The Duelist
Monday, 29th of February, 198 A.C, 17:31
“Now, listeners, I’m not much of a religious man. But when I stand out on the wall each year… Well, I’m not ashamed to admit that I pray my heart out for some divine intervention. Stay safe tonight, rabble rousers.” - Kel Carver, host of Rubble Radio
Out here on the South end of town, where the buildings that hadn’t fallen to ruin were no more than two or three stories tall, there was nothing to block the sight of the sun dipping down until it bled onto the Western side of the wall. It reminded me a bit of my family’s old home in Frontier.
The Scrapper was the last to arrive, apologizing and explaining that her dad had wanted her to stay in the apartment, so she had to wait for him to leave before she could sneak out.
I was just surprised that everyone showed up. I was surprised that *I* showed up. But here in Spark, I reckoned that it didn’t get much more heroic than serving on the wall. I had been in my share of adventures so far, but the training wheels had been on, so to say. This one was for keeps. Besides, it paid well.
The Pugilist cleared his throat. “Looks like that’s everyone. I want to thank you all for coming out today. I will not mince words: tonight is going to be tough. For those of you who have not participated in New Year’s Eve before: however bad you think it is, I can guarantee that it’s worse.” He began to pace in tight circles. “I say this because I cannot in good conscience pressure you to go through with this. If any of you wish to walk away, that is your right. None of us will regard you differently for it.”
He looked around, giving the rest of us an opportunity to speak up, or simply leave. Everyone was dead silent; not even the Heister felt up to wisecracking tonight. But nobody left, either.
The Pugilist nodded. “Good. When you’re out there, I want you all to remember something very important. Your number one priority is staying alive. Do good work, but look out for yourself above all. No heroic sacrifices, no unnecessary risks for glory, none of it. Limit your Veil use too. We’re in it for the long haul, and Veil use can make stupid ideas seem like good ones. Am I understood?” We all nodded. “Good. Then let’s go.”
I started off with the others, but the Pugilist signaled for me to wait.
“What’s up?” I asked.
He took out a clearly high-spec handgun and pressed it into my hand. It was an angular thing, with gold accents along the slide.
“MMC-Sleet,” he said. “It’s good, reliable, Knockout-compatible, and it takes 5.7mm, so you can share ammo with the Scrapper. You know how to use one, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. You don’t survive long in Frontier elsewise, but–”
The Pugilist interrupted me. “Those knives of yours are good, but you’ll be needing something more for tonight. Something that can punch through armor. Aren’t too many better calibers out there for that.”
He reached into his uniform and handed me a few extra magazines. “You’ll be wanting these as well. And don’t give me that look, I know you’ve been swiping pistols off of corpo bandits and security guards. Might as well give you one you can actually use. Just don’t shoot yourself with it by accident, alright?”
I found a spot for the gun and ammo inside my jacket. “I told you, I know my way around these things.” I put out my hand. “But thanks.”
The Pugilist returned the handshake. “Of course.”
Any and all civilians had long since hightailed it out of the area in anticipation of the fight, leaving the streets feeling more like the ruins outside city limits than part of Spark proper. It was almost a relief when the bustle of the field hospital came into view. Surgeons, doctors, paramedics, nurses, and porters all busied themselves with the last of their preparations. A few of them nodded our way as we passed, but most kept their heads to the ground; it was easier to treat an injury or handle a corpse if you hadn’t seen them fine and dandy a few hours ago.
There were a handful of militia members stationed to protect the camp from any Psychon leaks, but the bulk of the force was almost a block ahead, milling about behind the ramshackle stretch of wall we had been assigned to. As far as walls went, I had seen better. It was about three meters tall, and sturdy enough to support proper battlements. That alone put it above some of the glorified traffic barricades that some of the other sections were made of, but the materials used in its construction were shoddy at best. A thin wooden frame took up its backside, while the front side wasn’t much more than scrap metal hammered together to create a solid surface.
The militia was much more animated by our arrival than the folks in the field hospital. A handful pointed and shouted our way, but the reception wasn’t entirely positive. Things got a bit edgy as we weaved our way into the crowd, but they were leaving enough space for the time being. Probably not a fun situation for the Scout or Berserker though.
***
The Berserker
The press of the crowd almost had me looking *forward* to the battle. I glanced at the Scout for support, but his eyes were set dead ahead and his jaw was clenched. He drummed his fingers idly against the straps of his backpack, producing quiet trrrump, trrrump, trrrump sounds.
Someone on the wall thumped their spear a few times against the wooden battlements, bringing an end to the chatter. The spear’s owner was a stocky woman, early forties or so, with bronze skin and graying, bob-cut hair. She was better equipped than her compatriots, with a backup sword sheathed to her side *and* a rifle slung across her back, not to mention the homemade gambeson covering her torso.
When she was sure she had everyone’s attention, she addressed her troop. “Calm down y’all, calm down. Acting like you’ve never seen Veiled before.” She spoke with a thick Frontier accent, her voice guarded and caring in equal measures. “Now I know some of y’all aren’t too pleased to see these kind’a folks, but if I’ve learned anything from my years up on this wall, it’s that there’s nothing like a good squad a’ Veiled to get ya’ through the night. Well, unless they run. Or rob ‘ya.” She pointed to the Heister. “Watch that tall, black haired one. I’ve heard she’s got herself a full set of sticky fingers.”
“Oi!” scoffed the Heister. “Giving away my whole plan.” When her comment drew a few suspicious glares, she added, “Joking! Jeez.”
The militia leader continued. “Don’t you worry yourselves, I did my due diligence. My little background check only turned up stuff we’d need to worry about if we were corpos. And that martial artist lookin’ fella was kind enough to send me a rundown of their powers, so I know what we’re working with.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
I flinched as someone nearby called out, “Out with it then, Ira! How exactly are these fantasy-chasing fools gonna save us?”
“I was getting to that,” said the militia leader, whose name was apparently Ira. “Starting with these three.” She gestured with her spear to me, the Pugilist, and the Duelist. “I’d like them out with the vanguard, if they’re so inclined.” The way she said that made it seem like it didn’t actually matter how ‘inclined’ I was.
“They’re all heavy hitters that can clear swarms or take out threats,” Ira continued, “but they’re not so good at the teamwork thing. From what the Pugilist sent me, he gets pretty creepy when he’s going at it, and it’s best when he’s got room to work without worrying about whacking one of y’all. The Duelist, meanwhile, can take out pretty much anything you like, as long as ‘what you like’ is a single enemy and you don’t mind him performing a disappearing act on you while he goes to town.”
There were murmurs of approval as a few more militia members decided to at least tolerate our presence for the time being.
“Finally,” said Ira, “We’ve got the Berserker here. From what I read, you can’t do much better than her if you need Psychons sliced and diced. She’ll be the vanguard’s spearhead, taking out the brunt of things so those of us who are less magicky techno-mask inclined can just run cleanup. Do be careful though, cuz-”
Someone patted me on the back. They were saying some sort of affirmation, but I couldn’t make it out. The shock of fear now running its way up my spine was turning my hearing and vision all fuzzy.
I threw myself to the ground as the shock hit my heart and sent a spark off to my Veil. I curled up as the terror, and my aura, worked its way through my veins. Luckily, the spark didn’t catch, and my aura faded harmlessly out my extremities.
I focused on my breathing, gradually turning shallow breaths into normal breaths, and then normal breaths into deep breaths. I… would be okay. Still shaky, I got up to my feet and was almost sent into another panic when I clocked the concern on the faces of those nearby.
I swallowed and gave a thumbs up. “Hahahaha, no worries every– no worries, everyone. All good! No need to worry. Nope.”
Ira cleared her throat and thumped her spear again. “As. I. Was. Saying. Be careful around the Berserker. She’s not called that for nothin’. Her Veil is a tad touchy, and when it comes to physical contact, it is in your best interest to be hands *off.*” She glared at the woman who had patted me on the back, who raised her hands apologetically in response.
Ira made a circle in the air with the tip of her spear. “That’s your lot for the vanguard. Any poor souls stationed there best head out now and get yourselves acquainted with your facially-endowed friends.”
A group of militia members started heading out over the wall, with us three Impulse members in tow. If there had been a great deal of tension in the air before, it didn’t compare at all to the atmosphere around these conscripts, who had been given the most deadly assignment possible.
Someone was waving to get my attention. It was the woman who had nearly set me off earlier. She clearly wanted nothing more than to give me an apology hug, but to her credit she held off.
“Hey,” she said.“I just wanted to say sorry in person.” She gesticulated as she talked, maybe to keep her hands busy. “You’re not the only person I know who has trouble with physical contact, believe it or not. I really need to get better at asking if people are okay with it before I do stuff like that.” She stuck out her hand for a shake. “I’m Cath. Looks like we’ll be fighting together tonight. You are?”
I looked down at her hand, then back up at her, unable to do either of the things she was asking for. She eventually realized her mistake, and pulled back her hand.
“Oh! Sorry, there I go again!” She adjusted the bike helmet she had on in lieu of a more proper bit of head protection. “We do have to come up with a way of shortening that moniker though. ‘Berserker’ is way too long.” She started listing ideas. “How about ‘Serk’? Nah. ‘Bersy?’ hm, nope…”
I took one last glance behind me before I hopped down the front of the wall. My eyes caught on the Scrapper, whose kitsune-masked face was staring intently at someone in the remaining crowd. Did she recognize them?
***
The Scrapper
What was Dad doing here? He said he was going out to help with damage control. Had that been a euphemism? Were we really in such dire financial straits that he needed to do this sort of thing?
At the very least, his courier job left him better prepared than most of the people here. His courier’s uniform was well padded, and of course he had a Knockout-coated baton of his own. Those lungs of his, though… I’d have to keep an eye on him. If I didn’t overexert *myself* first, anyway.
He was glaring at the remaining seven of us in barely contained contempt. I supposed that was a good thing. It meant that he didn’t recognize me.
I turned my attention back to Ira for the time being. That gambeson of hers was probably the best piece of armor any Unveiled here had going for them. And yet, even from a distance I could see imperfections in the stitching, and spots where the stuffing was lumped up or underfilled. Not that my outfit was any better. I would have to ask the Deadeye for help getting some armor in my blazer. It had some padding in there to help with the temperature (Luckily, it wasn’t quite gonna dip below freezing tonight), but it wasn’t so much designed to soften blows.
Ira was covering her next Veiled grouping – the ones joining the main force on the wall. She chose the Aegis, Heister, and Deadeye for it, citing the former two’s versatility and the latter’s ability to take down important targets from a distance. I noticed that Dad was paying closer attention to this rundown than the previous one. He was assigned to the battlements, then.
Next up was the support crew and reserves. These were the ones responsible for keeping those fighting stocked with fresh weapons and ammo, as well as moving the injured and dead off to the field hospital and replacing the resulting holes in the defensive lines. She assigned the Surgeon to this role, specifically for his ability to provide on-site aid that could save lives and even get people back into the fight.
That left me, the Runner, and the Scout. Ira assigned the other two as liaisons of sorts between lines. She put the Runner in between the vanguard and wall in order to ferry supplies and use his healing aura to mitigate minor injury accumulation among the troops. The Scout, meanwhile, was to be the go-between for the support crew and wall troops, keeping operations organized and efficient and helping out with the fighting where he could.
And just like that, I was alone in the crowd. The rest of Impulse had shielded me from everyone’s gaze, but now the stares felt like needles poking into me from every direction. I forced myself to keep from looking at Dad. I didn’t want to risk him getting any ideas about my identity.
“Lastly,” Ira was saying, “We have the Scrapper. She is, in a word, quick. Buuut, she ain’t got the juice for more than short bursts, and she doesn’t exactly pack the biggest punch. And that was a real thinker for me, until I realized that the best choice was to not make one at all. Her job will be to weave around and give a little boost wherever it’s needed. Y’all won’t have to mind her much, just think of her like a little guardian spirit that’s gonna be looking over us tonight.”
Apparently the idea was popular with the crowd, as murmurs of assent wafted around and even built into a few words of encouragement. It definitely wasn’t the most *directed* assignment I could have gotten; my already tight nerves were not appreciating the choice paralysis.
I decided that, since we still had a few minutes until nightfall, I would help get inventory as organized as possible. It wasn’t tough work, just moving arms and gear to racks and bins, but taking on the more mundane tasks won me a few points with the support crew.
The streetlamps weren’t connected to the power grid this far out, but as the sun sunk below the horizon, lights along the top and back of the wall flicked on, and people started making liberal use of their Chippers for extra illumination. Behind me, gas lanterns and fires had turned the field hospital into a proper haven from the night.
I headed up to the rampart and took a position near the stairs, where I would be able to move in and out easily. Floodlights on the front of the wall lit up an empty stretch of asphalt, probably an old parking lot, that ran about thirty meters out before hitting the concrete jungle. The vanguard was looking a little conspicuous in the glare, like they were about to be picked off by the darkness one by one.
I did my best to file that thought away. No Psychons visible yet. I double checked the mechanisms on my smg, then settled in. It was going to be a long night.