“Eight.” Ratcatcher slapped the floor with her tail. “You want to treat this battle as a game?”
“Should I not?” Eight arched his brow. He was taller than them, his shoulders broader, despite a lack of power armor. The man inhaled the poisonous atmosphere in the room without a gas mask, and droplets of sweat glistened on his temples, and something gummy leaked out of his left nostril.
“Great!” Ratcatcher clapped her hands, wounding the tail around Vasily’ and Carlos’ torsos to stop them. The other trainees glanced at her; even Maximilian scowled, thinking she was crazy. In a sense, she was. Anger, fear, worry, a desire to run, a desire to show Eight — all have intervened into a knot of emotion, pulsating in unison with the aching caused by the sickness. “Every game has rules, and each game has a prize.”
“Not each game,” Eight corrected her. “There are plenty of games children are playing for the sake of it. Tag, for example. Street urchins are often…”
“Well, our game will have a prize, or we are leaving. Got it, filthy body snatcher?” Carlos snapped and leaned closer to Ratcatcher. “What sort of prize do we need?”
“A Barjoni whelp calls another a thief.” Maximilian shook his or her head, and the blood dirtying the long mane of the blond hair dried and fell away.
“Have you all gone mad?” Elina stomped on the ground.
“I’d echoed your sentiment, but you are all unsane. Such is the nature of humanity…”
“Shut up, bloodthirsty maniac!” Vasily threw to Maximilian. The androgynous figure gritted his teeth, and its fingers crumpled the cloth on the forearms, glaring at the boy with hatred in the rainbow eyes. “You already chickened out of the fight, so keep your stolen mouth closed and let us settle it among ourselves!”
“You will die. And die horribly,” Maximilian promised him.
“Yeah, yeah.” Carlos waved his hand. “You know we’d be more afraid of your words if any of your promises came true. You promised to exterminate humanity over a century ago, and we are still kicking! You claimed mankind would exterminate itself, and guess what?” He paused dramatically. “We are building up and multiplying, lowborn whoreson!”
“You won’t be multiplying at…”
“He failed even at the extermination of his own family, and he had a surprise shot at them,” Vasily talked over Maximilian. “Carlos, tell me, what do you call someone who failed to wipe out his own family, despite having the element of surprise, and who has had to run from his brother ever since?”
“A loser.”
Veins tightened at the androgynous face. The elegant nails turned into claws, tearing out strands of hair and clicking with barely concealed rage. A tap of an elegant leg scattered a shoe, landing a piece against Vasily’s visor.
Ratcatcher thought Maximilian would strike at them. In her soul, she sang praises to Vasily’s and Carlos’ quick thinking. Both Argus and his wicked brother were prone to temper tantrums. Well, maybe not Mr. Argus. But his psycho of a brother was a rabid animal, biting everyone in his path. If they can rile him up enough and he’ll concentrate his wrath at them, then they can lure him off the ramp, away from the hostages, and right into the Avengers’ firing line! Genius, boys! You’re the best!
Eight coughed, moving to stand between them and his master. Maximilian scowled and turned away, calming himself and examining the fumes streaking out of Hustler.
“If we win, I want the Numbers to return control of the bodies to their owners! I want you to let the captured people go!” Ratcatcher pointed a finger at Eight.
“Not happening.” He shook his head, surprising her. She expected him to lie and accept her terms right away. “I can’t handle over something…”
“Someone!” Elina snarled.
“Things belonging to the Creator or the higher-ups.” Eight ignored the interruption. “Neither am I in control of all the lesser Double and Triple digits. If you wish, I shall promise to relinquish control of this body…”
“We ag…”
“For how long?” Carlos asked, slapping Ratcatcher over the faceplate to keep her silent.
“Clever boy.” A smile touched Eight’s lips. “The thieves’ spawn is correct, wretched creature. Formulate your prize very carefully.”
Ratcatcher paused, licking her lips. Eight won’t stand still for too long; she can see the boredom in his eyes already. The man won’t let them buy any more time; any moment now he will attack. And that was okay; she had bought enough time for Wivin to rest and approach the ramp. The Avengers had pushed their opposition away, and three of them were reloading the shoulder cannons.
The trap was ready, and there was no time to waste. They did not know when Maximilian will drop the hostages, and she had no desire to find out what sort of evil the bastards prepared in the vat. Only… only she could perhaps push her luck a little further.
This man, whose body Eight had stolen. Who was he? The Numbers often changed the physical appearance of the bodies they took, keeping the same face on rare occasions when they wanted to infiltrate or torment someone. Could this man be a criminal? Perhaps even a murderer? If so, there was no point in even attempting to save him; the Oathtakers’ laws had dealt harshly with the unrepented criminals. And even if not, even if he is a regular Abnormal civilian, what chances does he have in the procedure to have his body purged off the parasite? Such procedures often end the lives of those they are supposed to save.
Why should they try to save him or anyone else? Are she and her friends heroes? Not even close; they are training to be glorified grave robbers on the government payroll. They took no oath to preserve the lives of everyone they encountered, nor did they promise to exercise restraint like the Elites. All of them had families at home….
And none of it mattered; Ratcatcher understood. Not to her. There was no one else who could try to save this man. Bad, selfish, good, ordinary… She can’t assign a value to a life. Treat others like you want to be treated. So be it. She has a chance. Let’s give it a try.
“I want…” she started slowly, uncoiling her tail, thinking about every word, and cursing at a lack of possibility of asking Elina for advice. “You are to promise that you will not kill or intentionally endanger the body you are using right now or its owner. I want you to promise that you won’t drive him or her insane or torment them physically or mentally in any way,” she added, remembering how Maximilian had changed a body in a flash. “And no putting them in danger for the sake of it! Promise that you won’t kill them!”
“Hm…” Eight pursed his lips. “Fine. Should you win, I’ll abide by the spirit of our deal. I won’t kill this thing.”
Elina snapped her fingers, sending a shockwave at Eight. It raced to him, flattening parts of the ramp, and the Number faced it head-on. He didn’t leap in the air, as Elina hoped; the Number didn’t dodge; he kicked, separating the shockwave in two and enduring the recoil thanks to his enhanced body.
Carlos and Vasily flanked him, leaving the front for the girls. They had planned to get behind the Number and take him down in a pincer attack. A kick at Vasily’s knee has dropped the boy, and a casual swing with an elbow landed on Carlos’ forearm, driving him back. Ratcatcher jerked Vasily out of the wide horizontal kick and dove underneath it, teaming up with Elina, who jumped over it. A heel tap slammed her face into the floor, and Eight used this living footing to twist in the air, evading a shockwave aimed at his face.
The Number made a barrel roll, kicking Elina under the jaw with enough force to send shards of armored visor flying, and his next kick into Ratcatcher’s shoulder scratched a two-meter-long line with her helmet. The attack hurt like hell. Its impact reached the skin and reverberated in the muscles, shaking veins, despite the best efforts of the nanomachines in her shoulder to dissipate it. Worse, it furthered the damage to her armor, straining its already overburdened restoration efforts, and the wound in her sliced breast reopened. The nanomachines sealing it left the damaged area to replenish the thinned layer of alloy armor.
Carlos caught Elina, sending the spinning girl back, and thanks to her rigorous training, she landed on her feet, shaking her head to snap out of the blackout. The Barjoni kicked with his right leg faster than the eye could follow, missing Eight by a centimeter. The Number responded with a sweep of his own right leg and added a kick with his left, sending Carlos into the floor. Eight didn’t regain his balance; he fell after the boy, the tip of his elbow aimed at his opponent’s head. Vasily’s grab drew Carlos from the elbow slam that left a deep dent in the metal floor.
“Done already?” Eight asked the panting trainees, standing on his right elbow.
He didn’t smile. He wasn’t even enjoying it; Ratcatcher understood. Eight could’ve killed them all; the man’s skills far exceeded theirs. He knew when to time his attacks, stopping Carlos before he could gain acceleration enough to turn into an inconvenience. Where their armors transmitted vision of the battle straight on their retinas and the automatic systems carefully filtered it out to prevent information overload and keep the team’s vision complete at all times, the Number relied on his vision and ears only. And his sense of battle felt impeccable, unbeatable…
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Mom was stronger than Dad, too. Ratcatcher stood on all four, painting and buying herself time to think. No matter how strong the opponent is, he still only has four limbs, right? And if they can’t beat him by attacking, then this leaves another choice.
“This isn’t working,” Vasily said after sealing his helmet to remove any ability for outsiders to overhear him. “Listen, I want to save these people and all, but we are way over our heads here.”
“Leave, if you are afraid,” Carlos replied. “Eight had me experience a near-trepanation the last time, and Barjonis always pays their debts.”
“I ain’t no coward!” Vasily snapped back. “But seriously, he reads our every move!”
“Because we let him.” Ratcatcher groaned and touched her shoulder, feinting submission, and something akin to enjoyment flashed in Eight’s eyes. “I have an idea…” she told them her plan.
“No way that’ll work,” Elina said. “He’d have to be an idiot to fall for it. Hell, even Carlos wouldn’t fall for it!”
“He isn’t an idiot. Someone else is,” Ratcatcher said. “You with me?”
“Wouldn’t miss it in a lifetime,” Carlos assured her. “Drinks on me when we win!”
“He owes me a ball,” Vasily said.
“I am in the mood for crazy. Let’s try it,” Elina gave a nervous chuckle.
They switched off the private communication channel. There was no point in using any more words. Their plan will either work or it won’t; there are no in-betweens.
“I heard no bell.” Ratcatcher rose, saying words out loud and beckoning the Number. “Are you going to fight or lay and wait for Argus to come and whoop your master’s ass again, Eighty-boy?”
“You dare?!” It wasn’t Eight’s anger. He still had the same cold, almost dispassionate eyes, confident of his victory. But the rage, the pure, unadulterated frenzy whipping out of Maximilian, had spurred the Number into action and driven him to say these words rather than a snarky retort.
He lost his composure. As simple as that. Maybe this wasn’t all his Creator’s fault; perhaps Eight himself had an axe to grind with Mr. Argus. Whatever the reason, Eight had gone on the offensive, leaping off the ramp on his elbow and spinning in the air to land a bone-crushing downward kick at Ratcatcher’s head.
And it was all they needed to be. Eight had taught them this when he had defeated Carlos years ago. What do you do when your enemy is faster than you? Why, you make him attack in the area of your choice!
Elina faced the incoming leg. The kick should’ve shattered both of her wrists, but the teen had unleashed a single, prepared shockwave, strong enough to meet the incoming impact and slow it down. Ratcatcher took the opportunity and jumped, striking with her tail, making Eight lean his head aside. She anticipated this too, and the tip of her tail speared across his ear, ripping off his golden earring and some flesh.
Now he is pissed. Ratcatcher smiled through fear, the time itself slowing down to a crawl. Here she was, flying forward and seeing a promise of painful murder through dismemberment in the once calm eyes. The sudden shift from a winter to a raging inferno almost drew her back to the times when the nightmares had left her screaming, and this time there wasn’t Mom or Dad nearby to hug her or tuck her back into bed.
Rage, true rage, gives a person an impressive edge in battle, unlocking hidden potential and letting a person to ignore wounds to a certain degree. It also causes blindness, creating a narrow tunnel between a fighter and his victim, engulfing everything in a berserker’s haze that narrows the options to kill, maim, and destroy. And by making herself the focus of this anger, she had opened up other opportunities.
Eight opened his eyes wide, feeling an uppercut landing at his groin. She could’ve sworn that she heard loud popping sounds as Vasily’s fist lifted the Number higher, but the sound got deafened by an explosion of sound produced by Carlos’ legs. He caught Eight’s remaining leg, bringing him on the metal knee down, and stabbed the man in the abdomen with his own knee. And Ratcatcher’s feet landed straight in the surprised face, breaking the nose and sending him splatting against the hardened wall.
Anger, confusion, rage, surprise — a kaleidoscope of emotions flashed on Eight’s face. They didn’t charge after him, not right now. Timing was everything, and they understood without saying a word that death awaited them if they took even one more step. Eight’s size remained the same, and yet Ratcatcher experienced a feeling of being towered over by a gigantic beast, a predator akin to a matriarch spider.
“Okay,” Eight said in a high-pitched voice, regaining his composure. He took himself by the nose and fixed it, blowing his nose clear of green and red. “From this moment on, no more games.” His fingers cracked, stretching to the length of daggers and turning into gleaming steel.
A shot against the pillar snapped everyone out of their concentration. Maxmilian whirled to witness a hissing hole in the mainframe; his finger snapped, and the wall moved, shifting to block the incoming barrage of the Avengers. The survived shamblers and Numbers charged out of the cover, attempting to tackle the Trolls and failing to do so as the team had spread wide enough, forcing Maximilian to raise a second hand, creating another wall that stopped explosive munition from reaching the bubbling vat.
Ratcatcher raced. The turning point was now! Eight stood confused, his master occupied, and Hustler was no longer a threat. The console! Reach the console! They charged together, hearing the stomping steps at their backs and a swoosh through the air when Wivin’s blade ended a Number’s life who had tried to sneak at the group from the rear.
Eight’s eyes darted left and right. He didn’t even look at the girl, but when she passed him, a cloud of steel licked away the entire side of her cheek. Everything — an ear, her cheek, the helmet, even parts of her cheek — vanished in a single swipe that exposed her teeth to the world. One slash. A single slash that rendered her armor useless. It hurt. It hurt so much. Ratcatcher started turning, and Vasily shouldered the girl ahead, taking a stab intended for her.
The teen gasped, raised in the air by the gleaming claws that pierced his right side, coming out of his back. They twisted, breaking Vasily’s ribs and rupturing the lung. He got flung off them, and the claws moved, drawing lines in the air, slicing through Carlos’ wrist, leaving a bloody line across Elina’s chest, and at last facing and retreating from the claymore’s swing.
Even one armed and still lacking a working heart, Wivin was more than a match for Eight. She pushed ahead, taking blows on the thick armor, countering with the economical, brutal blows of her pommel, blocking the claws with her blade, and driving her foe away from the trainees. Ratcatcher left everyone behind and ran toward the console, trusting in Elina and Carlos to save Vasily’s life. He is tough; ain’t no way something as minor will ever drop…
Pain. Pain speared her back. Her head crashed into the console, and the flame burning on her cheek increased in intensity. She wasn’t sure what was going on but used this situation to push her locksmith into the depths of the shattered console, and the machine spread its thin wires, connecting to the system. Ratcatcher handed the control over to her armor system, and someone grabbed her by the nape.
“What do you think you are doing?” Eight asked, his claws lacerating her neck.
Maximilian created a bubble, confining Wivin inside. She hacked at the shield in vain, unable to break free. The countymeister even stabbed her sword in the floor, aiming to come clear this way, but the surrounding shield held, forming a round sphere. Her captor used his other hand to block the incoming fire and push the trainees back.
“W…” Ratcatcher squeaked. The locksmith had transmitted the successful overriding of the control protocols onto her HUD. It has gained control.
“Speak up, filth. I can’t understand your gibberish.” The steel bit deeper.
“Winning!” She laughed in his face.
Eight threw her on the console and pushed a hand inside, but it was already too late. The locksmith had completed its task, uploading a new set of control programs into the mainframe. Had it been under the Oathtakers’ control, the process would’ve taken longer — minutes, if not half an hour. Ravaged and exposed by the Numbers’ brutal methods, left unprotected in a hurry, its control system was a rusted portcullis rather than an impregnable wall.
A fist smashed into Ratcatcher’s face, crumbling the metal into her nostrils as the craned arms moved, carrying the panicked hostages across the ceiling and into the Avengers’ rear. A com chatter filled the helmet. Augustus demanded an update, reporting that the control room was empty. Ludwig had assigned a group of his crusaders to secure the trainees and was hacking his way toward them. The instructor broke free of his guards and followed. The Oathtakers’ High Command reported an attack on another facility, and Governor Abel left to rescue the beleaguered people.
And through it all, a calm voice issued orders, quelling the panic, assigning convoys, and sending troops to bring the civilians to the safety of Stonehelm’s walls. Lord Steward, the President-elect, a person who should be far from the city, was only a few dozen kilometers away.
“How does it feel, Eight?” Ratcatcher asked, connecting to the communications. “How does it feel to have the Hierarchy, to have your own creator at your side, and still be outsmarted by a teen? Being stupider than a genetic reject…”
A punch threw her back at the console, shattering it. Eight rained blows at her, breaking the knees, leaving broken ribs, making every organ tremble, and spilling blood from her mouth. He didn’t mean to kill her; she knew that. When he wanted to, Eight killed in a single piercing touch. He vented his frustration on her, rupturing organs, stomping her tail, and leaving purple bruises everywhere.
“Iternian girl?” Lord Steward discerned her voice through the chaos. She didn’t believe he would. Everyone had heard about the almost divine might of the Elites and their counterparts from other countries. But these people also thought at a different speed, taking in hundreds of factors and solving complicated equations faster than any organic brain should be able to.
“I ask again, Eight!” Ratcatcher screamed through the pain, swallowing the broken remains of her teeth. A request for visuals came in, and she let the Oathtakers see through the remaining cameras. “How does it feel to fail at resurrecting the Chosen Prince?! A genetic reject outsmarted your creator and the entire Hierarchy! You brought everything here and still failed! To children, Eight! To literal…”
“Only speak when you are being talked to, reject,” Eight snarled. His voice slipped into the communication.
“Eight?” She heard Augustus speaking. “Is Maximilian there? Trainees, retreat at once; I will handle everything. Retreat; this is an order.”
“Don’t die, lassie,” Lord Steward said. “Three minutes.” A roaring wind and an explosion of stones filled the communications. “Whatever happens, preserve your brain. Understood? Keep your brain intact. Three minutes. Endure. You haven’t seen a thing in the world yet, child.” His voice got distorted, and she heard commands issued by hundreds of mouths, each speaking in a different tone, each clear and all belonging to the President-Elect.
“Wouldn’t it be nice…” Ratcatcher whispered through her swollen and torn lips, no longer hearing the communication after a metal fist tore the remains of her helmet off her head.
Eight ruined her. His blows turned her limbs into crumpled noodles, the bones pushed out of her fingers after the metal knuckles had dusted her own bones. She no longer felt her legs, but her knees pulsed with pain, and blood trickled down her shattered ribs, their sharp edges piercing her skin. The HUD no longer worked and had gone along with the helmet, and the trainee dreaded hearing what it would’ve said about the internal damage or viruses assailing her.
But she won! The Avengers secured the workers, and the liberated Trolls shrugged off their wounds and helped treat their unconscious friends. The light reflected on Eight’s hands hurt her eyes, and once again, he pointed the sharp finger at her temple. And she found herself no longer afraid.
Ratcatcher had regrets. Who doesn’t? She wanted to assure Mom and Dad of her love, hug Liam one last time, and say goodbye to her friends. And living would be nice! Still, if someone had offered her to rethink the choices she made minutes ago, she would’ve chosen the same. Only she would’ve pushed Vasily to safety. And land at least one hit at Eight, instead of flailing to shield herself.
Survive. She tried to say. Survive and live happily, everyone.
Eight looked at the vat, then at Ratcatcher. A smile touched his lips.