It felt like an eternity, though in reality, the air raid only lasted about fifteen to twenty minutes, yet despite such a short time, the destruction was immense. The sky was thick with plumes of black smoke. Around us, people panicked and scrambled to their homes as quickly as possible. At the same time, my father clutched me tightly against his chest as both he and Isa shoved their way through the current of terrified citizens rushing away from the direction we needed to go.
A helpful stranger who hoped to deter us from where we needed to go grasped my father by the shoulder. “You don’t want to go that way, Mister,” he said, out of breath and visibly scared.
The human’s eyes looked like they were about to burst from his skull as they flitted left and right. “One of their cylinders landed on Kleinweil Road, destroying the entire street and bank it did.”
My father jerked as another pedestrian rammed their shoulder into us as they pushed by, and he cursed loudly. “That’s not far from Saria’s house,” he said before looking at the man. “Thank you, but our home is in that direction.”
“Then I suggest going through Altstedt, Mister!” Human said quickly as the panicked current swept him away from us.
I whimpered softly and tightened my grip around my father’s neck slightly. The thought of a cylinder landing near Mom and Varis deeply unnerved me.
Without saying anything else, my father pushed on ahead, with Isa following behind. Further up the road, we could hear whistles from constables as law enforcement guided people away from the direction of the cylinder.
“The area up ahead is too dangerous; you need to turn away now!” A half-elven woman shouted from the top of a wagon in the middle of the road towards a large group of civilians, who, like us, were going toward the Rusivite construct. She was dressed in a constabulary uniform, a dark blueish-gray button-up suit, and pants, yet adorning her head was a black helmet with a white asterisk painted on it.
At the base of the wagon were other constables with similar helmets and symbols, and what I saw held tightly in their hands were large, scary-looking rifles.
“The army has the situation under control,” the woman assured the skeptical crowd. “But until then, the Kleinwell district is under evacuation!”
“Evacuation...” Isa said it just loud enough for us to hear, and Father turned to her. “It’s possible the others at the house may have fled already.”
“To where, though?” Father asked, growling as he glared at the armed barricade in the middle of the road.
Isa shook her head. “I don't know now; I’m just speculating.”
Father gritted his teeth. “We don’t have time for speculation; we need to act.” We turned away from the barricade. “Isa, you’ve been around town more than I have. Do you have any idea which route we can take?”
Isa shrugged. “Slyrann, I’ve been around, but that doesn’t mean I retained everything.” She tapped her forehead reluctantly. “If I had to guess, I’d go off what that stranger said; Altstedt district might be one of our best bets.”
Father audibly ground his teeth together which I couldn’t help but think wasn’t a good thing to do. My mind sure does think of stupid shit during times of crisis. “That’ll take us at least another twenty minutes on foot.” He sighed.
Isa shrugged. “It’s the only way that we know.” She motioned for Father to follow. “That district is in the direction of where Nigel took me last night, so I still know the route. Hurry, before the authorities cordon off the entire district.” She quickly began to rush in the direction we had just come from.
With a heavy sigh, my father shared a slightly hopeful look. “Don’t worry, Luna, I’m sure your mother and brother are alright.” Yet I could see in his eyes the concern he felt.
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“By order from the regional governor, all citizens are to seek shelter and remain indoors within twenty minutes.” An emotionless, disembodied voice echoed throughout the city. “I repeat, by order of the regional governor, all citizens are to seek shelter and remain indoors within twenty minutes. Any citizen caught outside will be at risk of being accused of collaboration and will be prosecuted or, worse, executed.” The voice fell silent for a moment before repeating itself once more.
My heart sank into my stomach as the butterflies roared to life within me, and I began to tremble. “Ex-executed?” I gasped as my father and Isa stopped briefly in an alley to catch their breaths.
I clung to my father tightly as he gripped my sides and pushed me off gently so that I would let go. Releasing my arms from around my father’s neck, he placed me on the ground and cursed. “Twenty minutes? What the hell? We’re fifteen minutes from the house.” He sucked in deep breaths.
“Governor Trenton isn’t messing around,” Isa muttered. “The military, especially the Yanks, must be fuming about this attack.” She peered outside the alley; the section of town we were in, Altstedt, was a much older and poorer part of Johanneson. If I had to use a flavorful word for it, I’d call it a ghetto. I said flavorful, not nice. The place looked horrible—not like the bombed-to-shit kind of horrible either. Like abandoned, Detroit levels of abandoned. The cobblestone roads were cracked, broken, and littered with potholes. The windows in shops were either cracked or so covered with grime you couldn’t even see through them, and the trash—so much trash—piled up that it made the place seem like rats ruled the streets rather than people. That is, if this world has rats, or if they’re rat demi-humans, then I probably sound a bit specieist.
Point is. Alstedt was a dump. A dump, which thankfully, even the army had avoided, or at least hadn’t gotten to cordoning off this section yet as my father and Isa were able to us this far unopposed. My father straightened up and sighed as he looked down at me and said, “Don’t worry, Luna, we’re almost home--”
“Don’t say that,” I said and he blinked confused. “You’ll jinx us.”
“Jinx?” My father cocked his head like a confused dog, and I internally cursed myself again for using words unfamiliar to this world. Thankfully, I had a card up my sleeve.
“It’s a word the master uses,” I lied. “Something about the universe’s cruel sense of humor.” This was more or less my belief, not his.
“The universe has a sense of humor?” Isa said as she pulled her head back into the alley.
I shrugged and nervously said, “It’s like an omen thing. I-It’s fine.”
My father nodded. “I think I get what you’re saying.” He smiled. “We had a similar saying in the army back in the day called the screw up faerie.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
This got a smirk out of me, and my father’s smile widened. “Anyways,” he said, “I can talk more about that later. You two ready?” We both nodded. “Alright, let's go then.”
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Oscar Reynolds
The universe, like always, had a weird sense of humor. Or, it was an asshole. Probably the latter. The universe just loved to fuck with Oscar, as bad things just seemed to keep happening over and over. Like the universe had slapped a piece of paper on his back that read, “Kick the idiot,” and he just couldn’t get that damned thing off of him.
But now and again, it throws him a bone. Not because the universe is loving and benevolent, but because it’s a sadistic asshole. It would be no fun for the universe if little Oscar were to give up because all the bad things kept happening to him. So it decided to throw him a bit of hope so that he would get excited and energized again, allowing the universe to once again crush his hopes and dreams. So yeah, in Oscar's eyes, fuck the universe.
By this point, one would think that Oscar would avoid all the red flags sent his way, that maybe he would grow a few brain cells, and that he would notice that the universe was just playing him again. Alas, Oscar knows that, while he does have a degree and is on paper listed as intelligent, he is not. So deep down within the Yanky maintenance tunnel turned emergency bunker, he was not surprised when Anne’s caster began to vibrate, signaling an incoming call.
Oscar was speaking with Terry when Anne squealed with excitement and relief when her caster began to vibrate. The childish noise yielded a tone of looks in their directions from soldiers and other civilians, and Oscar smiled at them and turned to Anne.
“What is it?” He asked her, Yanky.
“It’s, Luna!” Anne exclaimed as she opened the partially broken device, and her face fell. “Huh?” She cocked her head.
“What is it?” Oscar turned his entire body to face her and leaned forward to see what had her so perplexed.
Anne said, “It’s not Luna; it’s this.” She pouted as she turned the caster so Oscar could see its screen.
The screen showed only a black space, yet ominously, in ghostly white words, it said, “Pass to Mr. Reynolds.” Oscar scowled. This wasn’t right. First off, casters, especially his casters, are not designed for text-based communication; secondly, there is no visual of the sender; and finally, someone else would have to know that Anne possessed such a device. If someone else knew, this was deeply concerning.
As Oscar was deep in thought, the ghostly white text began to shift and reform. “Do not fear, Mr. Reynolds.” The text read: “I am a friend. Please, go down the hall away from everyone else.” Now Oscar was terrified. How would the sender know where he’s at? Are they in the room with him now?
He glanced over his shoulder; everyone else had returned to what they were doing previously. Only Anne and Terry were looking at him. “Is something wrong, Oscar?” The wealthy businessman asked.
Quickly, the text changed and read, “This is a private matter. Please. Go alone; all will be disclosed soon. You must hurry.”
Oscar closed the caster partially to hide it from both Anne and Terry. “An unexpected call,” Oscar said, standing up. “I’ll be back; it’s a private matter.”
“But you said only Luna can call me,” Anne said, and Oscar cringed. Moments like this made him wish Anne was oblivious and innocent like most children. He took a deep breath and said, “You’re right.” He nodded. “Hence why it’s unexpected, dear. Don’t worry, I’ll go make sure this gets fixed up.” He said he was hoping this would get her to not press the issue further.
It worked. Anne nodded, huffed, flopped back on her rear, and pulled her legs up to her chest. “Okay.”
Terry, however, now seemed skeptical as his small blue eyes narrowed on Oscar. “Forgive me, Mr. Rose--Terry, I mean, could you watch her for a few minutes while I take this call? I know it’s a lot--” Terry waved a hand aside.
“Do what you need to do, Oscar. Children are no hassle for me; besides, Anne looks to be the well-behaved type.” He chuckled and patted his stomach. “You may go.”
Oscar smiled, nodded, and turned to walk down the long concrete corridor. Once he was about twenty garos down the hall, far from anyone to hear, he opened the caster and looked at it. How would he communicate with someone he can’t see and speak only in text? He wondered.
“I’m alone now,” he said in a hushed voice, and immediately the swirling text reacted.
“Excellent.” It read.
Oscar gulped; this was creepy. “Who are you?” He asked.
“Who we are is not important.” It said, and Oscar blinked.
“We?” He muttered to himself.
“Think of us as a mysterious benefactor,” it continued.
“Mysterious benefactor? What can I do to benefit you?” He whispered now, wondering if this was some kind of magister’s prank. If some cooky wizard was messing with him, now really wasn’t the time for such games.
“If you accept,” the text read, “you’ll not just benefit us, but everyone. The city will be saved, and the Rusivites will be repelled. But you must hurry; time is of the essence.”
Oscar scoffed. "Sure, that sounds like a scam.” He cocked an eyebrow at the caster as he shook his head. “This is no time for games; please stop wasting my time with fairytales--”
“These are not fairytales, Mr. Reynolds,” The text hastily rewrote itself to say: “Information we possess will do wonders in helping this city not fall; however, we can only disclose such information if you accept this request.”
“Why me?” Oscar asked. “There are plenty of other capable soldiers and mages in Johanneson.”
“Because,” the text read. “You have qualifications that match our requirements, and we have the gumption to get you through this.”
“I have a child with me,” He responded, surprised by the mysterious benefactor’s flattery. Though he assumed this was only for manipulation.
“The child, Anne,” The text wrote, and this scared Oscar. How do they know Anne’s name?
The text continued, “You will remain safe if you accept the offer.”
Oscar’s blood ran cold. “Is this a threat?” He asked.
“No.” The text responded. “This is a fact. We mean you no harm, but the Rusivites want you all dead.” Oscar bit his lip after all the horror he’d seen in the country that he believed in.
“Okay. But why me specifically, and cut the flattery?” He added. “What do my engineering and artificer skills bring to the table? With the construction going on, there’s hundreds of artificers in this city.”
“Easy, Mr. Reynolds. You are the only one who has a suitable caster.”
Oscar blinked. “Then I’ll pass this--” he started to say, but stopped as the text swiftly changed.
“We would kindly ask that you don’t. There is one other reason: you are a Yanky. Our operation requires our agent to be of Yanky descent.”
Oscar’s mouth began to go dry as his mind began to race. Was this a psyop? Maybe the Rusivites found a way to possess his device. Such magics do exist, like the communication dampeners he helped design back home for the troops. Perhaps the Rusivites found a way to not only dampen but take control entirely?
“I can see you are concerned, Mr. Reynolds,” The caster wrote, and Oscar’s eyes snapped back to the screen. “We are on the same side; this we can promise you. Please answer soon, for we do not have enough time.”
Oscar bit his lip. “One final question,” he said before asking, “How much time?”
“Two hours,” the text read. “You must hurry; please make a choice now.” The word was now vibrating as if frustrated.
“What about Anne, or any others? What if I need help?” The text swirled together into one mass and spasmed for some reason, almost as if annoyed, before rewriting itself.
“Allies you can trust can be told of this, but only those you can count on. After you have accepted the operation,
Oscar felt a little relieved at that. Maybe this mysterious benefactor might be legit, or not. Maybe not. Knowing him, this is some fucked up prank, and he’s about to start babbling like a madman. “I need time to think,” Oscar said, and the text freaked out once again before viciously writing.
“YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME. NONE OF YOU HAVE TIME!”
“Margon’s flame, calm down!” Oscar hissed. “I-I just need, like, five minutes.”
Suddenly, the text turned to numbers, and he realized it was a clock counting down. A five-minute timer.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Oscar muttered under his breath, and in tiny letters beneath the timer, he saw a single word.
“Nope.”