A rat's problems

[Rookie12]

"Am I in trouble, sir?" Vasily asked cautiously.

He was half worried that the instructor was going to beat him up. Augustus was a strange person, but there was a certain order to his actions. He was a distant figure who rarely interacted directly with the trainees. And certainly he never attended a meeting dressed to the waist, and never before did he start lining up tables and chairs against the wall to make room for something.

"Augustus," the instructor reminded him. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

"If this is about the teasing, I am ready to accept any punishment…"

"The punishment has already been meted out." Augustus slammed a chair in the middle of the room and waved Vasily over. "Unless Eliza wants it, there will be no further reproach. No, the purpose of this meeting is you and you alone, Vasily. I heard about your problems, but I never realized how serious they were until the mission. No man should hate himself."

"That's pretty rich coming from you," Vasily fired without thinking. The instructor wanted honesty. He'll give him honesty.

"I've never hated myself," Augustus said. "There were and are times when I chastised myself for a mistake I made. But hate? Never. You see, there's a big difference between blaming yourself for the things you could have changed and hating yourself for the things you can't control." Augustus put a hand on Vasily's shoulder and made the boy sit up. "The guilt I feel is well deserved, but even now I do not feel disgust for myself. I'm working to atone for the things I should have done differently and to repay the debt I owe to Iterna. But you, Vasily." The instructor sat cross-legged, facing Vasily. His height made them look at each other eye-to-eye. "There is no guilt on you."

"My parents certainly don't think so." Vasily kept his composure when Augustus took his hand and squeezed his fingers, releasing his disgusting, filthy claws.

"Some people are assholes," Augustus said quietly. "It doesn't mean that they need to be punished; it's just a matter of life. There are people who won't accept others, no matter what. But look at your hand. With these very claws, you helped save the life of a young girl…"

"How is she, by the way?" Vasily asked, both genuinely curious and trying to change the subject. He had heard the same speeches from his grandmother a thousand times.

"Happy, healthy, and confused about the need to take the power suppression pills. Unfortunately, she had decided against joining the explorators or the military," Augustus sighed, "but the last I heard, Intelligence had assigned a few agents to trail her. Both to guard her and to use the poor child as bait to flush out any potential kidnappers."

"Bastards." Vasily frowned. "Even when she refused to work for them, they still found a way to use her."

"Such is life," Augustus replied. "Her power is valuable enough for the entire world to rile up in an attempt to get her. At the very least, in Iterna, she will have a chance for a normal life, and Intelligence has promised to be discreet. Regardless, you won't change shift the topic, Vasily. You have a problem." The instructor paused, as if trying to choose his words carefully. "There's nothing shameful about having problems. Or difficulties in dealing with them. But you need help, and I can't give it to you. So I called for assistance."

The instructor stood up, leaving his terminal on the floor. With a snap of his fingers, the device emitted a beam of light that reached the ceiling, where it splintered and shone onto the wall, forming a ghostly canvas that slowly filled with color. Augustus' eyebrows arched as a towering mechanical suit appeared in the room, half of its head merging with the ceiling.

"Augustus," Instructor Akebia boomed, running with two fingers along her frame. "Nice to see you at last, even in a somewhat undignified view."

"What is the meaning of this?" Augustus turned icy again. "How dare you break into my communications?"

"Well, how else would I be able to contact you?" Akebia shrugged her shoulders. The woman had painted her new body in crimson and gold, leaving only the faceplate untouched, and a neon smile danced across the screen. "No, seriously, Augustus. Your group has disappeared from the radars. Intelligence told us that everything is fine, but Torosian is worried sick about his trainees. I took it upon myself to keep penetrating your communications until I found an opportunity. Pardon the security breach, but we can't be left in the dark about what our kids are doing. Explorators don't abandon their own. Hi there, Vasily!"

"Hello, instructor." Vasily tried to stand, but Augustus put a hand on his shoulder.

"We got involved with the Shadows' business," he said, and Akebia whistled. Augustus briefed her on the mission, and Akebia grew more serious by the second, folding her arms and pinning him with the light of her oculars. The hologram projection continued to work, showing more of the place where Akebia was standing.

It looked like the spacious assembly chamber of an abandoned warehouse. Vasily had spotted several rusted assembly lines, but someone had ripped out most of the machinery and taken it away. Dust and rust covered the walls, but the floor was clean, and a pile of destroyed scout and combat bots lay in the corner. Someone had taken great care to dismantle them, setting aside the energy reactors and removing the low-power energy weapons. On the wall above the pile was a crude letter written in red paint: "Hands off the mechanisms. If you break any, you'll pay for it out of your own pocket." A cord connected one of the broken robots with a stationary terminal.

Further in the room stood Akebia's 'bedchamber', a large cylindrical device in which the woman could adjust parts of her mechanical frame. Behind it were large doors leading outside, and next to them was a small door leading to the trainees' resting places. In the dim light, Vasily could see that someone had cleaned out the other room, but the presence of a fist-sized mine on the door confused the boy.

"Shit. Torosian won't like it. Not one bit, and he'll be yelling at me instead of you," Akebia stopped, and her neon eyes glanced at Vasily. Her tone changed, and the woman started speaking softer. "You tried to contact them because of…"

"No," Augustus stopped her. "Everyone is fine. That is a separate matter and none of your business. How are things on your front?"

"Augusty finally learned how to call for help. How nice; I am proud of you, truly," Akebia chuckled softly. "Well, the preparations for receiving the Reclaimers are underway. Several of their fluffy scouts showed up, sniffed and marked the approach, and challenged me and Yura to a fight. I had to stop the princess from cracking a few skulls for the sake of diplomatic relations. I'll let you know that Olaf's team has already finished surveying the first three floors of the facility, taking out much of the security prepared for them by Intelligence. One of my clever girls found a link that connects all the bots underground…" Akebia pointed at the pile of broken robots. "And released a nifty piece of malware that messed them up, and the team moved ahead of schedule."

"So they won," Augustus stated. "Congratulations, Akebia. You have trained them well."

"Of course I did! But it would be so boring if they won this easily," Akebia said. "All kinds of complications happen in our line of work. I asked for a little help from two bored out of their minds scouts from the Wolf Tribe, and they played along, concocting a few surprises on the lower levels. If the kids can overcome these tribulations, which they will, your team will be left in the dust. My team will be the ones to get the perfect score this year, Augustus. Mark my…"

"By the Planet, she mined everything!" a scream interrupted Akebia's boast. "Instructor, there are mines everywhere!"

The doors behind Akebia flew open, releasing four arguing trainees. Vasily recognized Olaf, Yura, and a girl who had been playing New Year's cards with them. The last trainee, a teenager with almost rock-solid skin due to excessive sub-dermal armor, was unknown to him. All of them wore dusty civilian clothes, with their armors visible underneath. Olaf and Yura nodded to Augustus and Vasily, and they returned the gesture. Akebia raised a hand, called up a map on her wrist, and whistled again.

"Yura, I asked you to secure our home base, not turn it into a death trap!" Akebia said with both surprise and pride.

"It is secured, ma'am," Yura reported.

"From everyone! Us included!" The trainee with the rocky skin snapped.

"Even the toilets are mined! Who?! Who traps the damn toilets?!" Olaf grabbed his head.

"Now the enemy can't hope to access our areas of intimacy." Yura smiled, put both hands behind her back and lowered the bone sword. "In light of the incident when a Wolfkin scout snuck into our barracks for fun, I concluded that we needed better protection Each mine is linked to both a signal from our terminal and our DNA signature, making it too complicated for outsiders to disarm in a short time. This forces a potential enemy to either try to disable each one, alerting us when the mines go off the radar, or charge ahead and take casualties. It's a brilliant strategy. No mangy werewolf would ever make a fool of us again."

"Yura, they are our allies." Olaf took the girl by the shoulder. "Both sides are trying to show off; there is no harm. But what if someone gets injured by one of your mines? Can you imagine the diplomatic horror it would cause?"

"Already did and accounted for this," Yura replied with pride. "The regular mines, when placed in such close proximity, run the risk of causing a chain reaction when they explode. After careful research, I used the ones that release an energy pulse that renders an intruder immobile for a few hours. Apart from the humiliation, there will be no physical damage." A flicker of anger appeared in her eyes. "And they deserve to be humiliated after making such a mockery of my defenses!"

"Yura, I want to take a leak," the female trainee almost begged. "How am I supposed to do that with a primed mine beeping at the door?"

"It's easy. You take out your pissing tube…"

"Yura, do you have a penis?" the other girl asked the Malformed in disbelief.

"What? No, males have penises. I mean a pissing tube!" Yura looked at their confused faces. "Don't tell me you don't understand what I mean! Everyone has one! Here, let me show you …"

Augustus grabbed his terminal, cutting off the communication and banishing the hologram before Vasily could see anything else.

"Does… Does Jumail have a pissing tube?" Vasily asked. "Is this something that all the Malformed have in common?"

"I prefer to remain blissfully unaware of that particular part of their physiology," Augustus said.

The instructor tinkered a bit with his terminal, establishing the connection more slowly this time and checking several times to make sure no one was trying to interrupt him. When he was finished, the familiar beam appeared again, forming a window to the distant place, but the image that appeared in that window was drastically different. A man in his early thirties sat behind a wooden desk, its cabinet painted in soft yellow tones. Vasily felt his heart sink when he saw a soft couch near the table. A therapist. He had always avoided talking to one. He wasn't crazy.

"Greetings there, Mr. Augustus and Vasily. My name is Elias Dunlap," the therapist introduced himself. "Vasily, your instructor has brought me up to speed on your problems, but I would like to confirm a few things myself, if that is okay with you."

"Sure, sir," Vasily said in a dead tone. "I suppose I am expected to talk my mind out?"

"If you wish, but in our first session, you will find that I will be the one doing most of the talking," Elias said. "Normally I would offer you a more comfortable seat, but I suppose we will have to make do with what we have. Make yourself comfortable; don't worry about anything; feel free to grab a drink anytime; and let us start from the beginning…"

 

[Rookie12]

"Here, you go, ma'am!" Ratcatcher flashed a smile, handling a sealed package for a woman. Scars covered the Normie's body; sleepless nights had left her with bags under her eyes, but compared to yesterday, there was a glint of life in them. "How is Mr. Mansur today?"

"They released him from the emergency ward," the woman said in a hoarse voice. A bullet had ruined some of her vocal cords, and the wound was still bandaged, but she held a younger child steady with one hand and tucked the ration, a simple mix of healthy nutrients compressed into a gray baton and a daily dose of apple juice to sweeten up the thing, into her backpack. "The stupid buffoon had tried to escape to find a job, and an Ice Fang had to carry him back by the neck." She shook her head. "Can't believe it's over."

"Want me to babysit tonight? I am still free this night, and you'll have time to visit your husband," Ratcatcher offered.

"Bless your heart, Eliza, but no. A convoy has left town, clearing some space in the kindergartens." The woman kissed her son in his rectangular eye. "They need free hands to help with the kids, so hopefully I'll be able to pull my weight too. Come visit us when this is all over."

"I will!" Ratcatcher promised. She wanted to add that the woman wasn't a burden but wasn't sure how to formulate words best, so she simply wished her best of luck and turned back to her duties.

The Church of the Planet had poured obscene wealth into helping the people of Stonehelm. Trucks of food arrived daily, soup kitchens had been opened, free medicine arrived from Iterna by the hour, and there was always something to do. Cook a meal, help unload the crates, dash through the busy streets to deliver insulin, check on people, relay messages from parents working at construction sites to their children, and so on.

Ratcatcher half expected people to stare at her like they did in Iterna. Nope. Stonehelm had over a million people confined to its walls, and indeed, the Normies were the unusual ones here. Mutants slithering on tentacles, Trolls performing guard duties, Insectones buzzing above the streets or skittering over buildings, and Malformed carrying heavy industrial equipment with almost contemptuous ease—all kinds of people found a refuge from invasion here. The only person to ask her about her origins was a security guard at an airport, who scratched behind his ear, pondering whether she should count as a Malformed or a Mutant for identification purposes. In the end, the man listed her as a "Blessed Mutant" and let her in.

She feared getting lost, and there was some merit to it. The old maps didn't work; most of the chapels had been wiped out during the attack, or were so desecrated that the government decided to level them. Abel Bloodrave and his officers left nothing to chance; no matter the holy relic, if there was even a chance of it bearing a taint, it would go into a furnace. People's lives mattered, and the faiths grumbled but accepted the rules.

Stonehelm changed from day to day. A road opened yesterday might be closed the next day, opening an alternative path. The streets were so crowded with people that public transportation was shut down and only hospital vehicles traveled. A whole new business of street guides, made by orphaned children, has flourished, and the government has decided to subsidize it rather than shut it down and put children out of work. Dressed in official, standardized green uniforms, cleaned, washed, and on the government payroll, the youngsters helped people navigate around, asking for cash out of sport. One of them led Ratcatcher to the Reverend through the ever-changing maze, pointing out the best bars along the way.

Everyone helped in their own way. Jumail and Elina got drafted by the Champion's Cult. It was kind of funny; they came over to a volunteer, asking how Jumail could help, and a five-meter-tall Orais, weighing over a ton, simply grabbed the two and carried them to the construction sites along with other hesitant volunteers. The Champion's Cult venerated the Outsider, a general of the Dynast, as their deity, but in reality, they were more of an organization focused on the betterment of the human body and mind, acting as one of the prime patrons of cybernetics research. Spirituality was something of an afterthought for them, and Jumail reported he settled in well in their barracks. Elina simply adapted to the change and left Vasily in charge of preparing supplies.

The rest of the team was busy as well. Edward and Esmeralda joined a charity hosted by the believers in the Spirits, who owned a small church squeezed between a recruiting office opened by Murzaliev's company and Scorpio's store. The twins were a bit disappointed to find no Wolfkin from the Wolf Tribe in the church; apparently some sort of schism had happened between the tribe and the main church. Led by a white-furred Ice Fang, they roamed the city, helping the police break up fights between various groups.

Rowen reported that all was well on his end. Vasily grumbled about being left alone to prepare supplies for the mission, and Augustus dragged Carlos out of a bar by the ear and handed the teen to his mother after Carlos had orchestrated a drinking contest to prevent a fight among two groups of mercenaries.

Ratcatcher gave out the last rations and stretched herself. She's worked on a small market square that rose from a former parking lot. The explorator-in-training helped the priests clear out their stall, posted an announcement about the temporary closure until tomorrow, and spotted one refugee sitting on a sidewalk, his sealed ration in hand. The man had received his share over twenty minutes ago, so what gives?

"Sir, are you okay?" she asked, coming over to the man.

"What?" He blinked, as if waking from a slumber. He was a mutant; a long patch of gray skin covered his face down to his collar, and one of his eyes shone purple. "Yeah. Am I in the way?"

"Not at all." Ratcatcher sat beside him, wrapping her tail around her waist. She'd been on her feet for the last sixteen hours; a little rest wouldn't hurt. "My name is Ratcatcher. Mind if I stretch my legs a bit?"

"Shoot ahead," the man said.

"No place to stay, by any chance?" Ratcatcher asked. She had helped two families fill out forms for shelter yesterday, after a Barjoni's backhoe had destroyed their hut during renovations.

"No, I stay in the hangars." The man pointed down. "It's just…"

"Dark in there?" she inquired. Today was a sunny day, and she won't begrudge anyone for getting a sunbath.

"You'd wish!" the man laughed. "It is bright as day every second in there! I just… phased out. It all happened so fast; everything changed so quickly, and I don't have the faintest idea what to do."

"Point. Change is always consuming. Why, there was a path there yesterday!" Ratcatcher pointed to the sewer station under construction. The man exhaled and took out a small blue hairpin, rolling it between his fingers. His expression softened. "Did you remember something, sir?"

"Family," he responded quietly. "I…" With dead eyes, he followed an arguing family, nodding as a father hoisted a little girl onto his shoulders and promised her he would be home all day tomorrow. "Yeah, that's the way. Treasure your family, girl. Every single moment. Otherwise, you'll end up like me."

"Something happened to them, sir?" Ratcatcher asked cautiously.

"War. The war happened." The man's shoulders dropped. "No idea what to do now. What they would've wanted for me."

"To live," Ratcatcher said at once. "No family would want anything else for their member." She reached out and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "I'd be lying if I said I understood your pain. But you have to live, take one step at a time. There are people who can help and listen…"

"Eliza Vong!" She almost jumped at the Reverend's call.

The Reverend was a tall, thin Normie, who looked as if he would keel over at the slightest breeze. His gray hair was pulled back into a tuft, and his ivory robe was wrapped tightly around his body. He approached the seated girl and towered over her.

"Twelve hours! I'm tired of people collapsing in the middle of the road. Go take a nap, eight hours," said Reverend Honshu, the head of the small charity organization operating in the area.

"Reverend, I am not tired in the least…"

"At once!" he snapped. The authority the man had earned in the army was in every word, and Ratcatcher saluted, nodding to the seated man. The reverend ignored her nod, but when she started to leave, Honshu sat down next to the refugee and spoke to him in a gentle tone.

She was glad that someone competent took over. Not a night went by without the police finding bodies. Crime aside, accidents and natural deaths were inevitable in such an overcrowded city, but often people took their own lives, unable to cope with the horrible memories of the war or the loss of their loved ones. Or worse, attacked the "lucky" ones. And unlike in Iterna, there was no emergency mental health care readily available.

Ratcatcher made her way through the busy market to the chapel. She could take a nap at the hotel, but it would take a good quarter of an hour to get there, and that if all roads still stood unbarred. At this time of day, the clergy worked in the field, leaving the chapel empty. People came in to pray, but there were several beds on the second floor for volunteers.

Her ears caught a familiar voice, and the girl halted, checking left and right to see if she heard right The day was in full swing, and the market was crowded with people eager to spend their wages on necessities, or to buy real meat and vegetables instead of tasteless rations. The quality of the food and items at the market varied, but they were cheaper than anything in the official stores. Ratcatcher concentrated, ignoring the delicious smell of a roasted rat on a grill, and tried to make out the sounds.

"How about you do not walk around…"

She wasn't wrong! Ratcatcher pushed through the crowd, holding a hand over his pocket with money. Rowen and Jumail were here. The white-haired teenager wore a white medic's uniform with green coats of arms on his shoulders. Orange bands encircled Jumail's body in an odd attempt to make him look like he was wearing a worker's jacket. The two were arguing with a young woman wearing a T-shirt with big, shiny letters: "Fuck, fuck, fuck off losers." The woman was quite attractive; parts of her smooth, dark skin were golden and not of an artificial sort, and her slit pupils were an exotic green. If it weren't for the mocking expression on her face, Ratcatcher would have taken her for a professional model.

A Troll stood some distance behind the woman; the visor of a portable camera covered one of his eyes. The woman herself was filming Rowen and Jumail through her terminal, and a policeman was watching the whole thing with a frown, his hands closed. And an angry crowd had gathered, including several parents. Jumail used his long limbs to keep them from closing in on the idiot.

Just great. Ratcatcher leaped to Rowen before the boy could do something messy and get himself thrown in jail. She didn't need to ask what was going on; the situation was clear enough. Once the Three Great Nations signed a Net Treaty, many people started filming themselves and uploading it to the Net. It ranged from manuals to pranks and sometimes disgusting provocations like this one.

How would Elina solve this problem? By punching. No, not an option. What would Carlos do? Ah, I got it!

"Miss!" Ratcatcher landed beside the woman. The Troll turned his head, filming Ratcatcher, but his muscles tensed. A hired muscle helped bail the woman out of trouble. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Problem?" The woman turned her terminal at Ratcatcher. "I don't have any problems. It is this rabble who has problems! They are bothering me out of the blue on my daily walk!"

"Out of the blue!" An Insectone shouted and tried to step to her, but Rowen put a hand on his chest, holding the man back. "What about the profanity on your shirt? My daughter can see it!"

"So what?" The woman turned to him. "She can't read yet, right? Right? It's always hard to tell with you people."

"Either you leave, or…"

"Rowen!" Ratcatcher interrupted him, earning herself a nod of thanks from the officer. The acting governor put in place some harsh rules, but he clearly didn't account for everything. Ratcatcher didn't even blame him; who in their right mind would have guessed that idiots would stir up shit and risk their lives for a media clout? "Please show tolerance, everyone." Ratcatcher bowed low to the crowd. "The poor woman probably can't even read, so she doesn't know what's on her shirt."

This brought the reaction she had hoped for. Weak giggles and laughter. But more importantly, it angered the woman, and angry and stupid was a dangerous combination. And advantageous.

"I know how to read, dolt," the woman snapped.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dolt, I am Eliza." Ratcatcher pressed her hands together in prayer and made sad eyes. "Listen, I sympathize with your inability to read, and if you want, I can…"

"I already said I can read, moron!" A tint of red appeared on the woman's neck, and Ratcatcher prayed to the Planet for Rowen to stay silent.

"Oh, please." Ratcatcher waved her hand. "Fine, prove it if you can. What does this say?" She pointed to the T-shirt.

"It says fuck off, which is what you should…"

"Officer!" Ratcatcher interrupted the twerp, singing in a honey tone, standing on her toes, and waving a hand. "This woman here is spilling cusses; she might not be well. Maybe she has sunstroke or something. Please escort the poor thing somewhere where she can be helped."

"Of course, citizen," the officer said, not even trying to hide his pleasure as he took the woman's hand.

"What?" She blinked, turning to her bodyguard, but he only spread his hands. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Cursing is not allowed in the streets, miss. Follow me to the police district, where we can..."

"I wasn't cursing!" The woman panicked. "The crowd, they're the ones who were harassing me; I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

"I have a video recording, ma'am." The policeman tapped on the camera on his chest. "Lying to a police officer is only going to make things worse for you, young lady."

"You have no right! Let me go, officer; I am innocent! That blasted girl insulted me first! Where are you dragging me?! Do you even know who I am?!"

"If you keep resisting, I will be forced to restrain you, miss…"

Ratcatcher watched with some amusement as the officer handcuffed the struggling woman, led her away, wiped her hands, and bowed gracefully to the applauding Rowen and Jumail.

"And that's how the cookie crumbles. Or something." Ratcatcher scratched the back of her head, blushing.

"Thanks. I was about to shorten the length of her nose," Rowen said. "I can't believe there are idiots who would go around stirring up trouble. The Insectone could have broken her neck with a flick of his wrist."

"And she bet on you assaulting her. She'd sue you for it, get you thrown in jail, and everyone on the Net would talk about the Iternian threat for weeks," Ratcatcher explained. "Plus, I bet she paid to have her bones strengthened."

"The Net was a mistake," Jumail announced.

"Hey! I use it to buy ponies!" Rowen protested.

"The Net was a mistake," Jumail repeated.

"Always use Carlos' method when you encounter such people," Ratcatcher advised.

"Use the force?" Rowen asked.

"She said Carlos', not Elina's." Jumail tapped at his mandible with his leg. "Use the brain, maybe?"

"That was my guess, but Carlos only laughed and called me stupid. And when I wanted to kick him, he explained." Ratcatcher gestured for them to step closer and whispered. "Use the insult. His method is based on pissing off an opponent enough to make him the guilty party."

 

[Rookie12]

"What brought you here?" Ratcatcher inquired, leaving the market with the boys.

"Got to administer some medication to the Insectones in the tower." Rowen patted the medical bag. "Nothing serious, really, just a mild case of tuberculosis. But after a nurse got beaten up in an alley yesterday, the Barjonis stopped sending Normies out, even though the Governor saw those responsible hanged. Me, on the other hand? Oh, I'd love to see some punk try to jump me."

"And as for me, the Champions ordered me to perform a maintenance check on the underground reactor in the same tower." Jumail pointed at the structure barely visible above the stores.

Ratcatcher put her hands behind her head, slapping the ground with her tail. Yeah, killing people—any people—is bad. She didn't buy the "desperate times call for desperate measures" bullshit; the government here had the means and space to deal with the criminals humanely. But there was nothing she could do about it, and she had her own problems and interests to pursue.

Speaking of interests. She glanced at Jumail, biting her lip. There was something that has been bothering her a lot. Jumail visited the instructor's room, and she knew for certain that back at the ship, the instructor had left Vasily alone for hours and disappeared, and Elina saw him hours later talking to Jumail. That could only mean one thing. Augustus often invited his trainees for private training, polishing their skills individually. This was how they all chose their weapon styles and learned to mix them with regular weapons.

What kind of weapon did Jumail choose? The question was eating her from inside. It couldn't be something destructive; the instructor's room is rather small… Or is it? Maybe its walls can withstand megaton explosions and… but how would Augustus remain unharmed?

"Okay, lay it out already. Why were you in Augustus' room on the ship?" she asked.

"Confidential." Jumail stopped by a stall, swaying his front body down to imitate a bow to an Insectone trader. The boy ignored the girl and started deliberately slowly choosing a roasted insectoid larva covered in sugar.

"C'om, I wanna know, I wanna know!" Ratcatcher jumped a few times. "I'll tell you all about my own secrets. You can read my diary if you want to! I can give you the mancatcher for a test and a manual on how to use it! I'll… I'll pay for your dinner; scratch your back; massage your legs; just tell me already what sort of…"

"I'm getting adopted," the boy said proudly.

"What?!" Rowen and Ratcatcher asked simultaneously.

This wasn't what she thought he visited Augustus for! She thought he was going to learn a secret technique, a cool move, or at the very least, a few secrets of trade. How to coerce a guard into giving you information. How to bribe someone properly. She wasn't planning on getting privy to Jumail's private life!

"I noticed six messages on my terminal from my little brother, Scytha," Jumail said, ignoring Ratcatcher's attempts to stop him. "Well, the first one was an urgent request for talk; the rest were a long stream of profanities for not responding at once. I called him from the instructor's room, and the little sonic squirt wasn't the only one who greeted me." Jumail paid for a larva, swallowed it in one bite, and turned to hug Rowen and Ratcatcher. "My baby sister, Lee, was there too! And not alone; a family had paid them visits for the past half-year, talking, communicating—that kind of stuff. And wouldn't you know the duo decided to leave the rehabilitation facility with them, and they lived in Iterna's north for the past week?" Jumail put his teammates on his back, speaking faster. "My supposed new mom and dad look like decent people. Good. Kind. Just what my siblings need to be happy. And best of all, they invited me, me! A person they don't know a thing, never talked with, to become their son!"

"That's… That's awesome!" Ratcatcher hugged Jumail's 'neck', a space where two round parts of his body connected, and the boy grinned. "I am so happy for you! Oh, and sorry for prying."

"Eh, beat it; I could barely hold it in myself."

"Not to be a party pooper, but have you done some research?" Rowen asked carefully. "There are people out there who will take advantage of young children."

"Of course!" Jumail said it eagerly. "That's the first thought that popped into my head. Why? Why would they be so open to me and to them? Is this a trap? Are my siblings in trouble? I called both Instructor Torosian and later spoke with Instructor Augustus. Mr. Torosian ran the couple through the database, and Instructor Augustus did one better. His uncle paid the family a visit, chatted a bit, and yes, all is good. Better than good, great! Lee and Scytha have a loving family! And so do I! I mean, I'm still going to kick Scytha's ass for running his mouth in front of Mom and Dad, but other than that, the future looks bright." He paused. "That reminds me. Eliza, have you talked to any of the Avengers?"

"No." The question puzzled her. "Should I? Weren't all of them somewhere on the mission?"

"They returned at night, earlier than expected," Rowen said. "They reported to Elina about their readiness to escort us, so we will leave tomorrow as planned. But two of them joined me on a way back from patients, asking me about my future, quickly dropping the subject after I explained I planned to become a doctor."

"They also tried to ask me some strange questions." Jumail tapped at his mandibles. "But the Orais in charge shooed them away. I called the instructor and told him all about it, anyway."

"No, no one has approached me," Ratcatcher said.

She jumped off Jumail's back after noticing the chapel and thanked the boy for the ride. The weather was beautiful, and the sun shone brightly, playing in the chapel's painted windows. She didn't feel herself even a little bit tired, but a good nap won't hurt. Tomorrow, they will leave this place and go on with their training. She had to be in her prime, lest she drag the whole team down.

Come to think about it, what was there to worry about? She had survived a battle with the shamblers; should some caves pose a challenge to her? Sure, the instructor had talked about the mechanical horrors that fell into the open chasms, but she could bet her monthly salary that the Academy wouldn't send her here unless the place was completely safe. Short of falling asleep on a cliff, nothing could hurt her, and even then, the power armor would take care of the fall damage.

Singing a melody from Eugenia's latest song, "Dreams of the Days Yet to Come," Ratcatcher opened the chapel door, stepping into the hallway. The only source of light was from the windows above, illuminating the pathway leading to the shrine and the series of benches standing at the sides. The Church of the Planet lacked a confession booth; it was customary for reverends to meet with troubled souls in their offices instead.

The chapel was a poor but comfortable representative of the Church. A wooden floor, which cracked slightly under every step, was covered by a soft green rug stretching all the way to the dais on the opposite side of the hall where the Reverend led prayers at night. At the Reverend's insistence, all bowls for charity were removed. The Church's superiors felt it was inappropriate to ask the faithful in the city for donations. In their place were stands with lists of tasks calling for volunteers' attention and messages about the priests' whereabouts during the day.

Each church of the Planet always had a medical room on the bottom floor. One of the Church's core tenets was the healing of the planet: the body, meaning the land, and the soul, meaning the people who lived on the land. For this reason, all clergy were trained in the ways of word and healing; not a single priest could reach the rank of reverend without extensive medical training. Treatment was not free in most parts of the world, and though the Church tried to make it as cheap as possible, its resources weren't infinite, and sometimes people died at their doors. This chapel lacked medical faculties, but the priests helped carry people to the actual hospitals.

Ratcatcher closed the doors, still whistling the tune, and stopped halfway across the hall, noticing a Troll sitting before the dais. She stirred, rising from one knee, two mechanical arms folded on her back; their treads gave out a light sound upon contortion.

I didn't even notice her presence! The Troll didn't breathe; she said nothing; her very being felt like nothing, throwing the girl off balance. The newcomer had concealed her presence in the open.

"My apologies," the woman in a silken crimson business suit said in a soft tone, her voice easily conveying concern. She wore a black scarf around her gray neck, emblazoned with the crest of the Avengers. Electric currents washed over her skin, illuminating it in tandem as she started breathing. "Have I startled you, Lady Eliza?"

"A bit, yeah!" She nodded and walked toward the dais, stepping on one knee and giving praise to the Planet's iconography on the wall. Let the newcomer wait. Ratcatcher used this brief respite to calm herself. "I'm afraid you have put me at a disadvantage and confused me for something I am not. Trust me, I ain't a lady."

"Allow me to disagree with this assessment," the Troll said pleasantly, throwing Ratcatcher's off. She pressed a gloved hand to her chest and bowed, spreading a non-existent cloak with one arm. "No one who fought so hard to save poor souls can be anything but a noble lady. A nobility given by blood pales in comparison to a nobility that shines in a soul."

"Once more, you overestimate my involvement." Ratcatcher watched the woman with her beady eye. "All I did was survive a bad guy who aimed to kill me. Hardly an accomplishment."

"Your modesty does you credit, but it is you who undersell your involvement in Birchshell's sorry business, Lady Eliza. I was there, and I saw your actions with my own eyes and mind. Were it not for the brave Iternian aid, we would have leveled the city from afar, sacrificing our own. I am Countymeister Wivin Magthildis, the one responsible for the Avengers' technological edge, and on behalf of my chapter, I thank you for saving our people," the Troll said.

"So you survived!" Ratcatcher went over to the woman and embraced the startled Troll with both relief and a bit of vengeance. Wanted to throw me off, did you? Have at you! "Thank the Planet, ma'am! When the machine melted the wall, I thought the people on it had suffered the same fate." She stopped, ashamed of her behavior, and let go of the woman. "It is because of us that the Oathtakers lost so many soldiers, ma'am."

"Call me Wivin, please." The countymeister placed hands—not biological but mechanical—on the trainee's shoulders. "Your grief is appreciated, but do not dare take the blame for the deaths of brave men and women on your shoulders. That was not your sin. What are soldiers, if not protectors and saviors of civilians? What do we live for if not to shield and protect them?" The mechanical hands lifted Ratcatcher's head. "Stand proud, child of Iterna. I despise the decision of your superior to put gentle ones in danger, but had you been an Oathtaker, I would've personally recommended, nay, made you enlist in the Heroes' ranks. You used the Blessing given by God well. It pains me that your country doesn't follow your example."

"I am not sure I understand," Ratcatcher said, keeping her cool. What is going on? Is she in danger? Doubtful: the Oathtakers and Iterna are allies. And she sensed no aggression from the countymeister. But there was something off about the situation. No way the Avengers approached them out of courtesy. "Iterna spends considerable resources on charity and education, convincing nearby countries and settlements to join us."

"And do you believe that this is the correct way?" Wivin asked, walking around Ratcatcher. She thudded on the rug and sat on a bench, leaving the way to the exit open. "The best path to save lives? To protect those who are weak?"

"Of course! We can build a better world through understanding and cooperation."

"And what understanding could there be with the Chosen Prince?" Wivin asked, and Ratcatcher found herself at a loss. "Do you know why so many countries in the world are so poor and their people live in terrible conditions?"

"Misguided beliefs, bigotry, racism, irrational fear, cruel traditions, rule of the strong, dictatorship... All the things that can be fixed through education, by the way," Ratcatcher decided to add a little jab.

"If that would be so, why do the Ravaged Lands, with painful groans, move toward the brighter future beneath the King's rule and despite the presence of a tyrant like Blaguna Nokto?" Wivin said. "No, girl, you miss the point. You named all the valid symptoms, but the sickness is something else."

"And what might that be?" Ratcatcher asked.

"Corruption." The Troll's metal arm moved, and a hologram of a man stuffing himself with money appeared out of its palm. "This is an image from an Old World's poster calling for workers to unite to get a fairer wage. Let's change the color." Her other arm moved, creating a perfect mirror image of the white man, only now with dark skin. "Is there any difference between them? No. Racism plagued our world long before the Industrial Revolution; after it happened, racism receded."

"But…" Ratcatcher slapped the floor with her tail. "There were instances when people of different colors clashed."

"True. And why is that?" The Troll asked. The trainee shrugged, and the woman continued. "In an age where you could speak with a person from the moon, why would anyone care about skin tone? Simple. Because politicians and wealthy people manipulated the media and whipped up hysteria. The Old World was a utopian realm, but not without its problems. A politician gets into power, gets access to enormous amounts of wealth, and it corrupts her. She starts buying stuff…"

"Like yachts!" Ratcatcher added.

"Yachts? They were nothing back then. The elite bought spaceships, often never having time to even use them in their race for more money and more growth. The corporations experienced the same: an urge to show, an urge to expand. They didn't rest, they didn't enjoy their wealth, they crushed all those who tried to take away their wealth, staged clashes among the population to discredit their opponents, because the fear of losing the money was even greater than the fear of losing their lives. This is corruption. Whether it is a desire for authority or money, corruption comes first. Blaguna and the King are both vile things, but for now, their corruption is ruining them rather than their nations. They have yet to call for genocide, but I have little doubt that it'll happen one day."

"You seem to put too much focus on the individuals." Ratcatcher sat on the floor and wrapped her tail around her waist.

"You disagree?" Wivin's voice sounded like a question, but the woman's face remained impassive. "Whether you like it or not, there are extraordinary people. I could never replace the noble Brogard, and you could never replace the Redeemer. Individualism plays a key role in shaping a society. Humans, as a whole, are good. Very few people would ever take up arms and kill a neighbor out of hate, even if they irrationally fear that neighbor because of, say, extra limbs. Look no further than Stonehelm to see proof of this theory: the Malformed work side by side with all others, and no one blames them. But if you had, as an example, a radio station that called for the death of the Malformed day and night, some might be moved by the poisonous words. An individual corrupts a whole collective."

The trainee didn't know what to say, but this assessment didn't sit well with her. It absolved both the population of responsibility and their accomplishments. True, talent existed, and it was foolish to think otherwise. And true, individuals, like the accursed Mubarakari, had caused tragedies around the globe with their forked tongue. But at the same time, it was the Iternian people who marched on, broke down the gates of the facilities holding the Abnormals, demanded that Mubarakari's cronies surrender, and she herself resigned. It was not a movement led by the Queen, or Eugenia, or even the Artificer. The people rose, horrified by the atrocities at the atrocities done through their inaction, and imprisoned the guilty, vowing never again to repeat the horrific crime.

"The Reclamation Army decided to fight against corruption by placing the right people in the right places," Wivin continued. "Their leaders are not the smartest, but they are somewhat incorruptible and can take good advice. Such a system cannot last, for people come and go, and eventually, as their state expands, corruption will creep in. A single block can rot and bring down the entire pyramid. Iterna believes in checks and balances, handicapping itself and making it near impossible to expand at a rapid pace. We believe in a mix of both systems. Through the union of faith and cooperation, we expand our borders, often not in the nicest ways, but never in cruel ones like the Reclaimers. And our leaders are both the best for the job, know how to delegate, and are dedicated to their core through our connection with the Oath." The Troll brought her mechanical hands together, joining her palm, and the images merged, turning in the Lightbringer. "Many claim that the Oath takes away a chunk of your free will, but as you can see, a person can still choose which nation to serve. The Oath aids in upholding moral guidelines rather than binding a person to a political ideology. It helps a person care. A perfect tool to stir a nation."

"And this excuses your subjugation of neighboring nations?" Ratcatcher asked bluntly. "The Oathtakers may not invade as directly as the Reclaimers, but you still infiltrate smaller societies, kidnap leaders, and force them to sign treaties."

"No," Wivin agreed easily. "Nothing can excuse a child's head being popped under an iron boot." She met Ratcatcher's eyes. "We sin in our actions. We know our crimes and our duties, for unlike the times of the Old World, we live in the New World, in a time when the strong can live forever, making it impossible for their subjects to overthrow them. Living demigods capable of reshaping their surroundings. Some say we live in a more enlightened era, but I say always remember the names. Mincemeat. Kande Dapaa. Vasco Murzaliev. Blood Graf. Mad Hatter. Chosen Princes. And that's just to name a few. Some say that less than a little over a dozen is nothing to fuss about, but you are smarter than this. We both know that as the number of people in the world increases, so do the chances of an S-Class being born. By the Oath, it hasn't even been a century since the Gilded Horde's invasion. Perhaps at this very moment some other S-Class Blessed is conquering a land and preparing to stage another invasion. Wilderness can't go on; no child should be left to be raised under the heel of similar tyrants. Civilization must return. And this is the reason for my coming to meet you."

With a click, the mechanical arm reached out to Ratcatcher. She tensed, expecting to be attacked, but instead a flash of light came from the palm, making her skin tingle. It wasn't a flash, her vision wasn't impaired, and there was no assault, but the teen's skin tingled, and as the crusader started speaking, her voice sounded dull, echoing off the invisible walls.

A dome of silence! The Iternian confidential system worked by absorbing the sound when it tried to leave the area; the cruder Oathtakers' devices created a small force-field, reflecting the sound back. Same result, different methods. Now she understood why the woman hugged her with the mechanical limbs. No doubt there were several sensors capable of telling if the trainee had a recording device on her.

I suck at the spy game. Gotta get better!

"If only we had access to more advanced Iternian technology." Wivin remained seated, keeping herself relaxed, and the way to the exit was open. "Imagine how many lives we could've preserved and how many countries we could have persuaded to join us if we had better means. Is it fair to allow people to toil beneath a tyrant's rule…"

"I don't like where this discussion is going." Ratcatcher cut her off. "I swore… well, I will be swearing my allegiance to Iterna."

"And I respect it." The countymeister nodded. "But where does your loyalty truly lie? Is it for an individual country or for humanity as a whole? I am certain you would agree that imperialists like the Reclamation Army should not win, must not win. And throughout history, the Oathtakers and Iterna have shared a history of cooperation, with very few quarrels. Our countries are allies; is it wrong to help your ally better resist a tyrant? Please consider our offer for the sake of the people. We will never force you to steal from Iterna. But through your work in the field, you may occasionally come across a curiosity or an interesting contact…"

"No," Ratcatcher said, putting her hands on her knees. There were no illusions about the outcome; if Wivin attacks here, she'll die. But she was betting on her civility. "You think Iterna moves slowly. We let other nations grow and develop on their own, make their own mistakes, and maybe join us one day. Is our method perfect? Planet, no, it is not! This is why the explorators are needed to mitigate a potential catastrophe. But your solution, Wivin, is to give in to fear. To take freedom from others simply because one day they might one day be a threat to you. And that is a solution I will never support."

"So you choose to leave the helpless under the tyrants."

"I choose nothing of the sort because I can't save everyone. I believe in the ideals of my country. We are not perfect, and no one is."

The two kept looking at each other. There wasn't even a glimmer of emotion in Wivin's pale eyes; she stopped breathing, and only the illumination of her skin by an electric current reminded her she was alive. Ratcatcher was nervous; sweat trickled down her temple, her fingers twitched. The Troll was so big—almost double her height—and had decades of actual combat experience. She could kill her faster than the trainee could blink.

"Eh," Wivin inhaled, and the dome popped, banishing the echo. "Maybe there is something I don't understand. Every single one of you has given us the same answer. That leaves only one option. Iterna values understanding, so let us speak. Do you have any questions about our chapter before tomorrow's mission?"

"You bet!" Ratcatcher fired. "First of all, why did you make us wait two days in the city? Was it to have a chance to sway us to your side?"

"In a sense," Wivin admitted. "I had hoped that by getting to know the city and its people, you might be more willing to cooperate. But no, it was only a lucky coincidence. As you know, criminals have overrun the surrounding cities. The president-elect has entrusted us with your safety, but the people who live there are my countrymen. When the chance came…"

"You took it." Ratcatcher nodded. "I'd have done the same in your boots. And there is no problem; Stonehelm and its people are awesome!" Well, aside from certain people at the market, she didn't mention it for fear that Wivin would report it to the Governor and he would order the woman hanged. Sure, she was a bitch, but there was no need to hurt her. "All of them. You could've called us for help!"

"No," Wivin said. "What happens outside these walls is too cruel for children to see. An entire police unit was wiped out in the action, and by the time we arrived to restore order, the gang that did it had fallen to vigilantes. We destroyed anyone who tried to resist and helped the police establish their presence. But all of this is mere barebones, with our army spread so thin…"

They talked for half an hour, and Ratcatcher even received an offer to pass a training course for the future crusaders. In the past, only Trolls received such positions, but much has changed in the last decade. She agreed, promising to visit Brightburn, one of the larger training centers and a vast city to the south, during her leave. This could serve multiple purposes: first, she could make some contacts with the Oathtakers, learn about their culture, see more of the outside world, and hone her skills. No doubt they'll try to recruit her, so no taking anything of worth, and Liam will miss her. Some sacrifices had to be made.

She drank some tea and shared crackers with Wivin, remembering Elina's words about the sanctity of hospitality in these lands. A spiritual shield is better than no shield at all. As the woman went about her business, Ratcatcher stormed up to the second floor, too disturbed by what she had heard.

Every single one of you has given us the same answer. The words echoed in her mind. Wivin had tried to throw her off, planting a seed of calmness in her mind. Ratcatcher wiped her face at a small sink, too scared of the potential hidden behind these words. Why would the woman say them and then have a long discussion? If what the instructors taught her in the Academy was correct, Wivin was throwing her off by assuring her that everyone had refused. In reality…

She paced back and forth, wondering if she should call Augustus. He probably already knows, but a report won't hurt. But the worry that one of them could've betrayed their trust never left her. The thought of a trainee leaving to live in these lands didn't bother her; everyone has the right to live as they see fit. But a betrayal of trust was a big deal.

At last, Ratcatcher called Elina, finding herself unable to sleep. The leader's face appeared on the screen, her face swollen with huge purple welts and bruises that hid her left eye, and she held a bag of ice to her cheek. But Elina's eyes shone with happiness.

"Hi there," she mumbled, spitting blood. "How's life been treating you, Ratcatcher? Ready for tomorrow?"

"What in the world happened to you?!"

"An Orais cast a fist. You know, I can't recommend the experience for everyone, but by the Champion, I never felt as alive as I did during the morning training. Gotta get this sweaty asshole one day." Elina pushed a bottle's top through the battered lips and took a sip. "It's awesome here; when we don't work, we train! I have learned so much about building muscle in the last few hours that I think I have found my spiritual creed. All hail the Outsider! Glory to the Champion!"

"Are you leaving us for the Reclamation Army?" Ratcatcher asked.

"What? No, you dummy! I don't worship the Outsider as a person; fuck that maniac. I worship his divine aspect and his holy book on how to bulk up." Elina put the bottle away. "Listen, I'd love to chat, but my everything hurts. Has something happened?"

Ratcatcher laid it all out, telling Elina every bit of her doubts and fears. The other girl listened, blinking with one bloodshot eye to stay awake, and at last nodded.

"I know. I asked Carlos to agree after they visited me."

"What? But why?" Ratcatcher asked with relief.

"Because if they plan to play us, we might as well join the con." Carlos' image joined the discussion, taking up half the screen. The boy was yawning, sitting behind an expensive wooden desk, and struggling with graphs. "And who else to serve the role, if not a spoiled, disenchanted rich boy? Not that I think we'll get anything of value, they're not that stupid… Elina?!" he asked in shock. "Who the hell turned you into a squashed potato? Mom! Mom, someone beat up my classmate! First the nurse, now a trainee; this whole den is rotten to the core! Get me a medical team ASAP!"

"Shut up; it is not what you think it is! Stop making a fuss out of nothing; we have training tomorrow!" Elina pleaded, and Ratcatcher turned off the communication, letting the two of them sort it out, relieved that everything turned out all right.

 

[Rookie12]

An armored truck drove across the desolate landscape. Rusty pieces of metal and jagged rocks protruding from the parched land scraped and raged against the dusty vehicle, but its wheels flattened them, letting the journey continue. Withered vines covering the gray sand turned to dust, and the passengers had jumped more than once in the transport containment when the driver drove over several cracks in the ground. Encasing their heads in helmets, the group agreed that the man must be having fun.

Their transport lacked outside cameras, but slits littered the metal wall, and Ratcatcher opened one of them, examining the outside. Yep, little more than dead creepers, farm ruins, and destroyed machinery. Her eyes widened, and she transmitted a picture of a group of people sawing apart a sizeable tank, trapped by a fallen rock. The battle vehicle lay in ruins, and the people, comprising Trolls dressed in shorts and T-shirts and Normies in industrial exoskeletons, extracted its engine, letting out a cheer at a still intact energy cell. She sent the team a picture of several parked heavy trucks.

"Private scavenger companies," Esmi said. "These people venture into the wild, taking apart the abandoned stuff. Metal gets smelted down and costs peanuts, but the Oathtakers buy every intact piece of machinery."

"And weapons too!" Edward added. "These teams are normally operating illegally in the Ravaged Lands and the Wastes. Kind of like us, but they get caught more often. I bet they never expected to be working here, of all places."

The sand that their vehicle left behind blended with the sand that the Avengers' three hovering transporters had kicked into the air. These smooth pyramids moved several meters above the ground, each capable of holding fifty crusaders inside. In times of war, energy would coalesce in one of the many spheres on the pyramid's outer hull and shoot out a ball of plasma capable of traveling faster than bullets. Jumail asked the crusaders, and they let him fire it once, leaving a torso-sized hole in a rock formation to the cheers of the rest of the team. Even Vasily clapped, immediately trying to ask questions about how exactly the thing worked. His inquiry was rejected, and the teen spent the journey furiously searching the Net for answers.

Eighty crusaders set out to escort them, a force capable of conquering an entire city. Ratcatcher learned of it after Elina made them sit and watch the news about the pacification of the abandoned cities. Twenty crusaders arrived at the headquarters where several gangs had gathered, intending to fight back against the returning Oathtakers.

Lightning bounced off the power armor, dispersing across the absorbers. The Abnormal who fired it had his top shaved off by a single laser beam. Then the crusaders charged, kicking down a massive steel door leading to the former army base. Flame and explosion greeted them, and they ran through it, their cloaks withstanding the intense heat that started melting the very stone. Bullets ricocheted off the armor, bone spears broke against the reinforced alloy, and then the Avengers reached their foes and unleashed a slaughter. The news sugarcoated nothing; it showed every detail. Backhanded blows liquidated skulls, and armored legs driven down like jackhammers turned thugs to paste.

It didn't take long for the survivors to break and surrender in the wake of this horror. The governor ordered the hanging of their leaders at the main square and sent the rest to prison. Word spread, and thugs in other towns surrendered in droves, willing to atone for their crimes through manual labor and hard work—anything to save their lives.

And the starving, shaken, and abused population rejoiced at the sight of convoys bringing food and police. At first the cheering was faint; few could believe the nightmare was over. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the cheers erupted into a thunderous roar. There were tears, hugs, prayers, and celebrations throughout the night, and the next day, the restoration effort had begun. If this was staged, whoever did it was a genius. The scene tugged at every heartstring. Children were reunited with their parents, the authorities punished the tyrants, and order and hope returned.

Ratcatcher felt a bit bad having the entire Avengers unit escorting them. These people needed to be out there, not babysitting them! What if the bad guys return? She ignored the nagging thoughts and joined Vasily in preparing the equipment.

After another fifteen minutes, the driver came to a stop at the edge of the large canyon opened by the fight between Lord Steward and the Chosen Prince. The driver, a heavily tanned elderly man in his sixties, asked if the trainees needed any help. Upon hearing their thanks and assurances that they could do everything on their own, he closed his cabin and started snoring, planning to sleep through the entire training.

The Avengers planted their pyramids some distance away, not bothering to unload from their transports. Augustus didn't come out. She wondered if the instructor was busy playing cards with the crusaders or if the man sat in the operator's compartment, monitoring their every move. Both possibilities could be true.

Ratcatcher stepped closer to the edge, clicking her tongue at the distance to the other side. Sixty meters at least, maybe sixty-three. She can't jump over that. Both walls had uneven surfaces and tapered towards the middle. Good, that'll make climbing out a breeze. To the north, she spotted huge pipes leading to Stonehelm and called up information on her terminal while she waited for Vasily to secure her with the other trainees.

Several food production facilities still worked, producing valuable nutrient paste. That mass passed through these pipes, arriving at a complex in Stonehelm, where workers checked it for signs of contamination and redirected it. True enough, far in the distance, she saw a walled complex. Unlike farms, it produced production within growing vats stationed in vast chambers.

"Ready?" Elina asked the team, and her voice snapped Ratcatcher out of her research. They nodded, and she made one last check.

A long wire, capable of supporting a weight of three tons, connected the trainees. Each of them had a bag of supplies and climbing gear on their backs, in case the armor failed. At Elina's insistence, they also took a set of old-fashioned radios with them. All carried guns loaded with live ammunition. Ratcatcher strapped two energy pistols to her waist, remembering how that bastard Hustler had dodged her darts.

"Great. Ratcatcher, if you'll be so kind."

"Aye-aye, ma'am!" Ratcatcher saluted.

And she raced to the edge of the gorge, leaping into the darkness with her arms and legs outstretched. Her tail slipped out of her back, letting the girl feel the cool air rush past her as gravity carried her deeper and deeper. There was no worry; for so long she had been afraid of the blue sky falling on her, but now she was plunging into the void she felt at home.

What was there to be afraid of, anyway? A fall is certainly nothing compared to an indestructible murder bot chasing you around. Her hands cupped around the rocks, preventing the wire from fully stretching. That was the trick. If she had buried her fingers in the rock, it would have shattered the surrounding area, creating the possibility of a small avalanche. By breaking her fall with a gentle grab and wounding her tail around a stuck-out piece, she had dissipated the weight of her body over several surfaces.

Night vision kicked in and Ratcatcher scanned the area, recording everything for the mission. Nothing out of the ordinary; the walls were uneven, a perfect place for climbing. In natural habitats, fierce winds and rains often smooth the surface of a canyon, making it necessary to use tools to proceed. In a few years, the same will happen here. But at a moment? Child's play, no more.

"Everything is safe down here; c'mon in!" Ratcatcher shouted, enjoying the echo of her voice bouncing off the walls. It stirred a few insects, making centipedes to emerge from their hiding spots, and insectoid drones scurry away in fear, only to fall prey to more patient spiders. Nature could thrive everywhere.

Jumail rushed first, treating the almost vertical wall as a floor. The hair on his legs let him stick to the stone, and sharp hooks ensured that even a sudden misstep would not see him falling. He could've carried them all to the bottom with ease, but the point of this exercise was to learn, and learn they did.

Rowen led the group; he could catch a falling trainee and return them to the wall. He moved confidently, crawling down headfirst like Ratcatcher, compensating for what he lacked in experience with calmness and steadiness. Edward and Vasily moved slower, not out of worry but because they couldn't help but stop to examine any ruined vehicle or unknown insect skittering about, adding the information to the catalog. Elina ventured in their tracks, supported by Esmeralda. The two admitted outright their inexperience at rock climbing, and the group slowed their pace to let the girls adjust. Carlos brought up the rear, lightening the mood with jokes.

"Hey, do you know what a sand reaper says to a sugar cane mill?" Carlos asked after Elina's hand almost slipped off a rock.

"No," she grumbled.

"Nice gnawing you!" The joke elicited genuine chuckles out of the group.

"And what does a Barjoni say when he gets fined a few thousand for parking in the wrong spot?"

"Blasted commoners are trying to rob me?" Edward suggested.

"I am being defunded?" Elina guessed.

"He calls his lawyer," Jumail stated.

"Nah," Carlos replied in a smug voice. "He says: Take your bloody change and piss off already!"

Ratcatcher grinned and set about her duty. Prior to the mission, she had installed cameras on both palms—not the product of the nanomachine armor, but a separate device enveloped by elastic-created metal. She used it to film inside the cracks and fissures in the wall, updating the map of the location. Even with her enhanced eyesight, she had to use the zoom of her helmet to see the bottom. There was still quite a way to go.

Jumail skittered around the group, letting Ratcatcher see through his cameras. She used it to pass some advice to the others, warning them of a potential weak stone ahead and instructing them to increase or lessen their grip before a rock could shatter. Esmeralda held the worst out of the group, too tense and afraid to mess up. Ratcatcher cheered her on, telling the girl not to worry about falling.

"It's the best thing about climbing, trust me." Ratcatcher swung into a small tunnel leading into the darkness and slipped inside. "That feeling of "Oh, shit!"—the wind brushing your hair—a throbbing sensation in your temples. Your heart beats faster, and boom! You fall, hear the crack of your pelvis, and grimace in pain as acidic waste licks your legs and a sharp piece of your pelvis enters…"

"That Scrapyard of yours was a hellhole!" Vasily snapped.

Aw. He listened when I told stories about my home. How nice. Ratcatcher thought.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Esmeralda squeaked.

"Oh, sorry! The point is, you are connected by a wire with the others and armored. That little distance to the ground? Ain't a problem…"

She darted aside, relying more on instinct than vision. A body sprang at her from the darkness—an insectoid drone whose carapace mimicked that of the stone walls. All six of its sharpened legs lunged for the visor, missing the girl's shoulder by a hair. Ratcatcher caught the thrashing creature, slamming its head twice against the ceiling. Green ichor showed from under the carapace plates, and she dropped the body.

"You okay in there, Ratty?" Esmi asked, worried by her sudden movements.

"Yeah, had to squash a bug. As I was saying…" Ratcatcher hesitated, her mouth watering at the sight of the dead bug. Meat! Oh, if only she had time to make a small fire and… Her eyes widened, and she pushed forward in the narrow tunnel, turning her head to the side and leaving the backpack and her weapons behind. "Shiny pebbles! Shiny pebbles!" she blurted out.

There they were! Shiny stones—a small cluster of them—lit up the darkness in an enchanting composition of green, purple, and pink. Well, lit was too strong a word; they gave faint luminescence, but that was beside the point! Geodes, and not the ordinary kind! Ratcatcher almost grabbed them, but then restrained herself and put a hand on the small cluster.

"Eddie, is it safe to take these?" she asked.

"A moment," Edward hushed, ramming his toes against the wall. The boy checked a database, tapping at his wrist impatiently. "I can't say," he admitted at last. "The catalog has nothing on it."

"Aw." Ratcatcher prepared to go back. She wanted the stones so much! But what if they are hazardous or something and harm one of her friends?

"Sensors aren't picking up any radiation or glow from them. Grab a sample; maybe geologists will name them after you," Edward joked. Things like that had happened in the past; countless unknown minerals had appeared in the post-Extinction world and continued to do so, keeping scientists busy for centuries to come.

And none of that mattered.

"Yes!" She reached into her backpack, pulled out a small, secure container, and broke several pebbles from the formation. Not much—two for the research and two for her own collection.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. They spent fifteen minutes traversing the wall, stopping at a circular area large enough for them all to stand and rest. The group took sips from wattle bottles, stretched their arms and legs, took a bite of dried meat, and marked the spot as a suitable place to rest on their way back. Slowly, they updated the map, pointing out landmarks for future explorers.

And there was a lot to explore! Buildings and vehicles got swallowed up during the battle, and many of them littered the slope. Carlos found a tag in an all-terrain army buggy. Only bones remained of its drivers; the poisonous fumes had had licked away all their flesh. The trainee pocketed the tag and took a femur bone, planning to handle it for identification. In another place, stuck between stones, they found a safe. Jumail pried it open, finding five hundred crests, a family photo, and a sealed envelope inside. They took it too; perhaps someone in the city would know who it belonged to.

Vasily and Jumail almost wept at the need to leave perfectly working generators and engines behind. These weren't post-Extinction things, the boys explained, these marvels of technology dated pre-Extinction times. The Oathtakers assembled them, but where the machines broke down, the systems inside endured. Given proper maintenance, they could work almost indefinitely.

"Babes." Jumail pushed a tank engine onto the ridge to keep it from falling. "It's… It's not right to leave them here, in the dark, alone, unattended, unneeded, and uncared for."

"Don't worry, once the army crushes the bad guys, there'll be more than just expedition teams; the Oathtakers will excavate the entire area to preserve them!" Ratcatcher tried to cheer him on. Iterna sold nothing of the same quality beyond its borders, so for the locals, such things were the stuff of veneration. Sure, one day they'll find a way to replicate the wonders of the past. But for now, it costs an arm and a leg. "Wait!" She cried out, noticing something strange below.

They stopped their descent. Below was the culmination of the destruction that happened above. Cars, tanks, houses, concrete from destroyed roads—everything cascaded down in a catastrophic shower, creating a long line stretching at the bottom. They had originally planned to traverse west across the bottom, but Ratcatcher noticed something odd.

Two spots. Two spots looked too clear, and as she zoomed in, she saw what looked like tank tracks coming out of the base of the slope and disappearing into the other wall, creating a whole new round tunnel leading somewhere. Too round to be natural. And something pushed aside the nearby rubble or bulged it into the ground.

"You jinxed it with your talk of sand reapers, Carlos!" Vasily gulped, reaching for his grenade launcher. "I bet it's some sort of underground monster or an ancient murder bot stirred by the eruption."

"Perfect timing; the boredom almost overtook me!" An SMG appeared in Carlos' hand. "Give me a sec, I'll check it out…"

"Wait!" Ratcatcher grabbed the boy by the shoulder. "Something is off. What kind of monster leaves footprint threads behind?"

"A mutant?" Esmeralda suggested.

"No, Ratcatcher is right. Countymeister Wivin?" Elina called in the Avengers. "Please respond; this is the Iternian Special Investigation Group."

"Countymeister Wivin Magthildis, at your service, gentle ones." Her pleasant voice filled the helmets. "Have you concluded your training or found anything of interest?"

"No to the first, yes to the second, ma'am." Elina sent her the image. "Is this one of the… bumps we should expect on our mission?"

"No." Wivin's voice changed. "This isn't one of the obstacles…"

Her voice cut off, filling their communications with white static. Elina tried to contact the countymeister again. Ratcatcher reached out for a pistol, and the twins climbed on Jumail, halving their sniper rifles and reassembling them into high-powered assault rifles. Elina, too, picked up her shotgun, motioning for everyone to join a secure channel. They still didn't get any response from the instructor or their allies, but being so close together, they could talk with no one else hearing them.

"Bumps?" Vasily asked.

"Oh, come on, it was clear that they had something prepared to spice things up," Elina replied. "Everyone, up. Jumail, can you carry us all?"

"Not going to investigate?" Ratcatcher asked.

"We don't get paid for it, so let the adults handle the business," Carlos said.

He broke a stone with his grip upon hearing a shot, looked around wildly, and almost fell, but Ratcatcher caught him. The sound of gunfire broke the silence, and the trainees tried to become one with the wall, their hearts pounding. The sound of bullets hitting rock and the barking of rifles echoed along the canyon's edges, making it hard to pinpoint the exact location.

Suddenly pebbles started falling off the tunnel leading into the darkness, and a man in an orange jumpsuit ran out of the passage, holding a hand over his wounded. At first, she thought him to be a shambler; who else could be stuck here in the dark? But the man's moved with the fluidity of a living soul, his breath hard out of fear, and he looked like people from the factories who visited the market to pick up something for a daily snack.

"Mister, here!" Ratcatcher called, leaping off the wall and unfastening the wire around her waist. Her landing flattened a car, making the man shake and fall onto his back. "Are you injured?"

"Help…" the worker whimpered, crawling to hide behind a wreckage, and something else stepped out of the wall.

A shambler stepped out of the tunnel, limping forward with a still-steaming rifle in its armored hands. The undead wore a full suit of rust-covered power armor; a joint on its leg was destroyed by a shot, slowing it, and groans emanated from the grill of its helmet. The thing's finger closed on the trigger, producing clicks. It swayed, clearly searching for the man.

"It doesn't know we are here," Elina whispered, and Ratcatcher ducked, hiding from the shambler. The ground shook. Thump. Thump. Something else was approaching from the tunnel, something bigger. "We can either retreat off and let the Avengers deal…"

The metal wreckage creaked, pushed aside by the armored hand. The shambler towered over the trembling worker, who tried to crawl away on his back, crying and pleading. Merciless hands reached to crash the man's head and stopped at a sudden shot against the helmet.

The energy weapon fired three times. The first shot overheated the side of the helmet; the second shot melted a dot in it, and the shot broke through, spearing through the head inside and boiling the corrupted brain, and the shambler stumbled and fell.

"Or we could do this," Elina said cheerfully, and Ratcatcher understood it was she who pressed the trigger. She fired without thinking, too worried about the wounded. "Eliza, pick up the wounded and get out of here! It…"

An explosion of rocks cut off the rest of Elina's words. A four-legged creature emerged from the tunnel, covered in rock dust, roaring, stomping, and smashing everything with its vicious pincers. Someone had hacked off a man's legs and arms and placed the remains on a piston-driven mechanical frame, adding gruesome metal limbs to the shoulders. Swollen folds of skin dripped pus with each shuddering step, and with the sound of metal tubes scraping against each other, twin turrets lifted above the creature's shoulder, ripping the skin in several places and drawing a groan from blue lips. White, blind eyes shifted to focus on the petrified worker, and a turret's barrels started taking aim.

"Shit." Vasily fired, and the grenade exploded at the monster's legs, engulfing it in flame. Ratcatcher used this distraction to weave around the rubble to get to the man. She grabbed him and planned to climb above when it broke from the flames behind. Its swollen skin burned, but the mechanisms worked without a hunch. "A line breaker."

"Lizzie, stay alive and get out there!" Elina shouted. "Jumail, I need your help…"

Ratcatcher darted to the side, slamming into the rusting piece of junk, and sharp metal pipes shattered against her back as she shielded the wounded man. The pincer swiped through the place she was a moment ago, sending the remains of a tank into a wall. By some miracle, none of the scrap damaged her tail, and Ratcatcher hid it, cursing under her breath for forgetting about something so obvious. She didn't hear the rest of Elina's plan; she was too busy with staying alive. Then again, Elina's ideas usually worked, and the order coincided with her own desire to run away from this horrid mess!

"Leave me, girl," the man gulped. "We'll never escape together."

"Never say never, mister!" She told him. Every instinct in Ratcatcher's body cried out for her to drop the man and dart away on all fours. She calmed herself, observing the enemy. Through the beat downs handled by Jumail and Yura during the training, she had learned that it was safest to stay closer to a larger opponent.

The metal arm moved again, smashing the pile of metal, but she dove under it and jumped away from a leg threatening to trample her. The impact split the ground, and the line breaker stumbled a little, jerking its leg free. She took this chance, running away with the shaken man. A saber flew from above, piercing through the shifted mechanical gears of the line's breaker's other limb and disabling the piston. The limb twitched and stopped moving, and the creature dragged it across the ground after itself.

Instructor Augustus! Ratcatcher exhaled. She wasn't alone! If she could...

Thunderous noises coming from the line breaker made her panic. It started feeding the turrets ammunition, preparing to unleash hell on the escaping persons. But before the first bullet could leave the barrel, Jumail landed at the line breaker, smashing it into the wall with enough force to cause an avalanche of debris that hid both from view. The trainee had cut through the wire, left the others in safety, and challenged the machine alone.

Jumail's legs closed around the line breaker's remaining arm, locking it in place. Two other legs blurred past the monster's shoulders, sending both turrets flying, and shells poured out, ringing as they fell to the ground. Even missing one arm, the line breaker pushed Jumail's lock a bit, causing the Malformed trainee grunt in surprise. Before he could attack the creature's head, it rammed into Jumail with its forelegs, leaving bulges on the surprised teenager's armor and sending him rolling into the opposite wall, his body flattering several wrecks.

"So that's how it feels, huh," Jumail chuckled, raising up and shifting to stand between Ratcatcher and the line breaker.

"Jumail, retreat," Augustus commanded. "I'll land in under a minute."

"Can't do, sir; everything is under control. Was that enough, Elina?" Jumail boomed.

"Yes, Jumail," Elina replied, and Ratcatcher saw that the trainees had taken positions on the ruins, aiming weapons at the line breaker. The scramble bought her enough time to get the wounded out of the danger zone.

And they fired. Energy beams left Jumail's armor, tore through the line breaker's body, and blinded the creature in a single shot. Bullets, energy beams, a grenade, and shells rained down on the monster's back, ripping out chunks of flesh and machinery that fused with the mangled body.

 

[Rookie12]

The line breaker tried to lunge after Jumail. These torturous amalgamations of desecrated human bodies and perversions of ancient technology had taken their toll on the battlefields, crossing minefields and opening armored vehicles with the sharpest pincers. But to the misfortune of this specimen, Jumail and Vasily both used anti-armor ammunition; their combined fire cracked the skull and the metal inside, boiling the brain next.

Left without its guiding bio-computer, the line breaker lost all semblance of sentience and turned into a feral beast. It gurgled and gyrated, trying to go after all enemies at once, only to get stuck in place and turn a sitting duck. Carlos' and Esmi's precise shots disabled the hind legs; Edward's shot opened its spine; and Elina took advantage, firing four shots into the reinforced bone. The damage piled up; energy beams vaporized the swollen flesh and shattered the armor plates inside.

Ratcatcher ignored the battle and concentrated on the wounded. Blood has bubbled on his lips, threatening to silence the labored breathing. She turned him over, finding a sharp piece sticking between his bones. He wasn't shot in this area; the shambler's large caliber rifle had ruined his clavicle and damaged shoulder bones, exposing muscles and torn arteries. Judging by the uneven shape of the metal in his body, the poor mister got injured when a bullet struck something metallic and it split, sending splinters everywhere. It was a miracle that the man could speak at all.

A miracle that she won't let go to waste. First, a regeneration shot from the emergency supply. She plunged the long needle into the wound, releasing the nanites directly into the lung. Less than a hundred Trolls lived in Iterna; the shameful days of the Culling were hard to forget or forgive. But Mr. Argus had invited those who lived to take part in an experiment that resulted in the development of healing nanomachines capable of replicating the Trolls' regeneration and applying it to a single part of the body.

Such was the cost of this wondrous technology that even the Academy couldn't afford it. They gained it after the incident in Birchshell. Headmaster Torosian contacted the Shadows. There was a lot of yelling, and Shadow Iuitl, an officer serving as the embassy's bodyguard, delivered these syringes to the trainees, two to each.

The instructor will kill me. Oh well, I got it easy; I gave it easy. Ratcatcher decided. She saw Augustus; the man jumped from one wall to the other, approaching the group. Without saying a word, he landed next to the line breaker, lacerating it with his sabers and staying clear of the friendly fire.

She tore the piece of metal out, and the wounded didn't even blink, his senses turning numb in the wounded area. The nanites' lifespan was short. Without an actual artificial or virtual intelligence to guide them, nanomachines often proceed with their task beyond any reasonable limits, ruining entire areas, so their creator installed a safety measure to prevent them from going rogue. They had already located the damage in the lung, stopped the bleeding, and started rebuilding the punctured organ by sucking nutrients from the man's body and using them as building blocks. Pain still lingered in the man's eyes, but he exhaled without wheezing.

Next came a shot of Universal Vaccine to make sure that no filth would turn the wounded into a shambler. After that, she cleaned the horrible gash in the shoulder, used medical gel to mend the torn arteries and stop the bleeding, and bandaged the victim. Ratcatcher decided not to use the last shot of nanites, saving it for the future. Her work done, she removed a crust of blood from the man's side and found smooth skin underneath. The nanites had already started dissolving and would soon leave through the skin.

Augustus rained blows down on the maddened opponent, opening its chest cavity. Enraged, the line breaker attempted to slam the instructor against the wall in a thunderous stampede. Rowen's gesture created an immense weight that brought the machine to its knees, cracking the ground. Even immobilized, the line breaker endured three direct slashes that left deep gouges on the main armor plate. Augustus stabbed, landing the tip of his saber on the ruined metal. It gave up, and the weapon entered all the way to the quillon; its sharp edge pierced the energy generator with perfect accuracy.

The instructor tore his weapon free, and Jumail kicked, sending the ruined machine over the heads of the darting trainees. And not a moment too late, it exploded itself as a last resort, spreading acid everywhere. It hissed, corroding and melting the wrecks.

"Ratcatcher!" Elina called. "Is everything okay?"

Ratcatcher gave a thumbs up and stepped back to give Esmeralda room to tend to the wounded. The girl injected him with an adrenaline shot to snap him out of shock.

"Elina Vincent!" Augustus snapped. "You will address a comrade by a human name, not by some animalistic moniker." He clicked his tongue at the sight of the used syringe. "Wasteful. How is the guest?"

"Nothing threatens his life anymore, but if we don't get him to a hospital, he'll need a prosthetic," Esmeralda said, holding a portable terminal over the wound.

"There's no point in staying here any longer. Jumail…" Augustus' started speaking.

"It won't be that easy," Wivin's voice joined the communication.

How are they… Ratcatcher glanced above and giggled. Of course.

"Stop laughing, idiot, to the wall! It's raining Trolls!" Carlos chuckled, pushing her away from the clearing zone.

The Avengers didn't choose Augustus' approach. Instead of jumping from wall to wall, they plunged down all together, their cloaks flapping and the wind howling in their advance. An impact of forty-one Troll landing in almost perfect unison had made the trainees jump in the air and cover the wounded from sharp stones flying everywhere.

"The storm came upon the area." Countymeister Wivin rose high from the crater she had created with her seven-ton power armor. The Avenger's life signs appeared on the trainee's HUD, and nearly all of them had either a dislocated ankle or a shattered knee that healed with each step.

"The storm? Not a storm?" Augustus clarified.

"Plagues are enveloping the area." Wivin's helm nodded. Light poured from under the plates of her power armor, banishing the darkness. She pointed up at the heavy, swirling clouds above. Part of them touched the stone, and insects fell dead, their bodies crumbling under the pressure of creepers. "From above, it looks as if a cocoon has enveloped the food production facility. It is still spreading…"

"Driver! And the scavengers! We must warn them!" Ratcatcher took a gas mask out of her backpack and put it on the man's head. Not the ideal protection, but better than nothing.

"I already sent the man to carry the word to Stonehelm and sent six of my warriors to warn the scavengers," Wivin said. "The rest of my men are heading to explode the pipes as a precaution." She tore the golden cloak off her shoulder and gave it to Esmi to wrap the man in it. "Faithful. Can you hear me?" The man nodded. "What happened in the complex?"

"An attack." He swallowed. "It was all so sudden, so many dead, so…" Esmeralda snapped her fingers, stopping the man from drifting off. "A monster! Don't eat me!" The man flailed, trying to break free and crawl away from Jumail.

Ratcatcher admitted Jumail had an impressive visage in the tunnel's darkness. He removed some plates from his armor-covered legs for better agility, revealing thick columns of hair-covered chitin. The lenses on his helmet glowed crimson, one for each of his natural eyes. He didn't have to turn the light on, but the teen enjoyed them too much. Add to that the faint glint of metal covering his lower jaw and the human hands extending from his belly, and yes, a horror fuel for someone unfamiliar with him.

"Not biting." Jumail saluted with a foreleg. "Malformed Jumail, a trainee of Iterna, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

"Oh… sorry, kid." The man held out his arm. "Some of my best drinking buddies are Insectones, but I never… I mean, you are almost as big as the Governor!"

"I do get this a lot." Jumail touched the palm with his leg. "Not an Insectone though. A Malformed."

"Concentrate." Wivin closed on the man. "What happened? Explain."

"A trader came to sell booze, and soldiers let him in, preparing to scan him and the goods." He gulped at the pale light of Wivin's visor, recognizing the heraldry marking the Troll as a member of the Avengers. "I know it's illegal, but the people needed something to loosen them up a bit… Not that I was ever involved in any of it!"

"Uh-huh," Augustus said. Ratcatcher didn't need to turn to feel his gaze on her. You spent a fortune saving a common drunk. "Continue, sir."

"This time, the trader arrived with several heavy crates. Moonshine, he told us, a big batch to sell in the south. Caravans full of the stuff pass us from time to time; it wasn't a big deal, I swear!" the man cried out. "Only this time, the trader suddenly attacked the guard."

"How incompetent must they be if they couldn't subdue a single person?" Carlos asked.

"They weren't incompetent!" the man insisted. "Four armed soldiers were in the room, plus one who was supposed to check him. It's just… We knew the man; he came all the time!"

"So much for not having anything to do with it," Augustus said on the private channel, his voice unheard by the worker.

"I went to check the booze and noticed that it was strange, darker than anything else." The worker shook his body, grasping at the cloak. "It was thick, almost like oil. When I asked about it, the trader smiled, and a crimson whip came out of his hand. The guards started raising their weapons, and he swiped, leaving two bodies cleaved and blood gushing out of their torsos like fountains." He clenched his hands. "Oath, so much blood. I ran, screaming for help, and he kept butchering them in that room, moving fast enough to evade bullets."

"Crimson whip," Augustus hissed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! It was… some kind of energy, I don't know. A mere touch of it sliced through metal and armored windows. I hit the warning siren, and all hell broke loose. The floor started shaking, and two underground transports broke through the bottom floor, unleashing these…" The man nodded at the dead shambler. "They fired at everyone in sight, not caring whether people carried weapons. And the crates! The four-legged beasts tore free of them, and the trader opened gates before the guards at the wall could use the cannons."

"The facility had several Blessed." The countymeister's craned arms reached for her back, disappearing in the woman's backpack. They came out again, hands replaced with twin-barreled gatling guns, and she picked up a two-handed claymore. "Each is a veteran of several wars. How could they fail?"

"They fought to the last," the worker replied. "The lieutenant turned his body to steel and savaged the enemies in his path. Thanks to him, we almost reached the safe room."

"Safe room?" Ratcatcher asked.

"A special bunker capable of keeping personnel alive in the event of a sudden earthquake or nuclear attack," Wivin explained.

"Yes! If we only could get inside…" The worker trembled at the memories. "But a man walked toward us; his fingers turned to steel blades…"

Metal fingers. No, no, no. It can't be him. He is dead. Ratcatcher clenched her fist as memories flooded back. The man walking out of the burning house, the golden earring singing at a touch. The brutal beating he had dealt to them and the tip of her tail spasming on the ground. And horror. Utter, absolute horror at the inability to do anything to turn the situation around. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Nightmares about a bloody skeleton preparing to snatch her in the dark of her room.

It was before! She blinked, banishing the fear. Eight wasn't dead; the Numbers could come back to life after death. If that bastard was here, if he's the one causing all this chaos, she'll beat him up and save his host. She took the mancatcher. The past is set in stone, but she can change the future.

Rowen and Carlos put a hand on her shoulder. Rowen tapped his chest as if to say, 'Leave him to me, buddy'. Elina held on a little better, reloading her weapon and breathing slowly.

"The two fought for a long time, unable to overcome each other, sparks flying between them." The worker continued as Augustus took him by the neck and checked his skin under the pretense of making sure he wasn't sick. In reality, he looked for any sign that the man might be a Number. "The shamblers struck at our backs, and I ran into the tunnels, somehow surviving. But I saw! I saw how the attacker, who has a power similar to the lieutenant's, turned into a beast of metal, his head scraping the ceiling. He stretched, shattering the stones, and moved so fast that his entire body turned to blood. In one fell swoop, he uprooted and destroyed the corridor, the lieutenant, and everyone behind them. Then I run. I… abandoned others…"

"You made the right choice," Augustus told the man, nodding to the others. A spike disappeared into his gauntlet after drawing blood. "Had you stayed, you would have died. Countymeister, I suspect that the Oracles..."

"Teamed up with the Numbers. I gathered as much, Augustus. Fitting, a plague clinging to a plague," she sighed. "Pity we can't wait for them to inevitably turn on each other in the absence of other victims. No matter. Troops! Form ranks, we return to Stonehelm."

"But what about the people who remained there?" the worker asked.

"I can answer that!" A familiar, clear voice shouted from a tunnel, and Ratcatcher reached for her pistol.

The Avengers formed a shield wall and pushed the trainees behind them. Armed with short gladii and holding tower shields, these Trolls also carried mounted cannons over their left shoulders. Their heavy armor plates provided complete protection against small arms fire; each cloak was woven from a special heat-resistant material; and artificial muscles gave the Crusaders the incredible reflexes their people so often lacked.

Wivin took the front, standing side-by-side with Augustus. A shimmering energy shield appeared before her; the woman rammed her sword into the ground, her hands resting on the hilt. Augustus' posture betrayed a hidden aggression; he bent his legs, tensing his muscles, an ammunition ready to explode onward.

They heard clanking steps, accompanied by the release of something hissing. The steps drew closer and closer, speeding up, and as the thing emerged from the tunnel, the worker choked on his breath. Once, in its previous life, the thing crawling to them was a human. Someone had chopped off the arms to the elbows and the legs to the knees and put hooks right into the bone. A small generator worked on the thing's naked back. Wires ran from it toward a speaker in the mouth, and two cameras replaced the eyes. Parts of the skin were cut open, and crude mechanics got pushed inside, turning the corpse into a remote-controlled marionette.

"Welcome one and all!" Hustler greeted them, speaking through the dynamics. The horror jerked, stood up on its stumps, and bowed. With a calm observation, Ratcatcher noticed that the change hadn't happened long ago. The thing still moved with some agility, unbound by rigor mortis and spewing crimson blood. And the equipment showed no signs of corrosion. Its cameras found the worker. "Your fellows are being reshaped into forms fit to serve the grandness of his Excellency."

"Hustler," Ratcatcher said. This poor man. He, too, was someone's son, maybe a husband or even a father. He lived an honest life, working to provide food to those in need—something deserving of respect. And that scum dared to take it from him, denying him dignity even in death by mutilating the body.

"Ah, the girl with the crescent blade!" The shield stopped the machine's attempts to crawl closer. It clawed at it. "I am so glad to see you are in good health. The number of Oracles has diminished considerably, and you will fit perfectly to serve as a banner carrier to spread His word and glory. And a few pestilences."

"Do you remember what I told you about hurting people?" she asked.

"Your babbling?" The machine touched its chin. "Something about snapping me?"

"Yes. And killing you," the trainee said calmly. "First, I'll see you broken. Then I'll see you gone. This, I swear."

 

[Rookie12]

"See me gone?" The corpse twitched its head to the side, dripping blood out of a mouth's corner. "Should His Excellency wish so, you may yet see your desire come true. But I believe you are running ahead of yourself."

"Not in the habit of running, unlike you," Ratcatcher told him.

"Girl, your buzzing is amusing, but your delusions are tiresome. You mistake cancer for coryza. Pleasure aside, there was no point for me to stay and kill you then. But now my hands are free, my purpose accomplished, and I shall see you broken, despoiled, and turned." Hustler responded.

"And what purpose may it be?" Wivin asked, holding out a hand to prevent the Ratcatcher from answering. "Your master is rotting, his army scattered, and that hierarchy of yours is being wiped out as we speak. You are alone, Hustler. Whatever allies you might've found, all will die here once the Governor arrives."

"Well, it is a good thing he won't be coming," Hustler laughed, his voice echoing from the walls. "Do you think me foolish, servant of a false deity? No, the little Abel is very busy; for you see, I am not as lonely as you might think. And wiping out the hierarchy? Allow me to enlighten you on the difference between the yapping of a stray dog and real actions."

Something shook above. A piece of stone fell and a deafening scream pierced the air. More and more trembles followed, and Ratcatcher saw explosions happening above, their crimson flashes sparkling through the poisonous veil and disappearing on the wind. It soon intermingled with the faint hissing of an energy shield. The barrage continued, growing more distant, and a piece of metal fell from above, landing on the ground several meters away from the group.

It was a piece of the Avenger's pyramid hull. Energy orbs got smashed after a shell had bypassed the shield, damaging the mighty transport and tearing a chunk out of it. The edges of the torn metal still glowed red, overheated by the napalm and shelling unleashed by the complex's defenses.

"I admire your initiative in destroying the pipes, but alas, I have accounted for it and can't allow it. So your soldiers had to go." The machine twitched, clawing at Wivin's shield, producing an unbearable hum with each touch. "My partner believes fate itself has brought you all here. He wants to wait and meet you. Me, on the other hand..."

"Into the left tunnel," Wivin said in a calm voice. All emotions disappeared from her voice.

Ratcatcher moved, in part dragged by the Trolls, in part reacting to pure instinct. Augustus stomped on the marionette, silencing the laughter coming out of it, and Wivin turned her shield upward, blocking an incoming shell threatening to land right at the woman. The accuracy with which the attackers had made this shot boggled the mind. Not only had they fired at their exact location despite the swirling clouds, but the enemies had also calculated the correct arc.

Twice. In artillery tactics, there is a method of landing two shells at a target at the same time. Vasily once explained it to Ratcatcher, and when she refused to believe him, he brought up a terminal and educated her on the use of mobile artillery. The cannon crew fired their first round in a higher arc and fired their second shot in a lower arc, thus ensuring the approximate simultaneous arrival of a deadly loadout. The regular, unaugmented soldiers used this trick to nail several warlords in the initial wars against the Reclaimers, before scientific breakthroughs made cheap power armor widely available. Wolfkins preferred to block on instinct, and when fired at from beyond their field of vision, they often missed the timing, and several of them had found themselves captive after eating an intense precision barrage.

Wivin's shield blocked the first faster-than-sound shell, glowing from the strain and deflecting the shrapnel away from the group. A fraction of a second later, another shell hit, partially exploding against the shield but penetrating it with a large enough mass. Hustler didn't come out to gloat; somehow the man, or whoever was firing, had used the image sent by the cameras to calculate the countymeister's whereabouts and lobbed two anti-personnel shells at her.

The shield exploded in sparks, getting overloaded by the sheer impact, and smoke rose from Wivin's back. She got hit in the shoulder; her left mechanical arm snapped, and the biological arm disappeared. The shell exploded at her legs, leaving the Troll's visor cracked and filling the bleeding wound with shrapnel. Her soldiers acted professionally, never wavering in wielding their shields, and this saved the worker's and the trainees' lives from being flung away. Augustus rode out the impact, ignoring the scratches left by the shrapnel on his armor.

"Lead," Augustus said, and a Troll nearby nodded, giving space for the instructor to charge ahead.

The group followed, with Wivin in the rear, after hearing more screams from above and watching how the napalm bombs littered the walls, unleashing hellfire below. They stepped up in the dark and long tunnel, and Augustus' armor squeaked. It was a faint sound, almost deafened by the explosions on the canyon's floor. Ratcatcher's ears caught it, and the girl saw fissures open on the smooth surface of the instructor's armor.

Each fissure had a diameter of less than a centimeter, and they squeaked again and again. The sound emitted by them was reflected off the tunnel's walls and then collected by another set of organs inside the biological armor, processed by a biological computer, transcribed at last into a map, and sent on the HUD of everyone in the group.

Artificial echolocation, perfected through bioengineering. They moved on through the pitch darkness, and the tunnel made several turns, leaving parts of the passage collapsed. Augustus broke through these natural barricades, never leaving the group too far behind to avoid breaking the communications, and they started spotting disarmed mines and booby traps masquerading for pieces of stone.

Ratcatcher dropped close to the countymeister and ignored all attempts to shoo her off. Wivin's cellular regeneration had already started working, pushing out splintered metal and dissolving broken bones to reform them. The girl found the sight of shifting flesh, cauterizing veins, and meat hungrily sucking in spilled blood to be unsettling. She pushed through the disgust and bandaged the wound on the move, feeling the wound shifting underneath her fingers.

"I'll live," Wivin said in a calm voice, deactivating her emotional device. "Ludwig! Pain clouds my judgment; you are in charge."

"Yes, Countymeister. Keep the Iternians and the faithful in the center!" another Troll said, his voice amplified by the loudspeakers. "Proceed through the tunnel to the facility! Once inside, we'll split up, take over the place, and escort the civilians to the nearest settlement."

"It won't work!" Edward interjected. "With the enemy controlling the artillery emplacements, we'll be sitting ducks outside."

"Who said you'd be leaving the facility so soon?" Ludwig asked without turning his round helm. "We'll take you to the safe room first."

"Sure, let's go into one place that is bound not to be trapped," Esmeralda said sarcastically. "Think, sir Crusader! The enemy got a drop on you, on us! They want us inside, meaning they are either confident in their ability to control the place, or they think they can. Delusional maniacs they may be, let's assume the worst."

"Let's," Ludwig agreed. "Iterna and the Oathtakers will retake the complex and eliminate any resistance. Trainees, consider yourself hired as an auxiliary force."

"Does that mean we get paid?" Rowen asked.

"I'll figure something out about that. You will be compensated," Ludwig promised.

They caught up with Augustus as the man stopped short of reaching the exit. Ratcatcher checked her watch; they walked for a good fifteen minutes, keeping a steady pace but never moving too fast to be ambushed. She saw a yellow light at the end of the tunnel, and the instructor sat in the middle of the passage, busy disarming several anti-personnel mines. It confirmed her suspicion; Hustler didn't let the worker escape on a whim; he used the poor man to gather his victims exactly where he wanted to. The instructor raised a hand, asking the group to halt, and the twins hurried to take their position at the fore. Neither raised a rifle; shielded by the crusaders, the brother and sister used their powers.

"Watch out!" Edward cried out on the call, and his icon blinked, showing that the boy suffered a nosebleed. "Shamblers are coming to life above us."

The ceiling shook in unison with the roar of a revving engine. A tip of the spinning drill showed up above Augustus, and two Trolls darted to him, taking it on their shield as the man leaped toward the group. Surrounded by falling ground, its treads annihilating the stone and the drill ruining the shields, the Oathtakers' transport carrier landed in the tunnel, shattering a Troll's hand when the man failed to toss aside his shield.

Ratcatcher heard of them. The machine's main compartment resembled a cylinder mounted on three wide treads. It was big enough to hold over a hundred soldiers—over two hundred if a commander threw away all security and crammed people inside. Rows of weapons nestled along its sides, unusable in the confines of a tunnel. The mines exploded, failing to even scratch the armored belly.

"Our new friend has presented us with some of your own beauties; thank her very much," Hustler's voice whipped at them. "Turn to mush by the drill of your own engine, Oathtakers!"

"Like hell we will!" Vasily roared and broke forward. He weaved away from Augustus' hand, his grenade launcher secured on the back. A terminal appeared on the trainee's forearm, a brother to the terminal he had used so disastrously during at their training in the desert. Thrown into fury at his failure, Vasily enlisted in all possible espionage courses, polishing his technical skills, and tinkered with the standard-issued remote hacking tool.

What he unleashed at the vehicle didn't simply override its defensive software and stop it. The surge of virus code had killed the generator outright, turning the machine into a husk of dead steel. Ratcatcher didn't need to be in the cabin to visualize how the shamblers within stumbled, trying to follow Hustler's complex command with their stiffened fingers, trying in vain to restart the engine.

"And for my second trick!" Vasily closed the machine and punched at the stopped drill. It didn't bulge; not even a dent appeared in the diamodite-coated alloy. The trainee retreated, shaking his hand. "It… didn't work."

"Step aside, one-trick pony," Jumail laughed, pushing ahead. The power armor covered his legs anew, and four of them closed on the drill, pushing the machine on. The fifth arched above the weapon, punched through the viewing screen, and threw the grenade inside, blowing up the crew. "Thanks for saving our bacon. I'll take it from here."

The Malformed pushed the engine backward, sliding it across the ruined part of the tunnel and driving it straight into the damaged white growing hall, devoid of all vats and colored yellow by lights. The invasion left the floor ravaged; splashes of blood, torn pieces of dead bodies, and traces of gunfire marked every wall; several walkways above the hall lay on the ground; and crimson colored the entire observation platform.

Elina told them about these facilities a bit. Artifacts of the past: once these production facilities littered both the Reclaimers' and Oathtakers' lands. Even Iterna had some. Back when the Extinction had destroyed the fertile soil, humans used the growing vats to produce a bland, tasteless, but highly nutritious paste. Once grown, the workers then turned the paste into pocket batons or, with the addition of water, into soup.

This formula, with its relative simplicity, saved millions of lives. However, in interviews, those who grew up during the days of shortage and still lived often admitted that they would rather be kneecapped than ever eat this rubbery food all day ever again.

"This time a spider got caught in the wet!" Hustler's voice laughed from the speakers on the walls.

The group had entered the hall, and Wivin turned to shield Ratcatcher with her body as explosions thundered behind them. The exit collapsed in an avalanche of stone as bright flashes emerged from the small tunnel the stopped engine had created. In unison with it, the doors leading out of the hall slid in place, and round airlocks' sluices in the wall opened in full.

A green substance poured out of them, scaring Ratcatcher that it might be acid. She calmed down, hearing no hiss as the sticky and oily substance started spreading across the hall, encroaching toward the group gathered in the center. A Troll stepped closer and touched the slimy substance with his armored fingers.

"Nutrient solution," he reported.

"And one that serves as a good conduit!" Hustler said. The Troll recoiled as an electric current ran across the surface, creating several hissing bubbles. "See, I know that power armor can withstand an obscene amount of energy, often rendering the user impervious to lightning. The question is, for how long? Let's flood the entire room and stress test it!"

"Let's not," Rowen replied.

He pointed his palms on the floor, took a single breath, and an invisible wall surrounded the group, pushing them closer together. The sensation didn't last long; it washed on the floor, gathering the liquid. Rowen's breath grew harder, and the teen plucked every drop of the nutrient solution, sending it rolling backwards with his telekinesis. When focused on an individual object, his power could create an impressive force. Dealing with a small pool took a toll on his stamina.

Rowen didn't panic or hurry. He kept moving the mass back, returning it the way it came, bisecting it into several sections, and turning them into streams suspended in the air. Once done, he pushed it back into the ventilation system, flooding the surrounding compartments and airways, and clenched his fists. The sluices imploded inward, their metal parts sucked inside the airways, sealing them for good.

"Plan B, then," Hustler said, and the large door on the other side of the hall swung open.

Shamblers in full combat gear stood on their knees, rocket launchers aimed at the group. They fired at once, ignoring Carlos' shots that hit several of them in the heads, cracking and splintering the plates. Carlos moved in a blur, shooting two rockets out of the air, but the rest, over a dozen, kept closing in, refusing to veer off course.

Elina dropped her shotgun, clenched her palms together, and released the hold. The shockwave produced by her power splattered the teen against Ludwig's tower shield. She croaked in pain, her armor unable to absorb the entire impact. The ensuing cataclysm ravaged the floor, exploding the stone; wide cracks grew on the walls; and the rockets exploded in the air. The approaching shockwave absorbed both flame and metal and carried them onward, slamming the shamblers into the stone. The crusaders opened fire, tearing the possessed corpses asunder and filling the corridor outside with the stench of spilled guts covered in pus-soaked flesh.

"Bitch, please." Elina accepted Carlos' hand and stood on her unsteady legs. "Your rockets ain't got shit on the Fart."

"I thought you hated the name?" Ratcatcher grinned and wrapped a hand over her shoulders, handing her back the shotgun.

"Eh. I chose to own the thing that irritates me rather than raging at every Carlos' joke." Elina breathed out.

"You are irritatingly hard to get rid of," Hustler announced. "You remind me of the Birchshell's seedlings—the same tenacity, the same stubborn refusal to accept the inevitable and fall in line already."

"Well, now we simply must kick your ass. Can't let down such a great legacy." Carlos showed a middle finger to a camera on the ceiling and fired at it.

"The only fate awaiting you within these walls is demise." Hustler continued, his voice fading as the trainees opened fire on the remaining speakers. "Step inside, rabble. Nothing you do can change what is to come, but if a death you seek, a death you shall ha…"

Ratcatcher fired at the remaining speaker, silencing the bastard. Phew, way better. She stepped outside of the hall, ignoring the bloody mess underneath her feet, feeling surprised that no one had shot at them yet. A corridor spreading in two directions, with the turns readily available? A perfect spot for an ambush. The Avengers spread out, securing the zone, and she noticed a terminal in the wall, its display dark.

"Vasily, can you help?" she called. "Time to see what they are even doing in here."

"Sure." Vasily tapped on his wrist, trying to activate the thing remotely. Seeing no results, he shrugged, smashed a panel under the terminal, and buried his arms in wires. It took several minutes, but the terminal blinked and came to life, and the boy asked the worker for an ID card, placing it in a slot. He entered the man's code and called others. "We're in."

"Do we have access to the cameras?" Wivin asked.

"Negative, they turned them off. Many systems are offline." Vasily frowned and summoned a map of the facility, showing them all the energy grid connected to the Oathtakers' united system. "This can't be right. It says they are sending power from here into the grid."

"Are they trying to overload it?" Ratcatcher asked in worry. Unlike in Iterna, an underground energy network connected most of the cities in the Land of the Oath. If the bastards somehow found a way to focus all that energy on a single point…

"Negative, and our allies are not this incompetent." Augustus pointed at the corner of the display, at the image of a round gear. "See this, Eliza? If a sudden power surge tries to enter the facility, it will automatically shut itself down. The system is foolproof; not even the Numbers have been able to harm the Oathtakers despite such a glaring technical flaw."

"Not everyone is blessed with an abundance of resources and an intact technological base," Wivin said. "Instructor Augustus is correct. In my younger days, I tried to overload the terminals in our chapter by draining energy from a nearby nuclear power plant. For testing purposes and to erase my poor grades in literature," the countymeister admitted. "My attempt had failed, and my teacher had punished me in the most cruel and unusual manner imaginable."

"Impossible," Ludwig stated. "Your poems are…"

"Written using a procedural song generator, and I paid an Insectone to write the final ones. None of them are mine; I did them to please my parents and get Mrs. Lice off my back. Literature is not my forte." Wivin ignored the astonished crusader and asked Vasily to make a record of the interruption on the energy grid for the future investigation. "They're diverting power from the entire country. It should stop any moment... Yes, see, it is already cut off. To where did they send all this flow, and why?"

"They're using the power grid left over from the Old World. I will bet my life on it," Vasily said. "If the map didn't lie, it went east to the Wastes and then north. No idea as to why, even if they want to blow up something, it won't work. The Extinction had destroyed most facilities, the best they can achieve is a small puff somewhere. That's it." He tapped at his forehead. "It doesn't make any sense. Whatever Hustler or the Numbers used to get into the system that controls the energy grid can't be used again. The system will be improved; it is their one and only chance. So why? They can't do anything with it!"

"All the better for us." Ludwig shook off the shock of the revelation and resumed his duty. "Madmen seldom create working plans. Let us bring retribution and restore the order."

 

[Rookie12]

Yura struggled to understand why she still stood. Her body hurt. A toe-sized chunk of meat got torn out of her 'column' leg, short of reaching the artery, and the wound bled profusely. The leg itself trembled, straining from a crack in her bone. Her crown, a proud horn encircling her head, cracked and fell apart; in its place grew a tangible bulge, and one of her eyes could barely see through a polychrome stain on a cornea. An elbow had shattered three of her ribs; their sharp edges caressed her poor lung even now. Worst of all were the consequences of two straight punches into her abdomen. These punches tore through her favorite vest and delivered such impact that it reverberated all the way to her kidneys, heart, and lung, creating a nightmarish pain that threatened to cause a stroke.

Her friends fared little better. Olaf lost an eye, an elbow's touch shattered his eye socket, and a trickle of blood ran from a nostril to his mouth. A fist had broken his left arm, leaving it dangling. Ihor lost the subdermal armor on his cheek to a grab and stood undaunted, his hands raised for block and attack, despite a bloody gaping hole.

And he, the cause of all this chaos, stood before them, holding Natasha by her neck like a toy. The fucker who had almost killed Instructor Akebia, who had ruined their training and spent the last half-hour hunting them down in the underground factory. If they… Fuck that. When they survive this, Yura won't let Akebia or Olaf live this one down, and it'll be her turn to tease them. Her mines saved the trainees' lives, giving everyone enough time to run underground as the enemies tried to break through the barracks.

Number Six. A single digit and high in rank at that. He had either stolen the body of an exceptionally tall Abnormal human or performed some inhumane modification on the poor soul, enlarging the muscles and strengthening bones to create a bulky build. The man grew tall, standing around three meters tall, his black eyes lifeless, no expression on his perfect face, and sleek black hair. Patches of tanned skin dotted the fair skin.

His goons used various powers, manipulating the very exterior, merging and molding it like clay, and creating entire sections covered by impenetrable ice in an attempt to split the group. The Numbers separated Akebia from the trainees and fell upon her in a swarm of armored bodies. Their battle raged even now; it's tremors reverberating through the factory's floors, dropping dust off the walls, and the discharges from the sonic weapons leveling the walls. Yura believed in the instructor. Akebia could bench press even her mom and dad together with one hand behind her back, but she needed help, and the trainees rushed to the source of the interference that kept jamming communications.

Natasha found it inside the ruined generator chamber, a wide, round-shaped dusty hall. Rust hadn't yet touched its walls; in the middle of it stood a long-dead generator meant to be powered up with antimatter. A sole terminal remained, a single piece of equipment that the scavengers had failed to extract years ago. Dim lights shone from the ceiling, illuminating the abandoning chamber that had witnessed the tragedy of the past firsthand.

Howe's citizens left it be after Iterna's officials admitted that this technology had become outdated. They used it for tourism, bringing in rich people from Pearl City, the Ravaged Lands, and even visitors from the distant Ravaged Lands. The guides made quite a show in portraying how the ancients worked and lived in the supposed inhuman conditions, toiling to their very last breath and being replaced by clones from the growing vats. Olaf later called the group aside and told them all these stories were full of shit.

The man certainly earned his reputation, dealing a beating to them with ease. Six lost his power armor to Akebia's sonic, standing covered by the shredded remains of a bodyglove, and it made him even more dangerous. The man fought more carefully, dodging the hits and no longer bothering with making them suffer. He wanted the trainees dead, and his every punch, his every kick, threatened to sever an artery or inflict fatal damage.

And not only that. Yura expanded the space between herself, her two friends, and Six, still coughing out pieces of chewing gum. Six has a power, recorded in Iterna's annals. The Number wrapped his hands in dimensional distortions that cut through the toughest alloys. But the owner of a stolen body also has a power, one that allows him to manipulate chewing gum. As innocent as it might sound, this power was a terror to face. If not for Ihor's warning, she'd be dead already.

Chewing gum. Such a simple thing. Good thing. Yura adored it for its great aid in plucking up pieces of stuck scales, meat, and bones from her mouth. She felt pride in her great teeth, even if their positioning turned brushing them into a nightmare stretching for tens of minutes. Chewing gum helped. It could be banana flavored, her favorite, unpleasant mint, sweet strawberry, or even orange. But when this stuff splintered and floated in the air, ready to enter the windpipe, it forced her to use the power to keep it at bay. Then it turned scary.

"You made a mistake," Six said. His fingers entered Natasha's neck and pitched a vein. His voice came from the sides; Yura's spatial manipulation had put a kilometer between them. "Rather than trying to disable the device, you should have run. But that is fine; that is to be expected from a mutant, a clone, and an Iternian who mutilated his noble body with no respect to his proud ancestry. To throw away lives for the sake of a cyborg…"

"Don't tell us what to do, and I won't tell you where to go," Olaf said. "Give Natasha back. Now."

"Won't happen." Six replied. "I arrived here on my Creator's orders and struck gold. Your energy powers and the spatial manipulation of your mutant pet are interesting, but little more. She…" He lifted Natasha, and the teen bit her lips in pain. "…is another thing altogether. Her power gives her an intrinsic understanding of how to break into even the most complicated systems. The potential use of such a body in the hands of a single digit is hard to overstate. I thank you, truly, for such a gift." Six pressed a free hand to his chest. "Believe it or not, but I harbor no harsh feelings toward your kin. It is why I left you an out during the hunt. I reiterate my offer. Turn around. Live. Leave the wretch to me."

"Never." Ihor spat, and the split hovered in the air.

"Why do you care for this wretch?" Six raised a brow. "Do you know what she did? This used whore diverted a convoy to sell it on a black market, depriving desperate souls of medicine. All to pay for her thirsty pappy's and mommy's needs."

"How did you know it?" Yura's fur rose on her nape. Natasha told no one but them the full story. Could an instructor or someone in rehab sell the information on the side? No, this guess couldn't be correct, moral or not. Think logically. If someone had been foolish enough to sell information to the Numbers, then they'd know about Natasha's power by now. About all their powers! If such was the case, why were Six and his goons surprised by the group's abilities?

Snap out of it. Yura felt a warm sensation on her back. It grew warmer and colder at uneven intervals, mimicking a silent code Akebia had taught them through the heat rather than touch or tap. Olaf spoke to her and Ihor; the teen has created tiny orbs of energy under their clothes. At my signal, slash at the bastard. It'll hurt. Once we get Natasha, send him into a wall.

"We learn many things at a glance," Six said. "As I speak with you, my dear sister Two watches; her soothing whispers bring succor and information to my ear. Think about it, kids. Why risk your life? You are a cannibalistic filth." He nodded at Yura. "None will accept you, no matter how hard you try. Run off and chew on something; give in to your instincts. You are a genetic mess." He shifted his eyes to Olaf. "Body tainted with the Glow at birth, making the rejuvenation impossible. How long will you live—forty, fifty years—before your organs start to give in? And you, an Iternian from an ordinary family, a fool so ordinary you had to resort to shaping your body to attract even a modicum of individuality." Six smiled at Ihor. "Your insecurity is plain to see, but there is no heroic act for you to achieve here; there is nothing to gain aside from pain, humiliation, and death. And yet here you stand, genetic rejects. Why? Why risk your life for a degenerate such as she?"

"Because it is right," Igor said.

"Right." Six sighed. "Humans with their righteousness. Right compared to what? Is it right to leave her without a proper punishment? Was it right for the fools of the Old to ravage our Creator's world? So many rights in the world, all different. Don't pretend like you know a thing about what is right and..."

"Shut your trap already!" Yura roared, sensing a few burned strands on her back.

She slashed at once, dispersing the enlarged space. They still stood some distance from each other, but Yura used her power again, shortening the distance to proximity. Based on its length, her sword should've hit the ground at the Number's feet. With her power, the bone sword reached way longer, coming down to the man's shoulder. He leaned back, hitting with a backhand at the weapon.

"Predictable," Six said.

Pain. Pain flooded Yura's world as the man's fist shattered the bone sword at its foundation. The space writhing around Six's fist had cut through her veins, and blood gushed from the stump. Thanks to her power, Yura could see spatial anomalies, and she knew of a 'boxer glover' around the man's hand, more deadly than even a shot of a railgun. A durable enough alloy could stop a bomb, but it'll be absolutely helpless against having a piece of space being ripped out of it and its contents moved away. And the nerves in her missing limb screamed in agony, wailing at the missing limb.

Ihor's spit ended Six's gloating. For all the supposed precognition talent, Two hadn't seen this coming. Once Yura dissolved the enlarged space, the spit moved on, landing in the man's eye as he dodged. Six got distracted, and the three charged at him. Immediately, the gum started growing in her throat, trying to clog the windpipes. The torn particles that the Number had spread reached them, slipping into their noses and mouths and growing larger.

"Predict this!" Olaf roared, engulfing his head in an aura of heat to shield himself.

A ball of energy appeared underneath Six's arm that held Natasha. He let go of her, jerking the hand back and evading a searing hot beam that melted a hole in the ceiling. The Number retreated, cautious in the absence of his armor. His 'gloves' of space fully engulfed his hands to the wrists. More orbs flickered into reality; beams flew, aiming at the device at the terminal. Space bent them, sending the heat rays away, and one of them sliced through Olaf's ear, vaporizing it. The teen grimaced but kept firing, and Yura warped the space again, sending Six straight into the far wall when the Number took a single step back, deflecting the incoming beams. Even displaced through the room, he still didn't waver and shield himself from the following beams.

"We won!" Olaf laughed, forming a sphere in his hand.

They didn't bet on beating Six. Well, Yura wanted to, but she was honest enough to admit to herself that he'd kill her in a flash. Olaf didn't share the plan after she sent Six away, but the gist of it was simple enough. Ihor helped Natasha stand. Olaf will destroy the jamming device, and then she will use the spatial manipulation, and they will leg it, gaining distance for as long as it takes for help to arrive.

Yura gasped in pain, dropping on a knee. A line linked her to Six, a line coming out of his fist, a line that severed her leg at the knee. The 'glove' on his hand disappeared, protruding to her in a line. And the second 'glove' disappeared as Six leapt away, evading the beams. It hit Olaf in the chest, and he trembled, spewing out blood, his flames dying. The white-haired teen made a step, trying to stand. Six retracted his beam, and the trainee fell.

"Olaf!" Yura shouted, charging on three limbs and leaving a blood trail on the floor.

Ihor and Natasha were already there; she saw a dark shape lunging from the ceiling and understood with horror that they weren't the only ones who tried to buy time by talking. The Numbers stepped inside, crawling out of vents and from below the generator. Ihor took a bone drill on his forearm, stopping a hit from a child, no older than ten by the look of it, who turned his legs and arms into weapons. The child tried to slice across Ihor's neck with a blade, and a kick to the head sent him sprawling to the floor. Natasha cried out, receiving a shot in her shoulder, and kicked a piece of metal, wounding the shooter in her knee.

"Is your offer still in place?" Natasha pressed a hand to the wound. "Let my friends go, and I'll be all yours, body and soul."

Olaf, Olaf, Olaf… Yura turned the boy onto his back. Amid the ambush, they had left their armors behind, along with medical kits and everything else. Instructor Akebia can save him, but she isn't here! Six aimed at the boy's heart, missing because of the beams aimed at him. The shot cut through the aorta, damaging the left coronary artery. Unless they can get him to a doctor, he'll bleed to death!

I… I won't let it happen. Yura caught a leg aimed at Ihor's knee and dragged the Number closer, opening her jaws. An urge to feed almost overwhelmed her. She is bleeding; she must feed! She is scared; bite, tear, gulp, and run! Survive, eat, breed, and conquer!

The memory of Akebia introducing her to the group, the memory of Elina and Eliza cheering and congratulating her on joining the club, and the precious memory of her friends working at the construction site laughing and joking. People at the construction site freaked out at her at first, but in the end, they all sat together one night, telling stories and even drinking bear while Akebia wasn't looking. The flood of memories stopped her from biting off the man's face. She isn't a cannibal. She is a Malformed and pork is tastier than human flesh!

Yura rammed the Number with the remains of her horns, crumpling his face and spilling brains on the floor. Olaf won't die. She put a hand on his wound and concentrated, crying a bloody tear as a blade slipped past Ihor and Natasha and cut her under the rib. The pain is temporary. I am a knight. A knight of Iterna. And as long as I live, my friend won't die.

Olaf's bleeding stopped; the edges of the aorta and the artery remained cut, but the blood circulated through them, carried over through a channel of the shortened space. Never had Yura attempted such a feat. Her power didn't work when it came to tearing a person apart; she tried, but the power refused to harm a part of the body. She kept her eyes on the wound and didn't dare break concentration, even for a moment. Death encroached on them. The instincts cried to run, and she quenched them, realizing the futility of this course of action. There is no escape, not with her wounds, and Ihor and Natasha won't leave them, the stubborn, best friends in the world.

"Offer retracted." Six came to stand before the terminal, holding his hands behind his back. "Why should I negotiate when I hold all the cards? Struggle if you must, but…" The generator behind him hummed, and Six turned around. He softened his features, smiling warmly and basking in the light of an ancient engine coming to life. It turned dark, stopping its hum as soon as it started, and Six exhaled. "Ah. It is done. My best wishes, Two, Eight. The countdown to humanity's extinction has begun, and none the wiser." He turned to them. "Fitting that it will be baptized with the blood and tears of its children. Slaughter the rejects, but spare the scrawny bitch," he commanded. "She may yet play a part in what is to come. And no need to be gentle; we only need her torso and head intact."

"Guys," Yura bleated, ready to wet herself from fear. They wanted to drop into a club after the training, roam the darkest alleys in search of interesting shops, or maybe find trouble and show off. Olaf had promised to teach her how to swim. The ocean is lovely at this time of year. "Thanks for everything."

"Don't mention it; I had fun," Ihor admitted.

"Save it for when we'll get out, 'kay?" Natasha asked. "Ihor, you take fifty guys on the left; I'll take twenty guys on the right."

"Hey! This isn't fair!"

"It's okay, I am a girl; it's allowed to us!"

Yura prepared to wrap a space around her and hurl Natasha, Olaf, and Ihor to the exit to give them one last chance at running away. Her head hurt when she used the power in two different directions, but she'll endure. Not all can escape. Not all can survive. She started lifting a hand off Olaf's wound when the ceiling shook, sending dust down.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Six raised his head. The ceiling trembled, the metal beams supporting it bent, and a bulge, like a volcanic pimple, grew on it.

It is Mo… Instructor Akebia! It has to be! Yura blinked water off her eyes, ignoring the contradiction and the chaos of battle heard even from here. Akebia could not be there. She still fought fiercely without giving ground somewhere behind them. A heavy kick came again, shattering the metal, and a leg emerged from the hole, covered by the exquisite fabric of a rich, silken crimson skirt. The skirt covered a very large, muscular, and hairy leg that released claws and sliced through the remains of a smashed black shoe.

 

[Rookie12]

With the force of a newborn explosion, the Wolfkin tore the edges of the opened gap wide. She landed softly, producing no sound, standing taller than even the Number. Her amber eyes glowed with the inner light; the woman's snout protruded longer than that of her kin, and when she bared her fangs, Yura saw smaller fangs within.

Warlord Ashbringer, the long-awaited guest for the honorable ceremony in Howe, surveyed the room, soaking her expensive dress and gentle and thick fur. The metal edges left the pretty business suit in tatters, exposing a full bodyglove of underarmor underneath. She inhaled the air and moved, sidestepping to the left and slashing with her claws. Blood appeared in the air, an oval stain from which grew a decapitated head and the torso of a woman holding a knife aimed at the Wolfkin's spine. The Number fell, her power of invisibility turned off, and her lips were still struggling to say something.

Ashbringer roared, chilling Yura's blood with sheer aggression. She had heard from Elina about the woman; she had saved her life by pushing away a murderous cyborg, acting with the dignity befitting her rank. Only there was no dignity in this roar. None. A bone chilling desire to feed, a demand of a cruel ruler for her servants to arrive.

And arrive they did. Ashbringer's pack responded to the howl; clawed paws showed up from under the generator, grabbing the nearby Numbers and pulling them down, often breaking men and women in two. The crack in the ceiling widened, and a horde of black-furred and spotted bodies poured out of it and out of the ventilation shafts, all in tattered, expensive clothes, looking ridiculous if not for the blood-curling horror from their howls. They mimicked their mistress, landing softly and murdering the surprised Numbers brutally. Claws, knives, elbows liquidating the throats, jaws closing on limbs, paws tearing through the skulls—the Wolfkins showed no dignity to their opposition, driving the Numbers away from the trainees.

Yura bit her own tongue, crying out of pain, when a searing heat washed over her stomp. A wolf hag, whose muscles rival even Ashbringer's, pressed a comparable energy cutter to the wound and cauterized it. She sniffed the trainee's stump, tearing off a chunk of metal off the floor and splitting it in two. The lesser part had sliced through the neck of a female Number who aimed to take the head of the shocked Natasha. The wolf hag crumbled the bigger part of the metal and wrapped it around Yura's wound before the body could fall.

"Thanks, but what the hell?" Natasha squeaked, turning pale when the amber eyes glanced at her. And she had a good reason to be scared! Wolfkins' eyes shine akin to stars upon reaching the prime. Ashbringer lit through the darkness with her elegant amber projectors. This wolf hag had a faint cinder in hers. "You hurt my friend!"

"Pain is fleeting." Natasha screamed, facing the giant paw that cupped her face. "Life is eternal. Survival is all."

The wolf hag ignored the muffled cries, drew the girl closer, and clicked her tongue at the wound in the neck. She licked the wound and bandaged it with a piece of cloth. Ihor suffered the same treatment from two Wolfkins, closing his eyes at the touch of a lighter burning the wound in his chin.

The pack kept moving, circling on all fours and hounding the Numbers to the center of the room. Each time an assailant tried to break free, a black-furred body already waited for the prey, biting and dragging the struggling body into the ever-moving crowd where claws perforated the vitals. Ashbringer stood unmoving, keeping her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her claws twitching and a low growl leaving her throat. Six used this opportunity, raising a hand and the space extended, aiming at the warlord's cranium. And Ashbringer didn't see it; Yura understood. Her eyes hadn't had the same gift as Yuras; the distortion in space, that unseen blade, was invisible to the ordinary eye!

Ashbringer dodged, shifting her head to the side and then stepping aside to dodge the second blade. She didn't know about the source of the attack, but her instincts screamed she will be hit, so she stepped out of the zone. Yura trusted her instincts; it was how she survived a daily dose of beating from her mother when she was a young kit, yet Ashbringer's instincts were something entirely out of this world.

"Step aside," Ashbringer spat, mangling each word almost as if she had a mouth full of pebbles. A claw pointed at Six. "My prey. My kill."

"Choke on these words." Six rolled his eyes.

The chewing gum came out of Ashbringer's mouth. More pushed out of the woman's nostrils, and some even appeared in her ears. Her claws sliced through the gum, and the woman held her breath to keep her lungs from clotting. The claws left long and torn gashes in the gum, disappearing a moment later as the mass expanded, trying to get deeper into the warlord's mouth.

With a deadly calm, Ashbringer reached into her pocket and took out an incendiary grenade. She tore out the pin, lifted the grenade to her snout, and let it explode. The resulting blast engulfed Ashbringer in flames; her clothes turned to ashes, the bodyglove disappeared, and the woman thundered onward, cracking her fists and blinking away the ashes, the chewing gum melting in her path. She bulged her muscles, spreading the fur with the effort, and proudly showed the world hundreds of scars charting her body and uneven patches of skin devoid of fur where the cyborg's claws had gored her.

"Fire purifies all," Ashbringer announced, chewing on every word and confusing Yura. Elina told her the woman was no barbarian. Why is she speaking the Common language with such difficulty?

"Evidently not, since it left a stain." Six raised his fists, his muscles rolling under the skin and tearing it, enlarging his arms. "Guess it fails to me to wipe out genetic trash. It's a dirty job, and I'd much prefer Martyshkina to you, but I'll have to settle my grievance another time. Your kind enjoys facing a strong opponent, right, doggie?" The Number tilted his head, and his legs grew bigger. "Face me at my strongest if you are not afraid."

"Deal," Ashbringer replied.

No! No, you stupid bitch, he is baiting you! Yura wanted to scream; she wanted to extend the space and plant her fist in the snarling snout, breaking a few fangs, but she didn't dare to break the concentration from Olaf's wound. Warlord, bah! Six tricked her like a kid. Hell, a kid would know better than to take such obvious bait! No wonder the Reclaimers can't ever hope…

Thum! Ashbringer disappeared. A crater grew in her place, and a sonic boom blossomed, spreading the flames among the rest of the fighters. The warlord rammed Six with a knee in his abdomen, sending the man all the way into a wall with such a force that his body left a body print, and he himself vomited blood as a metal beam above him started falling. The Wolfkin leaped at the Number as he grabbed the metal edges left by his body. She assaulted him with no mercy, lacerating the man's body with savage slashes and blindingly fast kicks. Ashbringer aimed in equal measure for the man's groin, knees, elbow joints, or throats with blindingly fast thrusts or cruel kicks; her snout opened wide, biting chunks of flesh off the man's face, and in a span it took the broken piece of metal to fall Six has received over two dozen open wounds and several torn arteries.

But not a single torn tendon or damaged muscle. Yura saw it, counting the hits, amazed at their speed. None of the landed blows was a mortal wound; none could halt an Abnormal with his level of augmentation to falter. Blood dried up on the wounds' edges, and Six took an incoming thrust at his forearm, catching four claws in-between his own radius and ulna, thus locking the warlord in place, and raised his other hand to touch her neck.

Strategy and tactics. Both are crucial in war; both are vital in every struggle. Akebia taught Yura this, whittling down the girl in their spars, placing hidden electric bombs to immobilize the Malformed and equalizing a lack of spatial manipulation through superior wits. Wits that the warlord clearly lacked. In fighting like a savage, she got caught.

Jaws closed on Six's arm, and his eyes widened in shock. Another Wolfkin, a large woman carrying dozens of dangling bone fetishes, growled, burrowing her claws in his side, and pried the hand away, opening Six for a strike.

"You lying, cowardly, misbegotten cur!" Six yelled and broke his arm free, trying to grasp the shaman, who jumped away.

Ashbringer's thrust saw her claws buried under Six's jaw. The merciless attack went all the way to the end; the woman didn't even think about taking the Number alive. Six's arm moved; he tried to touch her ribs and break them apart, and a male Wolfkin closed his fangs on the Number's arm, biting out a chunk of flesh and stopping the blow.

They fight like Malformed. Yura decided. No honor or respect for the sanctity of a duel, only a desire to see the foe dead. There was a certain nobility, a certain honesty, in this combat. A fight that used all tools, a struggle for life in its clearest form. The male tore off a chunk of flesh and retreated away from the swing, hungrily gulping meat and muscle. Yeah… It is our wildness. Maybe Malformed and Wolfkins have some common ancestry? Yura wondered, throwing a look at her saviors. The last reporter who asked a Wolfkin this question earned herself a spit in the mouth mid-question. Yeah, some things are better left to mystery.

Six snorted, splashing blood out of his nostrils at Ashbringer's eyes. Even blinded, she faced his headbutt with her own, keeping the man's head against the wall, thrusting her claws deeper and deeper, widening the gash, and pushing her own fingers in. Other Wolfkins, males and females, danced near the fighters at all fours, abandoning all resembles of humanity. Their snouts snapped, biting Six, stopping his blows. The clawed paws mercilessly gripped the bodies of their own comrades, leaving bloody traces and pulling them out of Six's deadly reach.

The Number's own trap turned against him when Ashbringer pinned his arm against the wall and opened her jaws wide, showing rows of smaller but incredibly sharp white fangs. Blood splashed as she closed the fangs on Six's neck, drinking blood and gnawing at the muscle, trying to reach the bone and carotid artery.

"One!" Six screamed. "Open the portal! Open the portal and come!" He thrashed, his body still changing as he tried in vain to shake off or push the Wolfkin away. "What do you mean he needs it?! One, leave Eight alone! We can deal damage to the Reclaimers! Come here; together, we can claim a warlord's head! One!"

"Left all alone, food?" Ashbringer tore a chunk of meat, swallowed it, and said in a clear, gravelly voice, shaking the rest of her barbarian guise. "Sad. I wouldn't mind killing two Single Digits in a day."

"Don't you dare to think that you won!" Six roared in her face.

Chewing gum flew out of his pockets, moving toward the warlord's mouth as she pried her paw, driving the claws deeper and deeper. A single incendiary grenade from a soldier stopped this attempt, leaving the two standing in crackling flames, and the male Wolfkin darted away, whining at a burn left on his hand. The Number laughed, raising the freed hand, and the female Wolfkin pushed through the flames, grabbing him at the elbow.

"You didn't win anything!" Six spat at Ashbringer. "Every time we fight, each time we kill the genetic rejects like you or die to them, it is we who win! Whom do you think this body belongs to? Me? Ha! It is a fool from the lands under your control, stolen and changed for my needs. Even now, he wails in pain, sobbing and begging for a release. And I, I will live on outliving you. Do you see it now, beast?!" He ripped his arm free from the smaller Wolfkin and raised it for a cleaving blow. "Even when you kill us, we still win! We lose nothing, and your kind grows weaker! If anything, we gain knowledge…"

"Some fools never learn." Ashbringer pushed one last time, and the man's bones gave in. The claws impaled him from his lower palate to the back of his head, ruining the brain and scraping at the skull.

The remaining Numbers rushed the Wolfkins in a maddened rage, trying to pass through them and kill the trainees. One of them jumped free from the fight; an ice spear formed in his hand, and the large Wolfkin who had tended Yura's wounds rose to block it. The strike never came; tendrils of utter darkness slithered from the shattered crack in the ceiling and wrapped the attacker in a pitch-black cocoon. Yura heard the snapping of bones, and the body went limp, and the void disappeared, letting the body fall.

Neither Wolfkins nor the Number had managed to kill the host. More spears of darkness rose, driving the Wolfkins away, and Headmaster Torosian stepped forth, appearing out of nowhere. The Headmaster was still dressed in a ceremonial black uniform, with silver Iternian national symbols glittering at his high collar. He injected the wounded Number in his neck, sending the tortured soul into a medical coma, then nodded to his students and joined the fray, taking the enemies alive and sometimes throwing the Wolfkins off the fallen Numbers before they could finish them.

"You can let go." A gloved hand touched Yura's shoulder. A smartly dressed woman holding a terminal in her hand smiled gently. Like Torosian, she looked strange at the site of battle, wearing a black vest, a black shirt, long boots, gloves, a modest skirt, and a cap holding the dark hair in place. Her visage exuded calm and confidence.

"B-ut…" Yura nodded at Olaf, struggling to formulate her desperate fear.

"Everything is under control, child of Iterna," the woman said in a honeyed voice, sitting next to Yura.

Several more soldiers appeared in the room, all clad in black carapace made of modular parts rather than nanomachines, and their helmets stylized after human skulls. Rather than focusing on the Numbers they closed on the trainees, pushing the Wolfkins aside. One tore the bandage off Natasha's neck, and a needle appeared up from under his vambrace, injecting her with painkillers. After that, the soldier started cleaning up the wound.

With shock, Yura found the metal on her stump removed. A similar needle injected her in the leg, spreading a sensation of numbness from the stump, and another black-clad soldier with burning crimson lenses treated her wound. A third sat on his knees, and his chest opened. Yura saw machines working in there; elastic threads of fiber muscles kept the limbs agile; the generator's hull contained destructive energy within its chambers; and craned arms, each thinner than a branch of a dried-up tree, showed up, carrying syringes and medical instruments. But no human body was visible. None at all, yet the soldier's movement felt a lot different from those of a VI. Yura knew this, because several Vis often kept her company while she waited for her PO.

"Is Olaf going to be okay, sir?" Yura asked, clenching her fists at the sight of her friend being treated by… a machine? She wasn't sure. The soldier ignored her, and another one placed her severed foot in a cylinder, sealing it in a floating green liquid, and pressed a button on top of it, freezing the contents. All without uttering a word.

"Of course he will, child of Iterna. A wounded heart is nothing to fret about. It is the brain that matters. A sole irreplaceable organ, and thanks to you, his is undamaged," the woman said, her voice soothing rather than chastising. "Iternian lives are sacred to us, and those covered by shadow need not be afraid."

"Who… who are you?" Yura asked. "Watch out!" She saw a trembling air at the woman's back and grasped her to pull her to safety.

A Number sneaked close. Yura saw his outline through spatial anomalies in the air; he hid itself in a space between dimensions, using the stolen power to creep past the fighters. He stepped out, a boy seven years old, aiming a pistol at Natasha's back, leaving his hiding space in utter silence. The soldier treating the girl's wound swung his hand, a dark sword extended for a split second, and the child lost his head; his body toppled on top of the ruins of his cleaved weapon. Torosian turned around with a scowl but said nothing and proceeded to use his own power to immobilize opponents, trying to preserve lives amidst the massacre.

"See? Nothing to worry about." The woman freed herself from Yura's hold and stood up, adjusting her tie. "I am a delegate, working on behalf of the Shadows. You can address me as such; we give little care for the actual names, Yura."

"You know me?" Yura felt confused. She had never met the woman.

"Not specifically, but I have called up your file." The Delegate tapped on the temple. "Sorry for all the troubles you had to experience. You are a very brave girl. Please steel yourself and don't worry about anything; I'll clear everything up with the parole officers; no one will judge you or your friends."

"But I k…" A finger stopped the admission.

"Once again, Yura, everything will be taken care of," the woman said, her voice a soft purr. "There is nothing to be afraid of; you have done great. In the future, we might…"

"Not happening!" Torosian snapped, coming closer. He checked each trainee and locked eyes with the Delegate. "One more word, and I'll sue. Keep your poisonous offers away from my students."

"But of course, Headmaster." The Delegate made an elegant bow, ignoring the sounds of the fading battle.

"Wait!" Yura shook the haze of painkillers, focusing her thoughts. "Instructor Akebia is also…"

"Locked in combat, yeah, we know." Ashbringer pushed a Shadow aside and came closer, licking the blood off her paws. "My pack ran into her on our way to save you. I left a wolf hag to aid, but frankly, the female is tough enough as it is. Should be soon here."

"How did you find us? How did you even know about the attack?" Ihor asked, trying not to look at the Shadow who stitched his ruin chin. "We are several kilometers away from Howe."

"And we are grateful." Natasha bared her throat, earning a grin from Ashbringer, who gestured for the girl to sit. "No, don't break it!" The teen darted to the terminal, screaming at a Shadow raising a fist to smash the Numbers' jamming device. "I can disable it; maybe we'll learn something out of it!"

"Jumpy cub," Ashbringer wrapped a hand over a smaller Wolfkin, drawing him close. "My scouts monitored the place, itching at a chance of dueling with the tall females." She nodded at Yura. "They saw a group entering the ruins, heard explosions of mines, and alerted me. The rest of the rabble tagged along."

"On behalf of the Academy, I thank you for the rescue of the Iternian students." Torosian placed a hand over his chest and bowed. "And my offer still stands. If you want, even the cubs' relatives can…"

"Fuck off from our children already, male!" Ashbringer bristled. She ignored a Shadow who stood to protect the headmaster and surveyed the room, counting bodies. "The deed is done. Your honor is accepted. We are leaving."

"This wasn't the honor!" The Delegate drew closer, dismissing the Shadows with a gesture to keep a respective distance from the warlord. "Wide and noble Ashbringer, the flaming fist of the Dynast, mother of hundreds, please stay a while. Citizens of Howe, citizens of Iterna, and even your fellow citizens back at home all wait to see the ceremony. Iterna is even in greater debt to you after today, and our best clothiers will restore your damaged clothes, our artisans…"

"I have no need for any clothes. Fur will suffice," Ashbringer said quickly. A male by her side whispered something, and the warlord nodded. "If any of my pack wants it, they are permitted to accept gifts from you. Shouldn't be a problem to mail them to one of our bases. We are leaving. Now."

"We can't simply let you leave without the honor…" The Delegate pressed her hands together.

"Am I being detained?"

"Of course not, Warlord Ashbringer. Your people, the savage and mighty Wolfkins…" Yura expected the Delegate's words to offend the guests, but they kept listening in calmness. "… fought against our armies more than anyone else. Because of the betrayal by the traitors who ruled our nation centuries ago, Iterna had scarred your trust. And yet you saved our citizens twice, once per your duty and once out of the goodness of your heart…"

"Out of duty," Ashbringer interrupted the woman. "Ever out of duty. Clad in armor or not, beneath a banner or not, every female and male in my pack are Reclaimers till death. And no Reclaimer worth her title will shy away from a fight."

"If you say so," the Delegate continued. "This ceremony, a small token it may be, can serve as a sign of a new era to come, an era of peace and trust between our nations. Grand deeds start with small steps. Please understand that you can't simply leave or attend naked…"

"I will not understand!" Ashbringer raised her voice. "One of you keeps pestering me about the cubs non-stop, acting like a pedophile." She pointed at Torosian, who almost choked at the accusation. "And you want to dress me up as if I am a doll to parade around! We are not your toys! If your people can't accept us for who we are, fine, we helped you; you thanked us; let's go our ways. But I refuse to give in and coddle your sensitivities any longer when all you do is ask, ask, and ask for more, making me move rather than moving yourself. My duty is to protect humanity and help reunite the world, not to slave myself to the whims of others."

More soldiers showed up from the cracks in the ceiling: a group of Problemsolvers followed by Howe's guards and Iterna's regular soldiers. They spread out across the room, trying to ignore the fuming warlord and her pack. Several of the still-living Numbers, whose bodies were turned into a horrid mess by the claws and fangs, had tried to stop the hearts of their hosts, and some even succeeded. The Problemsolvers injected every single body, even those torn apart, with a heavy dose of sedatives and power-suppression drugs, preserving the captive for a chance to be rid of the Numbers.

The Shadows rummaged through the pockets in search of any evidence. Three more assisted Natasha at dismantling the device clinging to the generator's control panel, never saying a word despite the trainee's shy attempts at making small talk. A bit later, the Wolfkin wearing the bone fetishes joined them, telling the girl to breathe in slower and concentrate.

"Your reproach is fair," the Delegate admitted. "We did impose our rules on your people. Name the concessions we must make for you to stay, Warlord."

"Proper apartments…" Ashbringer raised a finger.

"We gave your pack rooms in the five-star hotel!" A hint of emotion flashed through the Delegate's dispassionate face, and her façade of a pleasant servant shattered for a second. She wasn't angry, Yura noted, but rather shocked.

"What idiot would sleep at such a height?" Ashbringer arched a brow. "How would you feel an earthquake approaching and hide in time? Don't try to fool me, Delegate, I saw Howe's people living in normal houses, and this 'hotel' of yours is empty. Even the filthy male…" She pointed at Torosian. "… lives at ground level. You gave us that place because no one else wanted it. Either let us have normal tents or let us dig our own dens."

Yura wanted to interject and explain that Iterna had booked the entire place for the Ashbringer Pack, but on the other hand, she was curious to see how the situation will go, and it was funny hearing the insults hurled at the Headmaster. She let the Shadows treat her leg, never leaving Olaf's side. Torosian joined them later, putting a hand on her shoulder and reassuring her that her friend will be fine. His sincerity made Yura feel bad.

The heated debate continued, and Ashbringer kept making demands. No clothes. The Delegate refused to budge on it, and the Warlord agreed on casual dressing. No ceremony spanning hours or hugging with the ambassador to fake friendliness, but a brief, several-minute-long exchange of pleasantries. The Delegate accepted it with almost physical pain. Ashbringer and the Delegate agreed that any member of her pack may be present in a proper suit or dress if they wished to, although the warlord stood confused as to why any of her soldiers would even want it. Next, the two clashed over a selection of food next. To the Delegate's horror and a few hidden smiles of soldiers, Ashbringer demanded a right to rummage through Howe's dumps, decrying the exquisite cuisine served to them as not nutritious enough.

For the past ten minutes, the Iternian team has worked to melt its way through the main doors leading into the hall. Akebia turned the ancient doors to dust, firing her sonic cannons at close range, and stepped inside, covered in blood and gore remains left from her opponents. The neon smile and eyes faded off the visor, letting an image of a worried human face take their place, and the instructor lowered on a knee, hugging Yura and Ihor and giving a nod to Natasha.

"Oh, Olaf," Akebia chuckled with relief after hearing a report from Yura. "You always find a way to screw things up in the most spectacular ways."

 

[Rookie12]

"Do we know where the Oracle is?" Ludwig asked.

The group stood in the corridor, letting the Avengers defuse several mines found further across the corridor. Wivin launched a couple of drones off her ruined backpack. Out of her original 'flock' of thirty floating orbs of steel, only two remained, and they scanned the surroundings, opening paths with their tiny appendages, slithering out of the edges of a round camera. The invaders sealed the door shut, separating sections of the factory, and the drones passed through the opened air vents.

They stumbled on the same picture everywhere. Partially destroyed and riddled with bullets, empty corridors, blood covering the walls, and pieces of torn cloth and meat on the floor. The once gray floor had turned red; the attackers had shown no mercy, executing people in toilets and medical cabinets. Inspirational posters, spare uniforms in changing rooms, food in the cafeteria—blood soaked all of it, and pieces of broken teeth floated in a bowl of soup.

Ratcatcher made herself look at it, burning in the consequence of failure and the reason and need for training in her mind. A single mistake could cost her life. And who will protect the backs of her friends? With whom will Liam play in the mornings, and who will see the house that Dad and Mom chose? She kept watching, remembering every act of cruelty and taking note of the surroundings.

"Where are the bodies?" she asked. The drones' cameras showed empty corridors devoid of enemies, which was understandable. Hustler no doubt had another nastiness planned in store for them. The absence of corpses seemed fishy.

The drones kept on flying, filming the empty corridors. No shambler stood guard, and no Number preparing a trap was in sight. But the clever machines had spotted a few hidden mines and noticed the shut doors of the civilian and maintenance compartments. The trainee had a feeling that Hustler had prepared other traps.

This begs the question of why. Augustus had always, without a fault, made his trainees question everything. A locked door in the underground bunker? Why is it locked? Why hadn't scavengers broken in and taken everything of value? If you could sneak in, then others could as well, since centuries had passed since the Extinction. And so on and so forth. He even showed video recordings about ambushes made by the automatic systems and how they disposed of bodies, creating a false sense of security.

Hustler was many things: a person enslaved by the Chosen Prince's power, a zealot, a clever infiltrator, and a field commander. Yet he is no fool. With limited forces under his command, why did he waste shamblers on the attempted ambush instead of attacking head-on, holding nothing back? Sealed doors won't stop them; a decisive battle is dawning, so why waste troops? What is he buying time for?

"Got turned into shamblers, no doubt," Edward said, sniffing blood back into his nostril. "Esmi, my head hurts. Can you run a scan of the building? If that is okay, Instructor, Ludwig sir, not sure what your rank is…"

"Do it," Augustus agreed.

"Landkomptur." Ludwig tapped his shoulder, where a small image of a sun rose above a field, housing a resting hammer. "Young Edward received a wound…"

"A nosebleed! Our veins pop all the time!" Edward argued. "It's no biggie!"

"Yeah, after we saw what our older brother left after himself in the bathroom once his power went haywire, we aren't afraid of anything," Esmeralda said. "A simple bleed won't kill us."

"Hey! That's supposed to be private!" Her brother argued.

"Don't care." Esmi closed her eyes.

"Horrible," Ludwig responded. "Unless you are a Troll, it isn't normal. There is no need for Esmeralda to risk herself. Hustler can only be in one place." A map of the factory appeared on their visors, and a crimson ray led to the room in the west. "He is in the control room."

"How do you know it?" Augustus asked.

"Simple. Hustler had to be in the control room to reroute the energy flow and break into the energy grid. No other place in the building can provide that kind of clearance. And shortly prior to depowering the cameras…"

"Landkomptur is correct," Esmeralda breathed out. She staggered, and Edward offered her a shoulder while the girl calmed her heavy breathing. "Sorry. Pain. I felt utter pain from the direction of the control room, the same pain I experienced when we encountered the line breaker. They are there—shamblers and heavy creatures, both. Whoever is there, he has surrounded himself with the best guards."

"Is it Hustler?" Ratcatcher gripped the mancatcher's shaft.

"No idea. Never sensed him to tell the difference." Esmi shook her head. She hesitated, holding a hand on the visor of her helmet, clearly wanting to vomit, but decided against exposing her face to the air. "There is something weird, though. In the east wing, I touched the minds of people. Not dead, living people. They are experiencing pain, horror, and despair."

"The Oracle said something about changing people into other forms," Wivin announced.

"Does this mean that other workers are alive?" asked the rescued worker.

"Mayhap. Or it could be a trap," Ludwig replied.

"Regardless, it is my duty to save them." Wivin hefted her two-handed claymore on the remaining shoulder. "Landkomptur, I ask for a force of a dozen crusaders."

"You shall have them, countymeister." Ludwig turned to Augustus. "I'll assign two of my soldiers to protect the civilian. I recommend your trainees stay behind with them."

"We would rather stay with the main force. Too often in the past, enemies have ambushed my students." Augustus drew two sabers from their sheaths. "I will advance at your side, landkomptur. Rowen, Jumail. Esmeralda, Edward, you are with me. I grant you permission to use heavy fire. Elina, your team is to join the second group; obey Countymeister Wivin to the letter. She says jump; you ask how high. Save the people and stay clear of the danger."

"Yes, sir!" The four saluted the instructor.

The group split up. Ludwig led the larger force toward the control room, exploding the doors in their path. The Avengers weren't taking any chances anymore. They marched, bedecked in the heaviest power armor and wielding some of the best weaponry available to the Oathtakers. Cannons blew up the doors in their path, explosions littered their way as mines hidden beneath the floor exploded, and they kept on marching through the storming hell of dancing flames and lightning.

Shamblers emerged out of hidden compartments soon after, and Augustus' sabers struck, cleaving through necks and blocking bullets aimed at his allies. Jumail's size allowed him to tower over his allies, and energy beams from his in-built weaponry illuminated the corridors, punching ideal holes in the shamblers' bodies. A line breaker burst through a wall, aiming to bring its leg at the halted troll. Rowen blocked the attack in time, groaning from the strain, and Ludwig thrust his gladius at the line where flesh connected with the metal harness. Electric discharges traversed through his blade, depowering the entire armor for a moment and overloading the generator within the line breaker. It stumbled, spewing black flames out of the grille, its weapons depowered, and the Avengers gave him no chance to restore balance, downing the creature with the joint firepower that leveled two walls.

The connection broke, stopping the video feed from coming onto Ratcatcher's visor. She uttered a quick prayer, blocking the moving blades of a chainsaw. They made three-fourths of the way to the eastern hall, a large engineering compartment where equipment awaited repairs before being put back into action. Wivin halted her group at the sight of a mine and exploded it with a single burst of energy leaving her vambrace, setting off a chain reaction.

But when they came to the large doors leading inside the hall, all hell broke loose. Similar to the ambush waiting for their friends, they anticipated the ambush that fell upon them. The Oracle's command reanimated their hearts; the spasming corpses had evaded detection by Esmeralda's mind. But the Avengers' sensors detected the rapid increase in heat signatures, and the group faced the assault back-to-back.

Doors and walls exploded, unleashing moaning and twitching shamblers, some still wearing their tattered, gore-covered work overalls. The one who came at Ratcatcher had his left hand replaced with an industrial chainsaw, the long wires wrapped around the arm disappearing in the still-not-pale flesh around the neck. The shambler spent little time trying to overpower her and opened his mouth wide, vomiting some kind of acid at her.

Ratcatcher didn't wait to find out whether or not it could mar her armor. She pushed the chainsaw up and stepped to the shambler's right, hitting it across the legs with the mancatcher's lower end. The artificial muscles of her power armor amplified the trainee's swing, and its force knocked the shambler onto his back. The undead swung his chainsaw arm to cleave through Ratcatcher's legs. She evaded the hit, and the moving blades bit into the floor, drawing sparks. The mancatcher spun in Ratcatcher's hands; its sharp blades pierced the reanimated man's head, and the body convulsed one last time, gaining the merciful release of death. She reached for her gun, firing at another shambler, half-disgusted at the ease with which she got used to disposing of undead and half no longer caring. Kill or be killed.

Wivin fought with calm precision, bringing down her sword at full force despite lacking the arm. A horizontal strike dismembered a shambler lacking armor; the tip of the blade never touched the floor when Wivin slashed again, taking the head of a shambler clad in ruined power armor. Bullets ricocheted off her armor, and the countymeister ignored attempts by her warriors to keep her safe and pushed ahead, drawing attention away from the trainees to herself.

The countymeister stepped closer to the doors, her mechanical arm still not shooting. The barrels moved, but the shell had damaged the armor enough that not a single shell moved to the gatling gun. Wivin rammed the moving weapon into a shambler's head, crumpling the helmet and the head within. Dozens of the moving corpses converged on her, firing at close range, grabbing her by the exposed edges of her armor, firing at the woman from close range, and stopping the blade.

"Well, if you want to," Vasily said nervously, receiving an order from the countymeister on a private channel.

He aimed his grenade launcher and fired, rocking the corridor with a new explosion. The shamblers assaulting Wivin exploded into shreds, and the countymeister disappeared in the rising cloud of smoke.

"Vas. What are you doing, Vas?" Carlos exploded, breaking a shambler's head with a stomp. Two more took aim at him, their shots piercing the afterimage left in the Barjoni's wake. The confused undead started turning to find another prey and got their heads exploded by the Avengers.

"Not saying no to a lady!" Vasily snapped back.

The claymore slashed through the smoke, bisecting a shambler from head to hip. Wivin stepped out, undamaged. She faced the explosion with the intact side of her armor, enduring it, and her lure worked in the group's favor, opening a safe zone toward the metal gates. They retreated in order, decimating the shamblers with precision fire. Faced in the open and with no oracle to guide them, the undead died in droves. Vasily and Wivin abandoned the fight and tinkered with the terminal next to the doors, trying to open them.

"It isn't right," Ratcatcher muttered, firing a laser bolt into a shambler's helmet lens. The shot distracted the armored undead long enough for Elina to fire three times at its breastplate, piercing through it.

"Ratty, they are already dead!" Carlos responded angrily. "Just shoot them already!"

Ratcatcher sympathized with him and ignored Carlos' words. It disgusted him. This senseless violation of the once-living and laughing people enraged the Barjoni, the sight of their entrails, the trembling bodies frustrated and horrified him in an uneven measure, and the frustration demanded an outlet. She won't fault anyone for empathy. Instead, she snatched a grenade from the belt of a crusader and threw it. The Oathtakers' grenades differed from the ones at her homeland; rather than focusing on the kinetic explosion, they released shrapnel from all directions, and the explosion shredded a group of three shamblers.

"No, Eliza is right, Carlos," Elina said. She took cover behind a troll and started reloading her weapon. "Something stinks around here."

"Of course it stinks! They are rotting on the move…" Carlos dropped the joke and turned around in a flash.

The doors opened, letting in the sounds of fighting and struggling inside the engineering compartment.

 

[Graviator]

Reviewed at: End of chapter 6
This story so far is a high-speed romp through a fairly original post-apocalyptic setting. The young fool of a protagonist is a deformed mutant, knowing only a tiny corner of the world at chapter 1, and each chapter so far pushes her progressively further from that corner. The setting itself is complex and thoroughly presented to an extent that tends to drive the narrative; each chapter is about a different aspect of the setting, and the prose is wont to go off on tangents about, say, the utopian Iterna's social programs rather than what's right in front of the protagonist.

The negative corollary to the aforementioned setting presentation is that the protagonist, despite being strongly characterized, hasn't had much room to protagonize. She made some impactful decisions back in chapter 1 but not much since.

Recommended for: If you want post-apocalyptic and utopian elements blended in the same setting, and want to see them collide full force, this might be the story for you.


Also, some high level corrections from that first bit of the story:

What if... what if this girl could convince the outsiders to stop attacking and...

A shudder beneath her feet snapped the girl out of her dreams.

Click to shrink...

The last sentence's "the girl" isn't the same "this girl" as the previous sentence, but it sure looks like it should be and I needed to check the next chapter to find out who it actually referred to.

The Iternian military had long had no need for an impressive fleet, nor did the country have a naval doctrine. It relied on a mix of highly mobile ships and powerful installations to protect its coastline

Click to shrink...

The "nor did the country have a naval doctrine" is patently false, given that the next sentence describes a naval doctrine.

 

[Rookie12]

The first thing that greeted them was the humid air pouring out of the compartment—the air that made their armors turn on the warning sirens, screaming signals about biohazard danger. The factory itself wasn't a cold space. Its air conditioning system kept the place at a comfortable temperature for most workers and protected the nutrient solutions from a potential virulent outbreak. But the thick, almost oily wind gushing out of the converted hall felt straight out of the tropics. It overloaded the outer coolers, and traces of rust grew on their edges.

The invaders had altered the hall, removing sprawling assembly lines and throwing away industrial automatic repair complexes, uprooting them along with the wires and leaving gaping holes in the floor. Most of the mechanical craned arms on the ceiling got repurposed to hold a massive vat with a bubbling substance in it, and another arm held a round object over the disgusting soup. Something akin to a curling black snake slithered out of the object and disappeared beneath the waters.

Barricades made of lined equipment and removed assembly lines barred the entrance further into the hall. A network of suspended metal walkways spanned the ceiling, with men and women wearing body armor and gas masks. Filthy sweat ran down their necks, soaking plain civilian clothes. At the sight of intruders, they either jumped behind the barricades or took aim, preparing to fire the weapons taken from the dead guards.

"Keep your armors sealed!" Ratcatcher screamed, zooming in on a terrorist's scarred face and noticing bloodshot eyes and leaks coming out of nostrils. Sick. And not terrorists at all. Worse. Numbers.

Behind the barricade was a metal pillar with a ramp leading up to it from the center of the room. The invaders made the ramp out of metal pieces welded together in a hurry; it had a platform leading to the suspended vat. Entangled terminals, servers, and other computer systems composed the pillar, connected by a messy mass of black cords and sparkling wires. A man without a gas mask, dressed in a black bodyglove, stood at the very edge of this ramp, typing on a panel protruding from this entangled, glittering jumble of machinery.

Ratcatcher spotted the hostages, no less than thirty men and women, above the bubbling liquid, all hanging from an arching metal limb by chains that bit deeply into their wrists. Someone had brutally torn the sharp limbs of the captured Insectones, and their wounds inflamed, and their ichor dripped into the vat, somehow giving the impression that its contents rose hungrily to snatch the blood sooner. The severity of their wounds and blood loss rendered the wounded unconscious. Next to them wailed Normies, beaten and bruised, with cut wounds covering their arms and crying yellowish tears. Several Trolls hung among the captives too, speaking pleas for mercy in calm voices.

But this wasn't the worst change in the compartment. Ratcatcher grew used to seeing amazing things in her life. She experienced awe at Lada's hard-light holograms, figures, and things made of the very light that gained solidity. Artificer genius made gravity weapons possible; his keen mind had created weapons of destruction that could fit in hand and yet destroy a mountain. But there were limits. Some things couldn't happen because, well, they were impossible.

This illusion was shattered. Streaks of pus hissed, sprouting out of walls and the floor, and strange substances corroded the metal and stone. Billowing fumes stormed out of cracks in the air, gathering above the vat and merging with the moving waters rather than enveloping the crying prisoners. The walls crumbled in several parts, releasing dried-up creepers that unfurled with cracking noises and started covering their surroundings. Bulbous, cancerous growths sprouted everywhere, and she saw how one of them burst, releasing a trembling shambler from within.

The creature turned thin; its worker clothes merged into skin, and black claws pushed out of fingers. He exhaled, releasing a puff of steam that reduced a piece of metal nearby into dust. The thing swayed its arms back and forth and trotted to the intruders lips parted wide enough to reveal rust-colored teeth. More growths exploded, releasing maimed bodies fused with metal parts. The changes weren't complete; the trainee saw how a generator exploded within the belly of one such shambler, setting it aflame, and the body toppled. Bare feet slapped against the wet floor, converging on the Avengers.

"They took the entire mainframe from the control room," Wivin stated. "Trainees…"

They didn't need to hear anything else. This was the thing the Numbers and Hustler had used to control the facility. Ratcatcher saw a familiar device below the display, a device that the Condemned had used in Birchshell to jam the communications. Destroy it, and reinforcements will come. She aimed her shot at the back of the Number working on the keyboard and fired.

A life. Inside this freak lived a screaming and hurt person. She remembered it—oh, how Ratcatcher remembered the pain and the flash of regaining conscience in the eyes of the poor police officer Mark—a surge of panic and agony when his body inflated. The enslaved man deserved to be saved; he should have been saved! But that is not to be. Ratcatcher could think of thousands of excuses for her actions, but the true reasons why she shot were her fear for the allies and intentions to give the enslaved man a clean and less painful death. To not allow the Number to turn him into… a bloody skeleton from her nightmares. And so she fired, refusing to let others bear the guilt alone.

The stream of energy splattered against the air, failing to reach the Number. Other munition followed: a grenade and several armor-piercing shells all crashed and exploded against the hardened space. Another Number stepped closer to the typing man—a woman in a simple white shirt and black pants, her long, messy hair dappled with blood. She stood unbothered by the virulent outbreak in the air, her skin pale and her eyes burning with hatred.

"Shields!" Wivin shouted, and the Avengers rammed their heavy tower shields into the wet floor.

Ratcatcher had no more time to think. One way didn't work? Time for another! Elina snapped her fingers, sending a shockwave, casting the advancing shamblers on the ground, and making the Numbers duck to save themselves. One of them peaked out, aiming a rocket launcher, and Ratcatcher nailed the bastard in his shoulder. The simple body armor evaporated under the heat ray, and it reached all the way to the bone, disabling an arm. A second later, an Avenger shot his cannon. The heavy projectile smashed through the launcher, exploding munition, and tore everything above the man's waist.

Was it my… Irrelevant. She ignored an urge to vomit. A human died, and all she could care about was how to survive. Two laser shots curved off the wall above the entrance, hitting Ratcatcher in the back. The power armor's intelligence had changed the surface of the assaulted area to reflective material in time to dissipate the attack. I can't save everyone. But I can try to save these workers! I can keep my friends and allies safe!

Ratcatcher glanced behind in confusion, witnessing a perfectly smooth mirror. It wasn't there before; one of the Numbers had to use some sort of power to change the dirty, pus-stained piece of metal too. Another beam hit the mirror and curved, linking to a joint on an Avenger's armor. Where the Iternian nanomachines had endured the heat, the woman's weak spot gave in, and the troll sighed, enduring pain in an elbow. Ratcatcher saw the source of this beam—a man hiding behind a large conveyer. His shot wasn't an accident; she saw how he peaked out again and fired, wounding the Avenger even further. Either he could calculate the curving of the beam arc on a fly, or he used some sort of assistance.

Regardless of the reason, it has to stop.

"Elina, Vasily! Fire at these coordinates!" She contacted the teammates.

Elina, sticking like glue to a Troll's back, fired and shattered the mirror, and Vasily launched a grenade, exploding the hiding the man and one of his allies. Vasily didn't even bat an eye at the murder; his hands were reloading his weapon, and a silent request passed through fighters for a new target. Ratcatcher took after his example, weaving through allies and making holes in the approaching shamblers.

The Avengers formed a circle, igniting their shields with sparks of electricity. Their shields weren't normal husks of metal. Once activated, the magnetic repulsion systems installed within them caused bullets to slow down mid-flight and energy whips to lash out of the shields, exploding the rockets. The defenders all but forgotten melee and leveled the high-powered fire-leveled part of the barricades, driving the Numbers to a second line of defense. The explosions on both sides created a wall of destruction, keeping the shamblers at bay.

A figure leapt from the enemy land, moving fast enough to turn into a blur. The Avengers fired on it without hesitation, and a bubble of an energy shield devoured the shells. The figure bounced off the wall above the Trolls and landed in the middle of the group, battering the group aside with its square-shaped fists.

It was a heavily modified industrial exosuit, a special harness that allowed workers to pull the heaviest vehicles back from the fields when needed. The moving harness stood six meters tall, still in pristine condition, despite the rot permeating the compartment. Someone nestled an energy shield amidst the two round generators on its back; the Numbers had replaced its fingers with whirling drills, bringing them upon a Troll, bearing sparks as it pinned the crusader and began opening his power armor.

A woman hung inside the harness, somewhat chubby in build. A black body armor protected her; she coughed out a yellowish sputum on the visor of her gas mask. She dismembered the crusader in half and raised the heavy machine leg to finish him when Wivin crashed into her side, taking the leg on the blade of her claymore.

The countymeister's power armor wasn't a regular thing. Unlike Iternians, Reclaimers and Oathtakers had gifted their champions suits that remained from the ancient era, often cannibalized from various parts. Wivin's power armor was a marvel. Even lacking a sleeve, even having its backpack destroyed by an artillery shell, the bundles of the artificial muscles grafted newfound strength to the Troll, and she stopped the leg mid-swing, pushing it back. The exo-suit regained balance and slashed with the drills, somehow knowing about Wivin's attempt to circle around it despite a lack of a line of sight. The countymeister blocked the blow; its force sent her back, leaving traces made by the friction of her armored greaves against the floor. Servomotors roared in Wivin's joints, and her blades flashed, breaking metal chunks off the moving drills.

She darted past a swing, ignoring the thundering cascade of metal and stone collapsing when the arm hit the wall. Wivin made a stab, aiming at the woman's face, and the shield formed again, blocking the hit. The machine kicked, dropping the countymeister onto her back. Wivin stood; the drills lacerated rifts on her helmet, damaging the visor, but the crusader evaded the brunt of the attack and slashed again, the steel of her claymore facing the energy shield of the smirking woman again.

"In vain, reject," the Number mocked. "Act befitting your rank, make a stand, feel despair, perish with a noble cry, and stop wasting everyone's time."

"We'll see about that," Wivin sang, reactivating her emotion modulator, and boiling rage sounded in each sentence. "Come, honey. I declare you guilty of invading my nation and harming citizens entrusted to our protection. Today you have incurred a blood debt to the Avengers. Pay up."

A crimson whip slithered on the ground, striking the bisected crusader below his exposed ribs. The Troll trashed, gasping for air, and went limp, dying even before the whip came out, dragging his spinal column out. It wrapped around the legs of the crusader, burning its way through metal, and the soldier found himself jerked to the floor.

The Number who did this tried to drag the Troll closer to the approaching shamblers, but a grenade from Vasily made him release the whip and retreat. The freed crusader let go of his tower shield, taking his gladius in both hands, and rose in a burst of violence, bleeding out of his exposed ankles and cleaving through the skulls of the surrounding shamblers. Ratcatcher and Carlos supported him from afar, letting Elina and Vasily to concentrate on the Number wielding the energy whip and keep him at bay.

Suddenly, the closest Troll pushed Ratcatcher and Carlos aside, and a brilliant energy beam connected to his neck. The blue bean kept on going, tracing the recoiling Troll, melting its path through the gorget, and burning through the skin. The Avenger made one last, desperate attempt to lunge away, but his body refused to listen, and his head fell off the shoulders, getting cooked as it fell.

"Mosquitoes drawn to a festival. If you had any idea what was coming, you'd have fallen on your own blades." Hustler stepped on a walkway above the Avengers, blowing on the steaming barrel of an energy cannon mounted on his left hand. He patched the holes left by Ratcatcher with abraded metal, his long tail pierced the ceiling, and swung the Oracle out of the returned fire. "Resist me? All the better! I haven't had my fill of the Oathtakers' woes yet! If you won't join willingly, your own corpses shall bring poxes to Stonehelm!"

The Oracle unleashed another beam at the Avenger, overheating the man's shoulder cannon and exploding the munition. The Troll fell, struggling to give up, and another beam struck him, trying to merge the armor plating on his back.

"Hustler!" Ratcatcher roared, firing her gun. The Oracle reacted in time, freeing his tail and pirouetted out of the beam's way, but she didn't care. Murderer. She won't let him get away with it. Not this time.

Furious, the trainee tightened the muscles in her legs, soaring high in a single leap and reaching the edge of the wall. She holstered the gun, grabbed the corroded metal, almost feeling her fingers sucking inside the wet structure. And jump off it, landing on the walkway in time to block the stinger with her mancatcher. Its edge slid closer to the helmet, drawing sparks across the mancatcher's pole. She gritted her teeth and released the block, diving to the side.

Her bet paid off; the stinger bit the metal grating of the suspended walkway, and Ratcatcher darted toward Hustler, leaving dents in the grating. The bridge trembled violently at the destruction wrought by the tail, but she ignored it, bringing the mancatcher to the scowling face.

Ratcatcher didn't care why Hustler was here or what his plans were. All she cared for was caving in that blasting face—to make him pay for every life taken by his damned hands, bringing an end to the war that had never been hers, but the one in which she would eagerly fight. To break him so completely, he will never be able to kill her allies, any innocent or anyone at all, ever again.

The blades of her weapon crashed against the moving tail, and Hustler's lenses opened wider. Didn't expect it, bastard? I am healthy now! Hustler kicked low; his sweep parted the walkway's floor like a halberd, tearing through the floor. She jumped over it, remembering well his insane might, and landed to his side, firing the laser gun. Hustler's claws pushed the weapon aside, opening him for the mancatcher's swing.

Sparks flew around the combatants. Ratcatcher dodged and blocked, firing and attacking with her weapon, no longer using the long pole to keep Hustler at bay. This time, she clung to him, taking advantage of the narrow bridge space and his long tail. At this range, he couldn't aim the energy cannon soon enough; his taller build made it harder to launch a kick that could've shattered her bone, while Ratcatcher utilized her shorter legs and arms to rain hell at the Oracle, not allowing him to gain distance.

The girl heeded Augustus' words well, holding the mancatcher right under the blades. When an uppercut sent them skyward, she brought down the pole, dotting Hustler's arm with bulges and drawing a hiss out of him after she landed a blow against the armored patch. At a blocked thrust, she fired an armor-piercing dart from the wrist, breaking metal on Hustler's arm. She blocked a knee with the pole, firing a laser beam at the opponent, and he hissed, abandoning an attempt to cleave her head with his claws. Hustler was stronger than her. That was a fact. She gained control of his centerline and turned the combat around, making the Oracle think of dodging and retreating. Each of her blows flowed into another. No overthinking. No sticking to any style. Attack, strike, and cleave—nothing but pure rage in each blow. I am Ratcatcher, I am Eliza Vong, and I am mad!

A knee passed through her defense and hit the girl in the abdomen. She smiled through the bloody lips and headbutted Hustler, tearing his exposed chin. The kick beat the air out of her lungs, and the impact of his attack reached the solar plexus. She wanted to fall to her knees and gasp for air. Ratcatcher pushed on, toughing out the pain. To stay is to die. To move is to live. Her field of vision narrowed to that of the bridge, and she and her enemy cast each other at the guardrail; Hustler with an intent to gain distance and she to close the gap and get a chance to catch a wheezing breath.

This close, the poisoned man couldn't repeat his trick with the tail from the Ascension Tower. In fact, his oversized appendage had become a hindrance as he turned and spun around, evading darts fired at him. Ratcatcher remembered their battle well. Her opponent enjoyed leading; the tail always danced above the fighters, waiting for a chance to strike. Why was it waiting? The answer was simple. Hustler relied on precision hits, planning each attack in advance. Faced with a berserker's fury, he faltered, unable to adapt in time to the confines of their arena and all too worried to fall and end up near the surviving crusades.

Wait… am I strategizing? Ratcatcher could've sworn that she observed the fight from the sidelines; her heart still raced, pumping blood through the veins, the muscles strained. But the anger… She controlled it. It sustained her, amplified the physical blows, and helped to ignore fatigue rather than cloud her thoughts. Is this the zone that Augustus and Mom told me about? The state when a fighter acts instinctively, subconsciously choosing the best moves, leaving the mind unburdened?

She drove the Oracle to lean on the guardrail, and he froze, worried about breaking it and falling. A leg flew up; the upward kick almost tore the trainee's head off. She dodged it and pushed forward, straight off the suspension bridge, reacting on pure instinct. A beam heated the metal on her toes, and the downward swing of Hustler's leg had shuttered the section of the bridge. She wrapped a hand holding the gun over his other leg, swinging her whole body around him, and planted the kicks into the side of Hustler's head, breaking two of his lenses. Ratcatcher raced after the stumbling Oracle, stabbing with the mancatcher and almost closed its blades on the risen for a block hand.

The battle raged below them. Shots hit both fighters, tearing chunks of armor. If she'd had even a millisecond to consider the situation, Ratcatcher might've frozen in fear. She wasn't as brave as Elina, as quick-witted as Carlos or as talented as Vasily. Many things scared her. But seeing innocent people get hurt always pissed her off, and she let the rage course through the vein, flying amidst Hustler's counterattacks sustained on the released adrenaline and enduring slashes that broke through the armor with the worry over her family.

Hustler smashed her across the head with the laser cannon, and she fell straight into a rising knee. Ratcatcher turned her head, letting the hit slide across the helmet and hit across the Oracle's leg, throwing him off balance. She bounced off the grating, slamming into him with her helmet. And this time, he didn't block.

Through the cameras of her allies below, she saw him smile. Hustler has used her own blow to gain the distance between them. And if he can do it… She slashed with the mancatcher, shifting her hold all the way to the bottom of the shaft, and the blades reached him, gouging a long and bloody gash from his left shoulder to the left hip. But it wasn't deep enough, and Hustler landed, his stinger between the two and the cannon aimed at her.

What should she do? If she aims the laser gun, he'll react, firing and striking at once. A charge will lead her into the beam. And he will dodge darts! What?! What can she do?!

Experience. Hustler had decades of combat over her. Here he stood, bloodied lips and the wound dealt by her blades, but the rest of the damage to his armor was superficial. And in her frenzied rage, she missed how the sharp claws charted crimson rivers on her body, dragging pieces of skin and fur from her and splitting a breast in two. Her legs grew weary, and she exhaled, slumping her shoulders and feigning defeat. It wasn't hard. Her body ached, almost as much as it had when Wedge had accidentally elbowed her in the throat once. She rolled for half an hour, wheezing and crying and not allowing the frightened boy get her parents. If one way doesn't work, try another. Ratcatcher smiled, looking at the image on her visor and noting the position of her allies. And asked for help.

The Avengers had regained their ranks, forming a wall between the shamblers and Numbers, leaving the undead advancing from behind to the trainees. Carlos thinned the zombies' ranks, using his arms and legs to conserve the ammo, as Elina and Vasily hunted the Number armed with the crimson whip. The man kept to the edge of the battlefield, attacking from afar and ever shifting his position in an attempt to strike at the wounded crusaders. An unhealthy amount of explosion collapsed part of the wall on top of him.

"Hold on a sec!" Elina replied on a secure channel. "Carlos, Vasily to me."

"You are getting on my nerves," the Oracle said. "It's a dangerous thing to do. Do you wish for me to decompose your intestines, leaving you to sob and defecate for several weeks? Shreds of divinity given to me by His Excellency can see it done." He extended his clawed hand, and steaks of fume seeped from the palm.

"How's the arm, Hustler?" she asked slowly.

"Seedling…" Hustler hissed, licking off blood. "And from Birchshell, no less. Am I to be forever haunted by the foul luck stretching out of this dumpster?"

"Don't say that! I am sure many others are lining up to kick your ass too!" Ratcatcher teased. "Look behind me, Hustler! Do you see them? The souls of all those you have harmed and killed through your words and deeds! They are watching, waiting for retribution!" She pointed the mancatcher at him, buying time for Elina and Vasily to break free from their fight. Keep talking. Distract him. He has delusions of divinity; play on them! "And the hour is nigh! I am no champion. I am not even anyone special; there is nothing magical about me; I am just a human who refuses to let down these noble souls! I'll show you how strong a human can be and make you repent for everything you've done!"

The whip moved unbound by the movement of a trapped hand. Its hissing energy melted through the rubble, letting the Number roll away out of the shotgun's shot, stand up, and dodge the incoming grenade. The explosive didn't reach the wall; the whip coiled around it and tried to toss the projectile at Vasily.

Elina fired, exploding the grenade above the Number and he screamed in pain, bathed in the contents of the acid grenade. His gas mask and face turned to moving mud, the eyes disappeared in a streak of pouring flesh that filled his open, agony-filled mouth. The Number slashed wildly, trying to get anyone or keep the trainees at bay. It didn't save him; another grenade shot landed at the man's belly; the sharp end of an anti-vehicle grenade bored itself through his abdomen and exploded, ending both the parasite and his poor host.

"They'll fall, like you are about to. Tell me, do you feel it? The inevitability of the closing end, the desperation, and the futility of all your actions?" Hustler asked. "Hearken well what is about to transpire. I will leave a hole in your upper body. You may think that the armor will preserve you. It will not; the cracks in your wonder armor won't close in time. First, you'll feel pain; your outer skin will burn. It won't last long; the heat will vaporize your pain receptors. Then it's your organs' turn. A hole in your lungs will ensure that you don't have the thoracic pressure to draw breath. You'll fall, gasping for air that will never come, dying in four to ten minutes, depending on your physiology. But that won't be all. Oh no. I'll raise you as a puppet for my Master, your brain rotted into soup and your body whipped to hunt your former friends." He examined the stiffened trainee. "Understood now? Good, I hate it when young ones die brave."

"Thanks for the lesson in biology, old man! That might've even happened!" Carlos laughed, jumping on the bridge behind Hustler. Elina and Vasily used their own shoulders to propel him to the needed height. "If I wasn't about to wipe that smirk off your face, that is."

Carlos' gun rose. And shotgun shells pierced the metal grating, drumming against Hustler's armor as he shielded his exposed face with his hand. But neither of the trainees had taken advantage of the Oracle's distraction. The tail sliced around him in a blur, forcing both trainees to drop low as the stinger drew sparks out of the guardrails.

The last bout against Hustler has begun.

 

[Graviator]

(discussion of chapter 11)
Ratchatcher definitely deserved some harsh official criticism from chapters 7-9, foreshadowed from her mentions of the rules regarding self-endangerment in chapter 7, and I was looking forward to the eventual well-deserved dressing-down. What I got was not that, but instead this horror:

"I've seen the video footage and I know exactly what happened. But think, Elza, think! How would the girl's family have reacted if she had ended up dying?"

Click to shrink...

"I know exactly what happened" means no backtalk, no disputing his interpretation of events, he's the authority on what happened rather than Ratcatcher or anyone else who was actually there. And then, as soon as she's accepted his authority, he begins spelling out things she allegedly did wrong, namely:

1. Nadya and the other Academy students got involved
2. She fought people who were threatening her
3. She tried to extract the others from criticism 1 from the situation after they got hurt

In other words, almost all the blame he places on her is for things that were outside her control and that she tried to prevent! Although apparently author-intended to be an anti-vigilante message, that's not the actual message Torosian's sending and he should know it, because Ratcatcher's actual decision was to fight fires rather than people. The actual message being most strongly conveyed is that Ratcatcher shouldn't make friends because she might influence them to make bad decisions and the outcome of those decisions will be her fault!

In light of that blunder, his later observations are supremely ironic and show a great lack of self-awareness:

Torosian narrowed his eyes. A perfect target for abuse, and the one who would not tell anyone because of her struggle to socialize. How was it possible that she had not made a single friend at the Academy or at any of the meetings during or after church?

Click to shrink...

In short, I'm still awaiting that well-deserved official criticism but Torosian now looks super incompetent.

E: The immediately subsequent time skip indicates that it probably won't be forthcoming.

 

[Rookie12]

(discussion of chapter 11)
Ratchatcher definitely deserved some harsh official criticism from chapters 7-9, foreshadowed from her mentions of the rules regarding self-endangerment in chapter 7, and I was looking forward to the eventual well-deserved dressing-down. What I got was not that, but instead this horror:

"I know exactly what happened" means no backtalk, no disputing his interpretation of events, he's the authority on what happened rather than Ratcatcher or anyone else who was actually there. And then, as soon as she's accepted his authority, he begins spelling out things she allegedly did wrong, namely:

1. Nadya and the other Academy students got involved
2. She fought people who were threatening her
3. She tried to extract the others from criticism 1 from the situation after they got hurt

In other words, almost all the blame he places on her is for things that were outside her control and that she tried to prevent! Although apparently author-intended to be an anti-vigilante message, that's not the actual message Torosian's sending and he should know it, because Ratcatcher's actual decision was to fight fires rather than people. The actual message being most strongly conveyed is that Ratcatcher shouldn't make friends because she might influence them to make bad decisions and the outcome of those decisions will be her fault!

In light of that blunder, his later observations are supremely ironic and show a great lack of self-awareness:


In short, I'm still awaiting that well-deserved official criticism but Torosian now looks super incompetent.

E: The immediately subsequent time skip indicates that it probably won't be forthcoming.

Click to shrink...

This is a fair point. I did a poor job at conveying why exactly what Ratcatcher had done was wrong and thus portrayed Torosian not in the light I intended to. I already have ideas on how I could've worded this dialogue better, thanks to your hint. Shows that I have much to learn.

 

[Rookie12]

A blinding arc of light struck the wall separating the bridge's floor as Hustler charted a line across it. Distracted by Elina's shot, he missed Ratcatcher, but his true target was Carlos. If Carlos had stayed unmoved, the beam would've sliced across him. An arc of blur raced toward Hustler, regaining form as a kick in the knee buckled the Oracle. The clawed hand rose, aiming for the helmet in anticipation of a bullet, and found the empty air as the teen leaped back, dodging the slam of a mighty tail.

And Hustler's lenses whined, focusing on Ratcatcher before she could reach him.

"Vasily, do it!" she roared.

The remaining lenses flashed, focusing on the confused trainee below. Ratcatcher pushed herself to the limit, blocking the swinging back tail and weaving past the elbow. Misdirection. Hustler had pulled a quick one on Wivin with his babbling. It's his turn now.

Her fist slammed into the side of his lower jaw at full force. She didn't hold back anything; she was no longer held back by a fear of killing a person. Point one: a torn jaw won't kill someone right away. And point two. He was tough. The punch landed at the temporomandibular joint, tearing the ligament that connected the lower jaw to the upper. The shock that reverberated through the Oracle's head sent his brain rocking; rather than standing up, he fell on the railing, taking a shotgun blast in his chest and wheezing in pain.

Carlos grabbed the cannon's barrel, pushing the Oracle's arm back, and slammed his foot at the joint of his elbow. The teen's sheer speed and force far exceeded that of a normal jackhammer; his merciless stomping continued, crumpling the metal and damaging the bone. Still reeling from the concussion, Huster swung his claws at Carlos' face.

Ratcatcher let go of her gun and brought the mancatcher down. She could've pierced the bastard's neck; his armor wasn't tough enough to resist the cutting edge of Iterna's cold weaponry. But something deep inside, a memory of a pleading person, held her back. And she closed the blades at Hustler's arm, around his shoulder, turning off every safety and letting it cut deep and in full.

Hustler gasped in pain, his chest still riddled by Elina's shot, blood filling his lungs, one elbow turned into bone dust, and another hand missing at a shoulder and crimson blood, so pristine compared to the rest of his servants, fountained out of stump.

They thought him beaten. Ratcatcher began a sweep, and Carlos readied himself for knocking out the enemy by dealing an intense head trauma once he fell. Hustler turned, covering Ratcatcher's visor in blood pouring out of his shoulder, and his tail crushed down, missing Carlos but bringing the section of the bridge down.

"Not… yet…" Hustler whispered, his strained voice barely audible amidst the falling metal. The oracle sliced off his broken arm with his own tail and jumped, landing on the ramp. Vasily fired at his back, and the stinger met the grenade. The explosion sent Hustler sprawling, his tail shredded into flesh and metal. Hustler stood up, waving a small splinter of bone protruding out of the remaining segmented remains of his tail. "Almost… Can't die… yet… His Majesty is…"

Ratcatcher and Carlos leapt off the falling bridge and reached an intact section. The battle below still went on, but the crusaders had reached the Numbers, advancing protected by their heavy shields. Streams of acid, lightning shooting out of palms, floating fireballs, and even moving vines met them.

The Trolls marched through all of it, breaking shamblers under the armored greaves, firing at the Numbers trying to retreat, and cleaving the ones who tried to stand and fight. There weren't any noble duels anymore; when a Number attempted to transform or enlarge muscles, the survived Avengers riddled the immobile foe with the shoulder cannons.

She saw an Avenger fall. A shambler closed on the man, grasping the edge of his pauldron with its black claws. The gladius bisected the fiend at its waist, spilling foul-smelling entrails on the floor, but the thing kept its assault, spearing its mouth wide, and a corrosive cloud exited its throat, leaving a hole in the Troll's neck. The brave warrior's legs gave in and the poisonous fume had damaged the nerves in the spinal column. His arms let go of the gladius and grabbed the thing by the neck, lifting its head. Without hesitation, the Avenger plunged his thumbs into the rotting neck, tearing through sinews and muscles and breaking the creature's neck before the strength left him.

They lay side by side, an immobilized crusader and a fiend whose body convulsed and twisted, trying to regain some mobility to reach the wounded with its claws or to spit acid at him again. Vasily's stomped on the corpse's head and put a hand on the Troll's chest, showing him fingers. The boy confirmed the Avenger was conscious, and together with Elina, they dragged him away from the battle to let the man regenerate and rejoin the fight later. They seated him on the wall, entrusting his safety to his automatic cannon.

Wivin got pushed to the far wall. The shamblers who pursued the group had tried to assist the Number driving the exosuit, and two Avengers left the advance, striking at them from behind. One of the suit's hands had already lay on the ground, and the countymeister has raised the claymore for the final strike.

And staggered. The stump of the suit's hand pressed against her side, while the intact hand grabbed the blade. Arcs of electricity raced across Wivin's battleplate, creeping into the exposed areas. She spasmed, letting go of the blade, and the suit tossed it into the air, catching it with a smooth accuracy so unbecoming for a civilian-grade industrial walker. The bubble of the shield reappeared, blocking the Avengers' and Elina's shots and shockwaves.

"All too easy. Your every move is predictable," the Number said. And rammed the blade into Wivin's chest plate, piercing it thanks to the walker's immense strength. The blade went deep, pinning the countymeister to the ground. "Suffer. Don't worry, I do remember about the need of…"

"Miss Wivin!" Ratcatcher yelled, adding her darts to the allied fire and seeing them bounce off the shield. Damn it, no! She charged after Hustler to prevent deaths! Why is it that no matter what she does, people are still dying?!

"P…" Wivin said, her pained voice sounded more like a gasp over the communication.

"What?" The suit leaned closer, and the Number turned her head. "Are you begging for your life, genetic waste? Fret not; you won't be dying alone. The rest of your kin shall soon follow the same drain…"

"Predictable," Wivin said through a mouth of blood.

Her mechanical arm, that long and nimble appendage wielding the useless gatling gun, came to life and buried the weapon's barrels in the Number's chest, right above the place where the mechanical part of her harness protected her. The speed of the attack caught the snatched body by surprise, and her light body armor did nothing to stop the stab.

"But… How? I pierced your heart…" The Number forced the words.

The barrels whirled, breaking the Number's thorax and cracking bones. Whatever vital organs they hadn't hit, they ruptured with the body's own bones, driving the woman to vomit blood and go limp. Wivin raised her trembling hand, pushed away the suit's electric torch, and pulled out the blade, pushing the machine off herself. Then she stood up, using the sword as a long walking stick.

"Countymeister Wivin!" Ratcatcher contacted her, hearing the heavy breathing. Her vitals came on the HUD; the woman had lost her heart, but torn arteries had already started reknotting, merging to form new veins, and a lump of meat, a faint shape of a future heart, had started its appearance. Syringes in the armor needled Wivin's skin, bringing in adrenaline and nutrients. "Can you breathe, ma'am? I have a special medicine; just wait…."

"At ease, Eliza, and no need. I'll yet outlive you all. In my youth, my teacher often called me a heartless buffoon, despairing of the futile struggle to instill in me a love of poetry. She feared that if I couldn't appreciate art, I couldn't cherish life enough to protect it." Wivin swallowed blood and kept speaking calmly. A hiss of electricity came out of her open chest. The countymeister seemed oblivious to the gunfire and the battle raging around, but amidst her speech, a command came out, and the two crusaders left her side and rushed to aid their allies. "So I paid to replace the wretched organ just to spite her. A silly prank. Trolls and implants rarely mix well, and I've grown skin coverage over it. The teacher was so worried… Heh, it was then that I saw more than care from her. It was love, Eliza. She kept a sleepless vigil by my bed while the doctors examined me. She read me poems and stories, and I liked them. I kept the implant out of respect for her, a reminder of a hidden nobility in a stern soul. It'll be a novelty to be one with flesh again. Forgive my delirious ramblings. Yes, I'll live; my brain is undamaged, and I have enough fat to regenerate. You should check your own wounds."

"She is right. Stand still." Carlos put a hand on her shoulder. "Ratty, you are bleeding like a pig…"

"It can wait," Ratcatcher interrupted him. She could feel it—the fever rising in her body. It was almost impossible; as an Abnormal she enjoyed a strong immune system. Getting sick so soon was crazy. Her eyes found the prisoners above the vat. Wivin seemed to think the same; the countymeister tried to hobble in that direction. "They can't."

She leapt off the bridge, landing near a Number firing at the crusaders. She rendered him unconscious with a single blow to the temple with the flat of her blades. The trainee fired at another Number, burning a hole in the woman's knee, and an Avenger closed on the wounded. Out of respect for the trainee, he had bludgeoned the woman into unconsciousness, no doubt cracking her skull but leaving her alive. The Troll drew himself high and fired at the shambler, killing it before it could reach the trainee. The battle scattered the terrorists, opening a path to the towering pillar, and Ratcatcher rushed after Huster, aiming to stop whatever this bastard was planning.

The oracle stepped closer to the vat and fell to his knees, the remnants of his tail twitching in pain. He exhaled and leaned back. The armor on his chest shifted, revealing tortured bits of pale skin and dark wounds oozing red blood beneath. Energy beams struck an invisible wall separating him from Ratcatcher, and Hustler sucked in air, swallowing pieces of broken teeth.

"What... you... have... given... to me. I... give... back," Hustler spoke through the red bubbles on his lips, and black smoke poured out of his body. "Do… it. Activate the elixir."

"It is already done, fool. You are spending yourself in vain," the female Number said.

"How…foolish you are," Hustler gurgled out a laugh. "We greet the return of a god! Such things require… a… certain spiritual touch. My life, power, body, and soul… will facilitate his manifestation in this realm of ours."

"You speak of superstitions; I speak of reality, degenerate." The Number surveyed the battle, curling a lock of blond hair with her elegant fingers. "Human personality consists of ego and memories. Everything else is irrelevant. Lose ego, and a copy is not guaranteed to have the same personality. Lose memory, and even despite ego, different life experiences can shape personality in another way. When we, our individual selves, die, the energy traveling between the synapses of our brain dissipates, and the person is gone. We have gained immortality by hopping into a different dimension that can store and preserve these invaluable things. The chemical process of our recreation in this world is merely an anchor to call upon the energy containing our data."

"How foolish you are!" Hustler giggled, slumping on his knees as more smoke poured from under his faceplate and out of his cracked lenses. "You think you know all there is in the world... Flesh is but a home for a soul… and my soul is the price I pay, so the spirits will open a path for the one true god. Look around you… Witness their work at changing… this place to one worthy of His return."

"I do not know everything. Not yet." The Number spread a hand across the room, speaking with no regard for the raging combat: "These things you mistake for displays of divinity are merely a mix of dimensional distortions and the effects they have on reality. The result of a power, its exact working is yet unknown to me, but not the countermeasures against it." She pointed at her fair skin without a trace of sweat and inhaled a portion of the fumes coming out of Hustler. "There are many forms of immortality. I have heard of a woman who can regenerate from of a drop of blood, her power imprinting her memories in every cell of her body. But your master doesn't have this power, and there are no ghosts in his employ—none at all. Why do you think his diseases stopped evolving after his death? Because none of them were sentient to begin with. They shamble—what an apt name—according to the embedded commands of a dead person, but they cannot exceed their programming. You give out the power handed to you. Fool, can't you see that all you have is an imprint of his will? An imitation, a shadow of his personality, not the real thing, never the real thing, because his brain has been destroyed. There is no soul, no afterlife, only a life and ways to extend it. Once you lose it, that's it; there's no coming back."

"Heresy…" Hustler's blood stained his gorget, pooling in small puddles on his shoulders. "I… hear him. The commands of His Excellency still permeate this reality…"

"The correct word is 'linger', shaman of a non-deity. Believe whatever delusion you want; your goals are aligned with mine in this regard, and thus you succeed to your disappointment." The Number rolled her eyes. "The procedure is nearing its end. Soon it will be time for the bodies…"

"Screw you!" Ratcatcher yelled, understanding what was about to happen. She fired two darts and the energy beams, and they splattered against the empty air, sending sparks flying. An explosion followed when a grenade hit that barrier, and Vasily joined her side, pushing ahead of Ratcatcher and shielding her with his body. Elina and Carlos flanked her, and all four of them darted to save the people.

The smoke pouring out of Hustler's body had gathered the vat, and for a split moment, a bent figure wearing a shattered crown manifested above the waters. It disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared, sucked into the sludge, and Hustler screamed, shaking and falling, the smoke leaving him had thinned to small streaks.

Elina sent an update on their helmets, and the trainees' vision changed. One side of their helmets' visors still showed the picture of the ordinary world, but the other side turned red, highlighting a wall of hardened space that separated them from their enemies. A wall that could easily be jumped over, and all at once they leapt, preparing to fire.

The Number who worked on the keyboard typed twice and disappeared. Ratcatcher struggled to comprehend such speed; his feet left footprints on the metal. The sound reached them, and along with the sound came pain. Kicks and punches broke weapons, disarming the group before even Carlos could pull the trigger. Ratcatcher received a kick across the shoulder, Elina's visor got smashed in, and Vasily cried out in pain at the crack in the armor shielding his groin. Carlos alone reacted in time, taking the incoming leg on his forearms, but even that attack sent him cartwheeling back.

Ratcatcher landed on her feet, hearing the scratch of metal. She caught Vasily and set him down, letting her friend take a few breaths and calling up his vitals on her HUD. It wasn't pretty. The attack squashed one of his testicles, causing Vasily immense pain. His armor had already injected painkillers into his bloodstream, helping the teen keep his mind focused. Elina fared a bit better; the helmet cushioned the damage, and Carlos opened and closed his hands, hissing in pain. Ratcatcher glanced to the side, noting her mancatcher lying away from the ramp and clenched her fists, opening the seam at the back and releasing the tail.

"We meet again, rat thing." Her blood froze. A man in the black body armor landed softly, without a sound, and struck a golden earring, producing a musical tone. "It seems you have regained your ugly tail. Shall I shorten it again?"

She didn't dare to say anything. For a brief while, they were all silent, their bodies chained by the dread emanating from this calm man. The memories of his overwhelming superiority reignited with the casual ease with which he had disarmed them. She remembered the fear of seeing the deadly metal finger hovering over her. Carlos gritted his teeth, no doubt remembering his own pain-staking nightmares about recovery.

It was Elina who broke the silence, taking a single step forward.

"Eight." Elina dropped low. "Snap out of it, all of you! He is just a man, without a suit of armor to boot. And we are no longer children."

"No need to tell me twice," Carlos snapped. "I have a score to settle. Dad will never let me live this one down until I tear this vile ruffian limb by limb and pulverize every single bone in his body before sending his ass to the Rhos for processing!"

"Ah, the fervor of the young. Could it be true?" Eight tilted his head. He wore a new body, a new face, but the calm look in his eyes and the keen awareness of the whereabouts of every opponent filled Ratcatcher with dread. A monster out of her nightmares, he stood ready to swallow them whole. "I had expected to meet one survivor. Not all three. Fate is indeed a pleasant mistress. It has gravitated you all to me to conclude the unfinished business between us."

"Think so?" Vasily asked. "It won't end like the last time."

"Sure it will, but… Who are you?" Eight examined the teen. "Do I know you?"

"No, but you will," Vasily promised, straightening up despite the pain. "Back then, I got scared and waited for the police. Not this time."

"Suit yourself. I seldom remember all runaways or my victims." Eight shrugged. "When dozens of corpses are heaped on top of each other, when your kill score eclipses thousands, various examples of childish bravado tend to blend in together."

"What are you doing here, Eight?" Elina held a hand, stopping the others. "Why are you working with the Hierarchy? I thought you served your own wannabe god, not bootlicking another."

"Eight remembers his place well," the female Number answered in a deep voice. A voice that they knew and not from the historical records. The woman stepped closer to the wall; the scars covering her face paled, dissolving into smooth skin. Her larynx grew and protruded into an Adam's apple, her muscles enlarged, cracking the shirt's sleeves. The woman's facial features hardened; the face transformed, taking on masculine features while retaining feminine ones. Her eyes changed, turning black, back to blue, and later to brown, keeping shifting and becoming rainbow orbs. Maximilian ran a hand over his androgynous face, checking his lean limbs. "I am here for an amusing experiment, and that is all you need to know. Eight. We have achieved our goals. Amuse yourself if you wish or leave them to me. I don't care which, just keep their hearts beating for now."

"With pleasure, Creator," Eight responded, not taking his eyes off the trainees. "Your death is nearing, yet in our last encounter, I suffered embarrassment. I had failed to uphold my promise, and it has bothered me ever since. For this, I'll give myself a handicap." He put his arms behind his back, with his elbows at his sides. "I'll fight you without using my hands or my power. It should be amusing to test the limits of my body…"

"And what will we win if we force you to use your hands?" Ratcatcher broke her silence, putting a hand on Carlos' shoulder and keeping the boy from rushing the Number.

She still trembled, but not at all out of fever. A substance soaked the space between her legs, comprising good old-fashioned piss and a musk of fear that her people occasionally released at the heights of utmost emotional turmoil. She was terrified; her entire life flashed in her beady and human eyes, the heart raced, and hands trembled. The tail slapped the ground again and again.

And through it all, she saw an opportunity. It was Elina who indirectly taught her this; the girl's quick wits saved the group more than once and have helped Ratcatcher learn a different perspective. Eight was scary. Maybe even tougher than all of them combined. And he disarmed them with ease. Facing him head-on, with a wall separating them from the control panel and Maximilian standing at Hustler's side, might well be suicide. But there were also other conclusions to be drawn based on their scramble.

Eight had destroyed or tossed away their weapons, thus proving he wasn't invulnerable. In his arrogance, he viewed them as gnats, and well, he might even be there. Only these gnats had plenty of powerful allies ready to help them. Once Augustus arrives or the Avengers are done with a mop-up in the rest of the hall, Eight will go down. This much she learned from the history books. The Numbers, once a fearsome and tough opposition, became a cornered prey as more and more nations joined the worldwide hunt after them as the knowledge of how to spot them spread. These bastards thrived in chaos and lost order.

An opportunity turned into a plan. So, what should they focus on? Survival, of course. And saving the hostages. Can she rescue them from above the vat? No, Eight or Maximilian will kill some captives. That leaves the control panel. The craning mechanical arms are holding the hostages suspended above the poisoned sludge; if they can install a locksmith on the control panel, the armor's computer intelligence will handle the rest. Not only will they be able to move the hostages away, but they will also turn off the jamming device and be able to call for reinforcements. Maximilian can't keep his wall up forever, or he would have engulfed the entire area. Once the battle shifts, once the Avengers are free to help…

There will be a chance. All they need is a little more time. And luck.

"Pardon you?" Eight asked, and Ratcatcher grinned.

All or nothing.

 

[Graviator]

(Still talking about chapter 11-12)

This is a fair point. I did a poor job at conveying why exactly what Ratcatcher had done was wrong and thus portrayed Torosian not in the light I intended to.

Click to shrink...

It's not just Torosian's dialogue, but Ratcatcher's behavior afterwards can easily be interpreted as internalizing the unfair, abusive argument that I highlighted.

 

[Rookie12]

(Still talking about chapter 11-12)


It's not just Torosian's dialogue, but Ratcatcher's behavior afterwards can easily be interpreted as internalizing the unfair, abusive argument that I highlighted.

Click to shrink...

That was intentional. I tried to portray that Torosian had tried to instill the values of stepping back and letting others deal with danger rather than dying in vain into Ratcatcher, but she interpriated it the wrong way, and Torosian himself isn't the best about doing it (hence other instructors prefer him to focus on other duties). Ratcatcher's future troubles partially stem from the wrong conclusion she drew from this lesson.

 

[Rookie12]

"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…

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.

 

[Rookie12]

Eight's throw sent Ratcatcher spinning through the air, the world around her spinning. She hit the edge of the vat with her back, heard a loud crack, and everything below her waist went cold. Her legs no longer hurt, the pounding pain in the pelvis abandoned her, and hanging head down, she saw the bubbling mess resembling nothing of the nutrient solution used for producing food.

The sludge itself turned more solid and gummy, and a dark stain with what appeared to be pulsating purple veins lined it. Ratcatcher tried to hold on. If only her legs still worked! She could've held on with her knees alone! Or with her tail! But no matter how hard she tried, no muscle obeyed her. She slid into the contorting mess, shouting in pain at the top of her lungs and hearing hissing, hissing announcing her own skin being peeled off.

The weight of her body dragged her deeper; the heavy liquids crept into the torn skin and started filling up an exposed lung. She knew she had to close her mouth shut, but the agony was unbearable! Dirty waters tightened upon her, almost as if she got tucked into a blanket; only this blanket was made of acid, slowly melting its path through her skin, blurring her vision, and sinking into her ears. Ratcatcher whimpered, drinking a whole mouthful of black acidic waters when her eardrum gave in and a new fire rekindled in her stomach.

I am dead. She thought.

"Not yet, servant." A voice spoke through the darkness, clear and strong, used to being obeyed.

Amidst the panic and pain, something shifted in the water. She thought it to be a single black worm, creeping to her through the acidic contents, but the green mist swirled around it, forming a gigantic skull. On its forehead it wore a rusted crown, hammered into the bone, forever fused to it. Parchment-thick skin covered the skull, and sunken eyes appeared, examining the girl and bathing her in a sickly green light.

"Bow to the perfect order." The skull said, without moving its lips. Ratcatcher found herself no longer experiencing pain and lifted her hand, almost losing her conscience. The dark had already stained the white of her bones, and she could see meat and burned veins. "Surrender your body and accept your place in the Hierarchy."

"Never!" she tried to say, but couldn't; the mud filling her lungs choked her into near unconsciousness. Yet the thing heard her. "Who are you?"

"I am the Chosen Prince. The destined king, the one true ruler of this world, the unbreakable will and…" It thundered and dissolved, engulfing Ratcatcher in darkness and entering her body through the eyes, nostrils, wounds, and mouth.

His will came upon her mind, resembling nothing of the gentle touch of Edward or Esmeralda. An all-encompassing iron fist, chaining every soul to its will, the unfathomable conscience torpedoed its way through feeble resistance, subjugating every thought and every desire to a singular goal. Ratcatcher's conscience wasn't even a candle flame against the approaching sun; she wasn't even an ember; she was nothing; she could do nothing but...

To be subsumed.

The body submerged in the toxic wastes twitched, and bones pushing back into alignment made louder-than-whips cracking sounds. He breathed in the dark waters, examining his body. No skin, ruined muscles exposed, bones shattered, ligaments torn, eyes burned, spine snapped. A thought sent a wave of parasitic infection through his body.

In the Old World, a specially bred type of fungus produced bacteria. Inconspicuous at first glance, the mushroom unleashed spores that fused a living flesh to its stem, soil, and surroundings, forever trapping a creature, sucking in its liquids for sustenance, and using the corpus to propagate and spread. A simple desire replicated these bacteria, forming spores in the air, and evolved them. Obedient to his will, the parasitic spores started mending the damaged spine, restoring the spinal cord, and bringing feelings back to the numb toes.

The virus didn't disappear on its own; even after it evolved, the bacteria still tried to continue its work, altering his body. Another wish summoned phages that devoured the bacteria, eliminating the threat. He ran a hand over his body, testing the extent of the damage, and continued his work.

One more virus got drawn from non-existence, this time the one that caused its host to fatten up and burst, spreading itself through droplets of blood. A biological weapon. He modified it, controlling the growth and flesh covering the exposed meat and drawing calories from the surroundings. It wasn't the same flesh that covered this body before, but the flesh that he imagined it to be, and that was acceptable. Only his vision mattered. He expanded his consciousness, cursing at the feeble capabilities of this brain, subduing the leaderless viruses in the hall, and spreading further beyond the walls.

He was here. This much, he was sure. The place looked familiar, although he couldn't recall why. Traces of his power imprinted themselves on the ground, and at his desire, they pushed out, remaking the surfaces for kilometers around. As convulsing and spastic bodies clawed their way up from the depths, the depowered generators started working anew, bringing his servants into service.

Servants? Yes, the siege. It all started coming back — the plagues ravaging the fools trying to bar his path. Hundreds have tried, and they all failed until something happened. He faced someone. A ruler! The pretender who claimed, who stole his legacy.

And he sensed it. The throne! His throne! He was near it, still close to Stonehelm; his goal is within his grasp, and this time he will sit upon it. And claim himself a house.

The thought confused him. A house? Why would he want a house? Is he a peon to live in a shack? A palace. This must be it; it all makes sense now. That must be it; it all makes sense now. A throne must have a palace, and this will be a home...a house...worthy of a king.

His mindless servants will converge on the city, but where are his loyal servants? Where… He frowned, unable to recall a single name. He had servants numbering in the tens of thousands, some named by him, others serving him of their own free will. How could he forget them? The genius… the strong… the brutish… the cunning… the angry…

Their names eluded him, and the being let it go. Setbacks were irrelevant. A king has no need to remember everyone. In time, he will recover all and reclaim all that was rightfully his. More important matters demanded his attention. He lifted a hand so thin, so useless, finding it unbefitting of himself.

A halo of white and crimson haze surrounded his head, and voices whispered in his ears, promising him might, status, and everything he would ever want in exchange for fealty. He saw it — a world of rot. Poisonous rivers carried sickness across the mountains' slopes; underground rivers turned green and dark; toxic winds had reduced lush pastures to deserts filled by withered trees. And servants. Cocoons bubbled in every city, their sheer numbers hiding the corroded metal and crumbled stone of buildings. Each cocoon prepared hundreds of shamblers, ready to be awoken at a moment's notice and carry on his glorious conquest.

Clouds of poison, more potent than anything he had used before, caressed the ground, rendering it infertile forever, extinguishing life and creeping into secured bunkers, leaving none untouched. A world of stillness, a world of perfect certainty. And he was the axis of it all. A snap of his fingers reduced mountain ranges to rubble; his tap opened the ground to the bedrock; his breath stilled the very core…

And all this thing asked for was a trifle, a nothingburger. Eternal fealty and extinction of every living species. And he will be one of the chosen few to create a better world.

Lies. And very obvious at that. If the entire world is a victim of his power, how could another world rise out of its ashes? Something would have to give in. Or to be removed. And worst of all, this offer had nothing to do with his desires.

He remembered hearing this offer before. Humanity was his to rule, his to lead to the hallowed times of his eternal reign. He had endured long decades of living among the crude metal, hearing the groaning and twisting of colossal gears, poisoning others, and remaking entire nations with his soldiers, leaving barren wastelands behind. And all of it was just the means to an end. For this reason, he restrained his diseases from overtaking his human subjects… What were their names again?

Stonehelm will flourish under its rightful owner, its walls rebuilt, paving roads stretching to every corner of his domain, fields of wheat blossoming as far as an eye can see, and workers toiling in factories, assembling great engines of war for his ever-expanding kingdom. In time, the populace will bow to its appointed destiny, and all will be as it should. An eternal king, keeping vigil and guiding the unwashed masses, instilling a perfect order for every street urchin and every peon, now and forevermore.

Kill the world? What inanity is this? Any fool attempting it shall perish.

"Begone," he pushed the mental projection away, whipping the crimson halo with flesh-eating infections. It didn't affect the fiend, but the cracks in space, opened by his will to let his weapon come through, did.

It pleaded with him, convincing him he couldn't survive on his own, not anymore, and pointing out the feebleness of his current body. Lies, and even if not, it mattered little. What is a king without subjects or a nation? A princeling at best, a beggar at worst. He had rejected offers of power, rank, and riches before, and he shall do so again. A king rules, taking all he wants. A slave obeys, whimpering for scraps.

The halo ghosted into nothingness above his head.

The Chosen Prince unleashed his venom, materializing some of the deadliest diseases, and the surrounding mud trembled. A virus capable of crystallizing flesh. Changed, transformed into a plague of bone-making. A sickness inducting paranoia in its hosts, driving them away from doctors and closer to the uninfected. Changed into a new strain, one that bolstered the capabilities of a brain. More diseases. His desire had ignited further evolution.

The surrounding toxic mass clung to him, transmuting and grafting itself onto the living body, increasing weight, and forming new organs and bones. A king desired his old body back. And a bigger brain appeared over the Chosen Prince, connecting to his temporary body and letting his senses return to the modicum of what he once had.

Soon. He will reclaim it all.

****

"Eliza!" Elina screamed, stopping at the edge of the ramp.

Again! It all happens again! She was in charge; she acted as a leader, and she had failed everyone! Useless, helpless, weak. Elina tried her best to break through Maximilian's wall. She struck until blood appeared on her knuckles. She fired shockwaves, ignoring the recoil hitting back at her. At the end, she even tried to claw at this invisible wall of space, and still all she could do was watch as Eight repeatedly drove her friend's body against the console, decimating her even more severely than the previous time.

And then the Number tossed Ratcatcher. Vasily hobbled closer, silently handling over to the syringes gifted to him by the Shadow. He shook his head, refusing to take one for himself, and gazed desperately at the vat, mirroring her own desire. This medicine can save Eliza, if only…

Elina broke the eye contact, hating herself for it. Eliza Vong was dead. She heard the hiss and her desperate scream. None of them could've survived this toxic waste. She must lead Vasily away and have his wounds treated at once.

The vat spewed a bubble, sending it hovering up. It reached the ceiling, exploding and melting its path through it.

"I… told you…" Hustler whispered, falling to the side. "If you won't join willingly… You'll be willingly used."

Steam poured from the vat, its surface rusting and exploding with the force of an artillery barrage, knocking everyone off their feet. A single cold shard had struck an Avenger, ripping off everything above his ankles and slamming the remains against a wall. A pulsating mass fell off the ruined vat, landing on the ground and spreading a web of sickness through it, creating new flesh growths covering the dead bodies on the ground. Shapes rose and barged out of them, pale and wielding dark claws. The living corpses nimbly darted at the closest people, whether they were the Numbers or Avengers, attacking both sides. No longer constrained by rigor mortis, a semblance of animal sentience guided their assault.

The disgusting mass kicked out a stump, then another. It tried to stand, and its leg broke beneath the weight. Another leg appeared, this time resembling a large skeleton limb wrapped in a leathery hide. It stomped on the ground, lifting the rest of the mass, and steam poured over it, dissolving the ceiling and all the floors above.

On and on, the green pillar moved, spearing through the factory, reducing stones and metal to nothing, and spreading rust and corrosion everywhere. The metal darkened, and several support beams collapsed, collapsing some of the upper floors. The pillar came out. Elina watched in pure horror as it reached the sky.

And darkened it. At first, it was a single line against the sunny day — almost nothing. Then its top started spreading, tainting the light clouds in the dark and turning them into heavy storm clouds. The taint spread, filling the entire sky as far as Elina could see, and the clouds erupted, spilling an acidic shower onto the ground. The drops hissed, rusting the outer layer of the factory, and the whole place shook.

"The unbreakable will and you are dead!" A toothless mouth opened in the mass, and it charged toward the trainees, no longer limping, a throbbing, oily tentacle protruding from its quivering depths.

"Stay alive," Vasily whispered.

He pushed them. Elina cursed herself; she roared in disbelief at Vasily's tackle that saved her and Carlos from being swiped by the oversized tentacle that grabbed the boy, submerging him into the oscillated flesh. Vasily yelled, his voice hardly a whisper because of his ruined lung. The acid coursing through the thing's veins washed away the nanomachine armor and clothing, burning the naked body as it was dragged toward the center.

Elina, Carlos, and Wivin tumbled down the remains of the ramp as the monster uprooted it, corroding it into darkness and shattering it like ice. Elina rolled away from the popping, cracking, and slumping mess and rose, beating an enormous chunk of metal threatening to fall on Wivin.

Vasily. The communications were no longer jammed. And there was no signal from him — not a single blip, nothing. He disappeared, swallowed up too quickly for them to do anything.

The mess of flesh shifted again, thinning and rising, forming a head resembling a skull with two sunken, dimly lit green eyes. Arms, legs, and chest appeared, all covered by a cancerous skin that blistered and cracked at a turn. Spikes pierced its forehead, spurting thick, dark blood. A crown grew on the creature's head, and it stood at full height, naked, bones protruding against the skin, and yet so terrifying and otherworldly mighty. It took a step with the grace of a dancer, lifting a hand and testing his fingers, scowling at the blood pushing from between the fingers.

The monster's leathery hide had a blue tint, reminding Elina of a drowned victim. It had the build of a famine victim. The belly sank deep, becoming one with the spine; its head looked way too big and heavy for the needle-like neck; the nails grew long; and the skin was dry. The pristine blue color didn't last long. Blackness filled the veins, pressing them against the skin, and yellowish, cancerous bulbs appeared and burst, spilling pus and blood. The damaged area healed, the blue returned, and the process repeated itself — this time with blood gushing from every orifice. The monstrous fiend experienced seasons of decay and restoration; his immune system suffered failures, and something unnatural kept restarting it, doing the same thing over and over.

"I have returned. The Chosen Prince walks this land once more." His eyes found Elina, and swirling mist left the pale skin, collapsing the remains of the ramp and dissolving a crusader who leapt at him, wielding his gladius. There wasn't even a scream; the man vanished in a single step and corroded dust landed on the floor.

Wivin took guard before the trainees; on her orders, the rest of the Avengers took the distance and fired everything they had at the monstrosity, also using weapons taken off the dead Numbers: rockets, shells, and energy beams. The green fumes choked the life out of the incoming beams, devouring their heat. The cloud's edges corroded the shells and exploded the rockets, keeping the tyrant safe from harm.

Safe from the harm aimed at him. Elina recognized him through the horror; it was as if he had stepped right out of the terminal's display. Only he wasn't the same; before his power had ruined those who stood against him, and now the Lord of Disease and Rot was afflicted by his own bile, struggling to maintain his form.

"And I shall have what is mine. The throne, palace, and concealed city will be mine. Prostrate and exult, for your purpose is clear. Surrender your bodies to the order. Be honored to serve as cinder blocks for your king."

The green mists rolled toward the group, speeding out and leaving the floor a desolated mess of corroded metal riddled with twitching maggots. The wall didn't go in an even front. It spread out like a crescent across the hall, already threatening to cut off any retreat. Elina stepped closer to Wivin, gestured for Carlos to come closer, and placed her hands over his and the countymeister's stomachs.

"Carlos," she said. "I really like you. Sorry for being a bitch sometimes."

"Wait, what are you…" he started, but she snapped her fingers before the countymeister could grab her.

The shockwaves hit them, sending both spinning through the air, away from the rolling mists and close to the entrance where the survived Avengers led the hostages. Like a hungry maw, the mists closed around Elina, threatening to swallow her whole, melting first the armor and then the vulnerable body inside. And the trainee pressed her hands against one another, planning to sell her life in combat to deny the Chosen Prince the satisfaction of seeing her weak and afraid. If she should die, she'll go out like Vasily and Elina, fighting and kicking till the end.

"No, not yet." She heard a cheering voice, and the air hardened, refusing to pass the green death. The laughing Maxmilian stepped closer, oblivious to any danger, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and surrounding them in a sphere of hardened space.

And the creature stood tall, the light of its eyes visible through the thick fog.

 

[Rookie12]

Ratcatcher lay on something soft. It was a pleasant sensation; she wanted to keep on lazing and do nothing, relaxed for the first time in many days. No worries, no pain, pure relaxation, calm, and deep sleep. In her dreams, she and her family visited the pier again and spent hours fishing, with Dad telling stories and Mom catching the rambunctious siblings, stopping them from swimming after annoying fish refused to bite their hooks. Dreams of calm waters and splashing water brought joy to the girl. But something kept nagging her, something about…

"Acid!"

She sprung up, finding herself in a realm of blue skies and floating islands. Thick and low grass, green and pleasant to the touch, rolled all the way to the island's edges, divided in several places by running water. A yellow sun shone on the unusual place; its sunlight cheered the girl's soul. A cool wind blew across the island, ruffling the grass.

The sky was blue, stretching to the horizon, and other stone islands, about fifty to a hundred meters long, floated in the air, sometimes coming close to the one she was on, but never colliding. A yellow disk, far too large to be the sun of her world, dominated the sky, positioned so close enough for her to see a corona of flames forming and breaking at its outer part. There was no chirping of birds, no voices of humans, no buzzing of insects, or splashes of water. A beautiful place, devoid of life.

Is this the Serene Outside? she wondered, examining the sun. At such a close distance, it should've burned her to a crisp.

The teachings of the Planet spoke of a realm housing the wicked, mad, and misguided. Unlike other religions, the Planet had no hell or heaven. All souls leaving the world are to be reborn, whether in this reality or on some unknown plane. The Planet, a loving parent, watched over its offspring, and its holy spirits listed every deed committed by each individual soul. The Planet was a strict parent, the one ensuring punishment for an evil deed.

But the Planet wasn't vengeful. Those who lived their lives fairly traveled cheerfully to the afterlife, often reuniting with lost family members or friends who chose to stay and wait. The irredeemable and the evil were made to remain until the fury in their souls was tempered and a lost soul could find itself reborn under different circumstances, living out a life meant to imprint a lesson.

Ratcatcher walked to the closest stream, wondering if perhaps she had done something truly bad. Of course she did! The memories of the pleading person came flooding back to her — that time in the Scrapyard when Ratcatcher had the opportunity to save someone and left them behind, running to get Dad. No doubt the Planet is pondering what to do about her and what sort of lesson in humility she needs to learn in the next life to shine even brighter in the one after.

The clear stream hummed, falling from the island's edge, and white foam rose into the air. She breathed it in, enjoying the cool air and admiring the pristine, unrivaled clarity of the water. The stream wasn't deep; she could see stones, and the girl reached out her hand…

A hand she no longer possessed. Oh, she did reach out with something, alright! An appendage with round curves, black on the outside and purple in the middle. Ratcatcher panicked and tried to examine herself, horrified by her form. She had no legs or tail; a single fat stalk connected her to the ground, and she moved around like an oversized snail. Only she could feel her limbs! She walked; without walking, she reached out, moving the non-existing fingers, and when she stepped into the water, she experienced coldness washing over her toes.

"Woke up, kid?" A kind voice asked her. "Don't panic. Breathe, if you can."

A person sitting in a wooden chair, dressed in a simple blue toga, poured tea from a metal kettle into a small glass on a table. A table stood in the clearing in the middle of the grass. Paved stones formed a perfectly round circle that wasn't here before. The person had an impressively tall build; his arms were thick; a long mane of hair covered him to the waist; and a fair face unmarred by scars turned to her. He studied her with two bright green eyes.

"Who are you? Are you a judge working for the Planet?" Ratcatcher fired up her question and slapped herself across the face, feeling fingers and seeing the appendage. Of course he is! Who else could it be? Think, think, what should a devout do… Ah, yes, tell all about the misdeeds! "If so, I confess all my sins! I left a person to die, I stole Liam's last sweet roll, I'm guilty of no less than six hundred cases of jaywalking, one time I even scared a couple when I leapt over their car, and I blatantly copied Carlos' homework and didn't give credit for it. Please let me wait for the rest of my family and reincarnate me later in a rich family, preferably in Iterna…"

"Peace, child, I am no deity or spirit!" Another glass appeared in his hand, and one more chair materialized out of thin air. "You live still, trapped in the mindscape belonging to another. Do you know what a mindscape is?"

"Nope," Ratcatcher admitted.

"It is a place in the mind to be short. Time flows differently here, but it flows, and I shall not waste it." He set the glass down. "Concentrate. Imagine the shape of your body. Will it into existence. Nothing is real here, and all can be created by a passing thought. It may sound weird…"

She didn't listen to him, closing the eyes she didn't have and spreading her appendages wide. Imagine something? Huh, she can do it. She imagined a tail protruding from the middle of her spine, long and thick, ending in a single cruel talon. No, two are better! Yeah, the tail split at the end, and two talons, nimble as fingers and tough as a power suit, formed, almost reflecting the sunlight. Thick and gorgeous fur covered her body, as soft as Dad's and as tough as Mom's. And legs! Can't forget about them. Two columns of muscle to match the arms, all ending in claws sharp and long enough to make a Wolfkin choke in envy.

Ratcatcher opened her eyes, blinking happily that it had worked. She kept one human eye, transforming the rest of her body into a perfect copy of a body superior to her Mom's and…

The horrific realization of just what she had done dawned on her, and the girl gasped in embarrassment, covering her breasts and private parts. Naked! She was naked! In panic, she imagined cargo pants and a sleeveless shirt reaching up to her navel and leaving enough room to not touch the base of her tail.

"Are you the one who locked me in?" She asked, thanking the Planet for the thick fur that hid her blushing. Idiot, stupid fool. Made herself an awesome body and forgot about clothes. "Are you the Chosen Prince?"

"No." The man shook his head, pointing at the free chair. Ratcatcher hesitated and accepted the offer, sitting against him and sensing the authenticity of the wood. As she took a cup of tea, she smelled the pleasant aroma of dark tea, enjoyed its warmth, and felt the liquid filling her stomach. It felt real; it was real! "You may call me Echo. I don't remember my real name."

"Don't remember, or don't want to tell?" Ratcatcher inquired, remembering what the Chosen Prince did to her. And the acid bath. She should have been dead. "Who are you, mister?"

"Don't remember," the man insisted. "I am a splinter of personality, resurrected by chance, a ghost of the man imprisoned by his own power." Echo's impression softened. "Even on my first day of life, I remember well the decades he had spent locked here, trying in vain to stop the warped conquest led by a singular desire stolen by another. He wasn't a good man, but he would've never done what his power did using his body."

"Power…" Ratcatcher repeated, struggling to make sense out of what the man had told her. How can you remember decades if you're living your first day? Is this man mad? Maybe he is the Chosen Prince, or a facet of his personality is toying with and tormenting her. If that was his plan, it sure worked. Her head is already aching from the contradictions.

Power can't take over. It's not a sentient thing! Sure, there were passive powers. Regeneration didn't need its users' permission to be active. All members of the Wolf Tribe had a passive power, but they could deny it. A police chief in Iterna had suffered from an unusual affliction. The man has the power to see several seconds in the future on a constant basis, so he used the power-suppressing drug to live a normal life.

Power is not a sentient thing. It could make some motions depending on the ability it grants to its user, but acting on its own? Impossible; such a thing has never happened in over two centuries that have passed since the Extinction.

"I am not sure I believe you or understand you, mister," Ratcatcher said at last.

"That's fair!" Echo laughed. "I wouldn't believe in such a story either! But the question of your belief is irrelevant, girl…"

"Eliza," she introduced herself.

"Nice to meet you, Eliza. Your body is alive, taken by the Chosen Prince. He had used it to make himself another body, but yours is still stuck inside his torso. You are in danger, and we must return you to the real world."

She shuddered, remembering the pain and her ruined body. Return to what? Was there anything left to go back to? Why should she abandon a working body, a place where all her dreams can come true with a simple wish, and…

Ratcatcher remembered her family. Small, irritating, and lovable Liam. Gentle Mom. Hardworking Dad. Her friends and everyone else were left at the mercy of the resurrected beast.

"I won't help this bastard," Ratcatcher said bluntly, reading herself to be smitten.

"Good," Echo said. "I too want him to fail. This charade of pointless struggle has to come to an end. Stonehelm is better off without us."

He halted, and Ratcatcher heard a bang. The sky remained the same, but a single black dot appeared against the blue, falling down like a star. Echo was already on his feet, hand outstretched to keep her behind, and a sword appeared on his waist, willed into existence with a thought. The ground shook slightly when the dot cratered into it, spreading a web of cracks. The damage healed as fast as it appeared, leaving another body, a perfect copy of the one Ratcatcher had had a few moments ago, lying on soft grass.

And it groaned in a very familiar tone.

"Vasily!" Ratcatcher darted to the figure, turned it over, and slapped the round spot where she thought a face should be. Her friend groaned again, and she gathered some water in her hands, pouring it at him, remembering the feeling of having parts of her body despite lacking them.

"A few more seconds, grandma…" Vasily said, not exactly opening his eyes; there wasn't anything on the smooth surface of his shape, yet mimicking the expression with flying colors. "Ah! A demon!"

"I'm not a demon, you idiot!" She slapped the boy and gasped. Her move sent him several centimeters deep into the ground. "Vasily, I am so sorry! It's me, Ratcatcher…"

"The hell you are, ogre!"

"I didn't think, I…"

"Okay, now I believe you. Ain't no one else could mimic that confusion," he laughed, wrapping his arm appendage around her wrist. "What is this?!" He examined his hand and sat. "Are we dead?" Vasily looked around. "Who won?"

"What are you talking about?" Ratcatcher tilted her head and dropped to her knees.

"Which faith was right?" Vasily asked. "Obviously, the Church of the Planet was wrong, judging by the fact that we weren't reborn. Also, I don't see any apostles or grand cathedrals or angels flying around, so I guess my faith wasn't right either. Blast it, were the werewolves correct? Is that why you look like an oversized furry, your red eye beaming, and you stand in an open field? Is that it? The Spirits are the ones governing the afterlife? How do they judge? What kind of punishment do they mete out…"

"You're taking your supposed death rather well, child," Echo said, coming closer.

"Eh, no point crying over spilled milk. As the saying goes, death takes the best of us first, and since we are here, this means I was better than Carlos all along. Yay for me!" Vasily waved his hand. Ratcatcher caught hints of nervousness in his voice, and the teen kept blabbering, coping with fear, and holding back tears. "Since you are here and in a human body, sir, I guess the faith in the Spirits also isn't the correct one. I suppose you are an arbiter or something. Lay out for me, what so horrible Eliza did for you to remake her into a demonic furry?" He sniffed and wiped his face with an appendage. "Also, if it's possible, I'd like to tell my family somehow that I'm happy and wish them all the best. I'd like to be sent to heaven as an angel or reincarnated into a prosperous lineage in Iterna…"

"We are still alive, you jerkass!" Ratcatcher snapped. Demon? As if! She is awesome!

It took them some time to calm down and explain to Vasily how he could manipulate his body in this mindscape, whatever it was. He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and stood as a figure clad in armor, a long cloak stretching down his back, a gruesome mace in one hand, and a round helmet hiding the mighty head.

"How's that for a change?" Vasily asked, heaping a mace over a shoulder.

"Show off," Ratcatcher pouted, annoyed that she hadn't thought of something equally cool. Clothes, ever clothes! "Okay, Mr. Echo. If I understand right, our bodies are… incorporated by the Chosen Prince?"

"Yes," Echo responded. "He never did such a thing before; at least I don't remember it. But something has changed. With his mind slipping, I sense rapid shifts as his brain offloads part of its burden on yours and recoils back in disgust at the need to rely on the lesser things."

"How do you know it?" Vasily asked.

"He and I are the one," Echo said. "Where one exists, so does the other. He couldn't come back from the resurrection alone, and so he recreated me." He pointed at the surrounding area with a hand. "We are in his mind. Make no mistake, the Chosen Prince controls everything here, yet he allowed me to shape this place. I think he likes it. A place he longs for and could have had if it weren't for his compulsive need to dominate.

"Back when the original lived, he had startled the Chosen Prince in a desperate attempt to regain control of the body and stop the madness. Even he, a person who had killed so many, understood the consequences of his moment of weakness and what exactly he had given life by accepting a deal long forgotten. The Chosen Prince no longer remembers this weakness of his. If we all work together to disrupt his thoughts, there is a chance that he will slip. And I will use this opportunity to release your bodies. And that will be his downfall, because his made body is deteriorating at a rapid rate. In time, he may stabilize it. Or spell doom to others trying to. It is one and the same for him. But if we deny him the refuge now, before he can incorporate more, he'll break. For this, I'll need you to let me guide your wills."

Ratcatcher caught touches of hope in the man's voice. He wasn't sure. Echo surveyed the trainees and sighed, putting his hands on their shoulders and meeting their eyes with his determined, sharp gaze.

"I won't lie. You have no reason to trust me, and even should the Chosen Prince expunge your bodies, there is a high chance of you dying. I can't sense your bodies. I do not know what kind of mutilation he has inflicted on each of you, but I remember enough to know how grievous it is."

"You underestimate modern medicine," Vasily said.

"So, in the worst-case scenario, we make the bastard stumble?" Ratcatcher asked, and Echo nodded. She exchanged glances with Vasily, grinned, and hugged him. "Bring it on! How do we…"

A sudden clap of thunder startled them. Ratcatcher whirled, letting out the claws the size of daggers. Vasily picked up his mace in both hands. They had thought that the Chosen Prince had overheard them and arrived to exact vengeance for this attempted rebellion. But something else entirely was happening.

The sky turned black with clouds, and lightning struck, detonating several distant islands. A torrent of water fell upon the group, soaking them and drowning their legs up to their ankles. She saw flashes of light on the storm front above, and it parted to form a single, even line of light, casting an otherworldly golden glow on the assembled people.

"Is this the Chosen Prince's doing?" Vasily hushed.

White clouds appeared in this line of light, forming a perfect tube stretching toward them. And at the far end of that tube, dazzling white wings appeared, six of them, hiding someone approaching from view. A celestial hymn started playing; she heard horns, harps, and a singing chorus of cherubim hidden from view. Their gentle voices crying praises brought tears to Ratcatcher's eyes, reminding her of the first time she saw Morningstar and all its wonders. The first time she had marveled at the Planet's great chapel, and the sheer awe she had felt at the sight of the magnificent statues in its halls. The song both inspired and demanded obedience, promising tranquility and prosperity.

"Don't listen to it," Echo shouted. "No matter what don't…"

"Let the children make their own choice, will you, gasp of the past?" A voice spoke, echoing off each strand of glass, reflecting off the water, calming the raging fury and turning the rest of the sky blue again. And Echo fell silent, frozen in place, unharmed and unable to speak. Two crimson orbs shone through the feathers, engulfing Vasily and Ratcatcher in a circle of red.

"Who… who are you?" Ratcatcher asked.

"I have many names, my child." She sensed a condescending smile in the deep voice, an all-knowing, understanding demanding her to fall on her knees and worship the ground touched by this presence. "I am light glittering in the morning dew. My breath brings happiness to the faithful, and my thoughts topple the tyrants. My heartbeat gave birth to the star that shines upon this world; my hands molded your race; and my words taught you reason. I am the one you know as the Planet, Spirits, Champion, and so many other silly names you children have invented for me. One True God. And I have come to deliver you from this peril."

The winds unfurled, revealing a perfect body. He has an average height, standing head shorter than the dream body Ratcatcher had made for herself. His body was a white light, so bright it hurt her eyes just to look at him. His six large wings were a different color each, but each reminded her of the brightest pearl possible. Crimson eyes stained the perfect white silhouette, shining like newborn stars, and the white hair drifted of its own accord. A beautiful white arm extended a hand toward the trainees, stunning them with the sheer perfection of its proportions and commanding them to take it.

"If only you would accept my blessing and swear eternal fealty to me."

 

[Rookie12]

"Have we been invited to a gathering of megalomaniacs?" Ratcatcher asked with a suddenly dry mouth, horrified at her own words, as if a mere thought of blasphemy against this person could well be the vilest crime imaginable. The perfect head tilted, inviting her to continue, and a warm sensation tugged at her heart. "First, we have this Maximilian dude who wants to destroy humanity, then we have the Chosen Prince, and at last you… Mr. OTG."

"OTG?" He had no eyebrows. The white skin rose, mimicking surprise.

"Short for One True God," Vasily explained, licking his lips.

A melodious laugh drove them both into ecstasy. Ratcatcher smiled like an idiot, almost cracking her lips. Vasily giggled and dropped his mace, putting a hand over his helmet. And the laughter continued, cheerful, welcoming, and irresistible. Beautiful roses grew amidst the grass, leaving it dry and withering themselves after sucking in all nutrients. The laughter continued, filling the island with teeming life again, regrowing grass, plants, and even trees that destroyed the circle of paved stone. This splendor died too, surrounding the trainees with white sand. In a short while, life returned.

OTG flapped his wings and the cloud tunnel disappeared, clearing the entire sky to the horizon. Not even a gust of wind hit the teenagers, but the remaining islands and floating pieces of stone in every direction crumpled, carried out of sight by the strongest gust of wind. The sunlight illuminated the figure, creating a halo of golden radiance at the edges of his shape, and he spread hands wide, stepping down on the stairs made of pure sunlight.

Something tugged at the back of Ratcatcher's head, as if a clawed hand raked through her thoughts, tearing open closed doors, seeking the memories of the past hours, then expanding, drinking deep of her memories, judging her every action, examining her life, and judging it meaningless. Worst of all, she welcomed this intrusion, pleading for a chance to speak all and reveal all her secrets.

"Many pretenders claim my name." OTG shrugged his shoulders.

Esmi and Eddie hate unpleasant emotions! She remembered struggling to stay herself and not turn into a fanatical worshipper of the encroaching thing. The twins easily endured the most brutal hooks and kicks unleashed in full-contact training, never complaining about a dislocated bone and ever pouting at Augustus when he stopped the training before anyone could be seriously hurt. But a sudden needle sting during a surprise emotional manipulation made both very uncomfortable, so they learned to control their abilities faster than any of their siblings.

Ratcatcher opened her mouth and bit at her tongue, piercing her conscience with a surge of pain. Vasily fell to his knees, picked up his own mace, and hit himself over the hand, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of an intruding pervert from reading his thoughts. Even in this realm, the pain they experienced was very natural.

Her sharpest fangs bit the tongue in two, and it dangled on a strand of flesh, filling her mouth with blood. The mace broke Vasily's fingers, pushing shards of bone and meat through the cracks in the gauntlet. The demand to worship lessened, and OTG's eyes glowed brightly.

"Stop it." He snapped, and the pain left the teens. Their spilled blood moved in reverse, returning into veins. Vasily's had his arm fixed, and all the damage disappeared. "Hurting yourself won't work, and as I said, I have descended to aid you in the most desperate hour. Is this not what a loving deity would do? Why then do you try to guard your thoughts from me? If there is any sin done, I absolve you of it, my servants."

"What sort of deity would imprison a person?" Ratcatcher pointed at the frozen Echo.

"An absolute one, speck." OTG put his fingertips together, forming a triangle, and rested his jaw on it. He was a few paces away, coming down from the sky. "My heart bled at the suffering unleashed upon you two; should I endure falsehoods spat at my noble spirit? I could've erased the heretic with a thought, yet in my magnanimity, I've deemed fit to deal out a more merciful punishment. In time, we'll set him free. For now, only you matter; there is nothing more important in the entire world than you," his voice dropped to a whisper. He extended an arm, and it split, creating a perfect copy and inviting each trainee to grab him. The split continued, separating the first arm and then the entire OTG's body as if two halves overlapped each other. Two OTGs kept their arms outstretched, each coming closer to a trainee, and Ratcatcher found a rift separating her from Vasily. "You can trust me on this, child," OTGs said in unison. "Why else would I approach you?"

And the world split. Ratcatcher still heard the soft steps of OTG and the rustling of golden leaves growing out of the ground in his passing. His wings flapped, bringing cold air to the trainee as he circled her, never lowering his hands. And another apparition replicated the same ritual around Vasily, but where she could hear the words of the OTG close to her, she no longer heard a sound from Vasily. Not even when a wind flapped his cape. The celestial music slowed its play, letting the white figure speak.

"Should it bother you?" OTG asked. His heart beat like a drum: BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! Thunderous, incredible. His words reached her ear unimpeded, delivering pitying syllables and authority, calling her to action. "Ratcatcher, my poor, abandoned child, ever the last, ever the unneeded. Not even your family cares for you."

"How dare you?" she growled, trying to raise a hand and kick his nose in. None of her muscles moved; she stood relaxed, breathing calmly, and hearing his voice whispering in her ear.

"Am I wrong? Child, remember the day your brother was born — that accursed creature who stole all attention for himself," OTG said. "On that day, you braved the tunnels alone. Why hasn't your family stopped you? Why did they let you be all by yourself? Because they no longer cared. Your brother, this… Liam took everything from you."

"Lies." Ratcatcher tried to laugh at these accusations. Left her? All the children sneaked away from the village at a young age! She ran away before, and she'd run off later too, and her parents would've scolded her for risking her neck as usual.

"Is it? My poor, deluded child. How many falsehoods has the world fed you?" OTG asked, his voice full of compassion. "Remember the day you met that witch, Eugenia? Why did your mother send you off and keep him close? Why didn't your father step in?"

"Because he was busy." Ratcatcher tried to raise her brow. What was he getting at? Dad had a good reason to stay behind; their small village had no elder, and he needed to negotiate with the Iternians. Besides, she and Wedge had the time of their lives eating ice cream!

"Are you this easily bought?" Okay, he had to read her mind. Ratcatcher sensed no outsider presence in her mind, but the bastard knew her thoughts. "They tossed you a bauble, and you were satisfied with it? Tell me, why haven't your parents taken you into their room when nightmares caused by Eight made you scream? They took Liam, after all. Remember all the times he humiliated you…"

The memories of her smashing her nose against stuff during her chase after Liam flooded Ratcatcher's mind — the times Mom asked her to wait a bit, while feeding her brother, Dad's tired words of praise at her pictures and him throwing Liam up and catching him.

"He took it from you, and they willingly deny you love and care," OTG kept whispering, walking circles around her. "The pain you suffered in your limbs after grueling trainings, the disappointment washing over you at the inability to solve a difficult equation, the humiliation you experienced when you said that Ravager invaded the Ravaged Lands with three hundred troops instead of thirty thousand…"

"Okay, that was funny," she giggled, welcoming the memories of the incident and the booming laughter of the class at the vivid imagery of three hundred soldiers somehow swarming the entire front and almost reaching the Iternian border. The teacher calmed them down, corrected the embarrassed Ratcatcher, and allowed her to continue.

Ratcatcher stood unbothered by OTG's words. Why should she? It was her life, and she lived it the way she saw fit. He plans to torment her with the memories and choices the other people made? Let him. She welcomes a chance to relive the past with perfect clarity! Cause there was only one thing she truly regretted, and she came to terms with it.

"Do you really think so?" A hint of impatience slipped into OTG's voice. "How foolish can one person be? Poor thing. Remember all the glances others have given you? Remember the churlish behavior and nasty bullying done by your so-called friends? Rat-girl. Rat. Thing. Ugly. Monster. Inhuman." He stopped before her, pressing his palms together and making her eyes hurt because of the bright light. "Never will they accept you. For them, you will always be a freak to be amazed at, a fiend to exploit for the sake of building the false image of coexistence between mutants and humans. They made you perform like a circus clown, sing at their command, even your friend, this stupid girl, Nadya, had asked the same of you, and others laughed."

"Eh, credits are credits."

OTG raised an excellent point. Why did she stop performing in the park? Oh yeah, Torosian. Seriously, what is wrong with earning some money on a side job? She wasn't stealing or anything; why in Panet's name is he banning such a lucrative source of income…

A painful memory tore her out of her pondering. Pulsating memory of a shot hitting her in the shoulder, of the small girl running in the darkness and carrying the life she saved and fought for.

"And how did they reward you for the good deed?" OTG asked. "They shot you. Tried to lynch the entire village afterwards. Never, not in a million years, will humans tolerate those who look different. At this moment of time, law and the pretense of humanity chains them, but you know enough of history to know how vicious Iterna can be. Thousands of smaller lives die unheard every day…"

"And how am I different?" She asked.

"You attracted my attention, child." OTG didn't smile. For once, she was sure he answered truthfully. "On accident, you ended up being swallowed by a foolish weakling, a worthless lump of flesh boasting delusions of grandeur. I coveted him in the past, promising him such gifts if he would bow and accept his place, but my offer fell on deaf ears, and he is no longer of consequence. Rise in his place! You are bound to him by flesh; accept me, swear loyalty to me, and I shall grant you the power to dominate him!"

Visions appeared in her mind. She broke out of the factory, no longer wearing her broken body but engulfed in swirling dark clouds, spitting forked thunderbolts. Her tail slapped, leveling the entire factory, and Elina stood at her knees, praying and begging, accepting her inferiority at last. A passing thought rendered the stupid bitch screaming; the infections, now bowing to Ratcatcher's will, devoured her whole, putting an end to their rivalry.

She pushed out of the clouds, her body covered in sable fur, her eyes shining brighter than a laser beam, and her shadow covering entire buildings. Healthy, in control, perfect. Guided by the absolute deity, she would offer the ultimatum to the world, darken the skies, acting smart, unlike the stupid Chosen Prince, who exposed himself to danger. Her virulent infection would spread across the world, poisoning the very reborn oceans and choking them into nothingness. Torosian, Eugenia, Augustus, Hustler, Ivar — all who ever dared to speak to her without proper respect, covered at the sight of her shadow, begging for mercy. And, finding none, their screams echoed off the bones of her foes. And a single virus would spread all over the world, eradicating the Numbers wherever they hid, turning Eight's existence into agony stretching to the very heat end of the universe. She will never be afraid ever again.

A crowd of devout followers of the true god tore Liam apart, limb by limb, and Ratcatcher witnessed herself sitting in a grand palace, her parents by her side, loving her and no one else. Eugenia's carcass dangled in chains over a fire, kept alive by the carefully selected viruses drawing energy out of the flames and never allowing the Elite to recover. A fitting punishment for ruining her home. Everyone bowed to the cruel messiah of God, and for once, Ratcatcher found herself in control of her fate, unfettered by petty morality, punishing the wicked by death as they deserved, reducing unbelievers to dust, and welcoming the birth of a new, better world, basking in God's glory. She alone entered a brilliant new world, leaving the unworthy, flawed fools b…

"Take it," OTG insisted. "Take my hand, accept me, and I shall take care of everything. All I ask is that you follow your own natural urges — to hunt when you want and to kill when you are hungry. Is this such a heavy duty? The entire world has failed you; it allowed the Chosen Prince to hurt and devour you. Look, your friend is about to take my hand. Don't let him steal your destiny! Imagine all the good you can do with such power at your disposal."

"Good?" Ratcatcher laughed. "All you have shown me is how it corrupts me, inverting my every desire, turning me into the kind of person I despise the most: a tyrant and a bully who hurts the weak. Where is the good in that? If this is what I will turn into wielding such power, then I don't deserve to wield it to begin with!" The being tried to speak again, but she interrupted him.

"So my life isn't perfect. Boo-hoo, I still live far better than almost everyone. Elina and the others said and made a couple of nastiness. And I got shot by mistake." She faced his eyes, gritting her teeth at a flash of supernova in them. It wasn't just the color or the intensity of the flash; the light itself has tried to make her bow and accept his reasonings. Ratcatcher let it wash over her and continued, "Big deal. Am I supposed to stew in bitterness for the rest of my life, trying to hurt them back? Screw that; they changed, so I better make friends. People give me surprised glances. And? I too gazed unabashedly at the first VI I ever saw, checking his back and front and making the poor officer uncomfortable. Nobody is perfect, but don't you dare tell me that the world has failed me. A good person gifted me an ice cream when I had no money; soldiers of other countries risked their lives to save mine; and my friends apologized for the mistakes made. I saw civilians risking their lives to save others from danger! Take your vile lies and shove them down your pale ass, faker!"

 

[Rookie12]

"Whatever you are selling, I ain't buying," Vasily said, tensed at the insinuations laid to him by OTG.

"Don't be so hasty, child," the white shape murmured, running the feather wings down his back. "Your parents rejected you because of the flaws in your genes. But how is this your fault? They are the ones who gave it to you! How dare they blame you for something out of your control?"

"Assholes, yeah," Vasily said, understanding that he believes in this.

All his life, he wanted nothing more than for his parents to stop arguing. For a day when his entire family would come home, sit at a table, crack jokes, ask him for his grades, congratulate his sis on her paintings, and praise him for his success in the Academy. A normal life where no one blames him for the claws in his fingers or for the scales he was born with.

Only… he no longer cared about any of it. There were way more important things for him, like attending his sister's games. Nadya, he and Wedge had joined a guild in Fantasia, and they spent a few dozen hours, a childish number really, grinding with the others for the flame-encrusted gear in the latest expansion. Back at the Academy he could lose himself in research, listening to the archeologists' lectures from all over the world, skimming through interviews with famous explorators and adventurers working for other countries.

There were also calls from his sister and grandmother, trainings and parties with his friends, stories to exchange, and rivals to overcome. He remembered about them when he almost died in Birchshell, but it was just that, a remembrance. Vasily wondered far more about how his true family would react to his death.

Amidst all his newfound activities, his parents no longer bothered him. Some things can't be helped, and he decided to let go of one impossible dream and focus on being happy.

"Do you always give up so easily?" OTG asked him, breathing cold. "With God, everything is possible. The so-called doctors in Iterna had failed to bring you up to the standards capable of satisfying your parents. Whose fault is it but theirs? They failed you, and now Iterna keeps failing you, exposing you to danger again. Take my hand, and I shall take all your worries away. Take my hand and take over the Chosen Prince, and mold yourself in a way you can be proud of."

Vasily saw the hand hovering at his eyes' level, teasing and promising him everything he would ever want. A golden figure rose from the ruined factory, shining like a newborn star. He stood up, an idol to perfection, the proportions and elegance of his body making humans weep at their inability to obtain such beauty. The claws disappeared, and his voice thundered charismatically, convincing others to bow to his greatness.

He strode out of the ruined factory, banishing the night in his wake and burning imperfection, and entire nations bowed to the approaching beauty. At long last, the world has united, venerating a being standing as close to a god as possible. Vasily ruled wisely, ordering the eradication of imperfect mutants and gathering filthy and ugly people in camps to be burned in droves, liberating these poor souls from a lifetime of regret. His parents wept, falling to their knees and begging his forgiveness, and in his infinite mercy, he granted it to them, killing them in a single slap for the impure genes coursing through their veins.

Some tried stopping him, and they all failed. Guided by his mind, the golden body healed every injury using the Chosen Prince's power, empowered by God's gift. No scar or wound lingered longer than a fraction of a second; a smooth goodness returned, and Vasily witnessed himself towering over the ruined Artificer, obliterating the last remnants of the wretched, unnatural intelligence that should never have existed. Their battle spanned weeks, ruining cities and sinking islands, and as he surveyed the world, he understood its flaws. And exhaled, letting out a single, self-propagated virus capable of spreading through both air and water. And there was no more imperfection and no life, save for his and God's. Out of this clay, his master would...

Vasily let the vision created by his own brain go on, enduring the allure of this horrific world. He didn't despise himself for almost accepting the offer; he had long since guessed the workings of this light-skinned bastard. OTG manipulated his emotions, stroking some, letting him think he had won at the others, and doubling down at the most crucial points. All the while, force-feeding him falsehoods and illusions. Iterna had several courses on how to deal with mental power, but these were just guidelines.

There wasn't any proper way to deal with someone who could conquer your mind, aside from the expensive augments given to the Shadows, Elites, Problemsolvers, and other important personnel. Vasily tried to ride the wave, giving up at some points, enduring the imagery of him killing his family and clinging to a single thought. Do not take the hand. The bastard most likely had some sort of power, and he needed them to give either a verbal or a physical consent. Deny him that. Let everything else happen.

"Take it," OTG said, his words energizing the teen and trying to drive him into action. "Take my hand. Become a Godsworn and control your own destiny. Never again will you be a dead weight, and never again shall you fear a foe. Perfect, eternal, beloved..."

"But I am already beloved." Vasily blinking away the apparition that has almost caused him to make the worst mistake of his life. He sank imaginary claws into this word, forcing himself to focus on it and using it as an anchor to keep his mind clear. "Grandma loves me, sis and I are best friends, and… Shoot, I don't have time to be depressed! Her birthday is coming soon! I got to survive. I got to study…"

"Is knowledge what you want?" the white shape asked, and a baleful flare flickered in its eyes. "If so, I can offer it too, in abundance. I can bestow upon you answers to secrets worth hundreds of lifetimes…"

"I refuse," Vasily told him. "Learning something new is, well, part of the fun."

****

Thunder rumbled in the distance, snapping Ratcatcher out of the fear before his crimson eyes. She found herself and Vasily staying side-by-side, with OTG still extending his arms toward them. The chorus went silent, and a shadow leapt over the trainees, bringing the shining steel at the white neck.

"Weak arguments!" Echo roared. "Poisoned words! You'll fool no one here, fiend!"

"Fiend?" OTG asked.

The sword bounced out of thin air, and Echo landed on his feet. He pushed, bringing his entire weight to the blade. He didn't slash nor did he hew the space around his enemy with many strokes. Echo put everything into the sword to the point that the skin of his body turned pale. But his opponent smiled, removing his hand without a hurry and holding the sword away with pure will. Here in realms of mind, nothing was real; every action was but a reflection of one's thoughts, and willpower reigned supreme, and the white form proved superior.

Ratcatcher hadn't had the faintest idea how to manipulate surroundings to the extent Echo or OTG could, yet she still tried to lend the swordsman her aid, and a fleeting attention from the winged creature struck her, burrowing into her mind brutally, shattering all barriers with ease, and dropping her.

Vasily groaned; his helmet came apart. The teen had tried the same thing and failed. OTG smiled ruefully, folding his hands. Echo's sword exploded into myriad shards, his knees buckled, felling the man, and the remains of his sword flew in the air, circling around the white head.

"I offer you salvation, a place beside my throne, and this is your answer? Insults and unreasonable attacks?" OTG asked. He raised a hand. "Fine, if you won't have my mercy, you shall drink deep of my wrath."

"Speak truth, thoughts-thief!" Echo tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey him. "What are you?"

"I already stated it, thing," OTG said. "I am responsible for the creation of the human race. It was I who brought life to this ball of stone. It was I who caused the…"

"Interloper. You dare tread inside my mind?" boomed a dry voice.

The atmosphere changed. Ratcatcher gasped for breath, inhaling a stale air that felt as if it were pouring out of the confines of a sealed tomb, out of a place where graves lay pried open and their contents were left to rot. The air turned dry, heavy, and acrid; every breath tore at her lungs and brought pain. Streaks of green seeped through the soil, dissolving the grass, flowers, and tears made by OTG and ending the cycle of death and rebirth. The chorus stopped altogether, replaced by the wailing cries of beings rotting alive.

The green fumes licked the air around OTG, unable to touch the white flesh, and the false angel turned his upper body, smirking at the air where the poisonous fumes gathered, creating a skeletal head the size of a boulder. Mountains flickered into existence, encircling the group in the shadow cast by their ragged peaks, and the Chosen Prince manifested himself as a floating head, skinless, with a golden crown resting on its forehead. Foul vapors crawled from the ground and formed dancing flames, serving him as eyes, green at the edges of the flames and white deep at the core.

"Just great. Now this asshole is here, too," Vasily mumbled. Echo reached out, and they accepted his touch and followed up with the cool air created by his mind.

"Great… That's right! You are a genius, Vasily!" Ratcatcher laughed in spite of the fear brought by the presence of two minds, each capable of flattening them. "It is great indeed! Hey, skull-face!" She waved to the Chosen Prince, attracting the attention of the green, dangling lights burning in the empty sockets. She pointed at the winged creature. "This asshole plans to enslave you! Also, he called you a weakling. And also, also, he told us you share his ass-sniffing fetish."

"I said no such thing!" The winged deceiver started turning to them.

And the Chosen Prince attacked. Ratcatcher could've bet her life on him attacking either way. She didn't know about how it worked in the mindscape, but in the real world, a distraction could lead to a loss or death. And OTG, in his arrogance, lashed out. She had a premonition of meat hooks preparing to tear her imaginary body apart before the Chosen Prince assault interrupted the execution. In his anger, the winged bastard shifted his attention and made a mistake.

Between the two monsters, she'd wanted the white one to perish.

The skeleton head and the white shape didn't collide; their wills collided, tearing the surroundings, and the two rose in the air, disappearing from view and creating booming explosions, detonating the rock walls and opening the horizon anew. Flame and green clouds raged, competing and producing forked lightning, shaving stones off the sole island of stability. And the fight kept going, transforming the sky into stars, then into molten lava, and later into a gigantic black hole trying to swallow the Chosen Prince whole.

His willpower dispersed the black hole, engulfing OTG in white phosphorus clouds and lacerating the pristine body by opening cracks in reality. Their touch drew crimson on the flapping wings and loosened several feathers. In response, OTG slammed his hands together, casting his mind against the Chosen Prince's, and the two halted in the air, their bodies trembling, and one bled red and another bled green.

Fetch. Ratcatcher thought and glanced at Echo and Vasily. "How's that for a distraction?"

"We should leave while we can," Vasily said.

"Right. Let's leg… eh, mind it!"

"Please stop," Vasily asked her.

"Why? Think they would mind?" she teased, using humor to combat fear. All alone, trapped and reduced to no idea what, with no Elite and no Eugenia to save them, witnessing a freaking resurrection… She is going to make all the terrible puns in the world to cope!

"Now, while he is beset by an enemy outside and distracted by a foe within," Echo said, standing up and creating another sword. An archaic battle plate appeared on the man, oversized and bulky. Its square pauldrons held a tattered white cape. Exhaustion arched back, spewing out dark smoke, and the knight took the sword in both hands, pointing its tip at the ground. "Give me your everything: trust, fear, emotions, and dreams. Every desire and every ambition. Hold nothing back; the stronger the feeling, the better. It's time to get you out."

"Wait," Ratcatcher cried. "What about you?"

"Me?" Echo's eyes shone. "There is nowhere for me to go. I wasn't supposed to exist, and I am content with it. If an afterlife exists, I am eager to ask the original about our shared past and see if he has changed or grown as a person. Take care, children. Know that should you survive, none leaves the Chosen Prince unaltered."

He pierced the ground, ignoring Ratcatcher's and Vasily's questions, and a tunnel started appearing — a suction leading away from this place. Echo's mind touched theirs, taking full control with their permission, and flames ran down his blade, widening and bringing the tunnel into reality, taking advantage of the Chosen Prince's distraction and the monumental battle of two equally arrogant egos.

OTG shouted, noticing them leaving all too late. He raised a hand, and a spark grew in his palm, growing wider and brighter until it turned into a comet, but before he could throw it, a toxic ocean submerged him, dragging the winged creature to the lower planes of the mind. The white shape attempted to point out the escapees, but his opponent did not care. He was the focus of the Lord of Rot, an intruder who dared to creep inside the most forbidden of places, and the iron will intended to make him pay.

In the real world, their battle would've resulted in the destruction of the entire world. Continents' worth of materials were willed into existence, only to be battered by the combatants. Stars and ripples in space lit the cloudless sky bright, and it turned dark as the titanic minds collapsed them into nothingness. Again and again, explosions ruptured the area, and Ratcatcher understood, at some instinctive level, why they were alive.

Echo kept them safe. Not by himself. The man lacked control in this realm. But his wicked brother or twin had preserved them from the devastating wrath and kept them safeguarded from biological warfare. As Echo said, the Chosen Prince needed them alive.

Two islands crashed into OTG, hiding him from sight, and then immediately shrank themselves. The gravitational force the Chosen Prince had willed in had materialized another pseudo-black hole. An arm thrust out of the darkness, gathering the transforming black void into a sword of darkness, and the false god lunged, trying to cleave the grinning skull in two. Just like Echo's, his sword too was stopped by the will of another.

"Weak, interloper," the Chosen Prince stated. "The white is unbecoming of a thief, a sneak, and a liar."

"Don't you have anything better to focus on, feckless princeling?" OTG asked, frowning at the sea of filth pouring at him from the skull's opened jaws.

"I see all. I rule all," came a boastful answer.

How arrogant can one man be? Ratcatcher wondered.

Another wave of materialized fury hit the white figure, and OTG spread his arms wide, casting filth away and clearing a space around him. Ratcatcher thought she saw something else. A figure with alabaster skin and burning crimson eyes, clad in purple robes, was both human and inhuman at the same time. A ghost of her, a ghost of Liam, was in the perfect visage. But the image flickered, regaining the regal form of an angel, hissing in indignation at his soaked wet wings.

"Enough of this charade. There are plenty of other puppets to be used. Die then and be nothing, fools…" The rest of his words disappeared in the roaring storm cast by the Chosen Prince's pride that shattered the sphere of calmness, and Ratcatcher got sucked into the tunnel, unable to see the end of this duel.

 

[Rookie12]

"Why did you save me?" Elina asked Maxmilian.

They were confined within the protection of the Rho's sphere. She could see the towering beast outside. The Chosen Prince made no effort to smash the sphere. He paused, examined the swollen flesh of his breastbone, and ran a finger along it, restoring its smoothness. Shapes moved in the green mist. The Avengers refused to leave the hall, holding their positions and facing the leaping shamblers. Skillfully, they caught the undead on their blades, but empowered by the presence of their master, the afflicted no longer died as easily as before.

Claws raked against the reinforced alloy, lacerating it and trying to reach the vulnerable flesh within. Grievous wounds were ignored. Even when a gladius cleaved through a shambler's head, the thing would still push on, clawing and biting, kicking and gurgling, refusing to die. They piled on at the Avengers, trying to bury them beneath a mass of writhing bodies, and the Trolls retreated, dancing to their own tune.

Their paths of retreat often collided with those of an ally, and a joint effort of two fighters fighting back-to-back saw many bodies sliced into ribbons. A moment later, the shaky unity would break, and the Avengers resumed their well-coordinated fallback, drawing the ire on themselves and letting the civilians run. Though their numbers were dwindling, the elite crusaders still controlled the flow of battle.

It won't last. Elina knew it. More and more bodies were rising from the ground, the maladies overtaking the still-living Numbers, twisting and changing their bodies. Spasmodic remains of downed shamblers crashed into each other, and unnatural agues merged with the ends of destroyed bodies, creating new and more dangerous versions of shamblers, evolving them in the same way a virus would evolve to overcome an immune system.

They stood, a new version of shamblers, guided by the newest strands of mind- and body-altering viruses. Some had four arms, with two covered by thick bone coverage meant to stop the blade's blow and the other two being agile whips of flesh capable of bringing black claws to the rubberized openings in the space between Avengers' gorgets and heads. Others formed tentacles for legs and moved in blurry speed bursts, staining the flood with slimy ooze, halting the Trolls for their fellows, and entangling the crusaders in battle.

"Saved? Prolonged is a more accurate word. Once I left Augustus armless and legless, bleeding to death and tormented by the knowledge that all his friends would soon die. It failed to break him. Perhaps the death of his students before his eyes would do the trick?" Maximilian replied. He pressed a finger to his lips, examining the horror outside. "Interesting. The thing's body naturally tries to regain its original form, using non-lethal diseases as a substitute to cause sporadic evolution. Cells are burning through protein, trying to rebuild the original bone structure, and muscles have evolved to withstand the virulent infection. But it can't; it collapses in on itself, unable to replicate the miracle that was its original body. It is dying, dying because of its own power, unable to handle the rot. Ha! I was right, after all! A strong mind needs a strong vitae to exist."

"Are you mad?" Elina stopped clasping her hands. This close, her shockwave would reflect off the barrier and flatten her as well. "Augustus is your son! What sort of person does that to his child?"

"A god." Maximilian turned to her. "People often conflate god with an all-powerful deity, when divinity is never about power. It is about being honest with yourself and acting on your own desires. I am not crazy, merely stopped pretending, unlike you lot."

"Screw you!" Elina punched at the androgynous face.

Maxmilian caught her by the wrist; his leg swept off her footing, and the girl found herself on the ground, coughing blood. The bastard was strong! She sprang out of the metal body print, and he lunged at her. The trainee had planned to punch him straight in the face, but he ducked. She tried to kick him in the face, bringing his head back into the line of the blow. A hand cupped her knee, and another hand wrapped around her torso, throwing the trainee back at the floor, and a mighty kick dented the armor on her ribs and ricochetted her body off the hardened space, landing her face down several paces away.

A grappler. She was a fool to expect her opponent to stick to mighty blows. Both Argus and his brother preferred to disable their enemies by twisting off their ankles and wrists, breaking bones, but never killing them. At least when they served as the Elites. Blood gushing off her mouth after two throws taught Elina that the fallen Elite tolerated her existence.

"You say 'pretending'?" She coughed, rising on her wobbly arms, her organs shaking. How? How did she suffer such damage after two throws? "The only one who is pretending here is you. You claimed humanity will descend into an era of barbarism, that we'll start killing each other and cause another Extinction. Wrong! There have been wars, and yet even the Reclamation Army is calming down a bit."

"There was a time when I believed the same," Maximilian said. "I too fought for a day when all people could abandon the silly notions of race, tribe and would let go of blood vengeance and grievances of the past."

"Until your grandfather poisoned your mind," Elina gasped, struggling to regain breath.

"Don't tell me you too believe Argus' delusions?" he laughed. "Every day he proves even more foolish than I thought. Ever the optimist, ever thinking someone had led me astray rather than accepting that I made my own choices. No, the choice was mine. Grandfather believed in human supremacy; he had this foolish idea that once we rid ourselves of mutants, everything would be fine. He thought he was the one controlling me. Moron. I'd have killed him myself, but Argus beat me to it."

"He seems to beat you to a lot of things," Elina said. She ignored the flash of rage in his eyes and continued, too tired and desperate to think of survival. "Why do you think humanity is bound to destroy itself? My best friend is a mutant. I work side-by-side with a Malformed…"

"Because I know," Maximilian cut her off. "My power allowed me to disassemble, absorb, and alter anything, living beings included, through physical contact. I am Officer Rodriguez, who all his life feigned acceptance of the mutants, but deep down wished they were gone. I am Doctor Yordanos, who never got over his aversion to white people, even as he worked to save them. So many lives and they all lies, all of them never believing in the Iternian or any other ideal. As long as there are two people left in the world, they are bound to be at each other's throats at the dawn of time. Peace is a lie. Understanding is impossible." He smiled. "You want to prove me wrong? Give your body to me. Let me see your thoughts. If you believe in the haranguing gospel you preach, I will spare you. I may even surrender…"

A bloated carcass rose, its arms turned black by crystalized coverage, reaching to its shoulder blades. It stood almost as tall as the Chosen Prince, stomping on the cloven legs, and the swipe of its mighty arm opened a Troll's power suit. The shambler could no longer clench his arms, but in exchange, he gained impressive armor, and a gladius bounced off the dark finger.

Elina wanted to scream in rage when she noticed Carlos maneuvering between two shamblers, grabbing the creatures by the heads and twisting their necks. He picked up Eliza's mancatcher, wielding it like a scythe, and carved himself a path to the super shambler, dodging its swings and opening pus-filled channels in its fat hide. He was supposed to run away and live; why is he fighting so close to these deadly fumes? Carlos steered away from the swirling mists, stepping in only to save an ally or lead the large shambler away, darting back to safety before his nanobots suit could be corroded.

"No." Elina rejected the offer, stepping away from Maximilian. Thank God, Carlos used his brains for once and fought at a distance, using the mancatcher's lengths in full. "There are… foul thoughts in my head. I viewed Lizzie as someone who was weak and told lies about me, as someone who needed to change, someone who was too naïve and stupid to be my equal. I am afraid of my other friend, shuddering at his inhuman visage."

"So you admit it." Maximilian didn't smile. "Humans are incapable of coexisting. Remove the big irritations; the small ones will grow into intolerable ones. And on and on, the circle of racism, hatred, irrational phobia will move on. A single imperfect specimen must rise and wipe out the rest for the world's sake…"

"It doesn't matter what we think," Elina told him. "What matters is how we act. Are we perfect? No. But our forced cooperation is better than your honest degeneracy. Because unlike you, we haven't given up. We often can't control our thoughts and emotions, but we are responsible for our actions. We… I promised to make one step at a time, striving to be a better person." She invited him with two fingers. "So come on, coward. I may die, but I plan to go out swinging."

"You'll go out whining, begging, and crying," Maximilian told her.

"Who… are… you, pest?" She froze, hearing the dry, commanding tone.

The Chosen Prince snapped out of his comatose state at last. He inhaled, paying no more attention to the surrounding battle than a man to an insects' struggle. His eyes, two dying green stars, focused on the orb, illuminating the Rho, who bowed with casual indifference.

"An accidental ally of yours, Chosen Prince. I am Maximilian Rho. A man who will end the human race. I applaud your intention to cling to this pitiful existence of yours, for it furthers my goals, both directly and indirectly. As a reward, pay no attention to me. Indulge in your most vicious instincts, claim what is yours, consume as many…"

"Killing humanity is your goal?" The Chosen Prince reached out and grabbed the sphere with his blueish hand. Black veins formed and dissolved under the skin, rupturing and swelling his limb with pus. "You are no ally of mine, mongrel. I am a human too, filth. I ought to end you where you stand for threatening the existence of my eternal kingdom."

"A heap of rotting synapses calling me filth…" Maximilian sighed. "Humanity? You don't even realize it. Pathetic. And you dare to claim yourself a ruler? Rulers see; rulers know. Puppet, that's all you are!"

"Explain your stream of babbling," the monster demanded.

"You are a lingering ghost of identity." Maximilian pointed at the distorted face, at the bones jutting from the cheek, pushed back by muscles. "You are dying. The Chosen Prince is dead, killed by Lord Steward. Whatever you are, clone, replicant, no matter, you are not the original."

"I see you are no ruler." The Chosen Prince burped, vomiting a stream of maggots on the sphere's surface. "You are blind. My other half is dead. I am very much the same; my essence is preserved. And in time, I shall have the lost memories back."

The sphere trembled under the pressure of the closing hand, and Elina understood it was sinking them. Maximilian stood unbothered at the fumes pouring from the hand — the purple smoke that ate the edges of the floor, reducing it to ashes. She clenched her hands, intent on leaving at least a single bruise on the cracking and healing face threatening to close on her.

Carlos screamed, stumbling and falling, when a hand of the enormous shambler split in two. The crack ran all over the darkened skin, shattering the unbreakable armor, revealing untangling muscles and uncurling bones. The limb reformed itself fast enough for a new two-fingered hand to miss the trainee and for the three-fingered hand to grab him, pinning the teen against the floor. Massive jaws opened, and the creature leaned.

Suddenly, all sounds disappeared. Moan of the super shambler. Tremors made by the Chosen Prince. Even Elina's heartbeat. A single ear-piercing sound devoured them all, and a side of the room disappeared, broken by a bone shard flying in and bisecting the Chosen Prince's hand at its wrist. Tendrils of flesh shot off from the shard, and the purple mist turned them into hardened crystals as the monster recoiled, pushing out new bones out of his stump and covering it with flesh and muscle.

The virus devouring the flesh tendrils stopped in the middle, and a ripple of flowing flesh passed over them, absorbing the damaged appendages inside the bone spear as it shattered, reforming far too fast for Elina's eyes to follow.

"Pity. I had hoped for more time…" Maximilian's hand closed around her neck, and she felt the metal crumble. The hand almost broke her neck when a wave of white sliced his hand at the elbow, connecting the two cut parts through a membrane to the standing man dressed in a leather jacket, a vest underneath, and cargo pants. "What in blazes… how did you get past the barrier?"

"Shut up," Lord Steward said through a toothless horizontal opening serving him for a mouth.

His face was still forming, hair pushed out of the pink mess, and the front size of his jacket poured out like a waterfall, enveloping Maximilian, clinging to his body, melting arms, legs, devouring everything until a brain remained, trapped in a collapsing skull, stripped of every last bit of flesh. A rolling knot passed through the mass and gulped it down, bringing the brain safely to Lord Steward's body.

"I am the man of miracles," he told the shocked Elina. "And I refuse to let my people die."

The barrier around them fell, but the deadly mist didn't reach her. Lord Steward's body stretched, covering the girl in a cocoon of flesh, capable of keeping her safe. Behind them, Augustus and Ludwig charged into the hall ahead of everyone else. The instructor blocked the hit aimed at Carlos' face, stopping the tip of the claw a centimeter from reaching his faceplate. With a flick of his hand, his second saber pierced the eye of the closing massive head, rupturing the brain. Ludwig buried his sword under the creature's ribs, prying one away and pushing the beast back.

"Stay safe and worry over nothing." Lord Steward patted Elina and stepped toward the Chosen Prince, leaving a biological cocoon around her. He regained his humanoid form again, a normal human walking to the towering giant. "I felt your army awakening, thousands of bodies crawling to the surface." Lord Steward looked above at the dark clouds. "Thank you. It would've taken us months to find them. Do you know that during a battle between Dominator and Ravager, he elbowed her with enough force that a droplet of blood pierced through a soldier's forehead, and the sheer speed of the projectile tore a hole in the poor thing's cranium? It gave me an idea. Velocity is just as important as hardiness. If one can do it, then how about several hundreds, raining down on the exposed targets?"

He glanced at the Chosen Prince with a cluster of windowed eyes that reflected the chaos in the room. Tentacles erupted from the smooth surface of his back, grabbing shamblers and yet unchanged Numbers, dragging an almost dead Troll along, hollowing them of everything but their brains. Several tendrils slithered close to the Chosen Prince and disappeared into nothingness, devoured by unleashed flesh-eating infections. The monster itself restored his hand and tested his fingers, then met Lord Steward's eyes.

"The engines you reactivated give off enough heat to be spotted from the sky. Did you know that the spine mites of the Ravaged Lands have evolved to detect heat emitting from a human from miles away?" Lord Steward tapped his rapidly elongating jaw. "Wolfkins have similar, albeit much inferior, abilities. Yet theirs can discern a difference between human heat and that of an engine." An amber eye opened in his forehead, his back merged with the jacket, and Elina saw several spinal columns bulging underneath the skin. "And insectoid queens are capable of guiding thousands of their drones, collecting information straight out of their eyes. Combining these traits, I have sent out several small biological satellites to pinpoint the location of your filth. And do you know what I did next, princeling?" He spread his jaws wide, showing fangs. "I expunged thousands of bone shards, propelling each at Mach 20 and aiming them directly at the working generators."

"Do you plan to bar my path again, usurper?" the Chosen Prince finally addressed him.

"Bar? No, I plan to end you." Lord Steward answered, his body was still gaining in size, black fur started growing over the torso, the head protruded forward, one hand turned out to be a black sleeve ending with white claws, a centipede tail pushed out of his back, his two legs shapeshifted into reverse-jointed chitin-covered legs, and his right hand transformed into an oversized Troll hand.

"Avert your eyes, everyone!" Ludwig cried out. "This… the indignity!"

"Ludwig, his excellency is not naked." Wivin said.

"It's not that, countymeister!" Ludwig wailed. His voice remained calm, but the noble Avenger pushed his vocal cords, struggling to break his indifferent tone. "The shame, the utter shame! Pray, abandon this form, President!"

Elina understood what exactly brought the Troll into a state of panic. The Reclamation Army and the Oathtakers had a long and bloody history, clashing for years in wars that claimed over a million lives. Even despite the recent help, the crusaders undoubtedly felt unease at witnessing the Ice Fangs in Stonehelm.

And Lord Steward copied Ravager's torso and arm, changing his head into a perfect mockery of her skull. Even as a copy, Elina felt a tingle of fear gazing at the unreasonable butcher of monsters. Ravager, the progenitor of the Wolf Tribe and the one whom the Ice Fangs call their second mother! If the President-Elect can mimic her abilities, then the enemy stands no chance!

"Foolishness. You have abandoned the wonderful strength you had gained in our battle," the Chosen Prince announced, not bothering to take a defensive stance.

"It started weighing me down," Lord Steward said, using his Troll arm to pop up a muscle in his shoulder. "And you don't look all that great yourself. Caught something, warmonger?" He pointed at the boils growing over the blue face. They exploded in pus, healed, and started growing anew.

Slits opened in Lord Steward's flesh, over a hundred hungry mouths inhaling the air in unison. The poisonous fumes, pieces of the dead and dying, broken walkways, and ruined and corroded metal all flew into them, and the arriving Avengers had to help several of their wounded, keeping them from being sucked into the impatient rifts. The air cleared and both organic and inorganic matter was broken and sucked into the S-class Abnormal's body, breaking down into nutrients to increase his body mass.

The pillar of filth reaching the sky disappeared, sinking back into the Chosen Prince, who started gathering his own might as well.

"Thanks for the snack," Lord Steward purred, tensing the muscles in his arms. The side of the Chosen Prince's body inflated, growing the size of the balloon. Elina noticed a hint of irritation in the monster's eyes. And the President-Elect didn't miss this chance.

He made a thrust, a perfect hit, moving faster than even a rail gun's projectile could. Aimed at the blue neck, it should've ended the battle in an instant. If the Chosen Prince hadn't missed his own chance. The air clouded in front of the claws, turning the wolfkin's limb into a crystallized pillar, and the blue arm struck at Lord Steward's abdomen as the tyrant dove to the side.

The crystallized limb exploded, shedding the outer shell and revealing a bone drill inside. The punch aimed at the solar plexus was met with an open secondary maw, but the fangs turned yellow and crumbled before they could pierce the skin, and the Chosen Prince saved his hand. Lord Steward's drill struck true, slicing through the inflated portion of the giant's body, and it exploded, spraying a shower of blood against the nearest wall.

And in its opening, there was someone who stopped Lord Steward's hit. Two bodies — connected to the main body by veins — clung to a breathing lung. Skinless, their bones and muscles exposed in many places, and yet Elina recognized the remains of a tail and the broken claws of another.

"Eliza! Vasily!" She shouted, using a shockwave to shatter the cocoon of flesh and rush toward them. Carlos joined her, and Augustus closed in from behind, saving his words.

They won't let their friends die.

 

[Rookie12]

None of the people inside the factory had any idea of what was happening far above the sky, in the cold segment of space stretching between the planet and the moon. A flash illuminated the darkness, announcing the arrival of the predator of the void, its smooth, brutish steel bastions tinted silver by the activated shields and the brilliant light of its photon engines.

A relic of the past, its length easily dwarfed a large island, and the crew toiling at the numerous battle stations, medical bays, research centers, engineering hangars, and navigational rooms numbered over a hundred thousand people. VIs operatives appeared on the outer hull, kept safe from being sucked into the void by the gravity engines. They walked, checking the battleship's integrity after the sublight jump. Even if the spaceship used one of its many hidden thrusters for a sudden full turn, none of his crew would fall off. Because they belonged to him.

Many of the people who work on the ships think of them as women; their crews adore and learn to fear the temper of their mistress, often developing love-hate relationships that lead to captains going down with the ship as they find themselves unwilling to abandon their ladies in the hour of greatest peril. The crew of the Iternian battleship knew better than to dare to impose a cheerful name painted upon its hull on the ship. He tolerated them.

His name, his true name, was the Wrathful Son, a name used only by the crew and officers on the bridge. Artificer himself had contacted the machine, confirming a rudimentary sentience embedded in the data banks. And that sentience was rage incarnate. Its sensors reached the end of the system, uncovering any potential danger to the planet. His many sisters and brothers once cruised through the eternal night, basking in the corona of the sun, proud to carry the eternal vigil.

And the Wrathful Son should've sailed with them, and in anticipation of that moment, he'd fully embraced the serene nature of the given name. Until the day came and humanity almost died, and the machine intelligence was left to rage and question who dared to steal the lives of those under his protection. It welcomed the Iternian crew, overwhelming them with demands to set him loose and lead him to the glorious battle in the service of his new nation. Through great persuasion, the Wrathful Son was mollified and convinced to spare the planet from his wrath.

He allowed Artificer to bind himself with the command codes, promising to never fire on the planet's surface unless Iterna itself was in danger or unless all three Great Nations would agree to give their permission. Days, months, years, and decades passed as the Wrathful Son orbited the moon, a hungry shark unleashing violent continent-shaking barrages at the satellite, often covering large parts of its fifteen-thousand-kilometer diameter in superheated flames, reducing the fortifications built by the wretched artificial intelligence to nothing and keeping the Iternian city safe.

Until today. Called into orbit, he fired his engines, closed the steel bastions, and approached the wounded sphere of blue, brown, green, and yellow. He hurried to the cradle of his creators, ready to do whatever mission was assigned to him. And the order came directly from the Iternian High Command, signed by the president's personal seal.

The Wrathful Son was unleashed.

"Ognian Bubnoff…" the words stirred a weapon operator, and the man drew himself high, dusting off the pristine collar of his blue uniform, adorned with several silver comets, one for each year he had served on this ship, side-by-side with their boy.

The crew was wise enough to keep their familiarity hidden, knowing full well the explosive temper of their precious kid. He raged, but not at them, though years of grueling training awaited those who failed to meet his extreme standards. The Wrathful Son, so long deprived of human contact, dismissed none of his metal chambers, not unless they chose to resign of their own accord. But it could take years before he'd trust a 'flesh bag,' as he called them, to do their duty after a failure.

Ognian Bubnoff was one of the people he trusted. The Wrathful Son raged at the need to leave command of the weapons in human hands; he raged at being restricted from participating in the ground battles. He raged a lot and was a nasty kid to work with. But a professional to the core.

"Ognian Bubnoff…" The Wrathful Son spoke again, both in male and female voices, and a pulse of energy surged through the spaceship, mimicking a hastened heartbeat.

On the outer hull, one of the armored sections slid down, but the workers behind it were in no danger. Clad in spacesuits far more advanced than anything Iterna could produce on its own, they moved freely in the artificial gravity, hastening the preparation of batteries capable of penetrating to the planet's core. Designed to be used to punch through force shields, these centuries-old weapons extended the long barrels, and Ognian summarized the information flowing to his post. No plasma or anti-matter; precision laser fire only to spare a nearby facility and a city of desolation. His kid's rage passed to him through the implants, making the operator nod in understanding. Who are they taking them for? The advanced targeting matrix could have let them fire a plasma ball to vaporize a rapist's dick in the middle of a crowd, sparing his victim and everything around.

A holographic image flashed into existence opposite his seat, and the weapon operator saluted along with the crew of fifty brave men and women under his command. The sound of metal claws drumming against a metal throne greeted them. The woman sitting upon it looked hungry, almost vampiric. By the Wrathful Son's artistic choice, her body was split down the middle, with the left side of her body being a mighty mess of gleaming steel and a long metal arm and leg ending in claws. The right side of her body still had human flesh, going seemingly perfectly into the metal body, and her eyes — both the glittering blue orb and a brown human eye — burrowed into his very soul, judging him and searching for any sign of uncertainty or weakness.

Admiral Kaganka Janeczek first joined with the Wrathful Son decades ago. Her father, the famous Kosma, had brought his daughter up in the void in a desperate search for a cure against a disease deteriorating her organs. Back then, her limbs resembled dried branches, and her bones broke after exertion, and not even an exosuit could help. A rare genetic disease, still incurable today, though alleviated by the efforts of Rho Biomedical. She should have died, and her father despaired when he learned nothing of value from the battleship's databases.

As a last resort, he made a leap of faith, ignoring every safety measure, and hooked Kaganka up to the Wrathful Son, drawing a scream of indignation and fury out of every claxon and setting every siren mad on the ship. She isn't worthy! The ship roared and thundered, unable to stop the synthesis, and half of the girl's body was transformed into a machine, fusing the two forever. Such was the destructive potency of the spaceships of old that their artificial intelligences had to be ever restricted, ever paired with a human host capable of reigning them in, and this saved humanity from complete devastation as the ships lost control and fell when their biological crews died and the demise of their captains forever scarred the corrupted AIs. The Wrathful Son got lucky; his ship drifted in the moon's orbit, awaiting his captain.

He dreamed of a steely-eyed man or woman, an officer of unparalleled skill and dedication to take a position at his helm and lead him into a glorious slaughter for the sake of his new homeland. His shock and disgust at being forever merged with an untested, thin, and frightened girl sent tremors across the hull and overloaded workstations. He raged for hours, calmed down, accepted his new assignment, and drilled Kaganka Janeczek mercilessly, turning her into an admiral worthy of wielding him. She earned her rank over decades, failing written tests and trying again, building muscles in her new body, and then being reduced to an obedient tool of the superior officers. And one day, her second half accepted the grown woman as his master, letting her take the throne for the first time.

Kaganka sat at the bridge's dais, dressed in Iterna's blue surcoat and strict azure uniform, surrounded by hundreds of working operators and the pleasant beeping sounds of incoming messages. She had never undergone a rejuvenation procedure, yet her rough skin bore not a single wrinkle, and her short, ashen hair was silky. An unopened bottle of moonshine, made by engineers, sat near her human hand. This was a gift she always treated herself to after a successful mission. She breathed easily, a perfect fusion of machine and human, and greeted Ognian with a nod.

"Ognian Bubnoff," she said in a hardy human voice, "do you confirm my clearance?"

He experienced an intake of information and an electric surge arriving at his implants. General Dominator answered the Iternian's call, bringing them up to speed about the potential resurrection of the Chosen Prince. The thing had been tolerated before, lurking outside Iterna's borders. No longer. It has joined forces with Numbers; its minions have assaulted Iternian's wards. The Wrathful Son's rage and unadulterated fury whipped across the operator, and he found himself in agreement, earning a look of respect from Kaganka. Many officers fainted at the direct link to machine intelligence. This was Ognian's first connection; his side of the ship never faced the lunar surface, and he had trained on passing asteroids.

The Hierarchy had attacked the people of the Three Great Nations, and the Dynast gave permission for the battleship to close in, restricting the superweapons of his own country from firing at the battleship. Three signatures. And an agreement to name the Chosen Prince a hostis humani generis. The ultimate permission to engage in space-to-earth combat has been granted.

"I do, admiral," Ognian confirmed, taking his seat. His fingers flew, tapping at the keyboard with unnatural speed. Implants and stimulants released into his bloodstream allowed the officer to transcend human limitations, nearing those of a fourth-generation Problemsolver.

"Are you going to deny me my moonshine, Ognian?" Kaganka inquired.

"Never, admiral," he swore to her, linking himself to the targeting matrix.

The battleship came to life. Force barriers locked themselves around the nurseries and medical bays, keeping their patients safe. Schools were canceled, much to the delight of the space-born youngsters, and VIs officers and teachers led the students to the safety of the bunkers. Observatories, cinemas, and unimportant research facilities were shut down, and the horns of claxons announced the beginning of a combat operation. The Wrathful Son descended, and Ognian saw through his eyes.

Twenty-eight years ago, he had left the planet, a wide-eyed youth, and he didn't miss it — not even once. The endless black void of space, an ocean of stars, became his home. He was long eligible for a comfortable retirement and a rich pension back at Iterna, yet Ognian could never leave this place. The confines of the almighty battleship, its pleasant artificial gravity, its familiar corridors, its flashing neon lights in the red district, and its sprawling gardens in the recreation district, became his home. The battleship was more than a city; it was a city state, and Ognian hadn't yet learned all that its places could offer.

A connection to the Wrathful Son was one of those things. His and the admiral's, or admirals', thoughts united. They couldn't stay away from the Moon for long; already the Steel Legions had returned to the surface, building fortifications and mountain-sized warmachines strode across the surface on their arching legs, firing brilliant bursts of energy at the shield surrounding the city, and a horde of smaller machines descended in perfect cohesion, melting in the hellish flames unleashed by the defenders and pushing still, clawing meter by meter. It won't stand.

Artificer and Lada both offered a union, eager to speak with their distant kin and lead him in the coming combat. The Wrathful Son tossed them aside, severing the connection. Help? He was perfect; his systems were superior to the barbaric mainframes used by these feckless idiots. The mere fact that he had to be distracted from his duties proved their inefficiency. They should stop tarnishing the image of an AI and start pulling their weight.

Ognian saw two trainees rushing toward a sickly beast. He thought of them as idiots, and the Wrathful Son brought information to his retina, pointing out the two captured children, held by an unnatural womb ripped open by a blow. It enraged the officer and filled him with pride. A unit leaves no one behind! The time has come to prove the superiority of technology over the unreliable gift of power.

"Then hunt the prey for me, Ognian," Kaganka commanded.

"Of course, admiral," he responded, elated at the union and sharpening of his senses.

Time slowed. For the Wrathful Son, the trainees stopped in place, and his mechanic brain calculated thousands of possibilities in a span of milliseconds, predicting the outcomes of using various weapons and the consequences for the surrounding area. At this proximity to the allies, only one weapon could be used — the one Ognian had suggested from the beginning.

A small laser turret, a weapon designed to intercept space-faring flyers, moved and pointed its sleek barrel at the planet below. Twenty-eight years. Ognian halted his finger over the firing button. Twenty-eight years of never-seeing combat, over two decades of training at predictable targets. His crew worked double time, finalizing the firing solution, calculating the effect of the atmosphere on the laser, and powering up the turret, increasing its potency to deliver the deadly heat to the target.

"Scared, flesh bag?" the Wrathful Son snarled, annoyed at the delay.

"Never," the officer promised, waiting until the end of the calculation with a deadly calm. "Merely… prudent." He pressed the button.

The Wrathful Son was unleashed. Woe to Iterna's enemies!

 

[Rookie12]

Elina considered herself a reasonable person. She had problems, who didn't, but when it came to a fight, she rarely charged headlong and always tried to prepare some sort of plan. Today, she had none of that. She ran toward the reeling, rotting flesh, unconcerned about the poisonous fumes capable of dissolving an Avenger alive. Her legs were leaving footprints on the rusted floor, beating up pieces of metal in the air, unafraid of a passing slam strong enough to reduce her to a bloody smear.

She gained a sort of connection to Eliza, understanding her a little bit at last. Challenging impossible odds, spitting at her own safety, and rushing forward with the sole goal of saving a life... It wasn't her style. Given time, Elina would come up with a plan, assign roles to the teams, and prepare a safe approach. Only there wasn't any time, and if she wants to scold Ratcatcher for being a stupid idiot and challenging Hustler alone, if she wants to kick Vasily in the nuts for risking his life to save her, she'd better adopt their strategy.

"Rowen!" she cried, looking through the cameras of the second group as they burst into the hall and Jumail speared a trio of shamblers, throwing them off his legs and shaking them to clean off the pus and rotting guts.

"You all owe me one!" Rowen responded, and the air around her turned murky as his telekinetic force formed a secondary skin around her, Carlos, and Augustus, redirecting the flow of poison. "So you better get our friends back, tigers!"

They barged into the mists, Carlos leading the way and Elina not far behind. The Chosen Prince tried to retreat; his mists licked at a wall, and it collapsed, opening a path. But he failed to gain any distance, and Lord Steward closed in, his bone drill disintegrating in the rising purple smoke. His Troll hand endured, and he grasped the enemy, drawing him near and kicking with both legs into the opponent's forelegs, buckling the rotting form. The tyrant used his own fall to headbutt the wolfish head, melting the skin off it and liquidating the amber eye. The Chosen Prince's torn side started closing, and tendrils erupted out of the president's body, grabbing the wound's edges and widening them, not allowing him to hide the prisoners.

He saw them. Lord Steward has lost his sight. Unknown variations of all manner of infections, viruses to start the rot, phages to destroy the viruses along with the skin that started adapting to them, maladies to further weaken the regenerating body before the process began anew, and God knows what else have assailed his head, shrinking it down, crystallizing it, and collapsing the ruined skull in on itself, rewriting the genetic code to turn parts of the flesh into spreading fungus. Green lines appeared on the president's ruined head, running down his neck, trying to suffocate him and further the infection. The Chosen Prince pushed himself off his foe and fixed his eyes on the approaching Carlos. His free hand moved.

And a beam of light came from the sky, like a salvation from heaven. It struck the rotting face, burning away an eye and exposing the bone cheek. The Chosen Prince raised his hand to shield himself from the brilliant light, and the trainees jumped, giving no thought to the nature of their unexpected help. They truly embraced Ratcatcher's idea. Here is an opportunity; here are people in need; no second guessing: go, go, go!

Carlos landed over the mutilated Eliza, wrapped one hand around her body, and screamed in pain as his right hand sank down to his elbow. The rotting flesh started dissolving his armor; it shifted and closed around his legs, trying to suck the teenager in and make him one with the Chosen Prince. And yet he pressed on, pulling the Ratcatcher free with a single hand, ignoring the pain.

Elina suffered less; her legs found footing on the moving bone, and only her arm got caught in the oscillated lung. And the agony overflowed her. The armor didn't hold; it shed like the leaves of a tree. Rowen's telekinetic bubble burst around the damaged area, and acid flowed down her arm, tearing off the skin and reducing her fingers to bone before she could create a single shockwave. Filth connected to her arteries. She could sense it. Her veins turned hot and joined the lung's putrid flesh; the bones flowed, supporting the Chosen Prince's growth. She groaned and wrapped an arm around the skinless Vasily.

Hurt. Dad, it hurts so much. Elina whimpered.

Submit to the perfect order. Give your flesh to me, servant. Elina heard a voice in her head through the feverish haze, threatening to render her unconscious. Cold and hot rolled over her body at the same time, but she did what she thought Vasily or Ratcatcher would do. She bit her tongue, tasting blood, and concentrated on rescuing her comrade.

He screamed. His lung was still pierced, and the scream came out a little louder than a whisper, but the pain the teenager was experiencing had to be unbearable. Elina hoped he would be unconscious and was horrified by the movement of the lidless eyes and the sheer ocean of agony in them. The teen thrashed, moaning, whimpering, and releasing his bowels, and Eliza had done the same, flapping around with her tail. And worst of all, they couldn't get them out any gentler. They had to push, rubbing the metal arm against the exposed muscles and adding even more suffering.

"Here goes nothing!" Elina and Carlos cried and pushed their friends closer with all their might.

Maybe the S-Class Abnormal hadn't regained his strength yet. Perhaps he was distracted by the laser beam hitting his head or by Lord Steward's brutal kicks to his legs. It could be that all his focus was on destroying the tendrils trying to reach his neck or holding back the Troll arm.

They never knew the reason, but Elina heard the cracking sound of the veins and arteries holding Vasily in place, some of them, the ones coming from the back of the trainee's head, outright exploded, and she wasn't sure it was her doing at all. It was as if someone else helped them, and the sound of hissing currents covering her visor with acrid blood was like the most beautiful music in the world. Second best to a faint heartbeat, her sensors caught in Vasily's chest.

"Instructor!" Elina screamed. "Cut it! Cut us free!"

Augustus didn't hesitate. He was already in the air, his sabers flashing. The first thing she felt was a chill — a passing chill that surprised her. How could there be a cold in this room? From where? Even the cooling systems of her armor warned about the unnatural heating resulting in her body sweating as a fever messed with her immune system. Next came the pain. They knew of it, and it still hurt like hell! Augustus sliced her trapped arm below the shoulder and cleaved through Carlos' trapped limbs in one fell swoop.

They fell, still holding their comrades to their chests, screaming and crying from the pain, and witnessed a ray of light linking the monster's face to the sky. The laser was coming from the heavy, dark clouds, hitting its mark with impeccable accuracy. But its intensity was too weak, and the Chosen Prince spasmed, turning away from Lord Steward, a new light shining in his ruined eye as his body repaired itself.

Jumail caught them. His legs closed around Augustus, Elina, and Carlos, and the Malformed sprang back, covering a great distance away from the Chosen Prince in a single leap, performing the main tactic of explorators. Can't beat an enemy? Leave and live another day.

"You dare?" The sick ruler roared, trying to push the headless body away. "You dare take what I rightfully conquered…"

"At last." A new head emerged from the stump in Lord Steward's neck, an insectoid head, its antennae elegantly curved back, and clusters of dark eyes dotting the hardened chitin. Mandibles clicked, and Lord Steward spoke from two mouths, one natural and one at the back of his body. "Telekinetic kid! I am relying on you; make a wall now!"

"Wait, what…" Despite his confusion, Rowen acted on instinct. His protective cocoons washed away from the group, and he had erected an invisible wall separating the group from the fighting titans.

And Lord Steward unleashed his power. His torso was stripped of all fur; it fell off, and cancerous growths spread over the bronze Wolfkin's flesh. As if by magic, the black veins disappeared, the bulbous pimples spat out pure water, and immediately turned into a smooth skin that turned into hardened chitin plates positioned so close to each other that it was impossible to push even a straw in-between the individual brown carapace armor. Four new arms sprouted from his sides, four arms ending in pincers and bladed fingers, and he let go of the Chosen Prince, uppercutting the bastard using his Troll arm so fast that the monster's head vanished from view.

Along with everything near them and the distant tunnel leading deeper into the factory. Lord Steward held back; he had to; otherwise, they would all be dead, killed by a shockwave, but his blow was strong enough to create a tornado of air that sent everything upward: the floor, ruined pieces of his body, and the blueish giant. Wings unfolded from the president's shoulder blades, immaculate membranes of a rainbow hue shining as bright as a star. Four great wings buzzed, and Lord Steward leapt after the enemy, spreading tendrils of flesh and devouring his own remains as well as the wreckage and even the torn pieces of his enemy.

They reached the clouds in less than a moment, and Lord Steward kicked, ramming two legs, ending up in gruesome stingers, into the Chosen Prince's sternum. The resulting shockwave cleared the sky by banishing the clouds. It kept going on and on, hitting the ground and even shaking the factory. The opposite wall and everything disappeared, revealing a clear view of the desolate plains. Halls, rooms, factory equipment — there was nothing in sight but the field. Lord Steward's punch had destroyed it all.

As Jumail carried them away, Elina turned back, holding Vasily close to her chest. It boggled the mind. In the time it took Jumail to cross a quarter of the hall, the situation turned upside down. She saw the plains covered by the destroyed line breakers and more wicked stuff. Some biomechanical horrors lived still, and rays of light pierced the sky, vaporizing everyone and even corpses with obscene precision. The rain of lasers surrounded the facility, spreading out in an even circle, killing the resurrected monsters before a single one could even take a step toward Stonehelm or the factory.

And there, kilometers away, he was. The Chosen Prince. Even if her zoom had failed to capture the monster, its presence, an arrogant and wrathful blot, was almost palpable. The kick had landed him a dozen kilometers away, sending a rumbling ripple through the ground and opening new rifts. The destructive rain was already upon him; lasers struck him through the still rising dust, shining so brightly that even the zoom of her helmet struggled to comprehend what was happening.

A green mushroom rose, reaching the skies; the explosion of disease so potent that it crumbled the very stones and created a grand chasm. Lord Steward plunged into this hell, already mutating into an oversized beast of pink flesh with long tentacles for the upper jaw, a bulbous head, two large arms, and a pair of leather wings.

 

[Rookie12]

"Heh.. I did it…" Rowen slumped to his knees, and the system of his armor screamed a warning. "Why… so silent? Where's a cheer?"

His front teeth exploded, his bladder burst, and blood spurted from his nostrils as a result of the rebound that resulted from pushing his power far beyond its natural limits. Rowen saved them. He saved a section of the factory with his power at an immense cost to himself. The armor continued listing damaged organs, and Elina breathed a sigh of relief, seeing Ludwig catch the boy and lower Rowen on the ground, and begin to explain the situation to him via sign language.

"Don't… get it," Rowen coughed.

Bastard! Had he been slacking off during the sign language classes? Elina almost forgot the throbbing pain in her own lost limb. Playing cards, is he? Oh, she won't tell Torosian. She'll handle it herself. Rowen won't be playing anymore; he won't have any free time to put the weird stuff in his room. She'll make him study until… until he can recite the entire Common History on his fingers!

Ludwig made an okay sign, took out a terminal, typed words, and showed them to the wounded trainee. One of his soldiers took over, forming a defensive perimeter in the ruined corridor and calling the rest of the group over. There was no point in running; many of the group members had wounds on their bodies, and if the president failed, no other S-Class would arrive in time to save them. And at least here they could enjoy some safety, thanks to the factory's sturdiness.

"Hurt!" she heard Eliza say.

Jumail brought them out of the hall, lowering the mangled team down on the still-contaminated floor. Two Avengers took off their capes and spread them out to help lay down the convulsing Vasily and Eliza. Remembering the Shadow's gift, Elina found the syringes and took them with a trembling hand.

Where? Where is the situation the worst of all? The answer was simple everywhere. Neither of the teens had any skin left; blood started drying up on the gleaming meat. And worst of all, they shouted.

"Hurt! It hurts so much, Mommy!" Ratcatcher screamed, trying to stand, but the Trolls restricted her. Every movement sent a splash of blood on their armor, and God only knew what diseases were coursing through the wounded veins or trying to nestle in them. "What should I do?! Mommy, I can't escape! It hurts so much, Mommy! The spider, the spider has got me and I can't escape!"

There was no time. Elina made the first injection close to Vasily's ruined lung and the next one at Eliza's neck. The ends of popped veins and ruined muscles leapt on their own accord and started glueing to each other. A bit of skin grew over the exposed trachea, and the lung pushed out a knot of blood, allowing Vasily to breathe easier.

"We'll get you out," Elina promised, wanting to hug them but not daring as it would hurt them. "This time we'll help you run away, Lizzie, Vas. And soon the pain will be just a nasty dream, I promise."

"Here." Carlos handed Augustus his own shots. "I can wait until a hospital," he whispered through the pain, darkening his visor to hide tears. "I'm a Barjoni. We have the implants to deal with such a trivial… minor… insignificant paper cut!" he screamed the last words and bit his tongue as the Trolls treated his wounds.

Elina didn't. She cried. In pain, relief, and worry over her comrades. Alive! They are still alive; everything else is irrelevant. As long as there is life, there is a chance. Augustus gently pushed her aside, making injections into Vasily's and Ratcatcher's hearts to keep them beating.

"Hurt, hurt, hurt!" Eliza yelled, rolling her eyes. The regenerative concoction was hard at work; the girl shrank visibly, and the pain of her repaired organs increased tenfold as pain receptors came to life. To keep her alive, they had to use the injections. And in doing so, they doubled or even tripled the torture. "Mommy!!! It hurt so much!"

Vasily let out a wordless cry, something akin to the mewling, whimpering, and explosion of dynamite smashed into one. Elina never knew a human could make such noises. He sucked in air into his restored lung, only to release it into an ear-piercing, agonizing shriek.

"It doesn't hurt!" Esmeralda said. She knelt beside Vasily and placed a hand on his bloody head.

"Not one bit," Edward added, taking Ratcatcher by the side of her head and closing the holes where her ears used to be.

"Hurt!"

"It doesn't," the twins said in unison, and their drool started falling on the inner side of their visor. Tears appeared in their eyes. "Know why? Your emotions come to us. We eat them, we feel them, we own them, and you are numb, but it is a soothing numbness, a healing numbness …" The two trembled, their bodies shaking at the shared pain.

"Take… my syringes…" Rowen pulled his gift out of the pocket of his armor. He screamed out every word, not out of pain, even if it bothered him, but because he thought he was whispering.

You sure? Ludwig typed a question.

"Eh, not going to croak so soon. Trust me, I know, cause I'm… going to be a doctor." Rowen smirked.

There is a true nobility in you, gentle one. Ludwig wrote, handing the syringes to Augustus.

"I'd wish!" Rowen screamed. "I am a stupid moron who got tangled with drugs, hurt Dad, and always ends up being a dead weight…"

"Ignore him; the moron's delirious," Jumail asked Ludwig, who nodded and kept typing, trying to calm down Rowen. Jumail tried to reach the back of his armor, scratching the surface with his claws. "A little help, anyone? I can't reach my own needles. They're in a compartment near the butt."

"Why did you put them there if you can't reach them?" Carlos laughed, resting his head on a Troll's knee while two others tended to his wounds.

"Sorry, your highnesses, I thought being able to use a plasma cannon was more important than throwing medicine around! It's not my fault that the damn automatic system got jammed when I got kicked!"

"Give it to me," Elina demanded, taking Esmeralda's shoulder with a shaking hand. "His pain. Her pain. Shove it down my throat."

"Can't," Esmeralda lied.

"You're too weak to endure it, Linny." Edward was more blunt. "Trust in us, 'kay? We are tough cookies; our parents taught us well."

"Yeah, it's just pain. Big deal," his sister added. "You did your part; let us do ours."

Elina watched them in worry. Tension marked their faces, their teeth chattered, and their bodies shook constantly. Sweat ran down their faces, intermingling with tears and drool. The systems of their armor reported an increased heartbeat and rapidly growing temperature. But the two tortured bodies close to their knees breathed easier, sinking into a condition close to unconsciousness. The twins didn't let the trainees find refuge there; they held them conscious, focusing every ounce of their bodies on fighting for life.

If Elina could, she'd force those two to pile everything at her. They didn't deserve to suffer. And she was fairly certain she could've handed an ass beating to both cheating liars with one hand. Too weak, her ass! She didn't see them lifting regularly! Come to think about it, they always weaseled out of the gym's duties, unwilling to bulk up a little out of care for their lean bodies. But as it stood, all she could do was watch, letting others care for her and clenching her fist in concern.

"Spirit of Pride, give me confidence in my strength," Esmeralda asked, closing her eyes.

"Spirit of Loss, sap my pain so I can keep my comrades safe," Edward muttered.

A prayer to the Spirits? Elina wondered, not daring to distract them with questions. Belief in the Spirits was a bunch of mumbo jumbo superstitions invented by the dust-dwelling Wolfkins that somehow got spread far and wide, and some charlatans turned it into an actual religion. Elina had little tolerance for such fantasies; a proper religion starts in opulent chapels, led by the regal priests made of wise women and men, and not by some cannibalistic, furred barbarians. Not that she'd ever insult anyone out loud for their beliefs. Superior or not, the Iternians had to be enlightened enough to respect other faiths.

How do these two even know about it? Must've heard something in Stonehelm. Wait, why are they praying to the Spirits, then? Who finds a new religion in a span of a few days? Something is off… Aiii! She blinked tears of pain as a Troll began cleaning her bleeding stump and then bandaged it. The adrenaline faded, and every single sting near the cut was more painful than a whip. The girl didn't find it in her heart to tell the good man that her armor could have done it.

"So this is what the wars of old looked like," Wivin said, staying guard over the wounded.

Elina turned around. Dark and green clouds have covered the entire horizon. Pillars of light kept striking from above, charting lines across the ground, merging the edges of the canyons together, and turning the ground into glass. The Chosen Prince and Lord Steward were there, somewhere, fighting and tearing each other apart. Tremors caused by their titanic struggle reached all the way here. A few pebbles jumped up and down near Elina's legs, making her wonder what in the world was happening there, inside the dark cover.

A mountain rose. The quake that should've preceded its appearance reached them after its tip touched the sky. Something sliced it in half, and before the top fell, the deadly mist wrapped around its sides, reducing the ejected slab of stone to ash that rained down on the battlefield and disappeared in another flash of light.

"Nothing of the sort," Augustus said.

His hands moved, injecting the wounded trainees with the last regeneration shots, and Elina saw bubbling flesh appear over their bodies. Where Ratcatcher's skin was pale, rough, and yet somewhat pink and pale, Vasily's was grayish, and his skin formed small, uneven circles. Scales, Elina understood. Vasily was reverting to his original appearance. The effect of speeding up healing was undoing the cosmetic operation.

"In the past, such laser beams were used to assassinate minor government officials or troublesome journalists," Augustus explained. "Imagine, if you can, Countymeister Wivin, a gigantic shield covering our planet. And not just one; the smaller ones formed further defensive spheres. To punch through such a defense, an assassin would've had to concentrate on a section of the shield, bringing down the fury capable of irrecoverably scarring the planet. It was impossible to do so in secret without provoking a retaliatory strike from all the nations living in the system. The murderers would send a host of nanomachines, and over time, they formed a small spy satellite flying in the clouds, gathering solar energy. And then unleashing it in a burst, splitting an unfortunate soul in two." He nodded at the fury coming from the sky.

"And how do you know it, Honorable Augustus?" Ludwig asked. He held Rowen upright, preventing the teenager from choking on his own blood.

"Rho Industrials wasn't always a big company. In the Old World, it was a subsidiary of a larger one, bowing to the headquarters on the Red Planet. One of our founders decided to up the ante by moving some of our facilities to Iterna and started building the orbital elevator there." Augustus fell silent and sighed. "It saved our line and our company. It also ended her line."

"My condolences," Wivin said. She took off her helmet, and Elina saw dried blood streaks on her ears and nose. "Am I correct in assuming that the legendary spaceship of Iterna came to the president's aid?"

"Our aid," Augustus corrected her. "I hardly think he needs any assistance to stay alive."

"You'd change that tune if you had ever seen the worthless Ravager pile-driving the great Lord Steward with enough force to create an active volcano." Wivin dropped her helmet and sat, showing for the first time how weary she was. "But enough of the horrors of the past. Tell me, is there any price I can pay to see the interior of the ship, to breathe the air circulating in its halls, to walk on its floors? I swear on my life, on my dedication to the noble Brogard, and on my honor that I'd use nothing I see or learn there against Iterna." Her emotion modulators no longer worked, but Elina was smart enough to sense a desperate longing.

And she didn't blame her. The spaceship! An almost infinite trove of knowledge and the precious gift of the past. If not for the accursed situation at the Moon, it could've carried seeds of civilization to other worlds in the system, helping restore broken habitats and unlocking secrets of the past. Elina never shared Vasily's thirst for unearthing lost knowledge; truth be told, she joined the Academy to have a right to use her power, but even her heart ached at the thought of meteors raining at the ruins floating through space. What if there were some cryo or stasis pods up there, holding people who had hoped for salvation?

"You can watch the official reports to see the allowed areas of the ship, and you can breathe recycled air to get a taste of what the people up there are breathing. As for visiting… impossible," Augustus told her. He pushed Esmeralda off Vasily, and she fell, grabbing her legs and swaying back and forth, mumbling prayers. Edward tried to snarl and keep taking in Eliza's pain, but Augustus had none of that and threw him off, resulting in the teen breathing out loudly. Edward tried to crawl, but a sharp look stopped him. "Two minutes. You can continue in two minutes. As for your request, countymeister, the only way the spaceship can get to the planet is if Redeemer uses her portal power to bring it in for help. Short of being attacked by an S-class, that's never going to happen. The ship is always needed up there. Iterna has a rudimentary fleet of shuttlecraft. They fly in and out, picking up children to bring back to the planet…"

"There are children up there?" Ludwig asked. "How dare Iterna use gentle ones for soldiers…"

"They are not soldiers." Augustus held Eliza's and Vasily's mouths, keeping them from choking on their tongues. "When you have large quantities of men and women locked together, they tend to get… horny. And life always finds a way."

"But… on a spaceship?" Wivin asked.

"We also receive an occasional infant refugee or two from the Moon. Life always finds a way," Augustus repeated. "Iterna tries to evacuate all of them, but our resources are focused elsewhere. And after what happened, we can't risk any Elite getting close to the moon. It waits for them there."

"Irresponsible bastards, incapable of keeping their dicks in their pants. They should've made eunuchs out of themselves if they are unable to remember about using simple contraceptives." Ludwig cursed. The sight of a Troll swearing in a calm voice drew chuckles of pain from the trainees. "It is not a laughing matter, gentle ones. The adults are responsible for your well-being. It is cruelty to birth a new life in a horrid place. I am sure my Iternian comrades feel the same way: we fight so the future generation won't have to."

"Oh, Ludwig." Wivin glanced at him. "You'll make a fine countymeister yet."

"I am quite content with my position, Countymeister. I have no higher aspirations, for I am a sword and a shield, furthering the oath's reach…" He stirred, hearing footsteps.

The rescued workers approached those of them who could still walk, mostly Trolls, a few Insectones, and the man Eliza had saved from the line breakers. Several of them started filming the distant battle on their terminals, but most were doing their best not to look at that. And none dared to film the wounded.

"Will they survive?" an Insectone asked, nodding at the skinless trainees. Although they had regained some of their flesh, most of the healing had happened in the internal organs, and Eliza and Vasily trembled, mumbling in pain at a sudden rush of air hitting them.

"They are tough enough," Augustus replied. Wires slipped out from under his vambrace. "But they have lost a lot of blood. This isn't a perfect place to perform a blood transfusion…"

"Desperate times, desperate measures," Wivin interrupted him. She shifted closer and tore the bandage from her wounded shoulder. "Troll blood is suitable for all blood types. Take as much as you need from me."

"And from us!" the Trolls, both the workers and the Avengers joined, holding out their hands.

Elina smiled, crawling closer to her wounded friends. The fabric of the cloaks didn't let the water through, and blood had collected on it, painting some of her armor, but she didn't care. She lay there and watched as the twins, still visibly shaken, closed in, taking the pain away again. She prayed to whatever deities she could find to give the wounded strength and to ensure that the regeneration had healed enough of their bodies to last until help arrived. A short time later, a shadow fell upon them. Jumail positioned himself above them, shielding the wounded from the gusts of wind.

"We haven't achieved anything this time," Elina whispered, tasting bitterness on her lips. Too weak again. "We couldn't prevent the monster's birth. All we could do was run away…"

"Is that so, trainee?" Augustus' sharp voice cut her off. His armor connected Vasily and Eliza to Wivin, and a stream of blood circled first into the device hidden in his vambrace. There, a living organism checked it for infection and pushed the blood further.

"Ah, the beautiful youth," Ludwig said. "Back then, everything looked white and black; you either do something or you don't, no nuance."

"Back then?" Wivin asked.

"No, trainees, you have achieved something." Augustus ignored the Trolls. "By your actions, a life was saved; through your quick thinking, you had denied the Chosen Prince a host of bodies. Who knows how strong he would've been had he merged with the workers?"

"Doesn't seem like he is any weaker now," Elina said.

"Snap out of depression, Trainee Vincent. It is a pleasant drink, but poisonous to boot. Keep indulging in it, and then you'll truly lose at life," Augustus chastised her. "Think. Thanks to your coordinated efforts, our allies have learned of the Chosen Prince's and Numbers' alliance. The monster itself is being hunted early. Can you imagine if he had time to sneak away and rebuild his army or fix his mess of a body? The Numbers have suffered enough losses; their contacts will soon be exposed, and any further operations in these lands will be crippled. You have done enough to rescue the lives of others and your comrades. No man can bear the burden of the entire world on his back. Let go of defeatist thoughts and focus on living and helping your friends."

"We may come into this world alone, girl," Wivin said. She nodded at the raging battle. "But we don't live alone. There is no shame in asking for help. We've done our part. The president will do his."

"Wise words, countymeister." Ludwig bowed his head. "It will be my greatest honor to help you overcome your flaw in poetry."

"Soldier. Don't you dare blackmail me," Wivin warned him.

"There is no blackmail, ma'am. It says in the sacred text that no Grand Master will be found wanting in either spiritual or material matters…"

"I am no Grand Master! We specifically reorganized the chapter because no one could live up to his expectations."

"Semantics, countymeister. You command a force greater than that of some Grand Masters. As a representative of the illustrious Avengers, as our noble leader who guides us to understanding and nudges us toward learning, it is your solemn duty to master the art of poetry," Ludwig said in his calm voice.

"Once the crisis is over, once our fallen are mourned, buried, and their names are immortalized, once we restore order, replenish our forces, and do our duty, then I may consider your offer, landkomptur," Wivin said.

"Sooner, ma'am. A crusader's duty is never done, and yet your status demands an appropriate contribution," Ludwig insisted.

Elina let the two bicker like an old couple, and she felt a little better. Prior to her first meeting with Eight, she had her entire life planned out. Study in the Academy and earn the right to use the power freely. Then get an assignment at some embassy, for they often hire explorators for jobs. There is a whole slew of explorators who never set foot in ruins and work in the field, helping ambassadors build relationships with the locals. Or, failing that, join a private security agency and protect one of the corporations' assets far from Iterna's natural borders. Both options offered a very cushy payment and access to better gear than that of a regular grunt. Not to mention meeting interesting people all over the globe.

Then she lost her way and sank in self-hatred, desperately making wrong moves, lashing out at others, trying to make them strong and hurting Eliza. Elina desperately wanted to grow stronger so no one else could ever hurt her or those under her command, giving up her former dreams. She had a self-flagellating need to be punished for the "failure" during their battle against Eight. Headmaster Torosian and her family helped her, and Elina took the second chance. A ghost of that time still nagged her, trying to guilt-trip her conscience into thinking that she should be stronger and more perfect to ensure that none of her friends would ever be hurt.

Except it was bullshit. No one is perfect. Yes, she needs to study and get better. And get stronger. And get Rowen in shape. Her friends needed her here and now. Who knows what problems Vasily and Eliza will have to deal with when they recover? She needs to be by their side as they were by hers.

Augustus is right. Her friends need her. She needs her friends. They have achieved what they could do. Feeling down won't help anyone. Elina accepted a cloak from an Avenger and covered the wounded with it. It was time to make plans about the future again and take steps to make her goal a reality. Others may call her a coward, but there's no way she'll ever fight an S-Class Abnormal. Abnormal or not, there are things in the world out of human reach.

They waited, shaking, afraid, and protected by the crusaders, until the first flying transports arrived from Stonehelm, bringing crews of medics and soldiers. Only later did Elina understand she didn't say a single prayer for Lord Steward's victory or the Chosen Prince's demise. Death didn't matter to her.