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[Now replaying: Log 3.28 - The Eyes Have It

Date: Error

Location: The Bunker at Progress’ Head // Zephyro’s Domain

//Ohhhh, let’s twist again//

//It’s important to be flexible in today’s day and age. If you aren’t adapting to modern circumstances quick enough, you may find yourself quickly outman&%$%$!//

[>>DATA CORRUPTED]

“That’s kinda fucky,” the girl in the power armor said, raising her grenade launcher and firing a few rounds into the crowd.

“I have to agree,” I said. Looking at Zephyro, glitching and bleeding, I went on: “But we don’t have time to wait for it to bleed out. He won’t be able to handle the strain.”

“Unless…” I said, frowning.

The Vizier glanced at my face and shook his head repeatedly because he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Sultana…” he began, but Pharus whooshed, cutting him off as my anger surged.

“No, Zephyro. No more running. Not when we are this close to winning.”

He pressed his lips together, straining to hold the shield. I shot him an apologetic look that he didn’t see. I’d need to apologize later. I looked around, trying to find out who was giving the orders so I could tell them my plan.

Then it sunk in that this would be Zephyro, and while I would probably manage to convince him, there was no way he could yell loudly enough to be heard over the lasers and explosions, straining as he was. Frantically, I tried to catch someone’s eye, but they were all busy fighting and none of the Old Guard seemed like the kind of person to hold big speeches. Monologues, maybe, but none of them had ever led an army.

I had.

Or rather, I had told others how to lead my army.

I couldn’t do this. Images of trying to motivate my team flashed in my mind’s eye. Their disinterested pity at my attempt. Then, the scene shifted in an instant, to years later, in a much different sort of room.

They want to hear you, Sam. Not me.

No, they want a Saint. Someone I can never be. So you talk to them, go be General Stax, and let me be the mysterious and wise Torchbearer.

I started to smile, remembering Stax…

That’s cowardice. Weak. You need to be better, Samantha.

Olre’s voice cut through the memory, and I gritted my teeth.

Pharus’s flames wrapped my arm in teal flames, dripping green-blue fire along the chain.

I pressed it against the handle and twisted, securing it, then wrapped the chain around my arm tightly.

Finally, I raised it high, and the Torch’s light surged.

Fuck you, Olre. Fuck your traitorous, murderous, backstabbing fucking soul.

“Let’s get ready to kill,” I yelled. My voice sounded thin and shrill to my ears, like one of those ‘hysterical’ women in old movies.

But the Old Guard cheered. My eyes darted over them, and while none of them were looking at me, focused on the battle as they were, it was clear they were listening. You could see it in their posture, attentive and just a little straighter. You could notice it as they pulled back just a little like a spring coiling to eject.

You could feel it in the air.

My Torch’s fire whipped in unseen winds, its hilt illuminated white by the moon in our backs, and red by the thunder of horrible energy in front.

“Everyone,” I yelled, surprised by how far my voice carried. “Cover the infantry, set up a kill corridor. I want area denial on both sides! Infantry, pull them together, let them clump up if you can, but whatever you do, don’t stop pushing!”

“Fire support, focus the eyes, but only fire when they glow. Blind the fucker! Artillery: I want nothing that comes out of one of those mouths to live more than two heartbeats!”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The rage warmed my heart, eased my muscles, sharpened my gaze.

It was hot and wild and it would swallow me whole.

But as it consumed me, it would singe those that would see me defeated and alone. It would burn everyone who stood against me. And it would incinerate anyone who would harm my people.

Who do you want to be, Sam?

I could be whoever I chose to be.

So I chose violence.

{[Pharus, Fury of the Torchbearer] v. 1.0

IS NOW

[Pharus, Fury of the Torchbearer] v. 1.2}

Required CPU load: Varies, min. 5% at current CPU quality.

Required RAM: 20 LKB

{Memory: 61/100 LKB RAM}

The sound of a clapper hitting metal roared over the Plaza, a mighty blow inside a bell that belched its power over all the land. Ferals stumbled back, the Old Guard marched forward, ruins collapsed, and fire roared as my Torch glowed a bright teal.

When the light faded, nothing had changed about the weapon itself, but the fire fighting to escape the censer had an almost liquid quality to it now, teal fire dropping onto the ruined floor like burning oil.

{[Pharus, Fury of the Torchbearer] v. 1.2 - Electronic Warfare Suite}

{A simple Electronic Warfare Suite designed to breach targeted computer systems. The strength of the attack determines CPU load, with more frequent or sophisticated attacks requiring more computing power. Updating this program adds a larger library of electronic warfare routines, increasing attack potency.

Required CPU load: Varies, min. 5% at current CPU quality.

Required RAM: 20 LKB

>>Features:

.03 - Leaves a traceable signature inside the target user that allows other users to track programs run by the target user. This is true for all users connected to the current system.

1.2 - The signature is now a sophisticated electronic warfare program, taxing the targets’ resources.}

I ignored the pain thrumming in my skull. It did not matter.

I whipped the Torch forward, molten fire spraying into the air, painting a thin line of teal across the black sky.

“Let’s go!” I yelled, and as one, we moved forward.

As I had noticed before, you could fault the Old Guard for many things, but not for their lack of fervor when shit hit the fan. They gave it their all, and that was far more than enough.

Ferals melted before they could even finish screaming their pain, as soldiers wielding swords and axes cut through their ranks like a blowtorch through aluminum. Before the enemy could react, we had formed a wedge formation and were pushing ahead, with rockets and grenades and giant balls of fire blanketing the surging mass with death.

The Hunger trembled, inhaled, then screamed, hundreds of its eyes glowing at once.

It was exactly what the ranged infantry had been waiting for.

Railgun shots punched through the night, ravens (both real and magical) surged through the hot air, and machine guns whined their high-pitched aria of destruction.

Several eyes popped with disgusting wet noises as pinpoint shots slid into them, and many more burst apart in the wake of continuous streams of tracer rounds that raced across the construct of flesh’s surface.

The hunger’s screams turned to an agonized wail as we blinded it, robbing it of its most powerful weapons. Every time it tried another attack, every time it rotated its bizarre mass like a rubiks cube tearing muscle and breaking its own bones, we responded with another salvo, thwarting its offense before it could even begin.

Meanwhile, Ferals poured out of gashes and mouths and wounds, climbing over each other and trampling their weaker cousins, in an attempt to defend their master and devour the most Logic.

Were they even Ferals, and not just the Hunger slowly blanketing the land with itself? It had gotten so hard to tell the border between what was real in this place.

Zephyro collapsed his shield as the last eye closed, sinking to one knee. He had been marching in line with us, defending the Old Guard as they charged. He’d barely been able to lift his feet as exhaustion took its toll but had kept the pace with grim determination. In his wake, he left a thin trail of blood and sweat. When he noticed me watching, he gave me a small nod, indicating he was fine.

I mouthed a “Sorry,” to him. He deserved that much. And more.

But he just smiled that proud smile of his as I took up a position at his flank, whirling Pharus beside me.

Whenever I spotted a monster that seemed especially dangerous, I commanded the flail to surge with power and sent it sailing over the crowd. Often, I hit. Sometimes, the Feral was dead by the time I reached it. Other times it was too fast, or I just plainly missed the mark because I had never been trained in a weapon such as this. It didn’t matter. There were just too many of them. Every time, I hit some sort of Feral, and every time, I yanked the chain back, then repeated the process.

Over and over I attacked, putting my anger-fueled strength into each swing, losing myself in the repetition of swing, breathless relaxation as the chain unwound, and satisfying impact.

It was because of this routine that I only noticed the first Old Guard disconnecting when it was almost too late.

[User Regulation_Standard_French_Kilometer has disconnected.]

{CPU Load: ▼ 78%}

{Core Temp: ▲ 79° C}

We had been scoring more wounds on the over-Feral, and it in turn had been spewing forth more beasts. I had been dreading the moment when the first Old Guard got overwhelmed, so when I finally read the notification, I was filled with a sickening mix of sadness and relief.

Only at that moment did I realize how intensely my anxiety had been building ever since the fight began.

When it had just been Zephyro and me, I had been sure that we could survive—or at least escape—whatever threat this crazy world would throw at us. However, as much as I wanted to deny it, and as much as I had ribbed the stupid Bird for suggesting so, I had invited the Old Guard here, which made them my people. They certainly saw it that way. Perhaps not in the “we are yours until death” kind of way, but in the “we belong to you” sense. Like a family belongs together. Or friends.

But nothing could last forever.

Not friendship, nor life.