Mhaieiyu
Arc 3, Chapter 3
Eleven, Until Further Notice
The reeking musk of soldiers’ toil festered in a drumming, great room; wide as a sports field and topped with an exhaustingly loose substrate. This was the arena, and at earliest dawn it was bustling with struggling recruits. A plethora of hurdles had been set up: poles, gaps, mudded tracks, watery tunnels, bars, barbs, rebars… The jungle of obstacles was designed to emulate an admittedly sadistic battlefield. A perfect training place for the Cadets who were convinced they were being made fun of by their superiors. Nevertheless, the better half of the lot had gathered the strength and resolve adequate to best these trials. As for the less faithful, they couldn’t exactly give up either. Their superiors had no desire to let them off the hook, nor would they be handing them down any time soon. The Syndicate’s policy was firm on trusting their newbies to harden up eventually. One soldier was worth a treasure, after all.
“Eleven! On your feet, shit-for-brains!” a powerful, worn-out voice strained out, smiting the lad’s ears.
Tokken had learned quick that such things as identity were to be earned as trainees — a first badge of honour until they became official soldiers. The teen ripped himself from the sticky mud and clambered his way up, putting his weight back on his burning legs. A few ragged breaths, but he’d be fine. Though slow, he shook his face and pressed on, thumping along with the person who passed him by: the same cotton-candy Wylven that had two laps on him by now. His stupid pink fur put enough of a smile on that Tokken sped up again, ignoring the soreness in his whole self.
“That’s it, pack it in. Five minutes, rots!” Vibarius announced with a bleating whistle, putting some strain on the advantaged Wylvens.
Anatomically speaking, the brutish yet speedy prowess of the canines worked excellently in these fields. They had the best combination of stamina, endurance, strength and velocity to keep them active in the field. Some of the bigger slugs could powerhouse straight through certain obstacles — to their later detriment at the reprimand of their assigned trainer.
Tokken, on the other hand, was disadvantaged in every regard. No combat experience, no stamina to speak of, and not even the strength to squish a beetle. A thoroughly inadequate boy. Vibarius felt rightfully challenged, having to guide the lad through this, but a certain spark in his eyes kept him interested. A spark that kept him motivated. Vibarius wondered whether this had something to do with Tokken’s ancestry. With Connaen’s Pledge.
Be that as it may, the five-minute mark struck the clock and the young man was still trudging through a narrow shaft chin-deep in a foul-smelling sludge. The gun in his hand had to be held up, and so it dragged against the stone atop him. The first time he had done so, Tokken had nightmares about it. They always used the same little tunnel, as it was a bitch-and-a-half to drag about, weighing as much as it did. About twenty feet of hell, dragging himself across with just three of his limbs. That’s because, if Vibarius saw that he had drowned his barrel, he’d be stiff meat.
“Squirm your ass out of there, Eleven!” Vibarius shouted into the hole opposite where Tokken came from.
Seeing the glaring light at the end of the tunnel felt like seeing heaven during slow death. Worth the bit of pain, seeing that.
“Yes sir, Captain Beta, sir!” Tokken squeezed out what little air came from his lungs.
“You’re made of mush, Eleven! Give in the towel and piss off!” Vibarius boomed again, halted by a coughing fit.
Even with nothing left, Tokken still shouted back. “I refuse, Captain Beta sir!”
“You have twenty! Haul ass!” that dry voice rung back, one last time.
Tokken couldn’t spare a second. He willed every last fibre in his muscles to carry on through that accursed space. Vibarius walked off the arena with a gag, drawing oxygen from his burning log of a cigar. He watched the lot of the cadets, men and beast alike, wander off as they were excused to the café and left the single lad behind. Vibarius saw a familiar Mynotaur loitering by the great steel door, and had no choice but to approach.
“Colonel,” Norman saluted, albeit lazily. “Still hasn’t earned their pickin’s, I see,” he went on, a sportiness to him.
“I don’t know what you see in the halfling, Corporal,” Vibarius responded, turning to watch the teen peel himself off the muddy residue. “He’s mincemeat. Could do him some good to stick to flowers.”
“Have some faith!” Norman chuckled. “He’s a Tsuki.”
“They’re richards, the lot. The Harvies can hold a sword, at least.”
“Any luck teaching him to swing that dagger?” Norman said, shifting the topic.
Vibarius shook his head. “Nay, not squat. He flails, is all.”
“A rifle?”
“He can shoot. Bad grip, mind.” The cigar burnt down to his ring finger, adding more burn to that black spot on his knuckle. He dropped the thing against the sand and crunched it under with his boot. “Nay, I’m more bothered by his morals. Kid ‘won’t take a life’, it seems.”
The Mynotaur folded his arms together. Next to the man, he was a giant.
“Shining twat. He’ll have a bit to think about when we set him off in a bit,” Vibarius grumbled, feeling around his pockets for a small parcel. He tapped it against the beast’s chest. “Give this here to Hoern.”
“I’ll tryn’t to break it.” The bull raised his arm as Tokken finally trudged near. “Hey-o, kiddo!”
The lad teetered forward with each step, breaths ragged, clutching the straps of his bag and the ends of his rifle until they shook. When he finally reached the Colonel, he dropped his bag with a thump and fell to his knees, managing to save his firearm from getting scratched more.
“Training… complete… Captain… Beta…” Each word felt like an exercise of its own.
“Drop the sand,” Vibarius said, simultaneously dismissing him.
Tokken couldn’t muster the strength to nod. Unzipping his bag, he pushed it so that the several pounds of sand inside could pool back into the collective. With his bag bearing but a few dots of earth, the teen did his best to stand up and salute, but was quickly taken on by the Mynotaur’s grip.
“Let’s get ya some eats, aye?” Norman suggested, though there didn’t seem to be any room for answer as he made off with the lad’s wrist.
Vibarius only sighed, eyeing the greatness of the now-empty arena. Glancing at the roof instilled in him a dreadful sense of vertigo, imagining being pancaked if he were to fall from such a height. Not a minute later, a white-coat Wylven joined him with a can of booze thrice the size he was used to. She took a swig.
The Colonel cleared his throat. “Heila.”
“Colonel,” she growled out.
“How’re the newbies managing?” he figured he’d ask.
“Better than yours, shit,” she shot him back.
Vibarius teetered his head in annoyance. “Right. I meant the newcomers.”
“Oh, them.” Heila crushed the can as she emptied it. “I dunno. They took away my supervision rights when he became a trusted General all of a sudden.”
Judging by her tone, he could tell she wasn’t happy. “And… the sibling?”
“We aren’t allowed to talk about ‘er.”
“But you’ll spill regardless,” Vibarius figured, noticing that wry smile of hers.
She shot him a smirk. “Not for free. Slot me three thous.”
“For intel? Better be worth something.”
“Pricetag don’t lie. To be honest, it’s more about being on her bad side.”
Vibarius looked at her with wider eyes than he remembered having. “She gave the order?”
“No, but she’s a stickler for intimacy.”
The Colonel raised a brow, exchanged a few cautious looks, and reached into his pocket. “Alright, but this better not be dog scraps.”
“When haven’t I been reliable, mister Belphegor-lookin’ ass?”
By the time she stretched her hand out, three bundles of notes had already fell onto it. “Speak,” he said.
Shuffling the cash into her stashes, the wolf cracked her neck and walked upon the arena. Being a beast, she could afford to walk bare. The coarseness felt pleasant on her battered paws.
“They’re giving her nicknames every single day. The most popular of the lot is ‘Devil’s Daughter’. Real edgy like that.”
“Why? Is she so macabre?”
“No, it’s the way she reloads her guns. She’s an akimbo sort of gal. Does it like ‘this’.” Taking two pistols from the holsters on her belt, Heila pressed the barrels against either sides of her temples. Using the bones of her jaws, the anchored pistols then slid upwards, loading both chambers with absent bullets. The full motion gave off the allure of devil horns, which only amused the Colonel.
“Heheh, something like that,” the hound chuckled, embarrassed.
“She insists on doing this each time?”
“It helps her reload faster when she empties all her slugs. I just count my bullets and reload on the last.”
Vibarius dropped his head and cackled. “Ah, ripe for promotion.”
Heila clicked her tongue. “As if. Nobody gets that luxury here until the mood cools down enough for management to notice, which is never.”
“How do you think I made it thus far?”
“You’re a fossil.”
“Point taken.”
The goliath grin of that Wylven fell as Vibarius took another cigar with shaking hands. A pang of guilt rushed through her. She refused to address it.
With a new log stuck between his teeth, the Colonel just barely managed to ask, “Anything else?”
Heila shook her head. “No, ‘course not. The thick of it is, we don’t know what to do with the girl.”
“How so?”
Squatting down, the two of them heard the sickening snap of her joints. “We can’t train her. Not a single DI can get through earning her respect. Ask her to perform, though, and she’s a golden goose.”
Vibarius looked at Heila suspiciously.
She groaned. “Not in bed, twat.”
“I’m not into Yanksies. I was trying to convey that that’s not surprising. She’s a Wraithsman. There aren’t better fighters than them. Pick up a weapon they’ve never seen, and they know how to use it with years of expertise. It’s in their blood.”
Heila withdrew a wide cutlass from her hip and gave a few practised hacks at the air. “Spellbind?” she asked.
Vibarius took his time slotting a bullet into the chamber of his pistol. “No.”
“Well, the girl might be an exception,” the mutt pressed, the whir of her sword ominous with each swing.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The Colonel pointed the barrel at her back. “Oh, yeah?”
When the trigger was pulled, the bullet exploded from the barrel only to disintegrate in a reverbing clang of her sword. “Extensive testing says it’s true. She can’t miss a shot. Ever.”
Vibarius’ eyes widened. “So, if you pinned her against a Harvie with a sword…”
The Sergeant smirked when he realised. “An unstoppable force.”
“Versus an immovable object. By the Saintess…” The Colonel grabbed his face, unsettled by the cinema in his mind. A cough burst from his mouth uncontrollably, sending a sharp pain in his right lung that dropped his chest forward.
The cutlass’ tip pierced the beachy earth. Vibarius glanced at Heila’s disappointed face—cheek smushed into the handle—and brushed her off with a wave, dismissing himself from the arena’s court with another choking fit.
♦ ♥ ♣ ♠
“...ris,” a crackle of a voice tore through the barrier or solace. In his state, his senses functioned at their very least capacity. Omitting it, the drunk chose not to respond. His brain had been fucked by lead.
It came again.
“Ans… Ans…!”
Emris detected urgency. His hand threw itself about, grabbing a firm hold of the device on his left wrist. His fingers clamped around it firmly, trying to suppress it.
“Pi… up!” it shouted, the sound passing through the gaps in the seal of his digits. Emris groaned a disgusting moan, corrupted by the still-healing form of his mouth. “...are you?!”
His eyes finally welcomed light. It was so painful. The sun was still up, though it was beginning to recede back into the distant earth. The rustle of his cans must’ve been picked up by the communicator because, upon moving an inch, relief became clear in whomever’s voice came through.
“Where… you, old man?!”
“Hell,” Emris gurgled.
“What?! Hey — raise your damn hand, I can’t hear squat! Where are you?!”
“Ugh,” Emris could only muscle noises from his throat. He slowly recognised the voice, but he wasn’t sure where from. It was a male.
“Captain!”
It finally clicked. His hand moved away from the device, freeing its microphone and speaker. “Avel…”
“Lancaster. We’re on a first-name basis now?” There was a slight interruption, as Avel regretted humouring the scene now. “Forget that. Look, Emris, I don't know where you are, what the piss you’re up to, what you think you need done. But you need to come back.”
Emris groaned, feeling the bones in his jaw click together. “Why?”
“It’s Ignus. He’s… He’s losing it. Because of Elena.”
“Elena…?”
“She’s dead. Ignus has been in baby mode over it for days. He’s really pissed off at you,” Avel said, his voice marred by the semi-functional communicator.
Emris stayed silent for a minute, closing his eyes to take the information in. Instead of answering, he reached into the rags of his leather jacket.
“You need to get your arse here, Em. The platoon’s morale is collapsing.”
“I had to… keep an eye… on the girl.” Emris’ affected voice practically dragged his words on the floor.
Two taps made themselves heard. “What? Speak up! Stop dicking around, Captain, you know our mics are toys! Look, just get over here. We’re worried he’s going to lose his head. You know Ignus’ fire’s brighter than him.”
Emris shook his head. “Meschae’s out there.”
“I don’t care? Your team needs you. Frankly, it’s the least you could do after no-showing on her funeral. Markus could use seeing you too. Poor bloke’s more muted than usual.” A few seconds of silence followed. “Em, do you care about us?”
The Brig was surprised at the lack of cockiness in Avel’s voice. He reached forward, putting a hand on the steering wheel. It was so hot in the sun, but the soft burn helped wake him up. “ ‘Course I do. I’m jus’ busy, aight?”
Avel sighed. “You’re always busy.”
“I had a lil’ lass to take care of. I need to uh… focus, okay?” Emris tried explaining, tilting his head to await a response. Nothing. “Okay?”
“Sure, Captain.”
“Not… fuckin’ Captain. Call me Emris,” Emris tried to insist, opening the door to his left to allow some air in. Cans fell out, naturally.
He wouldn’t get a further response, hearing the distinct crackle of a disconnection. The veteran looked at the silver-copper device for a moment, trying to piece together what he’d heard. It was only then he realised Elena had been dead for a while, and he still hadn’t paid respects. His eyes gleamed back up at that vain rabbit figure plastered on the side of the expensive-looking building a few streets away. The sight made him grimace. He remembered why he had drunk and killed himself several times prior.
“That fuckin’ Yanksie.”
By Elior’s command, VIPs were sent back to their livelihoods with haste, as they themselves voiced complaints of interrupted commerce. Holly had no desire to stick around the Facility either, and so, by both their demands, the lass was returned to her business as soon as the surrounding few blocks were retaken from the Galloping horde. Emris wasn’t pleased. His distance from the Lypin had placed a great deal of stress on his already haywire mind, bent on a job years past its completion.
To protect her. To raise her. He’d been busy on and off, so much as Holly scathingly reminded him not a month ago, but to return to that one task was repetitive yet fulfilling and kept his mind at ease knowing he was doing something he wanted to do. Something he could will of his own volition.
The voices that lingered like a voice in the back of his skull were becoming frightening. To remain sober was not an option. Emris glanced at his shoulder and cringed, brushing off the dry grime that had pooled near his collar. Reaching into the passenger seat, he nicked his sprawled-out coat and dropped another two cans about to clatter and fall wherever they might. Chucking the leather on, he covered the better part of the blood on his sweated shirt as he went on his idle stroll for trouble. What better a Guardian than he?
Emris’ thoughts returned to the matter of Elena’s passing. How long had it been? A week, perhaps? He barely remembered hearing about it a few days ago, but the days merged together when he got little sleep.
“Shite… Good soldier, too,” he lowly said, giving a loose brick a kick.
Right he was. Though his intoxicated self couldn’t quite grieve yet, the value she held as a markswoman and Colonel wasn’t of small measure. Furthermore, Elena was a member of his platoon. The fact he didn’t even remember she was dead made him detest his mind all the more. He couldn’t even piece together what Avel looked like anymore.
The Guardian’s eyes wandered a bit. He felt around his things, feeling as though he was forgetting something else. His hand felt the outline of his oversized barrel.
“Shite, how many times did I…?”
Somebody bumped into him before his thoughts could glue together well enough. He coughed, grabbing whomever’s collar and yanking it back. A thorough bollocking was avoided only because Emris did recognise who the perpetrator a head-and-a-half shorter was, albeit not easily. His eyes practically buzzed as he squinted at the creature: a slender, wolfish biped of ginger and grey pelt with little fangs that stuck out an inch from his lips. His anatomy was closer to that of a ferret’s.
“Shit, Em. You knocked Q’s ass outta commission,” he chuckled, a smooth, boyish voice to him.
“You baked fuckin’ tit, Koto!” Much to the contrary, the second voice that came from much further below was so gruff and heavy that it might have come from the mouth of Un-Turbulus, Earl of the winds, had it not been for this laughably impish panda bear. A Werebjorn—a bear Anthropoid—the size of a Dwarfelyn—a two-foot cat biped—peeled itself ungraciously off a puddle on the sidewalk. The black rings natural on his face had spread with the filth, leaving his entire face an off-white carpet.
“Blame the daisies,” the ferret rebutted all too naturally, the red in his eyes indicative of his addiction.
“And the golden tops, y’bogan,” the little one barked off, shoving a damp cigar as big as his arm between his teeth. “E’ris, you galoo’, ‘eel ‘em or I’ll ea’ your knees nex’ ‘ime,” ‘Q’ threatened, not too convincingly. The cigar kept his jaw pried open.
“Don’t speak with a mouthful,” Koto sleazily ragged, the acrid smell of his breath foretelling just how many shrooms he’d bitten into recently.
Emris grinned despite himself, feeling the urge to punt the blighter into the new moon. “Koto. Qunt.”
The little bear snarled. “Qun, tit.”
“Fancy eyeing the likes of youse,” Koto said, elbowing the wingless’ gut.
Emris grabbed his stomach and palmed the ferret’s chest. “Ooph… Ain’t had the time to kick me feet up with a twosome of tax dodgers.”
Qun reached behind him and pulled out a lighter, drying the leaves of his log with its flame. “Can see that,” he said, nudging his head toward a mess of ink-like gore strewn on the road by them.
Emris didn’t even try to look. His pupils were still shaking in their place; his senses were a jungle as his freshly recomposed brain struggled to calibrate.
Koto breathed through clenched teeth. “You look dogged, Em. Pint?”
“I’ve had sixty. Busy,” the Guardian declined, grabbing Koto’s face and softly pushing him aside.
Qun raised a brow and took the cigar out of his mouth. “We’ve got a floater.”
Mid-stride, Emris stopped. He turned around slowly, giving the bear a suspicious look. “Ye’re shittin’ me.”
Koto’s stoner smirk broadened. “Nine hunny thous for a second-hand. Worth every Zed.”
The Guardian’s teeth showed in a sneer. “A second-hand wobbling dust-kicker can?”
Koto growled at Qun’s wheezing snigger. “Have some faith, dick!”
“I’d rather let Betty fuck me up than blow up in there.”
Qun spattered a horrid cough and laughed in twine. “Ain’t like you wun’t survive, but sure. Have a merry lil’ meander, then.”
The Guardian groaned most dramatically, looking up at those towering pillars that climbed to the heavens’ limits. It wouldn’t be long before man bested The Pillar of Sylvves, he thought. His birthplace brought on a foul memory with it, and with a shake of his head, he agreed.
Turning to face the two idiots, he sucked in some air and said, “Fuck it.”
Koto’s grin became that of a drunk’s as Qun motioned the lot to follow the tiny sod. It’d be a while at his pace, so Koto nabbed him off the ground and placed him on his shoulders. It wasn’t as embarrassing for Qun as it was for Emris to witness. In less than five minutes of walking through ominously empty streets, they found parked precariously by the sidewalk what seemed a small black limousine from the offset, but four stubs on either side of its base, a little fin where the radio antennae poked through and a fixed turbine engine where its back glass should be gave it a distinctly dangerous appearance.
Qun showed his arms toward the vehicle, welcoming Emris to the driver’s seat as the doped twosome hit the back. Once inside, Emris found a dashboard a few sizes larger than that of a standard automobile, with controls reaching near the right-hand side in front of where a presumed co-pilot would sit; upon which lay a heap of discarded wrappers and junk.
“Well, human? Managin’?” Qun teased.
“Shut it, midget. Ain’t human,” Emris bit back, having acquainted himself enough to turn the ignition on. Like they said, if he blows this tin up, it was more their problem than his.
The panda’s laugh matched a tiger roar’s bass. “Sure look‘un.”
The limousine juggled a bit as the wheels separated from the sidewalk. The course began as usual, and Emris kept racking up speed. Once they doubled the speed limit, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Find us a long road first, Em,” Koto suggested. When the whole thing skid dangerously on a sharp turn, the ferret nearly broke his teeth after being thrown to the door.
“Wear yer seatbelts,” Emris lowly said, amusement in his voice.
“You fuckin’...!” Koto growled, too under the influence to stumble back to his seat before another turn sent him to the floor again.
Qun laughed his ass off the entire time it took the swerving maniac to raise the oomph to an appropriately flyable speed. Even if it cost Koto bruised skin, he could tell they’d raised the sombre man’s morale a fair bit. Miserable silent types were the hardest to read, and in the few years of knowing the strangely unheard-of Guardian, neither he nor Qun had reached a consensus on what exactly turned him dour.
The three of them felt their stomachs drop once the wings shot out from their slots. Emris hadn’t calculated well enough that the instant he did, the entire car began to hop up a few feet before crashing down again as the wind struggled to pick up the whole lot.
After the third crash, Qun reached forward and grabbed Em’s neck. “Make ‘er fly already!”
Emris panicked some, reaching around the many controls for what little time he had to do so between rises. His eyes gleamed over a button that read ‘ENGAGE’. The instant he pushed it, the jet in the rear blared to life, blasting a blue flame that blasted the car forth an extra hundred miles per hour. The limousine was on a straight road that wasn’t takeoff appropriate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Turn it off!” Koto screamed.
The steering wheel popped out some, catching Emris by surprise and nearly crashing the vehicle into a tree as it turned a few degrees too many toward the left. Amidst the shouts of his two passengers, Emris grabbed the steer firmly and struggled against the drag, preventing a lethal drift within an inch of their lives. The building up ahead came closer by the second. Emris grabbed the top half and pushed it down to his crotch, and the wind finally caught proper under this death machine’s little wings. The limo began its flight, but the building was too close to avoid.
The car leaned upwards until it became vertical, still succumbing to forward momentum. The wheels made contact with the concrete, smashing into and rolling off of the walls as the flying car literally drove itself up and over the skyscraper.
Meanwhile, Qun couldn’t breathe and his seatbelt was on its last threads as Koto was pressed into the back wall. Had there been glass instead, he’d have been sucked out entirely. Whatever either of them screamed wouldn’t be heard over the last of the jet’s blasts; it dying seconds after they surpassed the danger and penetrated the smog clouds.
One last scream followed as the limousine fell into regular horizontal angle, the wings keeping it from dropping any further. The three morons breathed heavily—Quin wheezed—as the adrenaline rush could finally be made quiet. The flying speed felt negligible in comparison to the spine-crushing experience they’d just had, but the air they breathed soon became infested with airborne filth.
Hacking and coughing, Qun said, “Drop down! The fuckin’ fumes’ll kill us!”
Despite it all, Emris was in heaven. A wicked smile was plastered on his face and the sweat of the rush felt cool on his leathery skin. His skull dropped on the headrest as he steadily pushed the nose of the car down a tad to allow the black-lunged bear the luxury of breathing again.
After a few more wheezes, Qun leaned forward and dropped his little arms on Emris’ shoulders. “Who th’ fuck taught you to drive!?”
The Guardian laughed to himself most heartily. His laugh only loudened when he noticed the amount of damage the bumper of the car had taken.
The visceral, throaty noises that soon followed compelled Qun to take one of the empty wrappers that had been thrown around during the debacle and hand it to Koto, who promptly spilt his guts into it as the panda held on, disgusted yet faithful to his best friend.
“No smokin’ during the flight, boys,” Emris announced, flashing a mirthful smirk at the two from the inside mirror.
Taking a peek outside and down below, Emris was amazed to see the never-ending maze of streets and buildings blend together into an unclean cluster. A concrete jungle built with the blood, sweat and tears of overworked labourers and intellectuals; its veins stretching far toward the corners of Centriegol’s landmass. As a wingless Celestial, the sight was a wonder to behold. It lit up an old flame in his eyes that brought on feelings of intense nostalgia — memories of his voyages upon the high seas before the first vehicle hit the streets. Before steel and concrete teased the heavens. When man’s desire to fly was equal to his.
As Emris’ sight skimmed beneath and across the skies, he spied a tiny figure hovering as high as they were in the distance. His confusion persisted for a while, rubbing his eyes to ensure he wasn’t mistaking it for a bird. It couldn’t be. Whatever it was, it stayed idle. His pupils shrank when his fractured mind remembered just why flying vehicles never took off worldwide.