of them proved to be stronger than a Normie. A regular tried to stab the approaching raider with his knife, while searching for his fallen weapon. The large hand closed around the blade, collapsing the knife and the hand holding it into one, easily overpowering the soldier’s exoskeleton’s added strength.
Šime hissed as a hoverbike drew a torn line in his side. He jumped away, evading two exploding spears, and hid behind a barricade to protect himself from the painful stings of the pulsing ammunition. Where the muscles and tough leather hide of his body could endure physical projectiles, the energy ones burned swaths of his flesh and threatened to spell his doom.
“Enough!” Mirko boomed. They wanted deaths? They wanted destruction? He will give them it in full!
He expanded his body, creating channels of air, engulfing two tall raiders, covering three others in a dark, stormy cloak, and grabbing a racing bastard. The sounds faded, the roar of the engines barely a whisper. It was suddenly hard to see, but the sergeant persevered, holding on to himself. There was a debt to repay. He controlled the air. And Mirko used this control to create a vacuum.
The bike’s engine came to a halt, breaking down as a wind gust forced the flames to move in reverse. It veered off course and slammed into the wall. The rider and the people in Mirko’s hold twitched and clawed at their necks, trying to crawl away from the zone of utter silence, trying to escape a piece of void in real space, but the sergeant moved it along with them. He ignored the fire focused on him; as his victims convulsed, their lungs swelled, tearing at the delicate tissues responsible for gas exchange. Within thirty seconds, they fell unconscious as deoxygenated blood reached their brains, and soon died.
“Defeat us? Impossible! Inconceivable! The Dynast’s will shall prevail! The Reclamation Army always trumps any foe, and I shall see your death before the first ray of the sun.” Mirko’s mist form lashed out, no longer wielding emptiness but pure oxygen instead, and the enemies reeled, their advance halted. He was blessed, gifted with unparalleled power! Pride and sorrow swelled inside him, rising to unimaginable heights as the sergeant abandoned more of his humanity.
He despised being so strong and yet seeing his friends, comrades, and drinking buddies die so senselessly. There was a future for all of them, and this wasn’t it! More. Mirko clung to his grief to keep control of the power that threatened to rob him of his conscience. Bigger. He had to get bigger to become the ultimate weapon of the state.
A crimson star fell from the sky, changing into a flaming comet as it neared him. Another biker approached, so tall that the people below were just children to him. Great wings spread from his helmet, a gilded metallic cloak flapped at his back, arrows the size of spears rested in the quiver at his back, and in his hand, the invader held the largest bow Mirko had ever seen. Arrogant and unafraid, he halted his approach, flying over the wall and stopping a few paces from the cloud.
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The winged helm swung briefly regarding the resistance in the west.
“Hunt, whelp,” said a harsh voice in butchered Common.
A figure rushed from a truck, skittering to the defenders on four stalked legs that ended in hooked pincers. This unusual centaur combined an ugly human appearance above the waist with the chitin legs of an insect below. Chitin plates covered the man’s flesh, mostly hidden by the butchery of a mechanical exoskeleton suit mounted on his body to protect him. The armor’s servomotors whined, giving the mutant impressive strength, and he exploded onward, appearing among the soldiers, slashing and hacking at everyone nearby.
Šime rose from the barricade, narrowly avoiding a blade aimed at his neck. The creature controlling his body let out a jittery cry, challenging the newcomer for territory, anxiously slashing tendrils against the barricades and gouging lines in them. The spider sniggered and thrust his blade, seeking to cut a jugular on Šime’s neck.
Whether the young man took control of his body or the monster itself made an irrational decision, it did not react like an animal. It willingly took the blow on its forearm, intensifying the jittering cry as the sinew was cut, and grabbed the blade by the handle, drawing closer to the enemy.
“Are you the enemy leader?” Mirko demanded from the large raider. His voice no longer came as a boom; it was a soft and gentle whisper borne from the swirling cloud.
“I am a hurricane; I bring rain and thunder. What horrible crimes must’ve you committed to share a world with the Gilded Horde?” the raider said haughtily, standing on golden stirrups. His guttural, deep voice mangled some words, but overall his Common was intelligible. “The Horde is coming, and we will devour everything in our path. This is not even a prelude to our might, and your people have already failed our expectations. The protection of this dusty hole is weaker than even our worst camp. But you need not perish. You are strong. God has given you a divine right to rule over the weak. This is your reward, your obligation, even. Wine, gold, women, children, men… Any of your desires could be instantly fulfilled if you would only bend your knee and join my Khaganate. Do so, accept your place in the natural order, serve the great incarnate Mad Hatter, and I swear to elevate you to a khan one day. Your clan will know prosperity...”
“No, thanks. Rather break you,” Mirko said, reaching out to the target.
The bow was immediately in the raider’s hands, and the string sang, releasing an arrow that passed through Mirko’s disembodied form. It tore a hole in him and collapsed a building behind him, cooling his nonexistent blood. There were children and elderly people there, hiding in their rooms, trying to get down and rush to the emergency bunker in the middle of Just Peachy, or maybe waiting out in the basement. His eye formed at the back of his body, just in time to see a small, delicate arm being splattered by a chunk of stone.
Mirko was hit by the sonic boom, but he had regained his form, and electricity crackled at the edge of his form, created by the friction of thunderclouds. Anger. He never thought he’d be so angry, not even when he caught his father with his younger sister and beat the bastard to death, surrendering to the Third Army later. He was so livid that he even ignored the fact that the object of his desire, an ability to create lightning, was nearly in his grasp.
“Cease breathing!” he hissed, and an air channel closed around the raider as the hawk-helmed fiend drove through him. The fire spewing from the back of his flying bike melted the ruined building, drawing more screams of agony.
The sergeant’s body touched the building, creating a vacuum of space just for a second, and the fire died. His channel locked around the golden-armored fiend, and the sounds died for him as the vacuum came to be. The steel-feathered cloak no longer fluttered loudly; the exhaust spewed flames no more; and the man touched his neck, looking around as if searching for something.
But he didn’t fall. Whatever engine was installed in his weird vehicle could work, even in the coldness of space. The vehicle sped up, and the raider broke free from the vacuum, breathing loudly and firing two arrows into the sky. He raced down the street, setting fire to the regulars below, and approached a house as Mirko closed the vacuum around the bastard.
And then the raider struck the wall, shattering the stone silently, and pulled a child out, pausing mockingly and waving the gasping baby above him. The silent message was clear. Go on, and the kid dies.
These bastards have dealt with the exotic New Breeds before. Among the New Breeds capable of wielding powers, there were numerous categories. Some, like Šime, had semi-automatic powers; others could predict the future to some degree. Mind control, the ability to conjure elements, and a variety of other abilities existed in the New World People like Mirko were known as Exotics, the New Breeds, who ranked higher in the catalog system due to a form of invulnerability granted to them by their power. Mirko’s normal ranking was B class, but when he used his power to its fullest, he rose to A class, thanks to the fact that he became increasingly difficult to kill. Aside from losing his conscience to exhaustion, he knew of a few ways to take him down.
He sighted four riders who, as if by chance, had gathered underneath the raider, reading their weapons. Should he shut down his power, not even an aura of wind will save him. The logical thing was to keep fighting, ignoring the youngster’s death as collateral…
Only screw it. Mirko decided and stopped the vacuum. Does he want to live in a world where his fellow comrades would let his precious pearl or his little sis die? A soldier fights not for the sake of murder, but to shield those under his protection. He owed his duty to the people of Just Peachy, and may the Planet curse him, but he made his choice. This kid was around the age of his own girl. There’s no way he lets her down.
A surge of wind blew from the sergeant, beating away the raider’s bow to buy himself time and toppling the hoverbikes below to the side. Like an arrow, Mirko flew forward, returning himself to flesh and bone, and a cocoon of moving air formed around him, thick enough to turn him into a projectile. It shielded him from the regular rounds fired at him, deflecting them aside. Surprised, the raider let go of the screaming child, and the sergeant caught her, extending his protection to the girl. Now, to toss her across the town to the bunker and return to…
Mirko croaked, his eyes widening in shock as a wave of agony reached his brain. Legs. Waist. Stomach. He no longer had them. The sergeant spasmed, losing control over his power, and fell, still dumbfounded by the sudden loss of his body. As he and his ward spun in the air, falling to the ground, he heard a distant, closing rumble and understood what had happened.
It wasn’t the bastards riding the screaming bikes. The arrows that the raider had shot skyward. They reached him, falling from above at great speed, like drops of rain. Only one hit him, but it was enough to split him in two. Time seemed to slow down for Mirko as he desperately searched for a way out or someone to help him.
Šime still fought; his appendages rose and stabbed at the monstrous centaur, who grunted, taking them on his arm. He proceeded to headbutt the enemy and attempt to close his jaws on the exposed neck, but the insectoid leg swiftly swept away the sergeant’s footing. The curved blade then plunged into the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground and piercing his spinal column.
Mirko landed on his side, desperately trying to preserve the child in his hands. He handed her over to a running citizen, raised his torso on the harrowed arms, spilling blood, and tried to shout a warning to Veronika, who had managed to assemble yet another line of defense, buying time for the people. In vain. The fiery flying bike stopped near him, and the bowstring snapped, sending a devastating arrow that reduced the lieutenant to a faint crimson mist.
This Mad Hatter, or whatever his name was, stopped over Mirko, examining him. The dying sergeant heard commands in an unknown language, and then an iron boot rose and trampled him to death. The last thing he heard was the cracking of his skull, and the last thing he experienced was the pressure of fluids tearing at his eyes.
****
“And if your soldier doesn’t know how to tie a noose?” asked Janine.
“I’ll tear off the bastard’s ears for such stupidity, break his legs, and leave him crawling back to the camp from the desert!” Kalaisa bristled, and the warlord sighed.
“Idiot,” Melina said, stretching words.
“What did you say to me, weakling?!”
“Facts.”
They sat in Janine’s room. Kalaisa still had the severe injuries from the Ashbringer, and her arm still didn’t work. But she surprised Janine by coming to the lectures, snarling, often spitting curses, but never missing a night. Melina escorted her in and out of the pack’s territory at the warlord’s request, as Anissa would undoubtedly have tried to dominate a rival wolf hag, and this could have led to potential bodies. For all her foolishness, even the wounded Kalaisa was strong.
At her demand, her guest brought a small round table they fashioned from the ruined metal crates, and they sat on the floor. An electric kettle kept the water warm, and strips of dried meat served as snacks.
“Melina speaks harsh, but she speaks true.” Janine passed glasses of tea to the cringing wolf hags. They found the taste too sweet, but when else would a Wolfkin have access to free sugar? Best to grow fat to endure the hard times and enjoy the good times. “Kalaisa, your way of punishment is wrong.”
“How is it wrong?! The bastard ought to know better!”
“Because you end up a soldier short, dumbass!” Melina laughed and shut up as Janine’s fangs closed on her neck. The warlord tasted blood and let her go. She permitted a certain familiarity, but it was best not to allow wolf hags to think they were on the same level.
“This is how it is done,” Janine explained. “Indeed, a soldier is expected to have certain knowledge. But not everything in life is perfect…”
“Story of my life,” Kalaisa grumbled and almost spilled her tea when Janine slapped her behind the ears, rocking her head so hard that the girl’s forehead nearly smacked against the table.
“Interrupt me again, and I’ll scar you,” the warlord promised. “Kalaisa, there is a difference between punishment and mutilation. What I’ve just done to you and Melina is a punishment. It is humiliating and will be remembered. It’s not something she wants to experience willingly, but despite her best efforts, Melina will slip. Everyone does. And I will repeat the punishment, molding her into a better form. If I had taken your backs and broken them, as I often want to, I would have deprived the tribe of soldiers,” she ignored the expected flash of fear in their eyes. “A punishment combines pain, fear, humiliation, but most importantly, it is a lesson so that the guilty party can grow or become better, and a tool to maintain discipline. Everything else is optional. All too often, the females of our tribe forget it and act brutish. Scar if you must, but it is your duty as a leader to explain to your soldiers what they did wrong and teach them how to be better.”
“Isn’t that the job of the scouts?” Kalaisa asked cautiously.
“Yes. So what? If you don’t complete a task, it remains unfinished. That’s why it’s more important to address the problem and train the scouts to meet your expectations, rather than raging pointlessly.” Janine drank her tea. Divine. Sweet. What do these fools know? Her measure of sugar was perfect. The more, the better; everyone knows that. “Understand, if you maim a soldier, he or she is out of duty for days or weeks, like you. Doubtlessly, you have performed patrol duty. No matter how strong you are, you can’t be in several places at once, and the loss of a soldier might mean a failure in your duties. A failure to spot an enemy group or to send a distress signal in time to save a village. There are different kinds of strength, and numbers are one of them.” Janine closed her eyes. “I am tired, and you are about to nap. Go to bed and then take your brother and yourself to the doctors for the bandages changes. Melina, check to see if Soulless One has woken up yet, and keep your scout in the medical bay for the Spirits’ sake.”
Kalaisa stood up and nodded. Her fur rose in anger as the grinning Melina held a door open for the younger wolf hag, reminding the younger woman of her disability. Janine was half certain that this was more than a game at this point. Melina wasn’t stupid, and her snide remarks had a reason. She was trying to teach to teach their idiot a little restraint by bringing her closer to a boiling point. So far, Kalaisa had made some progress. She no longer promised to feast on Melina’s intestines.
What a bother. Janine stretched her body, worried over Marco, Impatient One, Ani’s postponed surgery, irritated at the pointless request of First to arrive for parley. Parley. Ha. As if they were at war. The Ice Fang Order defeated and humiliated her. Do they really need to rub it into her snout, too? To parade a defeated before their ranks, so Bertruda Mountaintop, Bertruda the Bull-Slayer, a thief holding on to the title that Janine’s fallen soldiers had fought so hard to earn for her…
The warlord slapped her muzzle hard. You can’t change the past, and the Mountaintop household are allies and kin. You don’t hate your kin. She let her lassitude prevail and lay on her bed, sinking into the realm of dreams.