Mhaieiyu

Arc 3, Chapter 5

Throes of Law

There was a time when modesty befitted this boy in kind. Such was his figure, lanky and soft. A body without toils needs no fuel for strength. No more. The teen dug into his food with exactly the kind of ferocity his peers of similar age did. Those in their later years would watch with fond memories as the younger ones tried to speak through stuffed mouths. Even the Mynotaurs weren’t so desperate. The human body, despite its fragility, had to be commended for its adaptability. Felyns were agile things; their footfalls were quiet and their springy legs allowed for tremendous height drops. Strike the throat, however, and they flatline as quickly as their heels turn. Wylvens, dogs and mutts that they were, had unimaginable jaw strength and could rip through a padded steel door with enough time. Quiz them on physics and they’ll drop their heads on the iron. Mynotaurs could take a blade with the kind of force guillotines fell with and barely get a papercut. Tug at their horns and you’ll tame their brute force. Humans? Test their wit today and find a brick wall tomorrow. Pit them against a moose and they’ll leverage its every weakness against it. Drop them in a world brimming with things stronger and smarter than they and watch them create and dominate an entire society, even after it crumbles and capsizes for the fortieth time.

All they need is their will. That’s it.

Norman watched amusedly at the sophisticated quartz hair stab at his food like it was the last he’d catch a whiff of it. Surely, a soldier needed his protein. Eleven seemed much too thin for so much food, but here he was.

“Calm down there, buck-o. Victus.” The Mynotaur chuckled and scratched his face skin.

Eleven didn’t try to respond. Food had too much incentive. His body still felt like it had been stripped of its every reserved fibre; which, in hindsight, wasn’t all too much.

Norman exhaled an awkward noise. Their meal was cut short by a vibration on both of their wrists. They diligently reacted by raising the communicator within reasonable hearing range. Eleven’s fork didn’t stop, though.

A rough crackle sounded off on the other end, and all the soldiers in the eatery silenced their banter. The familiar shuffling sound of a moving microphone came first, and then, the voice of First Colonel Lance.

“Good day to you all, troops. I hope your legs aren’t too poorly ached, because it’s time to debrief our newest operation. I know this isn’t… usual… but our current circumstances leave us, uh, less ideally managed.”

Eleven and Norman exchanged a look and grinned.

“As you’re probably caught up on, the purification team has been slow yet steady in their efforts to push back and diminish the Galloping’s last stragglers using manned firepower. We used to be able to afford that. In the interest of unpausing economical paralysis and not succumbing to shell debt in the coming times, we’ve been instructed to levy all available troops to purify the contaminated industrial sectors in the middle east.”

A collective groan resounded in the cafeteria. Eleven gulped down the last of his meal.

“The high brass and seniors in strategics have decided the Cadets could use the experience, so…” A moment of hesitation followed. “Their orders are for the trainees to, indeed, accompany the incursion elimination team. Their safety will be prioritised, but their presence on their battlefield will be of service, not observation. They will supply additional firepower and resources as needed.”

The previous groaners voiced their complaints to this news. First, it was a small band of younger folk, then they were joined by moralist seniors. Soon enough the tables were drummed on and the noise became a bleat. Eleven’s jaw stopped chewing. Did this mean…?

“And that’s not all.” The communicator crackled some more. Another delay came. “In the… In the interest of bettering our new alliance’s morale and improving intercolonial relations, it is by Elior’s will that you will be furthermore assisted by a Yanksie company captained by a delegate of the Harvirillians.”

The uproar was instantly quietened. Even the clinks of metal stopped as the soldiers struggled to process the new information. They all knew, since Elior’s induction into the highest of highs, that Syndies and Yanksies would have to see eye to eye. A cold stone weighed in their stomachs. The thought of sharing the spotlight with sworn enemies of the past felt conflicting. The unison would doubtlessly prove fruitful in the long run, but could they so swiftly forgive each other?

Just how many families had to accept a ‘sorry’?

“You have seventy-five minutes to be out the door. I wish you all Victus’ blessing.” Lance issued this conclusive statement.

Eleven swallowed, not daring to look up from the table. His head hung a bit, and a tiny chatter showed his teeth clicking together nervously.

Norman brought his great hand and wrapped it around the topside of his whole skull, ruffling his hair. Though he didn’t agree with the decision to bring the newbies into battle, he was just a Corporal. “At ease, buck-o! You get to have a taste of non-shrimp status for once! A real slice of that ugly badass taste!” Eleven’s tension wavered some, but the Mynotaur could tell he was cold-sweated. “Besides, we’ll keep ya safe. Stick behind the big guns and you’ll sort yourself out fine and right.”

“I… I can’t get that feeling out of my head,” the Tsuki said.

“Feelin’ of killing something? Don’t worry little man, those things ain’t really alive. Did ya know they’re part vegetable oil?” Norman jested, though Eleven wasn’t certain whether that was a joke or a lesser-known fact.

He shook his head regardless. “No, it’s… It’s that nagging voice in my head that tells me I’m doing something fundamentally wrong. I don’t think I belong in high society.”

Norman flashed those massive flat teeth. “Well, once you’ve scraped enough gold off the Facility’s paint, maybe ya can live off in Victus-knows-where with the dog.”

A complaint wouldn’t have enough time to be issued before a great many stood, which compelled the rest of the room’s soldiers to rise from their tables, Eleven included, albeit clumsily as usual. He almost dropped the rifle strapped to his back as the bind dropped from his shoulder. The communicator on his wrist buzzed again before he could make a move of his own.

“Eleven, do you copy?” the voice of Vibarius demanded.

Eleven shuffled to open his mic. “Yes, sir!”

“Report to 16B, east-side.”

“But sir, my gear——”

“Stat.”

Eleven nodded to no one in particular, made to face the Mynotaur brandishing an axe. Norman spoke first.

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Vibarius.” The lad quelled his impatience for but a moment. “Speaking of doctors, it’s been some time since I last saw Fely.”

The bovine nodded. “Aye, both he and Heph have been MIA for a few days now. Rumours say they ain’t fond of the new govern.”

“I can certainly see why it’s controversial, but to leave without a word? That really doesn’t sound like him… Perhaps he was more spineless than I thought. Uh, pardon the blasphemy,” Eleven pondered and then apologised, getting a comforting laxness from his overworked friend. “Shit— I need to get going. I’ll see you there, I think…”

Norman laughed. “Sure, buck-o. Take ya merry old time.”

Eleven placed the rifle under his arm and draped his packsack back on his shoulders before rushing out the cafe doors, bumping into a few other soldiers in the process. Luckily none were of a higher order than Corporal, as otherwise he would be disciplined. Rushing through these bloody long hallways was a task he couldn’t grow accustomed to. Just when you think you’ve made progress, a new corridor revealed itself beyond the airtight doors between them; a sequence of chambers all in a file line that stretched for what felt like a few miles. At least his stamina was improving, but it hardly made a difference when he was made to wear about an eighth of his body weight at all times, and that was still on the lower end of things. The Tsuki residue crossed the centrepiece of the Facility during his trek, the main entrance, and noticed it was open wide for once. Perhaps in preparation for the soldiers’ exit? Still, it seemed precarious.

He got his answer further ahead.

A soldier unlike all the other men trudged the carpet—dragging himself on heavy heels—his clothes torn to ribbons. His overgrown mane made him look even more unkempt than usual, and the filth of the streets clung to him like piss.

It was the Guardian. The person who brought him here in the first place, and his first saviour: Emris. Goddess, he could barely remember his name. For all of one second, Eleven felt a sharp cut slice across his brain. A reminder that he should’ve done something more. Something he hasn’t done yet.

The thought of slipping the Drainer across his throat was almost arousing. The relief it promised, euphoria.

“Can I help you, sir?” Eleven felt obligated to ask, putting a hand on Emris’ shoulder. He flinched when he felt the bone beneath the skin move.

Emris turned a snarl his way. “Aye. Fetch us a… Ah, the kid? Shite, look at ye, donned in our coats and all.”

Eleven couldn’t believe the satisfaction on Emris’ face. It looked so foreign on him. He’d never known the Brig to be anything more than unpleasant-looking, even during his kindest deeds. Eleven tried to force a chuckle. “Well, if I’m going to be in this position, I kind of have to.”

Emris’ characteristic grimace twisted his lips again. A weighty hand of his dropped on the teen’s shoulder. “Still, it pisses me off they plucked ye so damn young. Kids like ye shouldn’t be drafted. Not so soon.”

Eleven shuffled his gun higher when his shoulder slumped. “Don’t worry, sir. I don’t think Norman and the boys are going to let me get exposed.”

Emris eyed him up and down, studying his lankiness. In a few weeks, he’d gained some muscle, which was a surprise. Still, he was much too skinny. “Ye’d make a fine medic if ye studied hard.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

“Call me Em.”

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Eleven stuttered. “Sure thing, Em.”

With two more pats on his back, Emris carried on his slow march to somewhere. Eleven watched the borderline geriatric walk off tentatively. He doubled on his feet and sprinted faster towards Vibarius’ location.

The veteran felt the ache of his right knee betray his every step. Surely, the healing process would have been done by now. Perhaps his blood was too far poisoned by the darkening smear of the King’s influence. He, or his pawns. Those fucking Crawler bites stung more than he cared to admit. Why was he here again?

“Agh, right,” Emris thought, thumping his skull when an unwelcome presence filled the space of his mind. Multiple presences did, in fact. Four in total.

Reaching the throne room, he pushed himself against the great steel doors and forced them apart, revealing a great palace room that was waist-deep in renovations. Not the most sophisticated sight, considering the parties involved. Standing at the far end of a great, rounded rectangle table made from buloke wood was the Syndicate’s new Head of Men, Elior, with his now right-hand-man, General Leo Wraithsman in a black Nynx suit that matched his edgy, antisocial self. To either side were two majestic Archangels, both Principalities, one of which sported two great wings and the other, two large and two small. Both were blessed with brilliant white-gold halos that hovered perfectly atop their heads by a few inches at most. The two-winged one had a full beard, albeit a stubbly one, and simple medium-length hazelnut hair. His eyes were a dull rock brown, and his red and blue gown exuded militance, topped by golden badges and sewn with silvery skein.

The other, a woman, garbed in the perfect opposite, wearing silks and veils that slid like water off her perfect skin; it lacking lesions, dots, abrasions or any such obstructions. A cloudy white diamond with magnificent ruby locks bound effortlessly into a long braid that tickled her spine when bare. To even glare at this woman felt a crime. A crime surely paid with blood.

Then, closest to the door and opposite Elior was a Celestial of particular interest. His were only two wings, both greying and lost of their lustre, and his halo shone with a strength that also dwindled noticeably — a flickering light, almost. His emerald scales robe was accentuated by heavenly regalia, including a platinum sceptre topped by the embrace of the Saintess, that he put both of his feeble hands upon to stay upright. The white beard on his wrinkled face was much longer than his nearly bald head; a foamy wave that dipped just enough to cover his sternum.

With the frailness of antiquity, the noblest one turned around to greet Emris. Assuming he had the strength to put on a face, his expression was concealed by the white. “Ah, Guardian Emris. You have come at last.”

Emris flashed his teeth. With no courtesy to speak of, he snatched a chair from the side and brought it down by the table with a screech. He paid no mind to the Marshal across him or the sanctified beauty beside him. Instead, his eyes shifted between the senior and the Head of Men.

The lady next to him hid her smile behind her fingers. “Always so rebellious. We’re all quiet and nervous to see you back, all excited to hear from you again, and nothing.”

Emris’ face muscles twitched at her words. The tiniest mockery was faint, but there. “Ye’d best rush this.”

Noting the hostility in Emris’ tone, Elior leaned in closer.

The eldest Celestial lowered his head, the wrinkles more visible in his apprehension. “Please, let us have an agreeable conversation. I understand our relations haven’t been the most welcoming, but we have dearly missed you, old soul.”

Emris dropped his cheek on an open palm and pretended to cooperate.

Elior nodded. “Thank you, Skyborn Apollo. I’ll continue to insist it is an absolute honour to share space with a mind as great as yours.”

Apollo, the Skyborn Major sitting across him, waved a hand in gentle protest. “I beg you not use such cordial gestures. I promise to want little more than to maintain unity between man and wing-blessed.” He cleared his throat. Even his voice was frail. “Ah… The worshipers up north are making such an arduous task indeed. I fret for their lives. Will the Goddess allow their repentance, I wonder…?”

The Marshal craned his head forward a tad to speak. “Would the Envious God be so kind to us?”

“You have reservations about our ability to repel the King’s return, do you?” the lady and primary intelligence of the Celestials, Jules, prodded with a similarly lax gesture as Emris displayed.

“Merely hypothetical.”

“I see.”

Elior clasped his hands together in a clap. “If I might speak out of turn, I’d like to reassure you that the alliance between the borders is looking perfectly fruitful. All we need to do now is ensure the space between their and our soldiers’ mindsets is cleaned of spite. With Yanksee’s assistance, we can do away with the little threats and give our heroes the playing field necessary to clear away the targets. That is to say, your ranks, Sir Orosius.”

The Marshal bowed in turn.

Emris groaned. “Why…?”

“A question, Emris?” Elior said.

“Aye, why the shite did ye summon me ‘ere? I’ve better things to do. Plan yer fancy fuckin’ meetups away from me, oy.” The Guardian pushed his chair back to stand, but a firm grasp from the damsel forced him to stop.

“The matter of your being here hasn’t been brought up yet,” she explained.

He sighed and dropped his weight back onto the table with a thud. “Then get to the fuckin’ point.”

“Our ‘heroes’ have much an important task, no? They need the best of the best if they are to succeed in their mission to castrate the north of its incongruous crew of death kissers.”

Emris growled. “Ye can’t fathom a plan ‘fore they stick their chips in the field. I'd know. We’ve no blessin’ figurin’ out whereabouts they’re gonna fire us up from first. Shite, I found a Crimmie cunt in the city back when all was spick and span.”

“That mindset is so you,” Jules giggled, putting an arm around his neck and pushing his head into her bosom. “This old man has had enough, hasn’t he?”

Elior furrowed a brow at her actions. Was this the grace he was so promised to meet? To say he was disappointed…

Emris’ teeth flashed like an upset dog, trying vainly to free himself. “Get yer fuckin’ mitts off me, woman——!”

“—This poor thing, knocked around all his sad life since he was a boy. You sat and watched,” she accused, glaring daggers to an already guilted Apollo. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Your Grace, because surely you knew ______ wasn’t going to do anything.”

Elior sighed, wishing to put an end to this. “Indeed, I wish only to have had the capacity to understand this all, but we’d best move on.”

“Now hold on,” Jules said, finally releasing Emris when he yanked his head out, catching his knuckles just short of being hit. “We haven’t discussed my prime directive.”

“And that is?”

With clasped hands and just too much blithesomeness, Jules said, “I wager our dear Guardian’s time has run its fair course.”

The men—excluding a perfectly still Leo—reacted in some form to her statement. Emris felt his breath get caught in his throat and Elior’s eyes widened. Too brief to be noticed, the Head of Men’s anger rose to a boil. To dispose of the Guardian now meant he would doubtlessly lose an asset he wouldn’t live long enough to see restored again. His reign would miss such a fundamental piece.

“That won’t do,” Elior immediately deduced.

Apollo was first to intervene. “I cannot say I agree with you, Lady Jules. Emris clearly shows resilience yet. It would be premature.”

“I…” Emris' voice failed him. His protest felt nullified in the face of such tremendous powers. Like a child, his words fell on the deaf ears of his authorities.

Jules shook her wrist dismissively. “For starters, he is not an ordinary Guardian, that is most certain. For all we know, he has well outlived his due time. A defective, if that’s not too great an offence.” She turned those all-imposing violet eyes Emris’ way when she said, “And, according to Thaumiel’s recent reports, it seems one of our Hawks has spotted Emris displaying anomalous, King-forewarning behaviour. Sprouting tendrils, is that not true?”

Apollo’s objection became air when the implications of her speech meshed together. His weary head shifted to meet Emris’ downcast expression; his trembling hands.

The Guardian’s fingers dragged against the wood and clenched into fists. Still, he couldn’t yet bring himself to speak. Elior grew frustrated at the turn of the conversation. The threat of their plot. To amend this, he raised his voice and brought his hands high. “The Crimsoneers’ advance is a plight to us all. If fortune weren’t to favour us, Goddess forbid, we’d need every limb to collaborate in repelling their forces. To undo the Guardian now would be a needless handicap.”

Apollo grunted and nodded. “Indeed. In the coming years, there will be peace enough to prepare a Guardian anew. But first, we must strike the dragon at the scales again. Until they are repelled, we are not safe.”

Orosius, much more respectful of the Major, lowered his head. “Yes, Your Grace, and to ensure longevity in peace, we must do away with at least one of its heads, doubtlessly.”

Jules exhaled long and tired, cradling her head in her arms upon the tabletop. “I cannot believe the Sword couldn’t do it. With the Magician’s aid, he might as well have been spoonfed. He’ll need replacing, too.”

Apollo noticed Emris grab at the skin of his face and sighed. Raising and unfurling his feathered blessings, a wingspan equal to an elephant’s in volume, he employed an authority he scantly abused. “Enough out of you. I will not condone your ill manner towards your own kin. If you must be abusive so, direct your anger towards me.”

Jules produced a groan not unlike that of a young teen’s, facing away from her superior. The Marshal looked at her with displeasure, but a single eye staring back kept his silence. He knew better than to test mettle with the likes of her.

Elior looked entirely spent by now. With furrowed brow, he said, “And so, we agree to move on?”

Apollo nodded, drawing in his great wings. “I beg that we must.”

“One question,” Jules said, tensing Emris again. “In the event the enemy were to capture the Guardian, would you accept responsibility before the Goddess when the world entire fell to Mortos’ whim?”

Elior perked up at this, eyeing Apollo intensely. The Skyborn Major took a deep breath. “If, hypothetically, such were to pass,” Apollo started, “we would part the very hails of the Badlands to retrace him. If all came to a failure, I would personally submit myself to Hers and the world’s anger. May the Saintess do with me as she will.” Jules’ amusement came short when the Major’s tone shifted to one more serious and stern. One unlike him. His voice, too, gained strength and bass; such that the very walls began to shake and the lights failed twice. “This given, I will henceforth no longer tolerate your insensitivities toward the Guardian. He is your superior by right, beneath only Thaumiel and myself. Appreciate his dilemma and obey his will, by oath to the Saintess.”

Dust stopped dropping as Apollo settled his voice and body, calming himself with another intake of stale air. The difference between it and that of the Pillar’s pinnacle was uncomfortable. Looking around, the Major realised his act had unsettled the bodyguards of Elior, all of which hadn’t retaliated by the dissuading gesture of their liege. The Marshal had taken the time to kneel before his holiness, whereas Jules seemed unceremoniously complicit at best. Emris had his hands together in what might just be prayer. Apollo’s heart stung. He knew well what Emris feared most.

The greatest one put a hand to his chest and lowered his head. “Forgive my rashness, good Elior. It shames me that my own students could be so immature. Perhaps I too follow their conduct.”

Jules didn’t like the sound of that. She at least chose not to speak this once. Elior hummed in acceptance. “Be my guest. I’d be a liar to say I didn’t find this all at least interesting to watch. I ask that we come to a consensus.”

“Yes. We shall maintain the Guardian for at least the length of the Crimsoneers’ assault. With his barricade, we might just stand a second chance at eliminating Conquest. Surely, that will afford us the time to raise a new protector of man.” Apollo placed his weight on the cane once more, looking mercifully towards the Fifty-Seventh. “Can you fight yet, Emris?”

Emris’ unease was clear in his voice. “Aye…”

“Thank you. I pray for your victory.”

Elior stood up. “Splendid. I’ll entrust this to you, Skyborn Apollo. I’m positive you will know how best to utilise our Guardian. Speaking of which, you should contact your platoon, Brigadier. Word's out that Ignus might have gone on a little mourning trip to Caesea island.” With a nod, the General too began to move. A sight most peculiar, as any other could have easily assumed him to be a statue. “I’ll have to leave you be, I’m afraid. I must supervise the Syndicate’s first mission as a coalition.”

“But, we have not…” Apollo tried to stop him, but by the time his voice could be made heard, Elior had already streaked halfway across the carpet and would not stop. The door slammed shut behind him with a dramatic bang, leaving the Celestials to stir. The guilt on Apollo's face ill-befitted a senior such as he. Watching his creed's discord was depressing.

The Marshal was first to break the silence. "If all is in order, I'll have to return to my flock. Am I excused, Your Grace?"

Apollo could only acquiesce with a nod. The Marshal stood to depart, and Emris tried to use the same opening to leave as well when the doors swung open once more, this time with a gravitas much more bold than ever before. The guards all flinched. One felt the resistance of the trigger against his finger.

Orosius stood up. "What is the meaning of——?"

Jules smiled. "If it isn't Big Brother," she cooed.

From the entrance stomped in a very displeased and disfigured archangel with four wings, each of equal magnitude to the Major's. The halo on his head would burn the room to a crisp were it not for their peculiar lack of radiation. It was Thaumiel, second-hand man to the Major.

Emris felt his life hang on a thread. His eyes sprang about, eyeing the others in terror. His heart began to thump loud enough to hear, and when all Celestials sat back down, he felt his fate had sealed.