Mhaieiyu
Arc 3, Chapter 7
Their Last Quarters
“ ‘f I told you your gun was of little use, would you be upset?” Eleven was told. He yanked his head from the pony wall he perched on so diligently. Sweat had long begun to bead from the hairs near his face.
The teen clutched his rifle, eyeing Sven. “Ridiculous. I’ve seen what this thing can do. I should give it a name, even.”
“‘t’ll do wonders on men, but Northbeasts?” The sturdier-looking youth shook his head. He gave his shorter gun a slap. “‘eal targets are the Shepherds behind them. ‘rawlers eat lead for breakfast; ‘ractically melts in them. ‘ll we can do is tear at them till they slow and drop.”
“The Shepherds behind them…” Eleven fell into thought, watching the fifteen other men he loitered with. The long march had left most of the Cadets so tired they’d fallen indisposed; an obvious failure on the drill sergeants’ behalf. Too used to brief yet intense sessions with breaks soon after, the battalion was forced to take refuge in alleyways while the real soldiers stood guard. If the Yanksies found out, they’d be shamed. Turning back to Sven, who stretched and flexed his fibres, he asked, “They’re people, aren’t they?”
“‘pends on what you consider a person, but yeah. ‘es they are.”
“I see… So there’s a chance I will kill a man or a woman by nightfall…”
“‘on’t dread it too much, just focus on getting your job done. Jus’ a job. Rem’ber that,” the soldier reasoned, standing up straight as their CO stepped into the alley they nestled in.
“Sir!” the group shouted at once.
The Sergeant before them put his hands behind his back. “We’re cutting this short. Rusthelm’s been spotted nearby. Leg it, we’re moving.”
Of course, the name ‘Rusthelm’ caught Eleven’s attention. Though his wisdom was entirely lacking, his knowledge of mythos was, albeit sparse, at least enthusiastic. This was a nickname he recognised. Apparently, much akin to the Witch Who Walks, a roaming suit of armour meanders the streets of the industrial sectors of the Hub. Rumour dictates he comes and goes in search of scraps to replace shaved bits of his armour, the metal of which has been almost entirely replaced by oxidised sheets bent into shape by, presumably, the knight itself. This fleshless being was known as a Willedwisp; a soul given shape only by human garments. Notorious as they were in terms of durability, Rusthelm would fervently oppose any who dared attempt to snuff out his existence. Otherwise, he was harmless. The unnerving concept was still troubling nonetheless, though the humility behind such a simple existence was almost endearing, in a way.
It would take less than half an hour to arrive at their designated post. The march had dragged on for so long that the skyward sun had teetered to kiss the roofs of the vertigo-inducing buildings in the centre. Even now, Eleven failed to spot Norman in the sea of soldiers. His lesser stature made it hard to see in the core masses.
A terrible silence befell the soldiers after their last footfall. Ceremonious as it were, it was dumbfounding how little resistance was met. Had the Crawlers already disbanded? And yet, the daring, desperate workers claimed death was certain even yesterday.
Quiet, all it was.
Eleven subtly tilted his head a Felyn’s way and whispered, “Was this expected?”
The Felyn shook her head and took aim. “No. This isn’t right at all. On your guard.”
Eleven nodded brusquely and took aim as well. If common sense were to be trusted, the Crawlers couldn’t flank them from behind. Foolish a notion that was. Eleven felt his spine turn to ice as the quietest taps combined with a light gush of cold air met his back. He quickly swerved, only to thank Victus he didn’t gauge his eye out on his hind guard’s bayonet.
“Watch it!” the same soldier hissed.
“Just now, did you feel that?” Eleven asked, hurriedly. He worried his mind was wearing.
"Inbound, scout's gone," the Felyn's communicator churned out. She grabbed his shoulder and spun him back forward, a judging eye prying his soul apart. With less ease than ever before, his shaking rifle kept its aim northbound. Then, in the distance…
“One-seventy ticks!” one of three Lieutenants standing at the vanguard shouted before two of the Syndies opened fire on a mere Crawler that had sprinted in from further streets. No bullets, but a dose of fierce wind chops and a marble of flame rendered the beast a worthless, struggling mound.
And then, nothing. Was this all that was left? Had the Shepherds gone already? Again, useless doubt settled in these troops’ minds. The instant they looked at each other, Eleven felt a similar gush of wind, accompanied by the distinct sounds of animalistic laughter. The titters of a hyena loomed, rang and stayed in Eleven’s mind.
Instantly, he turned around and fired; twenty degrees lower than he was allowed to. And in good time, too. The spray of oil robbed everyone’s attention, and just as quickly, three men were picked up by the jaws of an impossibly quiet behemoth and subsequently destroyed. A shower of blood accompanied that of gunfire, which rained upon everyone’s skin and ears respectively as panic flooded in a blink. The Grinner, its foul-toothed smirk reminiscent of Mumble’s, teetered its head in the Tsuki’s direction before darting off again outside of view, having absorbed what little of their munitions struck.
Horror stopped Eleven from acting. It was exactly as Sven said. But then, how was the battle for the Facility so fruitful in comparison? The Felyn gave her answer when a roaring wave of flame built at her side was flung at an incoming mass. Twelve Crawlers were reduced to oil, like butter on a burning stove. To properly dispel these hellish creatures, magic had to be involved. Eleven felt powerless. A harsh clobber on the arm forced him to act, however, and so he accompanied the gunfire. Fruitless as it felt, it at least bought the spellcasters time. Though the Crawlers would not die, their bodies would still fall apart.
The smell of Blackpowder poisoned the air. It was the kind of smell you either loved or hated; be it for the aroma or the meaning behind it. Some people just loved killing, Eleven soon realised. The power behind their arms gave most of these soldiers a smile, even with their circumstances in mind. Some people, like Eleven, used their guns with less vigour. The thought of ending a life, even if yours is being threatened, felt cruel and unnecessary. Eleven wasn’t entirely convinced yet that reasoning with the enemy was out of the question. In fact, most of the conflicts that had been brought on felt instigated by Syndies first, and strangely, he was convinced that this tirade with the Crimsoneers might’ve been spurred in such a fashion as well. Eleven knew not to call the Syndies pure of heart. The memory of the hidden cemetery haunted his thoughts, and so he was forced to banish them each time lest he crumble under the weight of these sins he knew nothing of.
He stopped firing for a second, his hand grasping the cocking iron. The Last Resort Project came back to him at the worst moment. It made his blood chill. And then, the noise of drumming. Heavy thuds gave way to the bull-charge of a bigger threat just out of eyesight.
The Crawlers that staggered forth upon the roads were suddenly thrust aside and crushed by a stampede of something much more fierce. Their smooth heads reflected a brightness off their otherwise ink-black features. Their size was double, if not triple that of the average Crawler. These were the same beasts that rammed through the Facility’s windows. Bullets ricocheted or clung to the surfaces of their hardened headplates, their weighty footfalls unchanging to such forces.
“Bulkheads! Split up!” the second Lieutenant commanded.
“Take refuge!” the first said immediately after.
Eleven’s slackjaw kept him from moving. Even if they rearranged now, the mass of soldiers were too tightly together to move out of harm’s way smoothly. The Ocylot from earlier must’ve realised this as well, and joined three others in producing a blast of wind from their arms, hands and fingertips, stealing air from their surrounds to harness their strength, driving it towards the enemy. The others quickly made their move. Eleven’s hair blew into his face as he ran off into the smaller third of the battalion, which took refuge in the office room of a building to their side; having already barged in through the glass. Eleven threw himself through the jagged window frame and collapsed onto his shoulder, feeling his equipment dig into his bruises.
With jagged breaths, he dragged himself to his feet. The cries of oblivion cut from outside, indicative of the spellcasters’ collective sacrifice. To hold back a dozen Bulkheads with Gale alone was a task only befitting Un-Turbulus, Guide Earl of the winds. The time bought was precious still. Their honour would be assured.
“Where the fuck are the Yanksies?!” one among them cursed, her anger restrained to little effect by two men.
“If they’re in the same boat as us, they’re probably screwed,” a Private said.
“No, they’ve got a Harvie.”
“Harvies can only protect themselves.”
Eleven picked himself up off the ground. The gunfire from a street bend had attracted the Bulkheads away from the building, which was good, considering Eleven would have been flattened in an instant had they headed hither instead. The rumble—reminiscent of an earthquake—reduced to silence in little time. The feelings in his chest were conflicting. He dared not look at what flattened remains were on the streets now.
“What’s the protocol…?” Eleven timidly asked whom he saw to be one of the Lieutenants among them; the one that reprimanded Mumble. Eleven guessed the trio had split between the three groups.
“Circle around the enemy and eliminate the Shepherds.”
“What of the others?”
“We’ll regroup with Yanksie’s company and encircle our opponents. We can minimise casualties if we spread apart.”
The previously frustrated Corporal propped herself on her gun. “We could use a hound to sniff out our targets. Of course, we’re shit outta luck,” she said, scanning the troops that chose this path. There was a slim Gygant responsible for breaking into this place, two Felyns, four Mynotaurs and two dozen humans — none of which were Über. Except her.
“Anybody here have any useful spells?” she asked, producing a small bit of flame off her palm. Of course, she eyed the Cryptids.
A rough, feminine voice replied, “Earth stuff only.”
Another quieter speaker added, “Not a thing.”
The sound of falling dust was all that followed the Corporal’s silent anticipation for more volunteers. Whether they were too incompetent to profess their talents or genuinely unable, she was left with just two hopeless spellcasters. “This is terrible distribution. I’m left with all commons. Captain Garbel?” she said with a sigh, turning to her superior.
The Lieutenant shook his head. “Not my forte.”
“I’m asking for orders.”
“A moment, Iye. How many among you are Cadets?” His eyes scanned the room, and he soon picked up on a satisfying lack of trainees… minus one. Eleven’s raised hand made itself shown, peeking behind a Mynotaur. “Code?”
“Eleven, sir,” Eleven replied, still shaken.
“A short number. How fortunate for us.” He took his rifle under his arm and exchanged his used magazine, letting it clank noisily on the slippery floors. “Pick yourselves up. We’re moving.”
Eleven felt déjà vu, hearing that again. It was only then, when he took a look at his scarcely worn rifle, that he realised a thin, long line scarring its frame. A terrifying sight, even if survival felt less assured by the minute. Discipline was scarier somehow.
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The order was to traverse through the buildings. With so little magic to depend on, bayonets would be most effective. “Whomever is controlling these beasts is unlikely to coordinate them well indoors, through a labyrinth of walls and rooms,” Lieutenant Garbel said. To peril in the streets would mean running into Bulkheads, too, which would spell death.
“Permission to speak,” the Gygant said.
“Granted.”
“It troubles me how many neutrals joined this fight. Shouldn’t we have had more magical assistance?”
A rude gruff retorted. “We’re spread thin in that regard. I’ll remind you this is merely a disruptive appetiser. They want us to waste our casters. Besides,” Garbel emphasised with a jostle of his hip sword, “We of more mundane talents are not bare of arms. Their lackeys are useless without a head, be it their Shepherd’s or their own.”
Eleven, disturbed by the distant gunfire, decided to chime in. “What about our guns?”
“You can blow their heads off, can’t you?”
A bout of laughter took place at the teen’s expense. It hurt a little, but a smile soon grew on his face too. “But Lieutenant, why carry a sword?”
The Captain hummed an ominous snigger, caressing the grooves in the armsword’s grip. “Good question. For the satisfaction, young man.”
The quartz-hair Cadet felt his nerves spike at that answer. It took him a bit to respond. “It brings you satisfaction?”
The Lieutenant stopped, as did everyone else. Turning to the boy, he nodded. “Yes. It does.”
That piercing stare wasn’t easy to contest. “Isn’t… Doesn’t it make you feel wrong, hurting people in such a fashion?”
It was the Captain’s turn to take a while. The other soldiers felt the tension between them, and vouched to intervene. The Gygant stopped them. “I’ve slain people who didn’t necessarily deserve it, and yes, it’s no pleasant feeling. But these people aren’t normal. They aren’t people. They’re committed to death and destruction by creed. To what end is their forgiveness warranted? If they sought forgiveness, they could’ve stopped almost twelve thousand years ago.”
“Twelve thousand…”
“When we find the Shepherds, it’s crucial that you do not hesitate, young man.” The Lieutenant drew closer to the teen, who steeled his hold. “Do you understand? This isn’t an act of cruelty. We fight for our survival.”
Eleven felt inclined to bring up diplomacy, but the hardy glares cast upon him made him reconsider. Surely, he must be just ignorant. Surely, a truce has been attempted. Surely. An apologetic bow of his head was all he could muster, before their journey through the concrete jungle continued. The heat of the evening sun was beginning to seep through the windows, and sweat continued to build. The stress became aggravating.
“How will we find these Shepherds?” Eleven asked, wiping his lips of salty sweat.
“It just so happens I have an affinity of Illuminative magic; unfortunately I’ve not exploited such to great effect. To our benefit and my detriment, I can feel their presence like poison.”
Iye perked up at that, inquiring of his nature. His answer proved surprising to most.
“I’m a Quarterblood. Indeed, the blessed plasma of a distant Celestial courses through me. Though it’s odd to me, she likely still lives somewhere.”
Eleven’s intrigue persisted through his exhaustion. “You haven’t any wings?”
“Tiny things, I did have. Like a chick’s, they were. I cut them off. They embarrassed me.” His humorous zeal didn’t falter when a loud bang erupted closeby, shaking more dust off the ceiling and onto the team.
Iye glanced back at the rearguard, eyeing a Mynotaur. “Can you apply Terrestrial to keep us safe from a concrete cave-in?”
The bull snorted. “I’d be immobile.”
“Amazing.”
The Lieutenant’s iron left its sheath with a smooth glide to quickly behead a Crawler that dared ambush him from the entrance to a separate hall. The rest of the soldiers readied themselves for combat, the gunmen dropping on a knee. “I forgot how filthy your blood is,” Garbel said casually, an obvious air of contempt about him.
“Sir, retreat! We’ll cover you!” Eleven foolishly implored, to which his CO only showed amusement.
“Please.”
Two more drew closer, only to stop a few inches short from being destroyed by bullets. A cloaked figure showed themself further ahead. All the doors in the hall were closed, and so Garbel predicted the cultist to have fallen to a dead end. That, or this was a ploy.
Before his subordinates opened fire, Garbel raised an open palm and faced this sinister, albeit seemingly pitiful individual. “If you can’t even muster to break a lock, I’ll have to assume you to be a lesser ordained,” he said, wiping the edge of his blade with a cloth. “It’s surprising. Lackeys don’t usually last long enough to see the end of things.”
The cloaked figure retreated closer to the wall behind him. The two other Crawlers at his disposal growled, but in the face of their opposition, neither looked a threat. Instead, Garbel stepped forward, testing the Crimson’s patience.
“Lay your neck down, now,” the Lieutenant ordered, brandishing clean, bright steel, “it’ll all be over quickly.” Upon further inspection, he deduced the cloak to be a basic red hoodie, far from the ceremonial robes one would expect of a radical religious sect. The presence of the Crawlers was all that framed them of being a Crimsoneer. Whatever expression they wore, it was too hard to see under the hood.
The two Northbeasts leapt toward the Lieutenant, and both were gunned to shreds by the team behind him. The sound of gunfire within these confines was staggering, but the conviction on the CO’s face would not budge. His bootsteps made a tune like a swansong.
And then, the cold.
What Eleven once thought was a chill in his guts became more dramatic and obvious, to the point his fingers felt numb. The nerves made his teeth chatter, too. The cold bonded with his anxiety, his mind beginning to freeze over. A bang echoed behind him.
Garbel stopped and turned. “What are you…?! Stop, now!”
Eleven quickly spun around to find one of their own holding a rifle to a man who’s barrel spewed smoke; a clear act of treason. The Felyn he’d felled lay motionless in front of him.
“Don’t!” Iye tried to impede, but the soldier whose gun fixed upon the treasoner opened fire. Two Syndie cadavers now stained the ground. Garbel barely had enough time to turn before a snake-like vine skewered his chest. The soldiers watched in horror as their CO struggled to breathe with a ruptured stomach. His body raised an inch off the floor before the snake receded, its harpoon-like tip tearing a fist-sized gap in his abdomen.
All soldiers opened fire. Eleven’s grip on the rifle was loose enough to slip from his grasp upon holding the trigger. The rattle against the office floors shook him, fresh scars marking the barrel of his ward. A hand yanked him off his feet. The gun strapped to his shoulder smacked his chest hard enough to snap him out of it. He began to sprint by the shouts of Iye, who carried him through the corridors away from the amassing threats. Once again, the group had divided, except now it was just him and her.
“Corporal! The Lieutenant is——!”
“Fucking dead!” she drummed back, her authoritative tone reminiscent of Sergeant Heila’s, except with a distinct fear about her, too. Her previous frustration was one of worry, he quickly found out. The look on her face said it all. The situation had gone tits up so fast. Eleven wondered why they hadn’t been briefed on this. He wondered where Norman was now. Sven, Mumble…
The two soldiers, one still a trainee, ran on bated breath and loud bootsteps. The screams of men and women torn apart by Northbeasts was distressing enough to cover one’s ears, but with guns in arms, they had no choice but to listen. They ran toward the light. A distant door marked an exit from this labyrinth of monsters.
“Up ahead!” Iye screamed, steeling herself to break through it by charging a sphere of white and yellow flame. It was for nought.
The floor melted beneath them. Their boots phased through what should’ve been more porcelain floors. A terrified shriek filled Eleven’s senses. He didn’t have the voice to shout his own pleas. The space beneath his feet became so in similar timing to the vanishment of the entire segment of the building they thought they were in. Instead, they had jumped out an empty window. The illusion of their previous adversary had not escaped them as they hoped. It chased them silently, bore into their minds and made them leap to their deaths. A collection of rubble—the aftermath of a past Bulkhead—marked the ending of his journey. Eleven watched on, mouth agape, toward certain demise. Five stories was too high. The horrid scream of Iye proved as much.
Eleven closed his eyes.
♦ ♥ ♣ ♠
The riverbed was never silent at the drop of the waterfall, it seemed. Every year it widened an inch, and the drinking man pondered on the infinitude of the mountain stream, such that it allowed it to cascade so beautifully for all the years he’d been alive.
Emris clung to the metal rails and took another swig. The sun cast an orange visage over the distant horizon. He winced at the sight. Last he came to this place was with Alpha. The memories of his healthstruck leader, now replaced, left a bittersweet tenderness in his chest.
The gentlest steps accompanied the rustle of branches. Branches of feather. That great bird, a man despite, sidled up to Emris, dripping with sympathy. A gentleman cursed by age’s hand dropped upon the shoulder of a man destined to die. His sentence, by majority vote, had been decided. His life would end once this onslaught did. If the Crimsoneers could be dispelled, it would be his last mission served for Her world.
“Yours must be a burden colossal, dear one,” Apollo silently judged, lowering his gaze in respect for the Guardian.
“All’s a waste,” Emris spat still, clinging desperately to that rail, as though releasing it might make his time come quicker. “All’s a waste. I didn’t do shite.”
“You did these people a service beyond compare. Please, don’t succumb to your wrath.”
Emris said nothing, for all he had to say was poison. He tried to take another sip, but his arm was stopped. He looked down to see that grandfather of grandfathers try and stop him.
“Forgive my narrow-sighted words, but wasn’t it Moon who said you should drink less?” Apollo implored, putting both hands on the sturdier man’s forelimb. “Please, featherling.”
Emris showed his teeth and tugged him off. He didn’t drink. “Moon said she wouldn’t smoke. Last thing she’d wanted was a cig.”
Apollo frowned. “I’m positive she was better than that. Your memories are wearing away, Guardian.”
“... Perhaps, aye,” Emris conceded, placing the can on the rail. After a long breath, he asked, “How’s Aquila?”
“I’m surprised you wonder,” Apollo confessed, facing those serene waters with him. “She’s torn between her duties and her desires. She wants dearly to leave the nest and venture once more, but she knows better than to risk that.” The Skyborn breathed in that wondrous nature around them. “Aquila, she… misses you. Very much.”
Emris bit his lip. “She does.”
“Yes. Please, Fif—— Guardian Emris. Do visit her before then.”
The Brigadier turned when he heard the faint crack in the senile’s voice. His eyes shone like pearls in upset. He was a man of aptitude in wisdom. His time as a Skyborn had left him weary and weak. He was not meant to be a Major. Who did that remind him of?
Emris hummed. “Aye, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Captain,” a second voice intruded on the scene minutes afterwards. Apollo excused himself, retiring to his retainers to leave the two officers in peace. Emris noted the fragile darkness that loomed now.
“Can I help ye, Avel?”
“Why yes. Did you ignore me, you old bastard? Ignus has——”
“Ran off, aye. That miserable little brat. Colonels don’t go on cryin’ sprees over one fuckin’ soldier, och…”
Avel grumbled, toying with his lance. “Dab your spittle another time. He’s in Caesea now, doing Goddess-knows-what. Markus wagers it’s a strength debacle. Eugh, kids…”
“Too young to be a Colonel,” Emris agreed, spinning the can on that precarious surface. The temptation to drink irked him. “We’ll have to fetch ‘im.”
“I’ve been trying to get you to, but it’s like you’re forcing me to go. You do know I have twenty-six Lieutenants to pilot, right? Get off your ass and work,” Avel complained, thumbing the edge of the spearhead.
Emris turned to him with a sneer. “Oi, ain’t ye gettin’ too comfortable around me, maggot?!”
“Honestly Em, it’s just hard to take you seriously. Speak ill of that idiot all you like, do you deserve to be a Brig? Because I don’t think so.”
“Fuck’s that supposed to——?!”
Avel stood straight, unfazed. “Xavier earned his keep day and night. Erica was a slouch under a good sun, but she was first to volunteer if it kept her peers in good health. Katsze was a humble legend who kept us wise, you know well that to be the case. Bruttus pulls his weight and then some in any skirmish you put him through, and works himself to the bone on his off-time. Willow’s age keeps his battle readiness sore, but his brains still keep our soldiers alive to this day. What pleasantries do you bring, Guardian?” This defiance was met by silent fury. Avel had the gall to step forward, but Emris’ beastly glare kept him distant. “Hesitating to even battle, yet charging headlong into the messhole to nobody’s benefit. Making enemies of the trees because you don’t have the patience to work with the intelligence team. Showing up late to your meetings, and barely paying eye to your subordinates, even as they perish and leave us. Is Alpha the only person you care about among us?”
This exhaustive list only infuriated Emris. Despite the hostility, he didn’t act recklessly for once and only listened.
“It seems to me that your position was an act of favouritism,” Avel guessed, sharp and steady as per usual. “But who knows? I’m just a Colonel.”
Emris snarled. “... If ye’re so damn bothered by my likes, why don’t ye ask to get moved? Why the shite’re ye runnin’ yer damn lips off to me?”
“Because I want you to be better.”
“What’s that?!”
“Well, I think you’re a twat, but you’re still my Captain, Em. We want to see you act like one.” Avel turned around and began his leave. He stopped halfway. “The platoon’s running thin, you know. We’ve all got busy lives, but our jobs can’t just get ignored over booze and misery. How’d that make the rest of us think? Aren’t we worth your time?”
“... I’m tryin’, Avel,” the Guardian said, almost pleading.
Avel’s armour clinked as he shuffled his vest into a better position. “Try harder.”
On that note, Emris was left on his lonesome once more. He sighed between his gnashers, leaning on the rails. The Celestials’ visit had gone smoothly for them, at least, but his place in this Facility was now threatened, both career-wise and by the span of his diminishing mortality. He reached into his pocket and produced his treasured locket. He thumbed the silver shell that for so many years guarded his most precious possession. The brittleness of the steel chain, worn with time, didn’t go unnoticed. With renewed vigour, and as a Brigadier should, he began to ponder how best to resolve the matters at hand. That old engine in his brain had rusted with liquor and clogged with dust. To get those gears spinning again, oh to get them spinning, what might he have to do?
His eyes widened. He reached for his new communicator and activated it. Leaning into his wrist, he called, “Corvus, do ye copy?”