Seal 4.9

Bryce Kiley

2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria

Racing back to the refugee camp took me less than half the time it did ferrying the patients and Nurse Johnson. Without a literal ton of bodies to hold me back, I hopped into the air and cast Agility, leaving the fallback point in a streak of condensed vapor.

I returned to a scene of utter pandemonium. Rather than die down, it seemed like the inclusion of SRG reinforcements had only added to the violence. How many different factions were there? I saw the ghostly, ursine projections of the Protectorate leader, the gray and desert-tan uniforms of the SRG, and several figures who wore dust-brown shrouds over their faces. Beyond those three, I could see at least a dozen people in civilian outfits doing whatever they wanted, lashing out at whoever was closest.

From the north and east, the golems of Arsalan were making steady headway. I couldn't see much from above because of the dust clouds, but they looked to be grabbing and throwing people down, incapacitating them with what would in America be considered excessive force. They were bulletproof, the muffled pinging sounds from their stone armor made that clear. They were also supported by a flying figure and a pair of movers who fought with the men in shrouds.

As I got closer, I found that the flyer was either a changer or a Case-53. He had two sets of large, insectoid wings like a dragonfly. His spine protruded from his back around and over his neck, framing his head and looping out until it formed a spiraling spike of bone. He looked like a cross between a dragonfly and a unicorn and I named him "Flygon" in my mind. He was fast, zipping back and forth to skewer or pick up anyone who aimed at his leader. Even if he missed, a cyclone of wind followed his wake, leaching chaos behind.

The two movers weren't as fast, but they made up for that with area denial. One generated flaming trails with his footsteps, leaving behind a column of fire nine feet tall. The other had a force field that grew bigger the longer he ran, creating a mobile barricade and corralling everyone. To stay on-brand, I labeled them Rapidash and Rhyhorn.

Now that I was closer, I saw that neither Arsalan nor Flygon seemed overly concerned about leaving people alive. Flygon ripped through an assault rifle and the arm that was carrying it. A spiraling barrier of wind protected him from gunfire. Arsalan's stone soldiers had some kind of physics-bending effect, or were just that strong, because they left visible indentations in flesh and bone where they gripped.

Then I heard more gunshots and saw one of the men who'd been distributing supplies, identifiable by a sky-blue handkerchief wrapped around his upper arm, fall in a shower of blood. The kicker was that the bullets came from the direction of the SRG reinforcements. I was appalled by their callousness. These idiots couldn't see well through the intermittent sandstorm and rather than take care, they were choosing to fire blind.

It was all overwhelming. What had started as a riot had devolved into a true battlefield. Even civilians who had no powers were picking up dropped weapons, lashing out at the Syrian Guard to defend themselves. This was "riot breaking" as they knew it and it made me sick.

I had to do something. I stood up in the sky, overlooking the battle for the place where I could make the most difference. Then Nurse Johnson's advice rang in my head: Find Ursa Aurora. She was clearly the more palatable leader here. If anyone could get me a handle on the situation, it was her.

I found her after a moment. Unfortunately, she was currently directing her bears to defend against a brute in civilian clothes, a hidden cape who'd decided to unmask in the chaos or possibly a fresh trigger, while trying not to harm him. She was fighting like a Protectorate hero, to incapacitate and restrain, while the man was clearly fighting to end her. She could have dogpiled him with three bears, but was forced to split her attention to protect civilians who were still caught in the battle.

Around them, Rhyhorn and Rapidash worked together, using Rhyhorn's force field like a bulldozer to shove people together while Rapidash encircled them in a wall of flames. It was effective at keeping people in one place, but it didn't remove them from the battlefield. Worse, the flames covered the ones inside, making it harder to aim around them, and sent the rest panicking.

I couldn't dive in. Aurora had no reason to think I was an ally in this situation. If I dropped down on top of the riot, there was a good chance I'd only add to the chaos. Worse, I might distract the heroes, getting them hurt or killed.

I looked for somewhere else to land. Off towards the edge, what had likely been a safe distance away before the battlefield expanded to sweep him in, another tinker had deployed some kind of barrier. His safe space was like a calm in the storm and I could see aid workers and capes dragging downed people behind him. Thankfully, it seemed like there was some tacit agreement to not shoot at the barrier because no faction was trying to focus down the obvious medics.

I braked sharply, causing my torso to continue forward into a front flip. With my head pointed at the ground, I kicked off again into a sharp dive. I punched through a cloud of swirling sand and landed just in time to shield someone else, a civilian who'd fallen and had chosen wisely not to get up for fear of the flying hazards. Swirling my cape in front of me, I triggered the shield module and watched as a hail of bullets made my force field ripple.

The civilian shouted something at me in Arabic, but I ignored him. I picked him up by the scruff of his neck and skated backwards until I was behind the other tinker's bunker.

"What the hell happened?" I yelled.

"I don't know!" the tinker shouted back. He was young, about my age, probably a Ward then. I pitied him. This was a shitty situation to be in for someone who probably couldn't even drink yet. I at least had my past life to fall back on.

"I'm Creed, independent. You?"

"Shelter, Flechette, and Jouster from the New York Wards," he said. His voice was cracking, just on the bridge of hysteria.

I swore. Flechette was here? Lily. Foil. Sting. The closest person Earth-Bet had to a "chosen one." The stakes just got way higher in my eyes. More or less every cape in Gold Morning was replaceable, except her. I didn't know if she was here in canon or not, but if she died, we were so fucked it wasn't even funny.

That did it. Even had I not had that chat with Faultline last night, Flechette's presence here would have forced me to take their side. She was just too vital for me to do anything else.

"Report to Ursa Aurora. Independent, putting myself under the command of the local Protectorate leader. You've got to have SOP for this."

The imposition of protocol seemed to have helped him get himself in order. He nodded and spoke quickly into his mic. "Shelter to Ursa. Indie Creed is here, placing himself under your command. You have a radio in that helmet?"

He then rattled off a channel number I linked my pokenav to. A moment later, I heard a woman grunt into the mic. "Shit," she swore. There was more fighting in the background. "What can you do?"

"Medic. Ranged stun. Personal force field. I can fight too," I rattled off.

"Heal the ones near Shelter first. Then go incapacitate who you can and evacuate the ones who need it. Keep this line open."

Obvious, but that was fine, simple was good. I just needed the Protectorate to know not to take potshots at me. I nodded towards Jouster and Flechette, the latter drawing my eye more than once, and did my best to slot into their teamwork.

We quickly fell into a rhythm. Jouster dragged patients towards me, Flechette took potshots at people to keep them off his back, and I laid hands on the patients. We were making good progress. Slowly but surely, we were thinning the number of civilians. Even if they had lashed out in the chaos, we dragged as many behind Shelter as we could and fixed them up before shoving them away from the riot. It wasn't like they were going to charge back into the melee now that they'd been fished out.

Several minutes in, when a decent chunk of the fighting had died down, we heard our radio crackle to life.

"What do you think you're doing," came the guttural crackle of the SRG leader.

"Us? What the hell are you doing shooting at civilians?" Ursa Aurora said hotly.

"They are not civilians. They are terrorists. They became terrorists when they picked up weapons."

"You're hitting civilians in the crossfire!"

"They hide behind human shields. That is not our problem."

"That's not how we do things."

"That is how we do things." Flygon swept down and tried to wrench Flechette's arbalest from her. She yelped but held on. "You foreigners need to stop interfering with my soldiers."

"Your soldiers need to stop firing into civilian crowds!"

One of Prism's clones had come over and shoved a confoam grenade in Flygon's face, forcing him to fly away in a shower of scattered foam. Flechette simply removed the friction between her and the foam and slipped it off like she was taking off a sweater.

Prism's other two clones were trying to corral a man in civilian garb who seemed to be skating around with ribbons of scything energy in his hands. As I watched, one clone distracted him while a ghostly bear bowled him over from behind, a confoam grenade in its mouth. Then, that bear's head burst into light as a shrouded man helped up Ribbons.

"My men are keeping the law. They are terrorists so we shoot them. We are not soft, girl," I could hear the sneer through the radio. Syria wasn't exactly known for women's rights. I wondered if it had been a mistake for Legend to send Ursa as the leader of his contingent.

By the growl coming from Ursa's end, the dig hadn't gone unnoticed. It probably wasn't even the first time. "We're not letting you kill them, Arsalan."

"You are under my command in Syria. You don't let anything. Pull back. We will subdue the riot and take in the terrorists."

The connection fell silent for a few seconds.

"What now, Ursa?" Prism asked. I realized Shelter had cut Arsalan out of the channel on Prism's orders.

"Some of these are probably political dissidents," Ursa said. Her voice sounded tired, her fire gone out now that it was just her team and me. "We're pulling back. Syria's issues aren't our job."

"Not all of them."

"Most of them are just desperate," Flechette cut in.

"I'm aware, but I can't risk you guys," Ursa said.

"Bullshit!" the one I took to be Jouster said fiercely. He looked like he was a second away from charging the SRG, the definition of a gung ho cape. "We're heroes. I don't give a damn what the fucking pussycat says. I'm not going to stand around and let him kill people because it's convenient. Or arrest them so they can be killed quietly."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"It's protocol. You're more important. Between you and them, I'll choose you every time."

"And fuck protocol, Ursa. We're here to save lives. There's nothing normal about this situation. I say fuck him. We take him down and take care of this our way."

She was silent for several seconds. Judging by his reply, I wasn't sure if her orders to stand down would be followed. Truthfully, I wasn't sure what I wanted them to do. Part of me wanted them to pull back, it'd be the simplest way to keep Flechette safe, but another part empathized with the Jouster and the people here.

I idly knit someone's lacerations together and watched as three more bears materialized in the distance, creating a barricade as she and an aid worker pulled someone my way.

Ursa let out a defeated sigh. It was the sound of a parent who knew she'd lost control of the situation. "And the rest of you? Do you feel this way?"

"You know me," Prism said with an audible smile.

"I'm with my leader," Shelter added, though with a nervous gulp. Lackluster response aside, I glanced his way to find eyes full of conviction.

"Yes, ma'am." And Flechette made three.

Ursa took a deep breath and stood up straight. I heard Shelter open up the comms again. "No," she said firmly.

"No?" Arsalan asked. He'd reached the end of his patience. Like it or not, he did have the legitimate legal authority here. "If you assist them, you will be considered enemies of the state."

I'd heard enough. They'd made their decision so I'd have to go along with it. Once again, the gung ho heroes made things more complicated than they needed to be. I couldn't say I entirely disapproved.

I cut in with my customary shit-eating grin. "Well, that sounds grand."

"Medic."

"Creed. Get the name right, pussycat."

"You will return and treat my soldiers."

That caused everyone to look my way. I didn't appreciate the sudden spotlight, but it couldn't be helped. I was being told to pick a side. I could do the legal thing. Or I could join Ursa and effectively become an enemy of the state. Or, and this was always an option, I could just fuck off out of here like this wasn't my problem.

I'd promised Faultline. And Amy. And myself.

I was Creed; when I first started out, I took up that name because I wanted people to know, no matter whether I stood as a hero or villain, I was a cape with principles. I knew, at least in the abstract, what Earth-Bet did to capes, and wanted a reminder to be someone who could look himself in the mirror when all's said and done.

In light of that, my choice was obvious. I'd never been the legal sort, anyway.

"My Wards don't answer to you," Ursa snapped and I realized I'd not spoken in too long.

"The medic is not a Ward," Arsalan growled. "Go heal the soldiers. There are men who deserve healing, not terrorists."

I took a deep breath to calm myself. It barely worked. I'd seen this man stomp into a riot and instantly start putting people to death. Then he had the gall to demand that the only medic here, who wasn't even Syrian, be reserved for his men, as if they weren't responsible for half the bloodshed.

Faultline was right. In the end, I wasn't fooling anyone, not even myself. The mass-murdering fuckwit could die in a fire.

With deceptive calm, I finished up healing the patient and spoke, "Nah, I think I'm good here, pussycat."

"You will go join my men, boy."

"See, I'm no friend of Ursa's. I'm actually something of a villain, but I happen to agree with the heroes for a change. It's in the name. I'm all about contracts. Oaths. And I see the laws of war as a contract of sorts. It's not hard, you know? Don't shoot civvies. Don't disrupt hospitals. Generally don't be a dick."

I stood, pulling my patient to his feet so he could stumble away to his coworkers. My body was tense, Crown Chimera primed and ready to burst at speed. This would be my first battle since I crashed the Empire and Merchants. The stakes were so much higher than just a tussle between the gangs.

"The way I see it? Your men shot civvies. Your men made the riot worse. Your men forced the medics to evacuate, denying your own people life-saving treatment. You broke the rules, Arsalan, so the rules don't protect you or yours."

"Then you will die with the rest," he swore. Then, louder so his men could hear, he shouted something in Arabic. I didn't know what he said, but the way they looked at us made the intent clear.

I skated back until I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Prism.

"You could leave," New York's second-in-command suggested.

"I could, but I don't think I could face The GOAT if I did," I replied with a wan smile she couldn't see. "So, Ursa Aurora, Shelter's said so before, but I'll make it clear: Until we head stateside, I'm under your command."

"Much obliged, Creed. Do what you can to help. I don't know enough about you to command you." She quickly took control and began to bark out orders. She quickly had her group pull back and take cover with Shelter. With our side made up mostly of aid workers, we didn't have the manpower or weapons that the SRG did. They had a lot of soldiers, but we had a far better defensive encampment thanks to Shelter.

The rebels? rioters? terrorists? had largely set aside any quarrels between them to consolidate into a third faction, led by the men in tan shrouds. They included a shaker who made sandstorms, someone who could make glass constructs, someone who could phase through solids, and a blaster who could make all bullets track a target. A few of the recent triggers, or capes who'd been going plainclothes, had sided with them. Their lack of uniforms made it hard to tell who was and wasn't a cape, but most all of them had picked up at least one type of firearm.

A few people had upended some cars to use as cover. They looked like they were more likely to fight the SRG and the Lionguard, but would likely take the chance to take us out too to secure supplies if they saw the opportunity. I didn't know how this mess started, but they didn't seem like a priority compared to the actual armed soldiers.

"If we can convince them to work with us, we could subdue Arsalan," Ursa said to an aid worker. "How's your Arabic?"

I couldn't hear the other end, but her curse made the answer clear. I doubted words alone would work anyway.

That was all I could glean before Flygon swept around again. He headed for one of the rebels while ignoring the bullets that seemed to ping off a wind barrier emanating from his horn. He was fast, far faster than I'd given him credit for earlier. A scream of pain filled the air as he skewered a man on that horn, ferrying him into the sky. Then, with a contemptuous laugh, he threw him down on top of a car.

The sandstorm started to die down, which meant he was the shaker. He was too fast for anyone to strike at directly and both Ursa and Prism were groundbound. It'd end in a second if Flechette could land the hit, but she didn't look like she could make the shot, or would be willing to given the lethality of her power.

"Guess I have my opponent," I muttered. I kicked off, heading straight for the injured cape. "Ursa, I'm taking flyboy."

"Got it, see if you can save Dust Devil while you can. That might get them to work with us," she barked.

"Yes, ma'am."

I cloaked and cast Agility, racing over just in time to kick Flygon on the side. I felt like I'd kicked the oil tanker back home. He felt so dense and the barrier of wind around him automatically parried my foot, making it grind it skid away along the spin. Still, he was kept from diving back towards Dust Devil to finish the job.

I landed on top of the shaker and began to repair his vitals before he bled out. It wasn't easy; alchemy wasn't an instant magic spell. Every time I tried to focus, something would distract me. A bullet I had to shield us from, Jouster running lance-first into Rhyhorn, the flaming cyclones caused by Rapidash running in an overlapping circle, healing in the middle of a battlefield was a far different task than healing in a medic tent.

I couldn't do this alone. I reached for my pokenav and pressed the recall beacon. When I built the device, I'd made it with SAINT in mind. The pokenav wasn't just a place for SAINT to interface with my helmet; it was SAINT's home. There was, for lack of a better phrase, a porygon-shaped hole in its programming. I used it now to call him back. Coupled with our burgeoning aura bond and the Pledge Regalia's function as a scanner, he'd be able to hear it.

"Please tell me I can trust you, Wieldmaiden," I whispered. I scooped up Dust Devil into my arms and leapt, spinning in the air to avoid Flygon's horn by inches.

We settled behind an upended truck. A few of the men shot at me but I let the Germa Suit tank the bullets and got to work. I just needed a few seconds without having to focus on my shields.

"How is he?" someone asked in a thick accent. He was almost incomprehensible. In the din of combat, it took me a second to realize he was speaking English. He shouted something and got people to stop shooting at me.

"Spine's a mess. I'm just going to rebuild his internal organs," I said quickly. "He won't walk, but he'll live. Give me time."

The man nodded stiffly and began barking orders. I noticed that of the men in tan shrouds, he was the only one unarmed. Then he reached into his sleeves and drew out some bullets. He placed them on his palms and flicked each, launching them to seek out the soldiers in curving arcs. That made him the one the Wards called Deadeye.

I opened up my suit mic. "Ursa, I've located Deadeye and Dust Devil. You're on speaker. He speaks English. Talk."

I didn't know what was said, I was too focused on treating Dust Devil. All the pieces needed to be there. They weren't. Flygon had ripped a hole clean through his stomach. The wind barrier had only widened it, ripping up internal organs and turning the spine to so many splinters.

I had to work with what I had. I first converted his wool shirt to skin, melding it to his abdomen so he wouldn't bleed out. The result was a gray, hairy thing, patchy and disgusting, but it'd hold until this shit show was over and I could heal him properly. I then converted all the fragments of his spine into blood to replenish what he'd lost. Lastly, I tackled the task of slowly reconstructing his damaged organs. He wasn't fixed, not by a long shot, but he wasn't in danger anymore.

"I'll come back to regrow his spine later," I told Deadeye.

"Thank you." He was about to say more, but Flygon was back. He'd flown up high in a giant loop like a rollercoaster before using gravity to empower his charge. He let out a bark of wild laughter that sounded like the howling wind as he rushed our position. Deadeye tried to shoot him down but the barrier of wind kept him safe. "Duck!"

I stepped forward and swept my cape in front of me. My shield module came to life, forming an array of yellow hexagons before me. I tacked on Protect behind it and the world took on a greenish tint as the move took hold.

Flygon could have gone around; he was incredibly agile. But he saw me take a defensive stance and took it as a personal challenge. His entire body straightened out, becoming a spear shrouded in spirals of wind.

We clashed with a deafening roar and I winced as a pressure like a meteor shoved me into the ground. I gritted my teeth and watched as my shield's integrity dropped rapidly, from ninety-eight percent earlier to sixty. Twenty. Then it was gone, the shield module overwhelmed in a single, overwhelming strike. Protect took the rest, but I could feel my aura straining to contain the force.

It reminded me of that time I'd punched into Skidmark's dump-dozer. In a fit of pique, I'd called it Giga Impact. Except this time, I was on the receiving end and Flygon's move was unlike my own in one respect. He'd turned himself into a drill rather than a hammer, concentrating all the force of his momentum onto a single point and making himself exponentially harder to guard against.

I felt my Protect crack. The move was demanding at the best of times, there was a reason pokemon didn't use it constantly.

I readied myself. There wasn't a martial art on earth that could deflect what was effectively a miniaturized rod from god, but I did have Recover. If I let him skewer me and launched myself to the side with After Burner, I could probably drag him with me, redirecting his momentum from those behind me. It'd hurt like a bitch, but I had self-healing; these guys probably didn't.

Then I saw something that made me delirious with laughter. Off in the bottom left corner of my UI, a tiny, pixelated figure of a duck poked its head.

SAINT had arrived. And judging by the emoticons he kept spamming, he was pissed.

Without orders from me, he popped out into the world as Flygon broke through my Protect. Then, despite his best efforts, he came to a screeching halt as he was met horn-first against yet another Protect.

"Pory? Pory-GON!" SAINT cried out. The eviolite hanging from his neck shone brilliantly. Aura was fucky and right now, I was all for aura-based nonsense.

SAINT was not a porygon-Z. He had an eviolite. Ergo, he was a tank. This little, blocky duck was built like a vault door and I was all for it.

His Protect covered a small hemisphere in front of himself. He watched, thoroughly unimpressed as the rest of Flygon's momentum fizzled out.

Then I had the pleasure of watching the cape's eyes widen in panic as SAINT charged up a Thunderbolt. That got him to abort a punch towards my face, as if SAINT would let that connect, and backpetal into a steep rise.

"I'm going to follow," I told Deadeye. "No one else can keep up with him in the sky."

He nodded grimly. "We have no flyers."

"SAINT, you with me?"

"Pory."

I shot off into the air. It was unfortunate; I didn't want to reveal SAINT like this, but it couldn't be helped. There would be questions, but I'd just have to deal with those as they came. If push came to shove, The GOAT's organization would gain a new member.

I'd underestimated these guys. Though Flygon seemed to be their only flyer, he was a heavy hitter, fast and strong like very few capes in the world. I'd also failed to account for how willing they were to get lethal. It was one thing to know or even see, another for that killing intent to be directed towards me.

I wouldn't be making that mistake again.

Author's Note

SAINT ex-machina. He is truly the best duck. And you thought Bryce was the star of this show. Am I setting up a Dragonslayer arc? Hmm…

Random fact? Sure. Everything has a different terminal velocity, defined in layman's terms as the point at which you physically can't fall any faster, no matter how high the drop. This is because as you gain speed, you also press the air beneath you faster, building more resistance until the two forces, gravity and air resistance, balance out.

That should be intuitive, but what isn't obvious is that some animals can survive their terminal velocity. The most famous of these is the humble gray squirrel. Yes, that's right, squirrels don't take fall damage. Unlike cats, those lying bastards.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.