Chapter 2: Blades, Claws, and Trivialities

The medical ward is alight with the dim orange of dusk. It’s a wide and dirty chamber, a shadow of what it once was, smudged top to bottom with the residue of its own ruin.

In the middle of the room, a fair distance to her is the drone that has led her to this place; white and black with four rotors supporting its small frame. But her eyes quickly snap to the thing behind the drone—or rather, the person, who currently has their back on her.

They’re a fair bit taller than her, and donning a sleek and slim black suit of armor that Sykra doesn’t recognize, only being identifiable as some sort of non-traditional Blitz Suit when Sykra quickly notices that some of its armor plates along the legs and shoulder blades have visibly shifted apart.

‘The suit’s already in Combat Mode,’ Sykra notes.

The figure stretches their arm to the side, and the drone hovers towards it like a falcon to their caretaker—before landing on the hand instead so its body can be grabbed, and with a flick of the finger, the whirring gradually ceases.

Slowly, the armored figure sits it down in front of them. Their shoulders lift—and then they sink.

They shift their foot, slightly lifting their heel as they turn around to finally face the white and red mercenary—their cross-shaped visor brimming with amber anticipation.

“Interesting,” they say to Sykra, their androgynous voice carrying a metallic echo, “That isn’t any suit that I know. Is that custom made? I like the two big crimson eyes and the cat ears. Very cute.”

Before giving the chance for Sykra to answer (she wasn’t) the mysterious figure continues. “Well, whatever. You’re too late. The Liberationists have already left this forsaken town with half the payload’s supply on their backs, leaving only me to guard the other half…” they then point to the small steel crate at the back of the room. It appears to have a sheathed sword leaning on its side.

They let out a low chuckle before whispering with an audible smile and a sadistic edge, “...And kill the corporate merc that’s after it.”

Sykra remains silent for a few seconds before taking the cue to reply. “...You talk too much. Especially for a Liberationist poser.”

The armored figure—the mercenary—huffs with a grin, “What gave it away? Was the speech not zealous enough?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sykra replies clinically, “but you’re also not wearing anything that identifies you as a Corrin Liberationist. No coat of arms nor a hint of their red and violet colors. You’re a hired mercenary. Stop pretending.”

“But it’s fun, isn’t it?” the black mercenary replies with glee, “Their virtues and ambitions are quite admirable!”

“Reclaim our home~” they mock in a voice, “Our turf. Our battles~ Stop the war. Reestablish order~ Down with the corporations~ And… all that stuff,” the mercenary giggle.

Sykra loudly exhales, “I couldn’t care less. Get out of my way or we both do our given jobs and fight.”

“...And for the record. I’m an independent. I couldn’t care less about the corporate perks.”

“Really?” the black mercenary replies with genuine surprise in their voice, “Thought every independent shot for the corpos. Heck, even some Nebula affiliates are doing it.”

“I am a Nebula affiliate,” Sykra clarifies plainly, “Most pure affiliates, like myself, are independents.”

“Well I don’t see the difference,” the mercenary retorts, “Nebula or the warring corpos it doesn’t matter, you’re working with an org that’s after both your allegiance and this fucked country’s resources.”

“Now you’re sounding like a real Liberationist,” Sykra remarks.

“Meh, I’m passionate about this stuff. There’s a reason why I stay a traditional independent merc~”

Suddenly, the telltale trill of high-power thrusters emanate from the black-armored mercenary’s legs and shoulders—and with an explosive bang, they zip from their spot of the room to the back in an instant, with their hand already wrapped around the sheathed sword—an ōdachi, Sykra recognizes.

“Now, we can’t keep our clients waiting…”

With a single smooth motion of their arm, the sword’s sharpened black blade reveals itself—with its razor tip pointed straight at her.

“You know how impatient they can be… so let’s show them some results!”

“Finally…” Sykra mutters.

Through her thoughts alone, she commands her suit one thing: ‘Engage Combat Mode.’

Her Blitz Suit responds immediately. Just like her adversary, the plates along her ankles and thighs lift from their positions, as do her shoulder blades.

Two of her main thrusters along the suit’s spine begin humming, and two more hiding within her large pauldrons closely follow as the sound escalates. The hum rapidly climbs into a high-pitched screech, which is when the thrusters hidden beneath the lifted plates take their cue to join in the choir’s crescendo as their steel goes from a cold grey to white-hot.

The red highlights strewn around her suit begin glowing brighter as scarlet lightning starts to arc around her forearms.

“Confirmed: Unit has entered Combat Mode.”

With a cross of her forearms, the plates along both of them begin to split apart and shift away, revealing the black internals wrapped with scarlet plasma. Surging. Condensing—

And with explosive motion, Sykra whips her arms to her sides as an audible burst of energy heralds Sykra’s true ferocity—Extending from each of her wrists are three long blades of bright red plasma, resembling the claws of a beast and buzzing with the might of a star.

And now, in the shadow of dusk’s orange light, the two warriors share a staredown.

The two large “eyes” of Sykra’s suit glow a bright scarlet to meet the brilliant amber of the mercenary’s cross-shaped visor, but she wouldn’t care to match their excitement; she could feel just how radiant her adversary’s grin is beneath the mask, while her’s remain an icy thin line.

Both of them remain in their positions like pieces on a chess board, waiting for a hand to take initiative.

“What? Not gonna make a move?” the mercenary chatters with an edge of impatience.

Sykra doesn’t reply.

“Tch, fine then!”

Suddenly, the rapid sound of shifting plates clicks through the whistling of thrusters, whirring into place until a dull clunk cues the mercenary to whip their left arm in Sykra’s direction, revealing a barrel on their wrist—pointed directly at her.

The black mercenary doesn’t say a word as an explosive pop echoes across the medical ward. And Sykra… Sykra moves.

She moves so fast that the shot completely misses her and hits the wall, which now bears several large holes.

Sykra shoots to the mercenary’s flank, overcharging her right arm to lengthen her claws to half her size and pumps in as much energy as possible into her primary thrusters. This farce ends now.

The sound barrier shatters, and webs of cracks weave their way into the surrounding walls, ceiling, and floor as Sykra tears through the air at mach speed.

Her arm is stretched to her side like a rubber band rearing to snap as her elongated claws burn the air into a crackling blur.

She could see it. Her kill. Her prey has barely even managed to turn their head in time to react to her claws eviscerating their neck.

The band snaps. The claws swipe—

And a loud clang resounds.

Sykra’s eyes widen at the sight of her claws being caught within the void-colored blade.

And this time, it’s her turn to react.

And she reacts too late.

The mercenary’s blade becomes a blur as it slides away from the parry, goes beneath Sykra’s claws, and swipes, delivering a powerful slash through her suit’s arm. If she was a second too slow, it would’ve struck her wrists…

Sykra sucks in a breath as her eyes snap back to her enemy’s offhand. Again, too late.

The wrist-gun fires, the buckshot striking her foot and shredding the armor surrounding it.

Luckily, she catches herself before she trips, but she is once again caught beneath the mercenary’s pressure as they thrust themselves and their sword towards Sykra’s chest. Sykra reacts quickly, dipping low and to the side, and she’s ready to provide a mean uppercut—

But then the mercenary twirls, and now she hears the deafening sound of thrusters fast approaching from her right.

From her position right now, she’ll be too slow! Too slow to—!

The rocket-powered foot slams against the side of her face, sending her flying, tumbling, and crashing into a medical bed, breaking it.

She heaves heavily, and she could feel hot lava dripping down her nose. But she’s fine. Sykra’s fine. She could still fight—

“Agh!”

She’s punched square in the chest, smashing her against the decrepit wall; her back now sliding against its crooked surface, leaving her to sit weightlessly on her butt. She feels vomit piling up against her throat.

She looks up to see the amber cross spreading across the mercenary’s face, like a twisted grin.

“Hah, you’re far weaker than I thought~” the mercenary softly says as they taunt her with the flat of the blade patting against the side of her helmet.

The blade moves from her face and into the air. Her head is now the log to the lumberjack’s axe.

“I’ll make this quick for ya…”

The blade falls—and claws rise.

“What the—?!”

She did it. The blade, now caught between both her arms’ claws, have proven to her that she has yet to meet her match.

Surprising even her, a small fragment of an emotion sparks within the vast void of her heart.

‘Heh.’

She will win this. Sykra will win this.

The young woman releases a heavy breath, its taste stained by the iron filling her mouth and throat. And yet… she looks up to meet her enemy’s gaze, scarlet eyes connecting with the amber cross.

“You thought…” she heaves a breath, “that I was meagre prey..?”

The whir of thrusters behind her reaches an extreme, and this time, it’s the black-suited mercenary’s turn to react late.

“Shit!”

Her entire body rockets forward and crashes against the mercenary, sending them tumbling and turning into the other side of the room, crashing right through the wall, and into a smaller, dimmer room.

She pins the mercenary up the wall and quickly knees them on the stomach, which gives her enough time to cut a large gash into their suit. And then another. And—

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“No you don’t!”

She launches herself backwards, the black blade barely clipping her waist.

She gets into a stance, claws raised, watching the heaving mercenary look at themselves. They inspect the two large claw-shaped gashes, both still red-hot, cutting through the chest of their slim black armor. One more well-placed slash would expose the softer inner-frame beneath, but beggars can’t be choosers she supposes.

“You wretch!” the mercenary yells at her, winding up their thrusters and… Shit! They shot right past her!

“Die!”

Sykra’s eyes jolt to the radar on her interface, watching the blinking white dot race towards her—the bright red center of the map. She zips away in anticipation—turning to confront the enemy’s blade—but the dot suddenly stops some distance away from the center, and she realizes too late that the blade will not come—but the buckshot will.

A gunshot rings aloud—and Sykra barely zips out of the way as the shot misses her chest and strikes her right shoulder instead, blasting off the pauldron and the thruster hidden within.

Again, the mercenary slips away from her sight to swoop in at another odd angle, and Sykra doesn’t need her radar to anticipate that.

She darts away, dodging the second buckshot. Then the third—but then comes a volley of the fourth, fifth and sixth! She dodges once—twice!—

But the sixth shot catches her momentum, smashing into her left arm and shredding the protective plates to swiss cheese. She staggers and slips a second too soon…

The mercenary closes in at breakneck speeds, blade raised in a bloodlusted frenzy.

Sykra prepares to block like she did earlier… but the blade changed its direction last minute, swiftly slashing past her attempted defense and striking her wrist—where her claws are generated. Her left arm’s claws sputter feebly in defeat, plasma sparking and arcing before pathetically giving out with a droop.

‘Fuck… Not good—!’

The blade swoops into a second slash, which clashes with her remaining claws, but then the blade dips low, and so does its wielder—!

Sykra sucks in a sharp breath as the blade smashes into her side with a meaty crunch, sending her whole world spinning—literally spinning—into the air, through the massive hole she created, and back into the medical ward, where she continues to spin and—with a shift of her momentum—manage to land back to earth standing on two feet.

Disorientation aside, she hears the high-pitched whirring of thrusters ahead of her, causing her to look up and see the mercenary lighting up the dark room they’re still in with the blinding white and blue of their thrusters’ propulsion.

With their blade raised into a stab, the mercenary thrusts into a killing blow, the debris behind them smashing and scattering into bits and dust as the sound barrier is torn to shreds.

The blade’s point is now milliseconds away from Sykra’s chest.

And at that moment, Sykra made a choice.

She pours in a vast amount of energy into her left shoulder thruster, pouring more and more, going further, exceeding limits.

The blade closes in as warning signs briefly flash into Sykra’s interface.

Pure energy begins to crack and erupt through her left pauldron before a bright white and red light envelops it entirely.

Time seems to slow.

All or nothing.

BOOM—the thrust of the mercenary’s blade hits—not Sykra’s chest, but a massive white and red explosion, blasting the mercenary away and sending Sykra flying to the other side of the room and crashing into the wall.

Sykra slumps down from the impact, breathing heavily.

She looks to her left to see that her shoulder has exploded, or at least, that’s what she thinks happened, all she could see now is a constant billowing of smoke.

But still, she survived and is now a fair distance away from the mercenary… And if memory serves her right, she’s also right next to the steel crate, the payload.

The mercenary walks back into her view. Their cross-visor is cracked and their chestplate seems to be crumbling.

Their chest is also visibly heaving from each breath. Each inhale is sharp, and each exhale is shaky. They didn’t seem to have taken that explosion all too well. They seem to be in pain.

“Hahh… You managed two good hits on me… But look at you, dents to the head and the stomach, a gash to your side, hell both your shoulder thrusters are dead and you’re short on one weapon!”

They take a shaky step forward, their thrusters whirring and their ōdachi tight in their grip.

“...Give up now, or you’ll regret what happens next…”

Sykra doesn’t reply. Instead, she pushes down on her knee, powering through the pain and staggering as she forces herself back up. Despite her daze, she takes a few steps forward to stand right by her objective.

“Not a chance.”

She eyes the crate by her side. Knowing what’s inside… she could use it to her advantage.

“You’re cornered, dipshit!” The mercenary yells from across the room, “What the hell are you gonna do?”

Sykra kicks the crate hard, letting its slide slightly left, its contents rattling like glass.

“Oi!” the mercenary whips their wrist-gun forward, “It’s fragile! Do that again or your head is gone!”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Sykra replies clinically, “So you care about the contents in this box?”

The young woman brushes a hand across the top of the crate, “You know what happens if I were to, say, violently tear my claws into the box, right?”

“You know what happens to Tearlight when that happens, right?”

The mercenary takes a heavy stomp forward in response, wrist-gun at the ready.

“Are you willing to gamble? Gamble if your shot is faster than my claws?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the mercenary growls, “If your claws so much as even touch a bit of the stuff this hospital and us in it will become a crater!”

Sykra huffs, poising her claws to strike and causing the mercenary to stiffen, “Exactly the point.”

“Are you insane?! Aren’t you a merc? Who’d claim the reward money if both you AND your objective are DEAD?!”

The blanchette tilts her head, “You said it yourself. I’m cornered—basically at death’s door. So I thought it would be fitting that if I die, you and the objective die with me.”

“WHAT KINDA LOGIC IS THAT?!”

“...The logic of someone who has nothing to lose.”

“ALRIGHT! Fine… Just back away from the box. We can negotiate.”

Sykra shakes her head, “You’re in no position for negotiation. Rather, you’re in the position of the questioned, and I, your interrogator and the Tearlight’s captor.”

Sykra hears the silent grinding of teeth from beneath the mask and breaths of the mercenary.

“Fine. What do you want?

She inches her claws closer to the crate, causing her hostage to tense up, “I want you to follow my instructions and feel obligated to answer my questions.”

The mercenary tsks, but says nothing in reply.

Sykra takes this as compliance.

“State your identity.”

The mercenary begrudgingly replies, “Oliver. Just Oliver, no last name. Lost that since I was young.”

“I’m a mercenary. A true independent mercenary with 9 years of experience, with no affiliation nor allegiance to the factions cornering Corrin. I do it for the money.”

Sykra stays silent in response.

“Next question then. What is your objective and how does that intertwine with the Corrin Liberationists?”

The mercenary—Oliver—grunts, “As I had said, protect the payload while the rest of the Liberationist lot escape the town with half of the payload’s supply on their backs. They’ll come back for the other half in a few days, and then I get paid.”

Again, Sykra stays silent, but a flicker of inspiration passes along her carmine eyes.

“You know you won’t get paid, right?”

Oliver chuckles, “Heh, nice try, but I know better. Unlike you, I don’t have the tech nor network to ensure a guarantee of payment to the digit. As an independent, you learn how to identify genuine clients over the nasties. The Liberationists are true to their word, I will get paid, just as they had done many times before.”

“Minerva Industries has cornered this place. Every escape route has dozens of soldiers waiting on the other side, each route having their own experienced mercenary to boot. You won’t get paid because they won’t make it.”

The black-armored mercenary scoffs, “I’ve seen their escape route, scrutinized it, and gave them the additional approval that they will make it out unscathed.”

Sykra hums, “Then send me the escape route. I will verify whether Minerva has secured it or not.”

“Not a chance!” Oliver shouts, “You’re just gonna pass it along to Minerva, aren’t ya—”

Sykra’s claws scrape along the crate’s roof.

“OK I GET IT! Fine… I’ll pass it along to you…:”

Just then, Sykra receives an external message: an attachment of the town’s whole map and its surrounding neighbors and a thin blue line highlighting an unconventional route. There is a giant glowing X at the end, probably signifying an extraction point or a safe room.

Sykra lets out a soft “Heh”.

“What’s so funn—AGH!?!”

Oliver is sent flying from Sykra’s sudden shoulder-check, knocking the wind out of them and sending them skidding across the floor, sprawled out in pain.

“You—AGH FUCK!”

A burst of speed left dust in its wake—along with fresh blood and a flying limb.

Oliver sits up in a panicked frenzy before realizing—they can’t feel their right arm. They look to where their arm should be—a bloodied stump is all that’s left.

Their eyes slowly gaze up in heart-stopping horror as they follow a trail of blood—measuring in inches—before stopping just a few feet away.

Oliver’s bloodied right arm lying limp on its side with the ōdachi still locked within its dead grasp.

The realization hits.

But just before they could scream, they feel the hard knuckles of a Blitz Suit hit the back of their head—the arcing plasmic energy racing along the fist making their hair stand on end.

“At my command, my claws will pierce your head.”

Oliver couldn’t hear the girl though—their ears are polluted with the sound of their own panicked breaths and pounding heart.

“But just before I do, just know that I lied…”

Plasma shoots from her wrist—her claws goring and burning through brain matter—before coming out the other end only slightly dirtied.

She deactivates the claws once again, letting the dead mercenary fall limply, their spine curving in so that their head curls up to their stomach.

“...I do have something to live for. Something to lose…”

Sykra checks the escape route that Oliver sent, scanning it briefly before sending it over to Minerva’s officials.

“And I also lied that you won’t get paid. If it weren’t for you sending that map, they definitely would’ve rewarded you a metric ton of credits.”

Suddenly, a notification resounds on the blanchette’s interface.

“Alert: Incoming comms.”

Sykra answers with a beep, coming to attention when a deep and gruff sounding voice greets her ears.

“Operator Weiss Saber, what is this that you sent to us?” the gruff voice asks.

“It’s a mapped escape route, Sir Jirad,” Sykra answers, “It’s for the Liberationists, who’ve escaped from the town using this route to deliver half the payload’s supply away from their identified location.”

A small pause fills the call before Sykra hears a grunt from the other end, “If that’s the case, then well done. However, I should remind you that you should disable that Nav-Jammer, otherwise we won’t be able to track the route down effectively.”

Sykra hums compliance, “Noted, Sir.”

“Oh and to double check; you said that the Liberationists who have escaped are carrying half the payload, correct? Then that means… you got the other half?”

Sykra hums again, “Indeed. The payload is secure, at least half of it. Please send an extraction craft for both me and the payload at Lwyney Hearts and Souls Hospital. My mission here is complete.”

“Fantastic work Weiss Saber! I’ll be sure to pay you handsomely once you get back to a Guild Hall!”

Sykra grunts, “Thank you, Sir.”

Her eyes dart to the fresh corpse in front of her before focusing back on the call, “Sorry Sir, but there’s something that must be taken care of first. Thank you again for your generosity.”

“Oh! You’re too kind! The extraction craft will arrive right outside the hospital shortly. Pay attention.”

“Will do, Sir Jirad.”

Sir Jirad chuckles from the other end, “Ahahaha! Do take care, Weiss Saber.”

“...You too, Sir.”

Sykra disconnects from the intercoms and immediately leans over Oliver’s body, which she adjusts to lay on its back.

As she kneels over the body, she hums as she plants a palm over the shattered chest and puts two fingers against the side of the corpse’s bloodstained neck.

A bright glow shines to blind Sykra before tapering off to reveal the body of a dark skinned mercenary with fluffy black hair and hazel eyes—wide with terror.

And in her hands is a black and amber Armor Module, cold to the touch.

‘This’ll fetch a good price.’

She continues searching the body—but it yields nothing. After all, Oliver was not a Nebula affiliate, meaning no mercenary ID to cash in on their death.

Disappointing.

She pushes back up from the corpse, knowing nothing more can be wrung from it.

…

Gods, does her body ache.

Sykra takes her time to walk over to the payload on account of her body finally feeling the repercussions of the battle.

Step by step.

‘Tch, that merc really did a number on me… I think some of my ribs are fractured, maybe even broken.’

But she pushes past that concern and continues walking until she’s finally face-to-face with the steel box just a few inches in front of her. Sykra raises her right arm and lets her claws flow free from their metallic confines, her eyes continuing to measure the box’s proportions as the blades on her wrist pulsate with energy.

And then, with one sudden and swift sweep of her wrist, the top of the crate is sliced wide open, revealing a strange, blocky, green and grey device mounted on a tripod, with a very long antenna stretching from it.

‘The Nav-Jammer…’

She picks up the device and scrutinizes it for a few seconds, observing its primitive features contrasting its powerful capabilities so as to thwart a corporation’s own navigation channels, before her eyes drift to something far more interesting.

Within the crate are trays layered upon other trays, and contained within the confines of those trays are dozens of small, tube-like metal containers carrying the most powerful substance in existence.

‘Tearlight…’

She could see its multicolored glory peeking from the small glass window each container is accommodated with.

Sykra could feel the sheer power emanating even from within those secured cells.

“...”

She walks over to the crate’s top lying nearby and reseals the payload as best she can.

Sykra has a reputation to manage, even if small. It would do no good for her to start stealing again when she’s in a position of relative stability.

‘Well, at least I can confirm that the payload is really there.’

The blanchette takes in a deep breath of the ruined hospital’s air. She notes that the smell has changed. Instead of oppressive staleness, the smell of sweat and blood now stains the once quiet and stagnant atmosphere.

She leans on the steel box before sliding her back down its cold surface, ultimately sitting down on the floor with the crate as her wall.

She takes one last glance on Oliver’s corpse a fair distance away, its cold visage still looking up to the sky in abject horror, before musing to herself, ‘I wonder what they had lived for…’

As the orange light of dusk starts to dim over the ruined town of Lwyney, a warm tune echoes along the dark halls of its one and only hospital.

The humming of a girl long gone as she awaits her departure.