Senior Huntmaster Marlowe stared at a motionless mass of semi-translucent jelly the size of a truck, only partially visible despite being a mere twenty or thirty feet away thanks to the cloud of partially-dispersed smoke blanketing the area for over a mile in each direction. She turned to the Senior Logistician on the opposite side of the highway that skirted the rim of the park that had formed the Engagement Zone for the previous thirty minutes. Her voice was muffled slightly by her respirator and her eyes were shielded by her goggles. “What’s the friendly casualty count looking like so far?”
“None reported so far,” confirmed the Logistician, re-reading the clipboard in his grip. “Shock assault tactics proved effective at neutralizing the targets’ already-minimal armed defenses before adequate mobilization could take place. A full sweep of the E.Z. is expected to be concluded within fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect.” Marlowe examined the mound of jelly again, already more visible as the smoke spread and thinned out. She had only entered the engagement zone well after the last of the targets capable of armed resistance had been eliminated or fled the city. “This’ll make an excellent report for Torch.”
As a nearby ATV was filled up by a full complement of Huntsmen and pulled away back towards the Servants’ home base four miles away, the dim halo of approaching headlights were revealed behind the ATV’s grey bulk.
“And speak of the devil.” Marlowe dismissed the Logistician and gestured for her complement of two Huntsman bodyguards to step forward with her. As she waved at the approaching headlights, the enormous convoy of trucks, cars and tankers split off from the highway and turned towards an off-ramp leading into the nearby suburbs. Out of the dozens of vehicles, a single SUV responded to the Huntmaster’s hail and continued straight towards her through the snow before coming to a stop in what was more or less the middle of the road.
Three people stepped out of the SUV. First was an old man in a utilitarian jumpsuit, second was an ambiguously-aged man in a parade-style uniform, and third was a diminutive figure swamped in a jet-black cloak and hood save for a smooth pearlescent mask with a vertical viewing slit in the middle.
Marlowe stepped through the snow and extended her hand towards the man in the uniform. “Torch, hello. It’s great to–”
Kuravaan rolled his eyes and pointed Marlowe to Torch, who was silently standing next to him.
Marlowe blinked in confusion and turned to Torch. “Oh, um… Sorry, I thought–”
Torch reached back into the SUV and withdrew a sheathed longsword from under their seat. “I take it you are the Senior Huntsman who has assumed de facto command of operations in and around the Portland metropolitan area?”
“Uh, yes, that’s me.”
“Indicate to all managerial personnel directly under your supervision,” said Torch, “that they will henceforth be relaying all relevant duties to Prime Senior Huntmasters Kuravaan and Suleman.”
Suleman waved at his subordinate.
Marlowe looked between the three figures before her. “Wha–? I–I don’t understand why–”
“You are to report all information gathered to the present parties regarding the known status and location of the Burning One and affiliated groups or individuals, as well as any other directly pertinent intelligence,” said Torch. “Following said report, you will officially be relieved of duties as active head of regional operations, a position that will henceforth be jointly held by the aforementioned Prime Senior Huntsmen. You will be permitted to resume prior management of your personal cadre.”
Marlowe rubbed her arm nervously. When she’d received instructions from dispassionate superiors in the upper rungs of the military prior to the world ending, they had at least come in as much more manageable e-mails or memorandums. “…Um, in regards to operational works during my tenure as acting head of operations, what will the–?”
“The report, Huntmaster,” repeated Torch. “Make things quick.”
“A–As a matter of fact,” said Marlowe, suddenly grateful for her mask and goggles, “All such information has been extensively compiled by the assembled Logistician corps. I can have the local Senior Logistician compile a textual report with far more clarity than I could ever provide orally. Would that work for you, Torch?”
“Acceptable,” replied Torch. “Give the order for such a report. Afterwards, you will consider yourself formally dismissed.”
Over Torch’s shoulder, Kuravaan shrugged and waved the Huntmaster off. Marlowe quickly obliged.
By that point, the Huntsmen who had previously simply been milling about the area and cleaning up after a successful operation had noticed the arrival of Torch and their entourage. Dozens of Huntsmen, both masked and unmasked, congregated around the small SUV, eager to get a good look at the one who had supposedly made everything around them possible.
Torch’s gaze, invisible save for the subtle movement of their hooded head, swept across the still-growing crowd. “Mister Suleman, call in the exhibition.”
Suleman hastily nodded and moved back towards the SUV. Meanwhile, Torch turned back to the crowd before them. “Greetings, Huntsmen. I assume I need no introduction.”
Several of the unmasked Huntsmen gave elated whoops and cheers, while a few of the masked ones raised their arms in celebration.
The distant sound of helicopter rotors began to fade into earshot. “I notice,” said Torch, “that many of you Huntsmen, who were selected because of your perceived dedication to the cause of punishing those who wronged us, are not wearing your universally-issued gas masks, despite currently remaining on the site of a recent military engagement.”
The unmasked Huntsmen quickly shrank away slightly and fumbled for the masks clipped to their belts.
Torch grunted and looked over their shoulder. A cargo helicopter with a steel container hanging from its underside flew towards them from the darkness of the sky, its under-mounted headlights bathing Torch and their surrounding area in harsh light. Torch extended a gloved hand from the depths of their cloak and pointed to a spot on the road next to them. The helicopter hovered over the indicated point, dropped the container to the ground, and left to follow the rest of the convoy.
Torch stepped in front of the bolted-shut doors to the container. “Now that the rest of you have regained a sense of professional decorum, I would like to begin.”
Suleman looked at the container, sighed, and averted his eyes. Kuravaan remained stone-faced, his hands folded behind his back as he tried to avoid much notice.
Torch looked back at the shipping container behind them. “During my trip north to your operation, my entourage and I managed to capture a rogue Primus, one of the thousand children of the Chinese Domain.”
Several of the nearby Huntsmen, already hopped up on clearing out a nest of dimensional intruders, reflexively gripped their shotguns in anticipation of whatever happened next.
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“Do not worry yourselves,” said Torch. “I instructed my entourage’s Chosen keepers to return and resolve the issue publicly and safely once a suitable medium-term holding location within the city proper has been found. They should be returning soon.”
Torch went still as a statue after saying what they had wanted to say. The gathered Servants found their attention drawn to the shipping container when the sound of groaning metal broke the silence. A small portion of the container’s side was bulging outwards, the painted surface rippling like disturbed water.
Several Servants raised their arms and called out to gain Torch’s attention and pointed at the disturbance, while others readied their weapons. One Huntsmen even swung around a pintle-mounted LMG on top of an APC. Torch looked over their shoulder at the metal lump, which was now beginning to produce the sound of buckling metal. After a moment of staring, they began strolling towards the growing bulge. “Everyone present is to avert their eyes, this many people looking directly at a Primus is likely to grow to become a problem.”
They stopped in front of the bulge, which looked like it could burst apart at any moment. In a single deft motion, they unslung their sword from their back and buried it up to the crossguard in the metal. The bulge immediately retreated back into line with the rest of the container, as if it had never been pushed outwards in the first place.
Torch pulled their sword out of the container, which revealed a blade stained with streaks of gold. A pale blue light flickered in the vague resemblance of a pattern halfway up the blade, and the gold sloughed off and coagulated at Torch’s feet.
The surrounding crowd erupted into cheers and clapping at the sight. One Huntsman went so far as to fire their shotgun in the air like a parade salute.
Suleman nudged Kuravaan to get his attention. “If Torch needs anything from me, say I’m in the car. I can’t deal with this.”
Kuravaan rolled his eyes and indicated for Suleman to leave.
Torch slung their sword back over their cloaked shoulder. “Now that that impromptu recontainment has been resolved, I believe that there was a report intended for my reception.”
“Oh, um, that’s me!” A diminutive Servant in a plain jumpsuit pushed through the crowd and hurried forward to hand Torch a clipboard. “I and my subordinates have been assembling a full timeline of the events at this city for the sake of posterity. You can see a copy of the master document there, broken up hour-by-hour. It’s about six hours behind, but aside from the recent engagement at this location, no significant details aren’t present.”
Torch gripped the clipboard in a gloved hand, gave its contents a cursory glance, then tossed the clipboard over their shoulder, where it landed perfectly vertically in the snow next to the SUV. “I prefer oral reports.”
The Logistician’s face fell. “Oh. Well, um, I thought– If that’s the case, I can summarize–”
“Must I?” complained Torch. “We could get to important events much sooner if we decide what formalities are and are not worth it. It would not signal imminent failure to skip ahead once in a while, especially when we have already made it so far along in the process.”
The Logistician froze. “…Must you… I… Excuse me?”
“Thank you.” Torch turned and drifted back towards the SUV. “A report will not be necessary. You are to return to prior duties. Mister Kuravaan.”
Kuravaan turned and followed Torch back to the car. As he approached his door, Suleman leaned out and whispered at the Primus. “What was that?”
Kuravaan shrugged and climbed inside. “Doesn’t matter. We doubt you should ask.”
At Torch’s instruction, the SUV’s driver stepped out of the vehicle and opened up the boot, setting up a ham radio hooked up to a car battery in the compartment and tuning it to receive the signal of a southward relay station.
“This is ISC-USA-1,” said the driver. “Security code 8852. Requesting relay to HQ-USA-1 under authority of Torch, over.”
“This is RS-USA-5,” replied the radio. “Relay message… now, over.”
Torch leaned towards the receiver. “All cadres presently stationed at San Francisco, in addition to any other contactable cadres currently awaiting orders, are to immediately proceed to Portland, Oregon.” They walked back towards their seat in the car.
The driver took control of the radio. “That, uh, that– O–Over.”
“Relaying. Over and out.”
As the boot was closed back up, Torch took up their seat next to Suleman and sighed behind their mask. “One to three more days…”
Suleman ventured a glance at the cloaked form beside him. “…Until what?”
“I would recommend you concern yourself more primarily with your upcoming duties as co-Huntmaster of this city’s operations, Mister Suleman. I expect comprehensive sweeps of the aboveground portions of the city for Primoi, as opposed to current focuses on underground spaces.”
Suleman looked away and gazed out the window as the driver climbed back inside and started the SUV on its trek to catch back up with the rest of the convoy.
The magical apparatus that Torch had placed inside the cargo container seemed to have had an error in its construction, for what little Suleman knew of such matters. The bulge in the side swelled rhythmically in and out of view as though the metal box was breathing, the miniscule hole that Torch had punctured still leaking liquid gold like a weeping sore.
Suleman began to wonder how many Primoi Torch had ever actually killed.
-
Quet heard one of the wheels of her shopping cart begin to squeak again. She grabbed the can of oil lubricant from the child seat by the handle and reached down to apply a fresh spritz to the offending wheel. Such ministrations could only last for so long when the shopping cart was mostly rust by then.
Horan peeked his head around one of the hardware store’s aisles and looked at Quet, holding a coil of rope in one hand. “I just realized, if we aren’t factoring weight into the equation, can’t we just go outside and get some of those cables they hold telegraph poles i– telephone poles upright? Those are probably way tougher than just, like, a bunch of plants twisted together.”
Quet furrowed her brow and shrugged. “If you can think of a way to get those back down to the parking garage without it being a major hassle, I’m all for it. But those are, like, way thicker than normal rope, and made of steel or whatever, so having enough for a decent framework is going to involve a lot of heavy lifti–”
“Waia.”
“Oh, right, we have her now.” Quet stood on her tiptoes, which when combined with her prodigious height as a Primus allowed her to easily look over the aisles. “Waia, is it cool if we get you to carry fifty to sixty feet of metal cables back to the base? Also, if you say no, can I bribe you with a box of sanitary pads I found?”
Waia peeked over the aisles herself. “At this point, you could ask me to cut my own arm off in exchange for some of those things, and I would be tempted. Good thing I’m cool with carrying stuff anyway.”
Quet lowered herself back down and looked at Horan. “Yeah, she’s cool. Would it be cleaner if you conjured a sword and cut through the cables, or if Waia just flicked it and melted through?”
Horan shrugged. “Bold of you to assume I have the upper body strength to cleanly slice through a big metal cable.”
“I can confirm he doesn’t,” came Mark’s distant, muffled voice. It seemed like the new gas mask he had found on the group’s previous stop was already doing wonders for his audibility.
Not everyone was entirely happy with that new ability, of course. “You stay out of this!” shouted Horan.
Waia peeked her head over the aisles. “Guys, I hear someone outside talking. I think you might’ve got someone’s attention with that, Horan.”
Horan shrank into his clothes and looked down at the floor.
Next to Waia, Mark nervously looked out the few windows visible to him. “I’m not hearing anything, you know what direction they’re in?”
“Yeah, it’s… pretty far away.” Waia furrowed her brow and closed her eyes. “Nope, they stopped. Sounded like it was into a radio or something, and they might’ve had a mask on. Probably why they can hear us and not the other way round. Yeah, it’s all quiet. I lost ‘em.”
Mark jogged across the store and waved at Quet and Horan, putting a finger in front of his lips. “Waia heard someone. We gotta get this stuff back to base, now.”
Quet turned to glance out of the nearby window. “We’re calling our scavenger run off because Waia heard one person?”
“Yeah,” said Horan, “I mean, we can probably wrap up our collecting in, like, five more–”
“Do you want to play it safe,” said Mark, “or do you want to get a better picture of what happened to Omet?”
“I…” Quet froze, looked momentarily at Horan, then bowed her head, gripped the shopping cart, and pushed it past Mark.
Horan grimaced at Mark and followed suit. “You’re probably right.”