Mhaieiyu
Arc 3, Chapter 6
Penance of the Dolt
A loud thud marked the arrival of the wimpy Cadet, having thrust his heel and issued the Syndie salute as per etiquette. The lung-torn Vibarius rose from his overseer’s chair, which loomed tall by the arena’s edge; a seven-inch glass wall separating him from the ruthless mettle of those that often trained below. Eleven noticed the familiar smell of ash paired with the faint crisp of smoked Mendaej flower.
“Eleven,” he welcomed, a tone much softer than the teen remembered hearing before.
“Captain Beta, sir. You called for me,” Eleven replied, a faint blush on his cheeks at the awkwardness of their formalities.
“That I did.” Vibarius pressed his knuckles into the back of his neck. “I’m guessing you’ve heard from the First Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be joining the battle, apparently.”
He wagged a corrective finger. “That you won’t.”
Eleven was left speechless for a few seconds. Awkward noises were all he could spout. For some reason, in his shifting, the lad expected to see a crack of a smile on Vibarius’ face. After fifteen seconds, there wasn’t one.
“You’ll be defying orders,” he clarified, inhaling deeply to compensate for his damaged lungs. “There won’t be time for a headcount, you’ll be fine.”
A wave of relief and anxiety washed over the teen. He could avoid getting hurt, but he might just risk punishment, too. For some reason, the thought of risking the latter felt a lot more unsettling. He felt safer under Norman’s wing. “But, sir, why? Haven’t I been trained for this?” Eleven tried to argue.
“That you have. For some reason,” Vibarius grumbled, rolling a fresh cigar between his fingers.
“ ‘For some reason’, sir…?”
“I think it’s high time the Heads got their shit together and told you upfront what’s actually going on here. Hard to do that with half of them absent, of course.”
Eleven’s grip tightened on the stock of his rifle. The burnt smell was beginning to frustrate him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Victus, man. You’re being babysat. Only reason you joined the Military is that you’ve no other service to give, and we’re not kind enough for hospice. But you’re as much a VIP as the other useless celebrities we guard.” The Colonel stood from his desk seat, pushing it aside to get a better look at the empty arena behind him. “Those blind idiots. Sending a Tsuki off into battle. Have they forgotten who you are?”
“Captain Beta, sir…” Eleven’s words left him involuntarily.
“Keep training. Make use of the time you spend here and hone your skills. You’ll need them if ever someone takes interest in your… peculiarities.”
He’d whispered that last part, and though Eleven did catch on, he didn’t understand exactly what Vibarius meant by that. Perhaps the knife on his belt? It was certainly peculiar, and specifically tied to him. Or maybe it was just a demeaning comment about his personality. Who knows. Regardless, Eleven realised something right as he grasped the knob on the door. That bull-faced simpleton with a heart of gold would surely acknowledge his absence.
Turning back, albeit nervously, the Cadet spoke up again. “There is one person who might take notice of me not being there. Norman’s very attentive to my whereabouts.”
Vibarius groaned as his stogie session was immediately interrupted. “Norman just so happens to be my subordinate. He can keep his gob shut if he knows what’s good for him.”
The lad put some weight on that door. Vibarius most likely meant that in jest, but considering the tightness of the situation, it felt all too real. Considering he’d have to explain his reasoning for not being there regardless, Eleven figured he may as well give Norman a heads-up, just in case.
Closing the door on his Captain felt more uncomfortable than ever before. Vibarius had, with little explanation and dubious good will, dismissed him in a fashion his authority did not allow. To comply with this would mean disobeying a higher Colonel’s command, which both he and Vibarius would surely be punished for if caught. On the contrary, to ignore his Captain’s demand would mean earning the ire of his guide in a way he could hardly prevent.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Eleven opted instead to visit his friends in the Ward. Judging by the time provided by his communicator, it’d be an hour before whatever choice he made became definitive. There was a chance Chloe’s wisdom could be of use here. Besides, he missed Mumble’s little rants.
The teen almost broke his face when a surprisingly tall Nynx suit bumped him aside. Doubtless, whoever wore such garments was not ordinary, or not human at all. In what little time he had to face the assailant, he realised it was, in fact, one of four escorts in similar attire. The person they guarded was, from what he could see, a woman of common stature bearing a long, black ponytail that dipped just past her hips. Could it be one of those famed VIPs Eleven had just heard about? From how closely they stuck to her sides, it would be fair to assume they were, in fact, restraining her movement. Perhaps she wasn’t being protected, but rather kept from others? In that case, that rude shove would be more of an act to his benefit.
To digress.
Eleven shuffled his rifle back to a respectable position before continuing his march to the Ward. His thoughts on the way there lingered back on the absence of Fely, and whether or not that was a good thing to the teen. That doctor had always seemed a tad uncomfortable to be around, but his intentions never seemed askew. Perhaps it was too early to say.
The white door to the Ward separated the scented odours of the halls from the absolute stagnation within those scorchingly white walls. Within, Eleven found an unoccupied reception, a number of chairs and half a dozen doors on either side of the room. He reached the third to the last on the left, turned the knob and… silence, for once? Eleven had grown accustomed to the bleats of children beyond this point. This especially large foster care unit still housed the surviving children from the Zwaarstrich massacre. The dimness within and the soft snores proved this to be nap time for them. Despite the pleasant sight, a feeling of melancholy waved over Eleven’s spine. With every day that passed, Chloe would retire to his room less and less, too preoccupied with the children’s development and well-being to afford proper sleep. Whenever she did sleep with him, she would inevitably discuss the livelihoods the children once had, and all that she gleaned from their loose and sporadic anecdotes.
Their lives, as Chloe described, once seemed like a fairy tale. The kind of peaceful tranquillity Eleven had wished for himself one day. Zwaarstrich sounded majestic, almost folklorish, until that tragic event took place. Now, what remained there? Was there a chance life could be returned to its humble shores? Could life settle in a place where such genocide unfolded?
Maybe, once justice could be done. A deep sigh left Eleven’s lips, and a nudge against his leg brought him back from his thoughts. He flinched, but managed to stay quiet. It was Chloe. With a point of her head, she indicated them both to leave the nursery. He agreed, stepping outside and closing the door carefully behind them.
Even still, they cared enough to whisper.
“It’s nice to see you without bags under your eyes,” Eleven said, ruffling her head fur.
Chloe smiled. “I’ve been keeping up on lost sleep. Ms Roche is a wonderful paediatrician, even if she can be bitter towards the adults.”
“Does that include you?”
“... She’s a bit haughty with me, being a Howler and all,” Chloe explained, a faint bit of disappointment in her tone. Having noticed Eleven’s displeased reaction, she corrected herself. “Ah, but she is still wonderful. I’m honoured to help her in any way my body is able. Though she tries not to show it, I’ve seen the extent of her kindness. I’m sure the bitterness is simply a side effect of her circumstances.”
“Well, in any case, don’t let her bully you too much, okay? Stressed or not, you’re a certified hard worker.”
Chloe looked up at him, a bit confused by his compliments. A loose titter burst from her cheeks. “Ah, but look at you. All decked out in a soldier’s garbs, and a rifle of your very own. I could never have imagined it. I’m proud of you.”
Eleven scratched his neck. “I feel like our roles are being reversed… Anyhow, I have a dilemma, if you could——”
The beginning of his speech came to a stop when a hard knuckle mashed the squishier part of his back, beneath his ribcage, which robbed him of breath and the strength to stand. Falling on his knees, Eleven coughed. He heard a complaint from Chloe.
“Oi, pigeon shit. You waked me.”
Of course, it was ‘Pride’. His usual lackadaisical spirit mixed with the brash and curtness of his Urchin origins. Though the act had been violent, Eleven took no offence to it. He’d grown accustomed to this ill-treatment by now. Considering how they first met…
“Ack, it’s ‘woke’, dumbass.”
“Really, you two can never meet eye to eye,” Chloe groaned, dropping her face on the floor like a canine headbutt.
On wobbly legs, Eleven managed to stand back up. Turning to face the undisciplined boy, he imposed the ten odd centimetres he had on the kid and smirked. “Of course we can’t. Can’t you see the height difference?”
“Be careful with that. The Syndie arrogance will cost you,” Chloe warned, though not fast enough to prevent a second gut punch from the shorter boy.
“Flap ya lips at me a few more times an’ I’ll cut ya knees out.”
The Tsuki had managed to tank the hit, perhaps only because it’d been light and on his tiny abs. It still made him cringe. “Right, right. Message received. Sorry for ‘woking’ you.”
Mumble showed those dumb dog teeth. “Sounds political.”
“Probably is.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Chloe tapped the floor with a claw. “As for your dilemma, Eleven? I can hear the children begin to rouse.”
“I’ve received contradicting orders from two different superiors; my direct and a greater,” Eleven explained, watching the seconds tick by on a mounted clock.
Mumble craned his head back, a superfluous show of exasperation. “Pick the bigger dude, then. Why’d ya think rank structures have ups n’ downs?”
Eleven looked at the fanged boy disappointedly, having already expected some sass but somehow still off-put by it. “Nice vocab…”
Chloe noticed his tone. “How big is the order?”
“It concerns my participation in the last of the purification effort, getting rid of the Galloping’s strays,” he said, putting a hand to his forehead as a quick ache passed.
The reveal caused an upset with Chloe, though Mumble’s sudden snappy attention evidenced interest. “I’d prefer you didn’t. Besides, isn’t your being a Cadet enough disqualification?” the Howler pressed.
“Hell nah, get in that shit!” Mumble, much to the inner and outer child that he was, ever so gracefully exclaimed. “An’ I’ll tag, jus’ so ya don’t get stuck cryin’.” He said this with a stuck-out thumb and a sleazy grin. Although it was pitiable, it was at least an attempt at comfort, which could be appreciated coming from an Urchin Duke.
Eleven groaned. “Oh, fantastic. A second impasse.”
The door to the nursery opened then, a little redhead peering shyly at dumb, dumber and somehow smarter. Mumble turned his nose up and cradled himself in sunned arms. “I need t’stretch my legs some, so I’m goin’ anyhow. Ya could use the workout, bu-bub.”
“I’ll— hang on, the pups are… And I was enjoying my rest, too. Eleven!” Chloe stomped her paw with enough fierceness to jump both teenagers before retreating back into the nursery, ushering the little spy back to her bed.
Eleven watched her leave with anxious guilt, reaching a hand out to meet nothing. A firm tap on the shoulder grabbed his attention.
“C’mon, crazy,” Mumble coaxed, giving him another wicked, strangely charismatic smile.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed his decision. If Vibarius wished to protect him so badly, he could be a man and join in the war effort. Furthermore, if he did choose to discipline him for his decision, he could always inform Lance or a Brigadier, assuming they’d be interested in entertaining him in conversation. Never mind that now. Twenty minutes left. In a surprising act of diligence, he took the short lad by the wrist and jogged out of the Ward and into the halls. Mumble’s sharp protests became whetted encores, and soon enough the toll of the tug shifted to him as well as Eleven’s was nowhere near the agility the criminal Duke had.
Of course, the older teen did veer their course off the main path to reach the armoury, which sat in the wing opposite theirs. This meant crossing the entrance, which almost cost the Tsuki’s limb as the excited devil tried the obvious exit first. The tug shifted back to Eleven.
“You’ll need some armour if you feel like getting involved in warfare,” Eleven explained, not needing to see the lad’s expression to guess his confusion.
“Hah?” Mumble let out a strange perplexed noise. “Shit I need that for?”
“Is all that smoke drying your brain?!” Eleven shot back.
The Duke knew what he meant. To wear armour felt more a liability to his likes. Urchins needed to be quick if they favoured success, as no amount of strength could reasonably overwhelm the law long enough to survive their gunshots. Those that could weren’t Urchins. ‘You take the shit and split,’ was their philosophy. Crimes that lasted longer than a minute were also liabilities, and Urchins of such failures would be ousted by their Dukes before long.
But here he was; a Duke himself, feeling a push on his shoulders as a weighty chestguard was dropped into place in this dimly lit room filled to the brim with barely organised crates. A quick lookover confirmed Eleven’s suspicions that the gear was too big for the kid, and so strained to lift it off of him.
“You need to eat more and grow, shorty,” Eleven teased, to which he received a disinterested grunt.
“Spare the wisdom,” Mumble snapped.
Reaching the smallest size available to them—one probably designed for a Lypin—he turned to face the boy again and stopped. “Wait, hold on. You’re way too young for this, aren’t you?”
Mumble’s contorted face was enough of a reply to garner Eleven was in no position to show concern. The young Duke had likely done enough sport to sway an old huntsman’s favour in his short years. It probably wasn’t too responsible, but…
A thought crossed the quartz-hair. “Wait,” he said, “can’t you bring your buddies along for the ride?”
“And strut ‘em around Syndie cops? Hah! D’ya find the gallows n’ take ‘em for a swing?” Mumble’s macabre argument joined with his unwillingness to test the teeny breastplate Eleven presented him.
“You’re forgetting the fact you stand among them yourself, o great Duke. I’m sure that if you discuss this with them…”
Mumble cut him off with a burst of birdish laughter. “Ah, cut the shit. My guys are all wusses. Remember back when ya sliced my fuckin’ gob? They’re like… They’re lil’ kitten shits. Ain’t a way they’re gonna fancy stickin’ their toes near these fellas.”
Eleven glowered at him, dropping the unused gear back on a crate.
“Don’t look so damn grim. We’re sortin’ Crawlers out, right?” the boy asked, taking from under his long hoodie two crescent-shaped knives with a long wire connecting their handles. Putting the edges near his similarly sharp teeth, he grinned. “We’ll manage.”
Scream as his morals might, Eleven didn’t stand a chance to persuade the child otherwise. It wasn’t as hard a decision to make as usual, considering their discrepancy in power. Technically speaking, it was the Tsuki that should be more concerned. His strength and stamina were only recently being honed, and his previous physique was worse than famished. His progress was impressive, yet still average, if not worse. Mumble, on the other hand, had lived a life full of danger, and even so young, his experience was great enough to land him as an authority among his peers. Ex-peers, perhaps. Eleven was impressed at his willingness to forgo crime, even if only for the time being. Perhaps he wasn’t the adrenaline junky he assumed him to be.
The personnel carrier shifted uncomfortably under motion, supporting the weight of the dozen men and women it carted. Eleven sat next to a Cadet he’d built something of a relationship with during training. He just seemed to always be ahead or behind him during their exercises, putting a little extra effort to support him during his weaknesses. This led to Eleven returning the favour in what few moments he was able to, which created a bond of sorts. To call him a ‘friend’ felt far-fetched. He just didn’t seem like the most conversational sort outside of military operations. Eleven had ignorantly assumed him to be human at first, only to discover later on that he was what the masses called a ‘Quarterblood’. This was to say, only three parts of his genes belonged to mankind. The last quarter, however, was callowly kept a mystery.
“Sven,” called Eleven. That was his name. “Tell me a little about the South East.”
The nineteen-year-old Cadet whose toned arm—loosely covered by a grey scarf—already bore a number of battle scars replied, “T’was my buy-in. Th’ whole Mercater rebellion started drumming up again — Hyretise vets joined in, too. S’arted setting houses on fire, and I was stuck in the middle. ‘ook a rifle and ran in. Sim’le as.”
Eleven couldn’t help but smile, choosing to look at the metallic grid by his boots than at his ally. The long scar across the right of Sven’s skull was too uncomfortable to look at up close. “I was hoping you’d be more specific, but thanks.”
“Wha’d else you need?” Sven asked, reclining back and showing off those monstrous biceps. “Jus’ a lot of fog.”
“Was it a scary venture?”
“N’ at all, really. Y’ don’t think when you’re in it. Y’ just move and do. ‘f you die, you die and don’t realise it. Wan’t gonna wait and choke on smoke.”
“What of your parents?” Eleven asked, feeling a cramp in his neck at each new rattling shake.
“Go’ split up mid-crisis, so no idea.”
The Tsuki picked his head up at that. He felt like pressing further, but judging from his lack of tone, he figured that was all he was getting from him. The comforting thought of being so absent-minded mid-battle was comforting, albeit unreliable. Sven could only just about remember it, but he was a victim of brain damage when a bullet skidded his temple. Still, his fighting spirit lived on. His fierce, single-handed rebuttal to the Mercater and Hyretise terrorists caught the attention of the Syndicate, who immediately adopted him into their ranks. He’d be out of training in less than a week, already proven competent.
Eleven didn’t even realise how much he’d bitten into his fingers until another soldier asked him to cut it out. The taste of blood in his mouth had gone entirely unnoticed. All these distractions helped ease his mind, but the more he thought of it, the more he realised just what he was getting into. Mumble was in a separate truck either ahead or behind his platoon’s vehicle, which could mean not having him around in the actual combat effort. A very distressing thought indeed. Peering out the tiny gaps in the walls, he saw the approaching buildings. He also noticed how smoothly the ride had become once the wheels reached concrete floors.
This was it. In less than five minutes, he’d be out slaughtering hell beasts that just might take a chunk out of him. By nature of the river of choices he’d fallen into, this was the outcome. The knife on his belt gleamed in delight. The pressure in his skull worsened, and a pat on his back reminded him of where he was. Time had flown by.
Despite the cold sweat under his chin, he yanked himself to his feet and hugged the rifle to his chest, marching out of the wagon in earnest. The first thing he felt after a flight of nausea was the drowning feeling of silence in the massive streets of the Hub. Last he’d been here, these alleys and roads were plagued with the fumes of passing cars and the bustle of common and beastly folk alike. Now, what little that was occupied was taken by a fleet of military personnel and their hefty rides. On the opposite end of the street where his team stood was a similarly sized entourage with considerably more guns to their name. An unfamiliar crest marked their vehicles, and the tension that settled only worsened at the order of stillness of his commanding officers.
A single officer, a Lieutenant of scant renown, made the journey to the middle of the pavement to meet with a martial whose white and silvery equipment screamed importance. If he had to guess, this was the Harvie representative Lance had mentioned prior to the mission. Eleven took deep breaths to soothe himself, standing in the midst of fellow Cadets, Privates, Corporals and Sergeants; all captained by three Lieutenants. The pair that remained began structuring the formation in such a way that the Cadets were squeezed into the deeper layers, guarded from the outside world while still within operating range. Then came a brief yet firm lecture to the learners not to aim forty-five degrees under the sky, lest the novices gun down their own. They would spend most of their time facilitating the struggle of the real fighters.
“Ah, do we gotta act all chivalrous? Let’s get it done!” A voice among the crowd jeered this asinine statement. A familiar one at that. Eleven watched with even worse nervousness as the Urchin brat slumped and sauntered his merry way out the organised formation to stand right before the Lieutenants; pushing away the great length of hair from his face. His was the most relaxed expression of all.
“Imprudent child, what are you doing here?” one of the Lieutenants began his rant, only to be stopped by the calming hand of the other.
“This is the Urchin Duke we took underwing. He’s a competent combatant. Let him stray near, instead.”
“Underwing?” Mumble repeated, scratching his head.
The second Lieutenant leaned forward slightly, taking in the kid’s appearance. “You’re agile, I can tell. Could you scout for us?”
“Can do. Gimme that.” Without a hint of contemplation, he reached a hand forward and nicked a pistol from the lenient officer’s holster to no resistance from the sir; the first commanding officer also reached for his gun but calmed when neither engaged further. Mumble simply walked off the scene, heading eastbound while toying with the weight of the weapon.
Eleven was flabbergasted, sure that anything remotely close to that level of disobedience on his behalf would land his head on a pike. Then again, if Vibarius’ concerns were based in reality, he might be just as if not more immune than that Urchin boy.
He had no desire to test that theory out, either.
The murmurs of curious soldiers quieted down when the third Lieutenant returned to them. The Yanksies remained in their corner, which left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.
“Listen up, pissants,” the returning officer proclaimed, “we’ll be performing a pincer tactic against the Galloping’s last quarters, with us barring the south and them the north. Begin the move. We’ll be home by nightfall.”
Of course, in the interest of starting this new bond with good impressions, the Syndies would take the brunt of the journey. The Yanksies travelled far just to get here. This logic didn’t stop a groan or few from the ranks, but a few words of perseverance were enough encouragement to shut up and get to work. Though it would take two hours to reach their designated position, vehicular travel meant missing out on the occasional straggler. Stray Crawlers without orders would pace or idle purposelessly, which could give a passing office worker a heart attack someday.
Onwards they marched; the soldiers chanted their many hums and songs, usually repeating the lyrics of the men in front in a cheerful, emboldening sequence. Eleven felt frigid in his gut — this overwhelming feeling of worry over what lay ahead. He finally spotted Norman among the mass of soldiers, joyous as ever in their chorused song. Eleven felt a warmth in his spine — the bravery of comradery, all together for one cause.