Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 21

The Man Who Could Convince You to Die

Emris awoke suddenly, bringing himself awake with a jerk of his head. He’d been ripped from sleep by a poke on his arm. He almost whipped his pistol out, too.

It was Holly. She was holding something, a box of sorts in her hands, though it was hard to see with his still sleepy, blurred vision. “Em, look,” she said, her voice hushed and off in a way he couldn’t describe. “I got the signal, I think.”

Emris scratched his head and hummed, too groggy to make sense of what she was saying. He swore he heard faint yelling not too far away. Never mind that now.

“Aye, aye. The thing,” Emris said, pretending to have pieced together what she had said. He didn’t feel too well-rested. He had woken up several times in the night, and sleeping seated didn’t help, though he could at least feel a good portion of his strength return to him. “Got it to work?”

“The radio,” Holly added, trying to look smug despite her discomfort.

“Aye, the radio,” Emris nodded with a yawn, stumbling about to reach the unenclosed kitchen. He heard harsh somethings in the distance, he was sure of it, but it all came muffled. Was he hallucinating?

Holly deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Hey, genius, maybe try actually contacting your higher-ups?”

“Can’t,” Emris said simply.

“Why not?”

“Ain’t got none,” he said with a snide smile, his eyes baggy as could be. He began brewing himself a half-assed coffee and leaned on the counter.

“Emris, we can call the freaking Syndicate. Maybe set aside your ego for a minute and, I don’t know, do that?” Holly rebuked, grasping the wired up and old-fashioned radio and shaking it about his way.

“The Syndicate, huh? A lil’ fancy. Oh, shite, the Crawlers…”

Holly’s tense expression softened with a sigh. “Your brain turned on. Thank the Saintess.”

Emris’ next words were drowned out by the sound of a door being opened forcefully, and Wilhelm, who judging by the twitch of his nose and the frown on his face looked infuriated enough to have to conceal it, stormed out abruptly. He had come from his and his partner’s bedroom. The door stayed open a crack.

“Morning,” he dismissively said, getting straight to the fridge and almost bumping into Emris on the way. The Guardian snarled, but he contained himself. Neither he nor Holly could see well what he was looking for, as he made sure to conceal himself with his body, but Em swore he saw him sip something.

“Emris?” Holly brought the Brig’s attention back to her. “The radio, please?”

“Right. Hand it here,” Emris said, stretching an arm over one of the couches while still keeping himself busy with the coffee. Holly rolled her eyes and complied, letting him take the box as well as a small device that had been plugged into it. He started to tinker with the frequencies, humming contentedly at his pseudo-daughter’s work.

Wilhelm groaned loudly and cleared his throat, closing the fridge with a bit more strength than necessary. He stood up straight and put a hand over his face, rubbing his cheeks for what Emris assumed to be resisting sleep.

“Ye alright there, old man?” Emris said, keeping his eyes on the device.

“I’m thirty-two,” Wilhelm shot.

“Havin’ a son’s enough to make anyone old. If ye’re keepin’ up. He’s yers, ain’t he?”

The father in his thirties made a double-take in Emris’ direction, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course he’s my son.”

Emris poured his coffee into the first cup he could find. Some ornate mug that likely cost a hundredth of what it appeared to. He exhaled through closed teeth, making a noise akin to pressured steam. “Don’t know. Adoption’s possible, ain’t it?”

Wilhelm couldn’t answer in time before his wife left their bedroom. She didn’t look as tired as the men, but something kept her mood sour still. She ignored everyone, stepped up to her husband to give him a fleeting kiss and moved to the cabinets to make something to eat. Emris kept quiet, noticing a thick atmosphere he had no true business in. He had more crucial matters to attend to regardless.

“Where is the boy?” the wife whispered the question, yet it still carried firm, eyeing her husband for an answer.

With folded arms, he nudged his head in the sleeping child’s direction. Holly helped further emphasize his whereabouts by pointing at him. He slept soundly on the couch.

“Cieux.” She stepped closer, nearer to Emris, to get a proper look at Elliot. She waited to see his chest rise and fall, and only then did she withdraw her gaze. When she did, she saw Emris staring right back at her with an awestruck and almost hostile expression written on his face. She jumped back at the sight of his teeth, having failed to notice their particular sharpness well enough before.

“Annabelle!” Wilhelm exclaimed, confused, taking his wife’s wrist by instinct.

Emris stood there for a few more seconds, a loose hand extended faintly in Annabelle’s direction. It took a moment of intense staring for him to finally chuckle, taking amusement in their silent caution. Shaking his head and wagging a finger her way, he said, “Ye’re a Hyretise, ain’t ye?”

That label seemed to dawn on her a lot harsher than he had expected, though it was little surprise. For a Syndie military executive to single you out under the controversial demonym of those once belonging to the now absorbed nation of Hyretix was, at the very least, frightening.

Wilhelm was brave enough to step between Emris and his spouse. Even bolder, he put his hand on the handle of a kitchen knife. “And if she is? Will you be so cruel as to rob us of freedom, what little of it we have?”

“Settle down,” Emris dismissed, his tone heavier. “Ain’t it been long enough for us to shake hands?”

“I’m not sure, has it?” Annabelle stepped to her husband’s side to say.

The veteran glanced at the father, then at the mother. He kept cycling his sights until he finally broke in a chortle. “I can’t take this seriously. I’m the Guardian, for fuck’s sake. ‘Course I ain’t doin’ a thing to harm. Relax, aye?”

For some reason, that didn’t convince the father one bit. His grip visibly tightened, and it was enough for the blade to make contact with the counter. The scrape was loud enough to bring Emris’ attention, and quickly, his tone became more serious.

“Son, lose the sharp.”

“I will once I reach my gun,” Wilhelm replied as casually as he could, though his voice cracked a tad.

Luckily, Annabelle placed a hand on his arm and gestured behind Emris. Both of the men seemed to catch on, and they looked over by the couch to see Holly distracting a now fully conscious Elliot. They gave each other a vicious look, with Emris’ overwhelming emerald eyes leaving the father with a drowning sense of trepidation before they both broke off their staring contest. Emris took his equipment and brought it over by the coffee table, taking a seat with Holly, while Wilhelm proceeded in helping Annabelle with the meal preparations.

“Will you be staying for long, sir?” little Elliot asked, his short black hair getting a morning fix by the famous Lypin.

Emris gave the kid an endearing snigger, all too enthralled at his enthusiasm. “Sorry, mate. I’ve a duty. Besides, I need to get the guys to clear this place of beasties for you,” the Guardian answered, giving the kid’s head a scruff, much to Holly’s agitation; this only made him chuckle more.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” Elliot hadn’t the nerve to oppose the Guardian’s wishes. It was the Guardian after all. Any and all fears towards him were mute. “Still, will you visit from time to time? I still have so… so many questions!” he said, paused by a long yawn.

“Vicks, kid, with all I’ve said already?”

Holly took her fingers out his hair. “Em, did you keep him up all night?”

“Nay, nay. Just for a bit.” As if to shy away from guilt, Emris practically shoved his face into the radio.

“Suure. Hey, Elli, don’t let this old fart keep you awake next time, you hear?” Holly said with comically folded arms.

Elliot giggled. “I’ll try not to, Miss, but it’s all been a dream to me! Much better than my kinds of dreams. They’re way too bleak. I’m kind of glad I stayed up!”

“Bleak? Wow, there’s a tenner-zed word…” Holly muttered, upset at the thought of the young lad’s distress.

Emris shared in such sentiment but chose instead to change the subject. It’s not as if dreams could be helped. “Oi, Elliot, ye read books, aye?”

Elliot nodded. “Yes sir! I didn't get an education, so I try to stay on track with the other kids by visiting the library at least once a week!”

“Hey, that’s a solid attitude. Well done. Here’s a quick’un: what’re four marqs?”

“Ten zeds, sir!”

“Good lad.”

The boy took great pleasure in the Guardian’s praise, smiling bright as a sunbeam. “Or three edwe and a bit!”

“And a fifth,” Holly corrected with an approving nod.

“That’s right! Three edwe and a fifth!”

Emris chuckled. “Smart, the two of ye.”

“Mhm! And ten of them are a solemn!”

“Wow, there. We don’t deal with Crimson coins,” Emris asserted with the stiff corrective of a teacher.

“That’s not true. There’s deals in a little town called Bannstead. Up in the Badlands!”

The Brig and the Singer exchanged a glance. Holly decided to ease the mood by putting her paws on the boy’s shoulders. “Say, aren’t you old enough to help your mom and dad cook?”

“Uh, I guess so…” Elliot said, not too pleased with the idea.

“Well, give them a hand, won’t you? If you cook us something nice, I’ll let you touch my ear.”

Elliot blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes. Gently.”

“Can’t I now though?”

“Absolutely not! You are not to touch a lady without her permission, young man,” the Lypin scolded half-heartedly.

“Ooh. You’re a lady?”

Emris snorted.

“O-Of course I’m a lady!”

“Too young for that, buttercup,” Emris said with a wheeze, still tinkering.

Holly balled up her fists and pouted. “Well, anyway, you wouldn’t want to upset mister ‘bangers and mash’ over here, so no touches unless I say so, okay?”

“Okay, Miss Holly!” Elliot chirped, skipping off to help.

“Ugh, now I do feel old,” Holly complained.

“Ye’ll feel it proper when ye ripen.”

“Oh, I haven’t ripened, have I?”

“Nay. Nay, not yet. Ye’re still a lil’ thing in my eyes,” Emris said with a shrug. “It’s why I ate yer last loverboy.”

“You didn’t even blink saying that, Dad.”

Emris smirked. “I ain’t proud of it, but shite, it was tasty meat.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Holly grasped her ears and pressed them to the sides of her skull. “Vicks, he was a prick, but don’t describe it like that!”

The Guardian’s grin only became wider until he snapped those sharpened fangs like a hungry beast. “Delicious Wylven stud blood.”

“Stop stop stop! I’ll get sick!” Holly complained, dry-heaving. “Isn’t freaking Koto a Wylven too?”

He sniggered, giving the radio his finishing touches. “He’s a half-blood.”

“Quarter-blood. You don’t even know your own friends, pops.”

“Kid’s so deep in shrooms it’s hard to get the exact deets. Now hush,” Emris mumbled, standing up with both the radio and the device attached carefully set atop it as not to tug on its cord. It wasn’t delicate, but now was no time to break scarce technology.

“Now hush,” Holly repeated with a goofy voice and crossed eyes. “I’m gonna have to pay you just to not be rude.”

Emris exhaled one last chuckle before walking up to a more solitary window, clearing his throat of morning snot before pressing a button on the smaller device.

“This is Third Brigadier Emris, reporting to Chief Strategic Team, am I heard?”

The only response that came for almost a minute was the buzz of static. Emris tapped the floor with his boot.

Readjusting the volume on the old box, he said, “Oi, it’s the Guardian. Anyone over there who wants to unglue their ass from your numerous damn seats?”

Waiting around became tedious, to the point Emris almost dropped the radio and repurposed communicator altogether. A spark and a crackle came from the other end. He quickly put his ear closer.

“...ris… Em… s…!”

“Aye, aye, I’m gettin’ somethin’.”

“...you copy? Emris, do you copy?!”

“I do now.” He took a seat from its place and dropped himself on it, making sure to put the box as close to the window as he could.

“Advise of your position. What is your sitrep?” a rushed young man said from the other end.

“I asked for veterans, for starters,” Emris grumbled, earning a ‘sir!’ from the opposite line, “and I’ve got Holly. We’re stuck in a little flat in an alleyway with some family of…” He chose not to mention the wife’s nationality. “Forget it. We’re close to Raspberry Ave. Look, I don’t know if ye knew, but there’s Crawlers fuckin’ everywhere. Bulkheads too.”

A shuffle and a few muffled noises left Emris waiting until the deep voice of an older woman spoke. “We’re aware. The Crimsoneers have pushed past our first line of defence. We’re dispatching as many soldiers as we can afford, but the whole damn horde is Goddess knows where. Our scouts can't keep up."

“Merean,” Emris acknowledged with derisive respect.

“We need you at station and available, Guardian. Did you extract the VIPs?” she said, uninterested in his jests.

“I’ve got Holly.”

“What of the others?”

“Negative.”

“Deceased?”

“I didn’t bother.”

A crackled sigh came and he rolled his eyes.

“Look, we didn’t know shite would hit the fan so quick, aight? I came for my daughter and things got bad on the way home.”

“You would be demoted if it were my choice.”

Emris inhaled sharply and exhaled a tedious breath. “Tough shite. Alpha’s Head of Men, not ye.”

“He won’t be for long.”

“What?” he said reflexively. His tone turned vicious very quickly. “Merean, the fuck’d ye say?”

“We’ll discuss it at the Facility. Come here pronto.”

“On our own, shall I?!”

“You’re resourceful enough. Besides, we need to rescue the VIPs you neglected, Emris. I understand you take pleasure in your libertarian and individualistic lifestyle, but your little badge comes with an actual duty.”

Emris grit his teeth, whispering with a tongue dripping in poison. “Ye’ve no right to deride a Brig, Merean. Less so a Guardian. Watch yer fuckin’ tongue.”

But no answer came. Most of the supreme strategic team members were smart and powerful enough to disregard such threats and leave him without the satisfaction. The Guardian might’ve been well over twice her age, yet the maturity discrepancy was huge. Emris damn near broke the thing only to stop to remember these technologies were, firstly, not his, and secondly, Holly’s was crucial to her well-being. The black bottle-sized device hooked up to the radio had been entrusted to her as a keepsafe from the Syndicate. It also doubled as a distress beacon.

Deciding not to vent his frustrations where the humble family could see him, Emris leaned on the wall, took a deep breath and sucked up his pride. A migraine-inducing task for one such as he. With his pent-up anger set aside, he stumbled back into the diner. To his relief, food was just being set on the table.

Emris took a seat opposite the mother, who had quickly left his side after handing him a plate of rice. She felt oppressed just standing near a Syndie.

“Any good news?” Holly asked, seated to the left of Annabelle.

He kept his eyes on the food and forked at it. “Aye, they’re sendin’ soldiers. But they’re prioritisin’ the VIPs over us. If ye’re lucky, ye could hitch a ride.”

Holly stuffed her cheeks and spoke with her mouth full like a squirrel. “I donph trupht ‘em.”

Emris raised a brow and chuckled, shaking his head.

Elliot, who sat to Emris’ right, chimed in during a brief silence. “Emris taught me a lot about Guardians, by the way!”

Said Guardian felt the piercing stares of the parents then. His skin was thick enough to ignore them.

“Like what?” Holly asked, since neither of the parents would.

“Like how Emris wasn’t born!”

“Hm? Oh yeah! I remember that!” Holly said, her exclamation dripping with the tartness of tease. “Made in a lab, weren’t you Em?”

Emris rolled his eyes and earnt the amusement of both his daughter and the child, who mostly giggled along due to excitement. A hero and a pop-star, seated with them for a meal. It still felt unreal to him. “Oh yeah!” Elliot said, “He told me lots about Kalazan! Do you know about Kalazan, Mom…? Mom?”

The boy’s enthusiasm died down when he noticed the cold, upset look on his mother’s face. She kept her head lowered and submissive, but those pupils stared daggers at the Brigadier. He decided not to butt into things he didn’t understand.

“Dad?”

“Yes, son. I know plenty. I managed to get schooling for a few years in my time,” Wilhelm said, eating away greedily as his stomach had been growling for a while.

“Yeah, you told me. Darn. Well, he also told me a bit about the Mischievous!”

“The Mischievous?” the father repeated, eyeing Emris, who seemed to contain his amusement.

“Mm! The Thirty-Eighth! Emris told me he was wicked, cunning and smart!”

“And useless,” Emris added with a raised hand. “Don’t forget useless.”

The Lypin raised her fork skyward, mimicking his gesture. “No, no. Not useless. Guy was kooky and had his weird way of doing things.”

The Fifty-Seventh grumbled something under his breath, earning another satisfied smirk from the rabbit. Elliot looked between the two of them and smiled.

“You two are really close. I can tell,” he said.

“That’s my daughter,” Emris said proudly.

“That’s debatable,” Holly retorted.

Elliot sniggered. “Your daughter’s nice, mister Guardian.”

Holly looked at Emris briefly and he feigned ignorance. They were both smiling.

The kid almost sprung out of his seat. “Oh! Oh! The Thirteenth! He told me about the Cruel!”

Emris choked on his food, though he managed to cough out his words. “Let’s not talk about that one, eh?” A good three pats on his own back and a fair few disgusting groans helped dislodge the bits in his throat. The radio crackled back to life from the other room. Emris quickly stood up, excused himself half-assedly and made his way to it.

The complete mute the followed was painstakingly awkward. Elliot kept trying to lighten the weirdly grey mood, but no amount of willpower made him speak the first words. Holly and Wilhelm kept indulging in their meal, but the husband soon realised his wife had stopped eating and instead stared at nothing. Her eyes were wide and unwell, her skin looked pale, and her trembling lips were slightly apart.

“Annabelle, what is it?” Wilhelm asked, putting a hand on her arm.

She was about to speak, but she silenced herself by putting a hand over her mouth, turning her head towards Emris’ voice.

“Mom?” Elliot asked. Holly turned her way. All eyes were on the woman.

Annabelle closed her eyes and lurched forward as if about to regurgitate the meal, but she stopped herself from being ill. With a quiet, heavily accented voice, she stammered the words, “Pourquoi… Why are we giving a Syndie our food…?”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

A scrambled mess of noise once again for the thirtieth time that day had settled in the boardroom. Plans, maps and files laid scattered about as the head strategic team worked tirelessly to drum up some sort of plan for the harsh days ahead. At the end of the table, a woman resting her chin on her bridged fingers kept her eyes closed and her ears open. She could perfectly pinpoint the various debates held by her team whenever she pleased, but right now, her mind was on a track of its own.

A pressing matter was still looming in the back of her skull.

“Sirs, ladies, please,” Merean said, running a finger through her silvering hair. “We should have more faith in the Saintess. Surely she would not wish our defeat.”

Hoern gave her a look. “Forgive me if my words are impure, but I don’t take you for the type to rely on religion.”

“No, that is correct. It seems I’ve only recently come to terms that our faith is our strongest shield. It works wonders for the Crimsoneers.” She lifted her head and gazed upon the room with those steely eyes of hers. “Nevertheless, the Guardian is confirmed to be well, and now that he’s aware we won’t provide for him, I reckon he’ll be here soon. We have laid down a sensible tactic to repel this initial onslaught, and have sent reconnaissance to secure no other entries are being exploited. This settles a great deal of external affairs, but perhaps we are neglecting a pressing matter.”

“The Head of Men,” a woman, a lesser class strategist, offered.

“That’s right. Our armies will be scantly capable without their patron.”

A young man sighed. “Such childish needs…”

“You have something to say, Benjamin?” Hoern questioned, putting a hand to his great white beard.

“I believe the armies’ need for a master is immature, is all,” Benjamin said, shrugging his shoulders and stacking papers.

“What makes you say so?”

“Shouldn’t their priorities lie in protecting our country? Our citizens? Their families? Why should a leader be so crucial? The brain of this organisation is here, they are the heart… What else do they need?”

Merean narrowed her eyes. “You question the purpose of the Head of Men?”

“Indeed. I believe the position is needless and baseless beyond tradition.”

Merean became quiet again, letting her chin and eyes rest once more. “Roughly sixty-eight percent of our entire army lacked the patriotism or familial incentive to fight when they first joined our Military Force. Some were even forced or coerced into joining us, and so, if anything, they sought a swift end with some sort of meaning, an excuse to escape our twisted society, believing death to be easier met than suicide if forced to fight,” she explained. “But it wasn’t. Once their feet reached the battlefield, and their boots became drenched with the old blood of their previous warriors, they grasped what it truly meant to die. What do you think those soldiers would do next?”

Benjamin looked away, too intimidated by the prospect of war just in the wistful and ethereal manner in which the middle-aged woman spoke. “They would flee. Or worse, freeze and die in vain.”

“Exactly. So, the Head of Men acts to remove that pit of fear and replaces it with purpose,” she nodded with a satisfied hum, standing up and walking around the table to stand directly before the skeptical and bright man. When he did look up to see her, his eyes widened as he was forced to witness the face of a woman who had seen it all. “You see, the Head of Men is in charge of deceiving every last man and woman with a gun around here to take a bullet for us just to say they tried. He is the devil. That, he was. Barbatos, the man who could convince you to die.”

Benjamin had to slide his chair back so as to not have to come so close to Merean’s peering, dark blue eyes.

“And now, we are without our Head of Men, so we need a new one. A new deceiver.”

And just then, perfectly on cue, the doors swung open abruptly and in stepped a single soldier. Merean stopped her terrifying informational torment on the youngster and straightened herself up. The rest of the meeting quietened.

“A bodyguard? Are you here to provide an update on the state of affairs?” Hoern asked, not in the slightest concerned with their lack of respect regarding the knock. If Syndie officers were tightly snobbish at times, those esteemed enough to be Alpha’s protectors would often be worse.

“I’m afraid not, chief strategian. I’m here to apply.”

“Apply? For what? I suppose your position should be remodeled, considering your usefulness at present date…”

The bodyguard shook their head, removing the mask from their skull. The visor lifted away from his face and revealed the sickly and boney features of a fairly fresh man with modest, finely combed pinkish black hair. He looked fresh into an interview for a six-figure job. Despite looking mildly malnourished, one might even call him a bit of a looker, if not for his eyes; so dark a brown they might be seen black to some. Imposing they were, too. Could see right into your soul if you got close enough.

“I would like to become the new Head of Men,” he said, with a voice a touch on the bassy side.

“You fancy that, do you?” the newer woman from earlier said, putting a hand to her lips to silence her laughter.

Merean was having none of it. “We’ve no time for tasteless jokes. I don’t know your name.”

The man stood still, locked in place, unwilling to budge. The single security guard present didn’t have the status to simply remove one of the royal guard, so he too stayed put.

“My name is Elior,” the bodyguard said, thumping his right fist into his armoured chest, right above the heart, and then raising it to the side of his head whilst holding up three fingers. “And I wish to be the new Head of Men during Sir Alpha’s time of absence.”

The elites looked at each other, baffled, and whereas Hoern was too struck with amusement, Merean kept her powerful gaze fixed on the soldier that had proposed such a foolish notion. Her jaw hung slightly from bewilderment.

“Are you truly so brazen to imply not only that we should forgo Alpha’s life and position, but that we should consider putting you in his charge?”

Elior only nodded.

“And what exactly makes you such a talent?” Hoern pondered, still covering his smirk behind two fingers.

Elior nodded once more, reaching into his equipment to snatch a small item from his pockets. His eye twitched. Mearn noticed. “Because,” he began, proclaiming his voice loud enough to impose absolute silence among the gigglings and laughter. “I am the one man capable of guaranteeing an armistice.”

His ominous and brazen claim only left more silence at first, and then a barrage of mutters and whispers. Merean, losing her patience, demanded, “What on our bright blue globe do you mean to say?!”

A small, crackling voice responded instead as Elior held up a small chain necklace with a mouse-large communicator attached.

“I, Arturius, Ace of Hearts and flesh and blood of General Ducasse Mensomóte, proclaim that he himself has met fate by my hands," the voice announced in a strangely sultry tone, bringing about a storm of gasps and absolute confusion within the confines of the room. Merean was utterly speechless, turning her head to see Hoern, acknowledging by his shocked expression that he too was bewildered by this turn of events. "Furthermore, I speak for my people and I's country of Yanksee when I admit, in the absence of our puppeteering authority, our desire for alliance. That is, if you would do us the whimsy and played ball."