Horde doom

[Rookie12]

"Sisters, brothers, the ice boys fucked us over," Bogdan announced to a small gathering. Dressed in the overall of an armory worker, he stood on a crate, his paws dramatically raised above his head. "An honorable name had been stolen! Sword Saint Bertruda keeps souring Warlord Janine's mood! Shaman Impatient One whipped her back to the bone after talking to Sword Saint Camelia Wintersong! Injured! Stinky bombs! Insults! These grievances cannot stand unchallenged, I say!" He slammed his fist into the wall, causing the metal to vibrate. "The ice bastards must be repelled!"

The present crowd cramping the corridor included both males and females in it. In the Wolf Tribe, it was frowned upon to permit a male to lead any public speech, as it implied incompetence on the part of a female for not initiating the discussion of the troubling topic earlier, and the speaker often found himself bitten afterwards. There were some exceptions. If a male revealed the truth about forced copulation, about a wolf hag, or even about a warlord embezzling food or neglecting her duties, shamans and warlords formed ranks around the male, watching hawkishly to ensure his safety afterward. Truth, even bitter truth, was a cost of survival, and a slight had to be corrected.

But this gathering had nothing to do with such serious matters, and Bogdan treaded a fine line. He smoothed the situation by inviting females to a discussion rather than demanding their presence. He also postured to maintain a non-formal appearance to avoid a situation where scouts and wolf hags would not be tempted to assert their dominance, and females returned the favor by letting males speak freely.

"What can we do?" Anissa asked, leaning against a wall. She released her claws and examined them through the aiming scope of her artificial eye. "We tried fighting them, they refused to back down. We tried ignoring them and faced the same result."

"Yeah, and if we so much as lay a finger on them, Warlord Alpha will rip it off. No thanks," Elzada stated, checking her mechanical leg.

"Have we tried talking to them?" Kirk asked, shrinking and trying to retreat into the shadows as the entire gathering's surprised amber eyes focused on him.

"How would that help?" Zlata inquired. The wolf hag ignored the male's weakness and the fact that his family closed ranks to calm him.

"Well, they are reasonable beings, right? If we explain everything…"

"Kirk, buddy, you don't speak to the ice boys," Bogdan said. "They'll drag you down to their level and trap you with their superior experience in wordplay. Remember the duel."

"So we are stuck," Anissa growled.

"Sis, don't sweat about a problem when finding a solution is so much funnier!" Ignacy said enthusiastically. Like Bogdan, he wore an engineer's overall. Ignoring his older sister's angry clanking of fangs, he used his backpack to push Bodan off the crate, then rummaged in it and spread a map over the rusty surface. "Behold! The crawler's schematics."

"Where in the Spirits' names did you get those?" Anissa raised her brow, calming at once.

"Who do you think assists with repairs?" Ignacy smugly pointed a thumb at his chest, then gestured at the intricate web of pipes spreading from the compartments owned by the Ice Fangs. "Our crawler is far from being the stunning beauty she once was…"

"He," Elzada corrected him. "The Inevitable is a boy. Everyone knows it."

"Believe me, when you hear the song of working gears, the groaning of wondrous circuits, gears, engines, pipes carrying waste, energy flow coming from the engine, you'll agree that this is her and that she has a beautiful voice despite her age." Ignacy dreamily glanced at the ceiling.

"Maybe you could prove it to me, Ignacy." The scout leaned on his shoulder, nibbled at his ear, and whispered: "Just you and me, exploring the machine world to our hearts' content."

"Sure, we can go tonight if you want to," the Wolfkin said, and Elzada clenched her fist in triumph. "Anyway, see the pipes leading to the septic tanks? Both they and the tanks are running on fumes from disrepair. Normally, such a situation should not have occurred, as the waste would have been recycled immediately, but our baby is overcrowded, overworked, and the lack of maintenance has finally bitten us in the ass. Theoretically, if something were to happen to the tanks, the automatic system would flush their contents in both directions, and the Ice Fangs will find their precious dens leisuring in a thick layer of feces and piss."

"The stench alone will be the stuff of legends!" exclaimed Melina, closing her snout to the schematics. "That's bound to cause quite a conniption!" She slapped Ignacy on the back. "It wasn't half-bad to let males learn from the Normies!"

"Won't we be punished?" Kirk asked. The often nervous-looking Wolfkin licked his lips and looked around, as if afraid that Kalaisa would materialize out of nowhere and beat him up.

"Planning to scurry away?" Anissa grinned, her eye shining like a young star.

"No way." The youngster shook his head stubbornly, holding his left paw to keep it from shaking. "They called our pack a bunch of dirty barbarians…"

"Well, they ain't wrong," Kirk's sister giggled, and Elzada lightly elbowed her. "We are dirty. And barbarians."

"Speak for yourself!" Elzada tugged on her sleeveless t-shirt. "I clean myself and wash my clothes regularly."

"Elzada, you wash them in sand."

"Yes!" The scout blinked and pricked up her ears. "Where else am I supposed to do it?"

"The Ice Fangs could've been less of an ass about delivering that statement," Kirk insisted.

"Then it is settled!" Bogdan announced and walked before the gathering, meeting the eyes of the males and bowing to the females. "My kin from different packs and from different parents! We are bound by saltiness and grief!" He clenched his fist, raising it high above his head. "Time to get even! We…"

"And why should I not send you directly to the shamans for punishment?" Janine's voice boomed from the corridor's dynamics. Her calm tone froze everyone present in place. "Warlord Alpha has made her will clear. No fighting outside the arena."

Janine sat in a small operations center, surrounded by displays that showed her everything important inside the crawler. The rejuvenation shot had left her refreshed and full of fresh energy, and the warlord eagerly joined her sisters in carrying out the duties, even if it meant trying to fit her oversized body into a small armchair meant for the Normies.

The short moment of unity after the recent battle was short-lived. Hundreds of Wolfkins from both groups had begged permission to join Onyxia on her scouting mission, and as the number of volunteers grew, heated insults flew back and forth as the Wolfkins and Ice Fangs tried to prove their superiority. Eventually, Onyxia chose First to accompany her, claiming that he alone could restrain her if she went too far in questioning the slavers and, if the rumors were true, at Alpha's direct behest.

Tens of thousands of able-bodied Wolfkins were trapped inside the crawler for weeks on end. To combat boredom, they competed for the right to escort refugees from the ruined settlement to safety, as the claustrophobic corridors of the giant machine took a toll on the morale of the soldiers. The Blessed Mother herself stood as an unmoving statue on the hull of the Inevitable, panting and clutching her head. Warlords and dozens of lesser ranks often joined her, sometimes returning proudly bearing new scars as the Spirits tested the progenitor's sanity, and she lashed out, clawing at those near her.

Fears of enclosed spaces could be overcome. The hardest thing to deal with was boredom.

There wasn't a warlord of her rank who would let her subordinates fool around for too long. In the Wastes, Wolfkins always had an abundance of duties to perform: recon missions, raising young, training, or hunting. A period of peace always led to dominations. And now, with so many packs sharing one den, the arena was never idle.

It was Dragena's idea, and Janine kept kicking herself for not suggesting it first. The warlord requested a sealed hangar bay for the ritual sparring procedures, and Captain Cristobo obliged. Engineers removed the broken machinery, workbenches, assembly lines, and everything else from the hangar and constructed four pits for individual sparring. To the north was a larger platform where entire groups could let loose and hone their skills in free-for-alls or team competitions. Later, workers added bleachers and rudimentary balconies for spectators and judges.

Blood, torn fur, broken fangs, and the remains of claws littered the arena floor. Day and night, scores of Wolfkins fought, biting, snarling, losing, and immediately seeking a rematch. Their cousins joined in the gruesome spectacle. Knight captains engaged wolf hags in individual combat, and an orderly wall of defenders and knights tried to withstand a black tide of warriors and scouts pouring at them. Sages and shamans walked along the edge of the arena, often saving lives by breaking up the fiercest clashes to the dissatisfaction of both sides, as neither was ready to give up.

Wolfkins fought with claws and fangs, closing distances quickly, unleashing a flurry of stabs intending to rupture an artery or deflecting an incoming blow to open their opponent for a bite, and willingly ceding ground to avoid danger. Their ice-blooded cousins used martial weapons. They fought measuredly, trying to adapt to their opponents' nonexistent strategy, and proudly held their ground, masterfully weaving patterns of death in the air. The fighters agreed on one unspoken rule: never maim or aim for the eyes.

Knight captains viewed this situation as madness and pleaded the Wolf Tribe to at least bring in battle knives to the battle. But it was not in the tribe's nature. They seldom relied on melee in a battle, preferring to leave it to the shamans and warlords and use shardguns. It was all the more humiliating for the Ice Fangs to see so many of their own being wheeled into the emergency room with horrific wounds. Not that the Wolf Tribe was without its share of wounded and near-dead.

Warlords Ashbringer and Dragena found the Wolf Tribe's performance lacking. From the opposite side, Leonidas Summerspring and Camilia Wintersong echoed these sentiments, expressing their dissatisfaction at the inability of their proud troops to achieve total victory. The bloody tie pleased Janine. She found joy in witnessing white furs express their familial fury in melee combat, plowing through incoming stabs and bites to render the Wolfkins' bodies immobile with a single swing of their great blades. Earned scars united the warriors. Ravager was the Blessed Mother of the Wolf Tribe and the Ice Fang Order. Neither side was superior to the other. They merely had different roles assigned to them by the Spirits, but at their core, the two groups remained one family.

The arena became a favorite spot for the Normies' regulars and working personnel to unwind and place bets after working hours, as they cheered on their favorite teams. Priests, doctors, and the Iternian clamored for an immediate ban on the violent sport. In a brief show of unity, the Ice Fangs and the Wolfkins failed to understand the reasoning behind such a weird request.

Soldiers eagerly seized any opportunity to assist the crew, and many males, motivated by Ignacy's example, labored in workshops, preparing mobile artillery and repairing combat armor for upcoming battles. Elzada soon joined them, bringing in warriors and scouts from various packs.

Lacerated One happily reported that one hundred fifty-two females were carrying lives, with newly formed soulmates eagerly mating in every corner of the crawler. Unlike Normies, who often gave birth to a single cub, Wolfkin females' litters ranged from four to eight cubs. Even if it was the first or second litter for the life-bearers, it still meant six hundred cubs at worst and a thousand at best. Meaning two hundred potential fighters could be expected to live to adulthood. A very blessed sign.

Desperate at these news, Janine considered crushing her own head, but instead, she accompanied Alpha and Dragena to Ravager. By the progenitor's will, the future mothers were to eat exclusively officer's rations, highly nutritious packages of canned meat and vegetables rich in vitamins. They paled compared to the succulence of a cusack, but Janine ignored the grumbling and cursing directed at her. The bland food could help unborn cubs be born alive, and that was all that mattered. She refused to let anyone repeat her mistakes in carrying the malnourished cubs, and Cristobo and Ravager agreed to her request to send the life-bearers back to the villages, where they could eat and rest in peace. Ashbringer grumbled, unsatisfied that the packs were losing numbers, and claimed the solution to be pointless, but Dragena and Alpha firmly supported Janine's initiative, shutting down any opposition.

To Janine, it didn't matter whether or not Ashbringer was correct. Cubs of the first litter had a better chance of surviving in a stable environment, and she was willing to do whatever it took to give them that chance.

This left the Ice Fangs and the problems they brought. The arena helped bridge the gap between the groups, but outside of it, the distrust persisted. The accident involving Impatient One's self-flagellation, persistent demands for 'truce' from the Mountaintops, and the outrageous demands of several Sword Saints for Janine to meet with Bertruda enraged the packs. Tancred's wound and persistent rumors of the Ice Fangs deliberately hiding in the rear during the war infuriated the Order. Wolfkins of the tribe were baffled that their cousins permitted males to lead, and the Ice Fangs found their black-furred kin's lifestyle abhorrent.

Insults flew back and forth, and soon Bogdan found a stinky grenade by his door that left him smelling of urine for days. Tancred Ironwill discovered the culprits, personally apologized for their childish behavior, and demoted a knight captain and several other knights who were responsible for the peculiar joke. Bogdan hated he hadn't thought of this prank first, more than the smell.

The situation could deteriorate, and the warlords had implemented drastic measures. An open insult aimed at an Ice Fang was worth twenty lashes by a shaman arm. Alpha dealt with anyone who dared assault or bite their cousins outside of the arena. The warlords took turns in the operations centers, monitoring their packs' behavior, and groups of shamans stood ready to stop any troublemakers.

"Warlord!" Bogdan straightened up, looking around for the hidden camera. "There is no need for commendation! We seek no laurels for fixing the drainage system in the Order's dens. The sight of their irritated snouts when they realize who solved their problem is reward enough for us to strive for greatness!"

"Is that so? And you haven't even considered flooding them with the former contents of their bowels?" Janine asked skeptically.

"Perish the thought, Warlord!" Bogdan faked terror. "Your orders are absolute. And we are very obedient soldiers!" The others agreed, and Janine's booming laughter raced through the corridor.

"Fine, fine. If that's the case, go for it. I expect a full report of your splendid success within the hour. And after you've done that, you'll do the same for every other drainage system in our crawler. We can't let them break down on us, can we?" Janine smiled and switched the screen's image.

Ah, the wonders of being young and reckless. If Bogdan had been a girl, she would have encouraged him to pursue a career as a scout. As weak as he was, the boy had a knack for gathering crowds for his mischiefs. And unlike her and Martyshkina's pranks, Bogdan rarely left anyone broken. Still smiling, Janine pressed a button that toggled the display.

In the medical bay, white-furred and black-furred Wolfkins worked together, scrubbing the floor. Aside from friendly banter and the occasional encouragement from the little ones who had recently awakened from their injuries, everything seemed in order here. She switched screens. Arruda was asking Osiris to let her try out his sword gun in his den. Weird, but it seemed innocent enough. Next. Impatient One led a prayer. Several white-furred attended the prayer, kneeling next to the believers and listening to the sermons. No harm in this either, but the absence of Soulless One saddened Janine.

The elder shaman explained that her distrust toward the Ice Fangs was the reason for her absence. She didn't want to offend the spirits with half-hearted prayers, so instead she taught the healthy little ones and several settlers new languages. Soulless One even invited the Iternian, asking him to confirm if her pronunciation of certain words was correct. Janine watched their lessons for a while, finding contentment in the fact that her friend had regained her vigor and spoke in a clear voice, enjoying putting her hobby to use. Next screen.

"I don't get it." The display showed Kalaisa and Anji sitting alone in a dining hall. Kalaisa tossed a bent needle in a trash can. "Why is that night still bothering you? And don't lie! I heard you smashing the mirror."

Kalaisa had fully recovered after the beating; her scapula had regained its shape, and fresh neuro-link implants replaced the ruined ones. The recovery period burned through her internal reserves; her ribs protruded from her skin, and the implants protruded from her fur like overgrown ticks. The wolf hag still visited Janine for advice, but lately she spent more time beside her rival, no longer trying to dominate Anji. The two women were busy sewing the remnants of Kalaisa's several torn garments, spread across the long table, into something resembling a skort and a jacket. Kalaisa cursed as a tremor in her formerly broken arm prevented her from pushing a thread into the ring of a needle, and her finger bent the metal instead.

"Patience," Anji said. She leaned in, helping Kalaisa push the thread in. "We are in no rush. Take it slowly. The spasms will soon be gone. As for your question, I keep wondering if I'd done things differently, if I could have saved more people. And when an idea comes to me, I react," she easily admitted.

"We're killers. Not saviors. Death is what we do," Kalaisa insisted. She released a claw and drew a line in the air, struggling to articulate her thoughts. Then she shrugged, drank a glass of nutrition drink, and returned to the sewing. "Like… You're older than me. Surely you have been involved in a few conquests by now. People die. Get used to it. We'll all die, eventually. Don't overthink it; train, Anji! If your brain is slow, let your physical speed carry you. Concentrate on keeping a tally of dead bastards so the Normies can one day build their peace."

"Thank you for worrying, Kalaisa." Anji smiled, ignoring the bristling. "When I see a dead cub, I keep remembering those rascals I played with when Dad and Mom brought our family to help."

"Tch. Mother, father, brothers, sisters… A princess to the core. Bet they tucked you into a blanket, too." Kalaisa clenched her fist, took a breath, and her shoulders slumped as she relaxed. "Sorry. Was rude."

"Oh, they did. In fact, they still try to do that when I visit home." Anji laughed. "Mom is weird."

"Not weird, good," Kalaisa grumbled. "It was nice, right?"

"It was awesome," Anji admitted, putting her paws over Kalaisa's. "Stop tensing so much. You can do it. Here, let me help. See, this way the pattern will look nice…"

Janine turned off the sound out of respect for privacy. Kalaisa looked a bit more stable than usual… But Janine remembered the look on Kirk's face and the way Kalaisa had treated her family. There was a long way ahead before the gifted fool could be a true pillar for the tribe. Janine tapped her claws together and called Marco to herself.

"M… Warlord!" Marco saluted her.

The events of the past days had left her little time to spend with her son, but her little boy wasn't a slacker, scampering up and down the crawler to help Zero deliver packages from local traders. But a worry kept boring into the warlord's mind. The sight of dead little ones back in the settlement lured her back to the memories of her stillborn daughters and her little cubs, who had perished in the pits. Overwhelmed by her worries, she asked Till Ingo for a particular gift.

It was a modified tracking device used by the Investigation Bureau. Not many things could suppress its signal; even Iternian technology had failed several times to silence the emergency signal when they kidnapped agents for questioning. Janine had to call in owed favors from both the Investigators and Till Ingo to get the device, which was safely encased in a sturdy casing and could be activated at the touch of a button.

"At ease." Janine placed the device in his paw. "Marco, Houstad is a big city, and your family might not be around all the time. If anyone tries to dominate or claw you, press this button. And I will come, no matter what."

"I don't need protection," Marco said, looking down. "I've survived the pits just fine."

Janine left the seat and knelt, taking her son by the shoulders. Traditions and rules called for severe punishment to be meted out to a male who dared to speak back to a female. But she simply hugged him, letting go of the discipline and trying to be a mother.

"We both know it isn't true," she said softly. "Marco, the reason your knees hurt is because of me. It is my fault for ruining your future, for failing your sisters and your brother, for not giving you and them enough vitality to thrive." He tried to speak, and she pressed a finger to his lips. "Colt has asked me to watch over you and your siblings. Permit me this one weakness. If things get scary, call me immediately."

"I am not weak!" Marco shouted. "I understand precisely why you are giving this to me! You think me weak, worthless! Everyone thinks the same! 'Oh, poor Marco, how are your knees? Can you walk today? Why do they make you carry these greaves? They are too heavy for you. Do you need help to carry this box? No, I don't; no, it's not too heavy; and no, I don't need to be pitied or reminded of how useless I am! I... I'm going to be as mighty as you, Ani, and Y..." He gurgled, gasping for air, when Janine closed her paw around his throat.

She rose to her full height, lifting her boy to eye level. A low growl ignited a spark of fear in his gentle eyes. Marco clenched the remote and tried to bare his neck in submission when Janine closed her snout to his, baring her fangs.

"You are not like me or your sisters," Janine said mercilessly. It hurt her heart, but the boy must learn. Either he accepts his harsh place in the tribe, or he makes the right choice and agrees to be exiled and become happy. Janine loosened her grip so that Marco could breathe freely. "No male in our tribe will ever be equal to a female. Such is the will of the Spirits. Do you think we care for you and offer to help because you are weak? Is that it? Because we pity you? We care because we love you. We help because we are a family. And you will always be our family, regardless of whether you are stronger or weaker than your living brothers. Sit." She dropped him and summoned Martyshkina.

Marco obeyed Janine, found himself a place in the corner, and sat quietly, massaging his neck as Janine observed the packs, no longer glancing at him. The warlord paid no heed even to the hilarious chaos happening on the display as the 'repair' team faced unexpected difficulties.

Was that what Marco was thinking? Did he truly believe that his siblings stood by him out of pity for his illness? Spirits, no wonder he thought that; she had taken him from the pits! Her actions were the reason her boy drank richly from the cup of misery. She used him as a glorified delivery boy and failed to emphasize his value as a soldier for the nation. No, Janine had made enough mistakes. She had failed Marco's siblings; she would not hope for the best again. The mistake will be corrected tonight. A lesson was in order—a lesson every cub passed in the pits. It was her responsibility to show Marco just how capable he was, and that the path to soldiering was not barred to him.

"Called?" Martyshkina showed up, pressing two fingers to her temple in a mocking salute. When Janine turned in the chair to meet her, the warlord raised her brows at the sight on the screens. "Jani, mind telling me why our boys and girls are standing knee-deep in shit?"

"By the Spirits, it's everywhere! What the Abyss are they even eating!?" Anissa cried in disgust. "Ignacy, you bastard! You've told us that the pipe will hold!"

"How is this my fault? The ice bastards understated the severity of the situation in the latest report!" Ignacy snapped back.

"Clearly by a lot," Kirk said as he assisted his brother, who had been thrown to the ground by a torrent of brown mass, to get to his feet.

"Ignacy, if I die drowning in this, I swear I will get your ass in the Great Beyond!" growled Zlata.

"Why am I at fault? It was Bogdan's plan!"

"It was a horrible idea to let males learn! They ruined everything as usual!" Melina lamented.

"For once, I agree!" Anissa dug her claws into the wall to keep from slipping into the brown mire.

"Alright, folks, we're facing a literal shitstorm. Gotta work fast before the system flushes the pipes! If we hope to salvage the situation, we can't afford to look bad in the eyes of the Ice Fangs," Bogdan said.

"Not sure about the looks, but we sure as shit smell like... shit," Elzada chuckled.

"Practicing in performing emergency repairs," Janine quickly replied to Martyshkina, standing up and picking Marco up. "Listen, could you take over the watch? I'll owe you one. I have an emergency on my paws, too."

"No problem here." Martyshkina gracefully leapt over Janine and landed heavily in her seat. She put both paws behind her head and watched the displays with a grin. "Is this Zlata trying to clog a pipe over there? For such a show, I am willing to do it for free."

 

[Rookie12]

Massive bastions separated the Core Lands from the Outer Lands. Manned by Provincial Army soldiers and led by retired veterans, these vast, sprawling rivers of reinforced concrete and steel housed every weapon imaginable. Surface-to-air missiles, concealed artillery installations, sniper positions, and even chemical launchers slumbered within the titanic wall.

Not a single scorched mark marred the proud surface. Troops in bunkers scattered across the rocky terrain before the wall repelled any occasional assault. Recon teams regularly ventured into the wildness to alert the defenders should arrays of radars and sensors be fooled. Seismic stations worked tirelessly inside the wall, tracking sand reapers' migrations.

The dividing line between the two regions jarred Janine as the crawler approached the ancient gates, which opened, inviting the troops into the heartland. Bleached sand and rock stretched northward, and a weary traveler would have to find shelter in the shadow of great mountains or have an advanced anti-heat suit to survive more than a day. The rare settlements were built near the mines to reduce the area that the local defense force had to protect.

Ruins of the Old World could be found throughout the Wastes: skyscrapers leaned against mountains, debris from spaceships and space stations was buried underground, and abandoned cities, stripped of everything of value, created an eerie atmosphere for anyone traveling through their wrecked streets and collapsed buildings.

Merchants led long caravans through shortcuts, finding respite in occasional oases where, in the shadows, trees touched by radiation or the glow stubbornly fought to survive. Priests and shamans of many faiths often built their sanctuaries there, safeguarding the new life with words and shotguns.

Villagers often earned tokens by working on farms, places that no longer grew vegetables but produced far more valuable resources. Meat, milk, and hides. Each farm had hundreds of smelly and docile cusacks kept safely within its walls. Cusacks, animals created in the laboratory of the Old World, were omnivorous beasts; their immune systems easily fought off diseases carried by parasites; their tough hides made excellent heat-resistant clothing, and these hides were one of the primary materials used to make survival suits. They bred fast, gave milk in abundance, and survived even severe wounds. When an occasional natural disaster temporarily cut off a part of the Wastes, its inhabitants relied on the farms to survive.

Years of peace softened the population, and the wounded trader or lost traveler no longer faced the shut doors of a settlement. But perils still lurked in these lands. A careless press of a palm against a heated stone or metal resulted in a burn. At night, skinwalkers, the Wolfkins claimed by the Spirit of Rage, prowled the lands, bringing woe to anyone who attracted the attention of these superhuman psychopaths. They often spoke in eloquent languages, only to break into gibberish to surprise their playthings. Driven by pure desires, they could save and damn in equal measure.

Janine once visited a village that worshipped such a fallen sister. The skinwalker fixed a water supply system, unearthed an ancient laboratory, and developed a cure for diseases that plagued the locals. Despite Janine's warnings, the foolish Normies and mutants refused to believe her and worshipped their savior, allowing her to play with her young. A week later, the skinwalker grew tired of playing the benevolent role and nearly massacred the entire village in less than a minute, only to be stopped by the warlord's late intervention. The two fought for hours, but Janine never won this battle; the transformed scout had her fill of brawling and left, regrowing the missing parts of her head.

Madmen, insectoids, predators, monsters, and slave traders' crews hunted in the sands, often attacking settlements or engaging in fierce combat against the state's troops. Quicksand, radiation fields, anomalies, and the Old World's automated defenses waited to claim their share of lives. Sandstorms hurled boulders the size of a full-grown Normie that could spear a house from kilometers away, and occasionally toppled tall buildings that had survived the Extinction. Every little one in villages learned how to treat wounds, stay safe from the sun, and wield a firearm before learning how to write or speak properly. In settlements, the cubs received their first handgun at fourteen.

Every day, long lines of trucks streamed out of the gates, bringing water, prosthetics, fresh soldiers, and medicine to the Outer Lands. And from the Outer Lands, similar caravans moved in, delivering ore and relics found by highly protected excavation facilities, looming citadels that provided the highest paying jobs in the region. The army also escorted doctors from the Core Lands when the need arose.

Such was the Wastes, the most civilized region in the Outer Lands. Further north was the Ravaged Lands, a cesspool of constant infighting and war amongst myriad countries and tribes. The Blood Court warred against the Malformed; hundreds were burned alive monthly to satisfy cruel deities in the lands of the slave nation known as the Soultakers, and rumors abounded of Iron Men, aberrations who willingly shed their bodies to search for the wonders of old under the cover of the fiercest sandstorms. The Dynast's heel had yet to grind these maniacs underneath, and the Reclamation Army focused on subduing the rest of the Wastes and securing the ancient stronghold in the Ravaged Lands.

To the east of the Ravaged Lands lay the borders of Pearl, a fast-growing city-state that thrived under the energetic and cunning leadership of its council, which sold armaments into the Ravaged Lands. Iterna's lands were far to the northwest of the war-torn region, and these mysterious people expanded at a snail's pace. The region known as the Desolation was in the distant north, and somewhere there was the facility from which the Dynast had rescued the tribe.

The Land of the Oath was to the west of the Wastes and the Ravaged Lands, behind an enormously long mountain range. Several heavily fortified mountain passes connected the regions. The Oathtakers and the Reclaimers reluctantly accepted the reality that they could not triumph by the force of arms. Lyudochka, the adopted daughter of Martyshkina and Janine, had foolishly chosen to live there. The two warlords wrote old-fashioned letters to this unique woman, inquiring about her well-being and offering advice.

And beyond the gates, there was another world. Fields of green grass, heavily modified to survive the harsh climate, rolled over the hills to the horizon to the south. Well-maintained paved roads were like blood vessels, teeming with civilian vehicles, unafraid of the monsters lurking behind the wall. Police officers formed a cordon to keep gapers away, but Janine and Marco spotted rare Insectones, mutants, Normies and even Orais in the field, none of them carrying a weapon. These people lived in the town closest to the border, and yet their skins lacked the usual tan.

Night drew close and heavy clouds swirled overhead, and as Janine and Marco jumped from the crawler into the soft grass, they experienced the greatest change. Air. Its breeze didn't carry sand and rock; it was cool, even gentle, so unlike the overheated, lung-choking air of the north. Mother and son crossed the field on all fours, shocked at the lack of parasites amidst the green.

"Mom!" Marco hushed, and Janine stopped. He pointed to drops of water on the stems. "Did someone spill a bucket…"

"No, Marco. Here, water is plentiful." She ruffled his hair and sniffed the air. "Look! There, on a tree!"

"What is it?" Marco asked eagerly, releasing his claws. A small body waved its fluffy tail, attempting to blend in with the tall branches. "A rat?"

"A squirrel, I think," Janine replied, trying to remember what she had learned from the educational materials.

"It has such tiny claws and is so loud, Mom!" Marco laughed incredulously as the squirrel climbed up. "I can hear its breathing from here! How did it survive for so long?"

"The Terraformation Institute had recreated many creatures and released them into the wild," Janine explained. She and Marco walked over to the tree, and with her permission, he placed a paw on its bark, opening his eyes wide as he examined unknown things. "Visual similarities and behavior aside, these animals have little in common with their extinct relatives." Janine raised her arm and caught the leaping animal, ignoring its furious chirping and scratching of feeble paws against her fur. She showed the animal to Marco and threw it back into the tree. "Their muscles are tougher, and their immune system is better, so they won't keel over when a passing wind brings radiation from beyond the wall. The grass and trees have undergone similar changes. Iterna wants to return the world to its original state, but that is no longer possible."

"Why is that, Mom?" Marco asked, touching a flower with a claw and putting the tip in his mouth to taste the dew and scents.

"Marco, you have seen the sand reapers," she laughed and patted him. "There is no return to normalcy after it. The Reclamation Army has embraced the inevitable change, and brave women and men with ingenious minds have improved upon the outdated designs to bring the animals of the Old World to the New. Should the folly of mankind... Our folly cause another extinction; they may yet survive instead of dying out again."

"Why are we here?" Marco asked. "The scenery is awesome, honest! But it is cold here…"

"Endure," Janine ordered him, sniffing the air, taking in countless foreign scents, discarding the unimportant in seconds and concentrating on the serious matter at paw. "Dangers exist even in these parts. And it is your duty to put an end to what threatens tonight."

On the ridge of a large hill, a trio of Normies prepared their equipment to film the passing crawler. Two more approached the Normies from the south. And in the crevices behind the hill, something stirred—something that had burrowed its way from the Outer Lands.

Five bodies appeared in the open, shaking off the rocks and sand from their carapaces and leaving drops of slime to navigate their way back. These were insectoid drones—creatures that stood on six stork legs. Their limbs were deceptively thin, but their sharp points splintered rock; a bullet could ricochet off the chitin covering their bodies, and protruding mandibles could bite off the arm of even a female Wolfkin. The drones reached a meter in length.

Back in the pits, the drones served as practice targets for the cubs. Under the supervision of warriors and shamans, the little black-furred rascals hunted down the drones, scoring their first kill and earning a blessed reward from the power. The exercise served more than a simple show of strength; the weak and the feeble learned to work together, and the strong learned to be shields.

Janine played the role of a protector tonight. She wore simple cargo pants and was shivering from the cold of the Core Lands. Marco crept to the edge of a canyon, donned in the pantlegs of a basic suit that completely encased his legs and extended up to his waist. Bundles of artificial muscles tightly overlapped the fur on his legs, like a second skin. Janine had no luck finding gear so small in the armory, so she visited Sword Saint Camelia for help, who gladly obliged by calling the girl Marco often played with, who had a similar physique. Parts of Cordelia's initiate suit adorned Marco's legs.

Janine rarely had to treat wounds herself. She knew the basics, of course: how to stop bleeding and clean a stomach from poison, what medicine to use against venom, and how to set a dislocated bone. She no longer trusted herself to operate on a wounded or sick person unless the situation demanded it. It wasn't just a lack of practice. When her fingers grew so big enough that she risked accidentally tearing her daughters' mouths apart during the removal of a bad fang… She understood she should shut up, swallow her pride, and ask for help.

But Janine still browsed medical tutorials and learned about how mechanical exoskeletons provided relief in cases involving broken or brittle bones. Unfortunately, the constant over-reliance on the machines will cause Marco's condition to deteriorate gradually, but she hadn't planned on forcing him to wear the metal for months. When set to power save mode, the pantlegs did not give Marco an unfair advantage, but kept his knees and joints from bothering him too much.

"Five," Marco gulped nervously, grasping the knives' handles, and Janine nodded in approval. Male Wolfkins had weaker claws and fangs, so they were permitted to use weapons during the Rite of Passage. Many forgot or were too ashamed to use this privilege, earning themselves pain and humiliation. Marco was wiser. "Isn't it a bit too much?"

"If you fail, the people on the ridge will die," Janine said cruelly, holding both paws behind her back. "You can do it. Marco," she reassured him calmly as he nervously stepped to the edge. "Take a deep breath. You have plenty of time; this is not a race. Your opponents are insects; they have a rudimentary intelligence, but in the end they are ruled by instinct. They are prey, lacking creativity, and you are a hunter, trained since birth. Start with a distraction. Plan for what you are going to do afterwards. There are many tools around us, ready to be wielded by our bodies. Aim your blows at their vulnerable parts." Janine smiled when she saw a flash of understanding in Marco's eyes. She avoided giving him any direct hints about the upcoming hunt to preserve his pride. Spirits were her witnesses; her and Marty's process had been a messy one, but they had learned to be better over the years. "Good. Believe in yourself and stay cautious. Now feast to save the vulnerable, male of the Wolf Tribe."

 

[Rookie12]

Marco rose to his full height, biding his time as he sniffed the air. Janine watched with pride as his eyes scanned the battlefield, measuring the width of the crevice, noting unstable rocks and the position of his prey. He twirled the knives, exhaled, and waited for the critters above to pass a bit further, so one of the risky stones would be over the last one. Panic washed out of his eyes, replaced by a deep, unsatiated hunger.

He leaped forward, unbothered to conceal the sound. Janine tilted her head, fully focused on being ready to come to his aid. The claws on her legs dug into the ground, dragging up rocky parts. Five could be a tad difficult for the first hunt, even though the entire family had trained Marco in their own unique ways.

The drones stopped in their tracks, turning to face the source of the sound. Marco's feet crashed into the opposite wall, causing another loud boom and dislodging the unstable stone. In a somersault, he landed ahead of the confused drones, burying his knives under the head of the front one, right into the joint where the chitin armor left a slit to permit the neck's mobility. Twisting his weapons, the Wolfkin severed nerves and tore them out, retreating just in time to evade scything blows. One fell.

Stones and earth thundered from above, smashing against the carapace. The drones halted their attack, believing they were under attack from more than one foe, and a knife flew from Marco's paw, landing directly in the round, black cluster of an eye. The insectoid let out a shriek as it tried to reach for the jammed weapon, and Marco closed the distance, kicking at the handle to send it even deeper. He grabbed the handle of the knife with his toes and dove to the left, falling so that the stabs aimed at him would pierce the stone. His quick movement wrenched the knife from the dying drone.

Stone and dust unleashed briefly hid Marco, but Janine's hearing helped her to visualize what happened in this chaos. Two drones continued to lurk behind, searching for the non-existent assailant. Meanwhile, the last drone tried to spear Marco and then mount him, misinterpreting his fall as a mistake. However, it missed its first attack and three of its legs slammed into the wall above the boy's head. Marco punched with his free arm, lifting the drone before the long mandibles could close on his snout.

Clever. Janine wanted to clap but held herself back. Her son didn't panic, not even when the sharp debris hit him or when the drone pushed him to the ground. All too often, little ones would mindlessly lash out in situations like this and get bogged down in their inability to pierce the chitin armor. But in throwing his opponent off himself, he not only gave himself enough time to pick up the knife from his leg, but also exposed the vulnerable underbelly.

Both blades slipped between the armor joints, and Marco pushed his arms further, rupturing the organs. Ripping his weapons free, he stabbed again and again, throwing the convulsing body onto its back, mercilessly slashing and rending the insectoid, cutting off its legs until the thing was dead. He raised his head, alerted by the tapping of needles against the ground, and rushed away, escaping the incoming stabs that pierced the veil of sand.

What a wonderful boy. Janine admired his planned retreat as he led his pursuers to the wall best suited for scaling up. Thirty seconds, three dead bodies. Sure, most girls would have slaughtered a dozen by now, but only Bogdan and Ignacy had surpassed Marco's record, and his older brothers had cheated by abusing their right to bear arms. The two idiots had brought a crate of explosives to the training session, cratering the field and laughing like maniacs.

"Correct, Marco," Janine quietly praised him for not getting disoriented. Marco had planned his escape to achieve more than one goal. Even now, the drones had moved away from the Normies. Marco gained the distance, sheathed his knives, and climbed up, groaning from the pain in his knees.

The drones followed. Tiny, barely visible sticky hairs covered their stalk-like legs, allowing the creatures to traverse up even over the flat surface. The crevice's uneven surface was child's game for them, and soon they gained on Marco, their black clusters fixated on his legs. The mandibles opened to bite him…

Marco springboarded off the wall, screaming from the pain that shot through his knees while simultaneously laughing, pleased to be in control of the situation. In free fall, he flew past the first bug and mounted the second, landing his knives in its eyes and killing it instantly. The drone above him jumped down and crashed into the falling bodies of its comrade and Marco, who blocked two slices aimed at his neck. The three bodies hit the ground with a thud and Marco rolled to the side, preparing for the onslaught of the charging drone.

His leg buckled, his knee no longer could support him despite the medication and relief provided by the mechanical exoskeleton. Marco clenched his teeth, realizing he couldn't evade the stab targeting his right eye.

The ground exploded beneath the warlord as she sprang to the fighters, taking the blow to her own wrist. The sharp blades didn't even penetrate her hide, and Marco counterattacked, cutting the drone's neck. Janine calmly stood aside, waiting for her joyously shouting boy to circle around the wounded bug. He constantly pestered the thing with feints, and when the drone tried to retreat back into the tunnels, he cut one of its long legs. The wounded creature made one last attack but missed, and the knives ended its life in a violent rain of stabs.

"Mom, I've made it!" Marco gasped, breathing hard from excitement.

"Of course you did. You are a descendant of the Blessed Mother, a son of the Wolf Tribe. Murder is in your blood. The thought of you failing has never crossed my mind. Five at the cost of an eye is rather good for the first time." Janine picked up the most intact corpse. "Tell me, what were your mistakes?"

"I forgot that they could leap off the walls, forgot how heavy they are, and overestimated my limits," Marco replied, and Janine broke a corpse over his head in two, showering her son in a white ichor. Her son opened his arms and basked in the waters of acceptance, a smile never leaving his lips. Then he whined a little and tried to massage his legs through the artificial fiber muscles.

Janine knelt down to help. They pushed aside the tight bundles of fibers to reveal his swollen skin, thankfully devoid of any cracks. Janine tore off a piece of the insectoid and gave it to Marco to feed on, using the gel Maxence had given her to ease the cramps and reduce the swelling.

"I feel weird." Marco blinked away tears and grabbed his sides. "As if I am about to pop."

"It is normal." Janine pressed two fingers against his neck, sensing his expanding carotid artery. "Ravager's gift has been activated in you, son. The power has rewarded you, and your body is undergoing a bit of reconstruction, growing stronger and tougher. It's scary the first time, but don't resist it; the doctors will check you up later."

Doctors… Janine tasted the idea in her mouth. Wolfkins didn't like to ask the medical staff for help, but didn't the doctors cure Janine's condition? Surely, there must be an abundance of medical clinics in Houstad. If cloned limbs and even rudimentary genetic enhancements are now available for the wealthy, there had to be a cure for Marco's underdeveloped condition. But what will the shamans say?

Who gives a crap? Her inner voice replied in a mocking Terrific tone. Not like they'll kill me or Marco. Clearly, the Spirits themselves put the idea into the shit pot you call the head. Act and repent later, idiot.

"Well done. Congratulations on passing your initialization, Marco. No, hold back your howl," she told him. "Let's go meet the people. Keep your right eye closed for a day to remember the mistake."

She gave Marco a little more time to rest his knees while he cleaned his weapons to prevent rust from settling in. Once the deed was done, the family climbed from the crevice together and for the ridge, where they came face to face with a group of scared Normies.

They looked unusual by the standards of the Outer Lands. Two men and a woman, dressed in simple white linen shirts, pants, and bright jackets that simply screamed for the attention of predators, set up a camera set and filmed the passing crawler and the columns of the Third Army. They all wore yellow armbands identifying them as press, and one man held a microphone. Upon spotting the Wolfkins, the people instinctively froze in place, their noses wrinkling in response to Marco's odor.

"Peace." Janine raised her paws, showing that she meant no harm. "What are you doing here at such a late hour?"

"We're from the Sights Unseen!" The man showed Janine a press pass with a trembling hand. "We came here to report about the army's movement. You guys..."

"I'm female…" Janine interrupted.

"Figure of speech, lady, sorry," the man said. "You people made quite a splash! Won a war! Saved a settlement on the way to vacation! Care for a private interview?"

"Sights Unseen?" Marco stood on his toes, looking curiously at the people, forgetting the pain in his knees. "What's that?"

"Press. Journalists. Very evil people who want to make the Blessed Mother and us look bad. These psychos risk their lives to film things, and then they lie and twist the truth for views. They also have strange morals, like that Iternian who rides in our crawler. Don't talk to them, or they'll portray you as a monster in a news report," Janine cautioned him, positioning herself in front of her son to shield him from the camera. "You should've been more careful. There were insectoids in the cracks leading up to this hill."

"Iternian?" The man blinked. "I take it he is a reporter too? Can you ask him…"

"She is lying!" The woman snapped angrily.

"Ask for a dialog, Lizzy," another man said, licking his lips nervously.

"But she is bullshitting him! Kid, we have no intention of harming your image or anything else. We bring the truth to the people." The woman smiled kindly. "If it won't be too much, would you answer a few…"

"Truth comes in many forms." Janine snorted. "Wolfkins are kidnapping people in the middle of the ritual for unknown reasons. Locals fear the worst," she recited a headline from one of the most humiliating episodes in her career.

Janine was young and foolish then, and she had no idea how wicked the reporters could be. So she had revealed herself and chatted with the strange people who were filming the aftermath of Wolfkin's escort of the freed prisoners to safety. The police and army units then took action to peacefully subdue the cultists, completing the two-stage operation. A few days later, the newspaper spread far and wide, suggesting cannibalism on the wolf hag's part. Martyshkina and even Terrific never let her live this one down, and she had worked twice as hard to convince the locals that she didn't take civilians away to devour. It had been harder back then, since she had regularly enjoyed a healthy diet of torn raiders' limbs.

"That…" The woman bit her lip. "Okay, fair. But Sights Unseen issued an official apology for the misleading article and fired the asses of the bastards responsible for it. You can't hold it against us forever..."

"Try me," Janine said.

"It was decades ago! I wasn't even in a project back then! Woman, what is your problem... Wait, what was it about the insectoids?" The reporter stuttered. "You are joking, right? Here, of all places?"

"I am afraid they are not!" A cheerful voice spoke. "You can check the crack; the corpses are still warm."

Two men came up the hill. One was tall and muscular, a clear New Breed from his height alone. The business suit and bulletproof vest underneath didn't restrict his movement at all, and his face was scarless. He had rough features, as if someone had carved him out of a slab of stone, but he kept his gaze fixed on Janine, deducing her as the main threat. A bodyguard. She relaxed, respecting his concern for his employer.

The other man was a head shorter than his companion; he carried an archaic laser shotgun slung over his leather jacket. He was dressed for the weather, in thick pants and a turtleneck. His keen, gray eyes looked over Janine, and the warlord returned the gesture. She had seen this person before, but where? Because of her long life, her memory sometimes played tricks on her, and now it was doubly annoying. The stooped posture, a head slightly forward... A traveling merchant, perhaps?

"Sir…" The journalist choked on her words, while her colleagues quickly turned the camera to film the man. "D… D…"

"No need to be official. Just call me Daniel." The man waved his hand, and his bodyguard put a hand over the camera lens, covering a distance of thirty paces in a single movement. His legs did not tear the grass; the man had precision and excellent speed. No, a traveling merchant could hardly afford such a quality servant. "I… somewhat own property in these parts and came to meet a friend tonight when my bodyguards warned about an intrusion. We wanted to settle it like in the miserable old days, but thank the Planet, you've already done it." He bowed to Janine, and she relaxed. There wasn't even a hint of aggression emanating from the man's scent.

"Marco did it, not I." Janine nodded at her son, never once letting her gaze leave the man. "Have you been to the Outer Lands recently, by any chance, sir?"

"My line of work carries me everywhere. But for the past few decades, I have regrettably remained in the Core Lands." Daniel glanced at the wall. "How bad is it there?"

"Could be worse." Janine shrugged. "Life improves, step by step. A bakery has opened. At least we blood sacrifices are no longer such a nuisance." She wanted to pin the female reporter to the ground with a hard stare, but the woman ignored her, concentrating fully on Daniel.

Probably a famous farm owner or has some kind of criminal connections. Janine decided.

"Sir, we better clear the area." The bodyguard spoke for the first time. "We are exposed here."

"Exposed? Where else can we be safer than in the presence of a warlord?"

"Know about the tribe, I gather?" Janine asked.

"Duty demands no less of me." Daniel put a hand to his chest and addressed Marco. "I know nearby farmers if you want to take a shower. And have them check your eye."

"No need. The eyes are fine, and this is an honor." Marco smiled and slapped a soaked white paw across his chest. "I became a real man tonight, mister!"

"A smelly man." The farm owner pitched his nose, but then flashed a smile and came closer, bowing gracefully to the boy. "Congratulations, Marco! May you see many joyful years!" He turned his head to look at the crawler. The massive machine moved steadily on the widest road, reserved specifically for military transport. Its many projectors created pillars of light amidst the dark clouds overhead. "It's a beautiful sight, isn't it? Soldiers are coming home, and weapons are moving to rest. A glimpse of the future to come."

"Worth dying for," Janine said.

"Worth fighting and living for, Janine," Daniel corrected her.

"I don't remember giving you my name, sir." Janine narrowed her eyes. That she knew this man but couldn't remember him infuriated her to no end. A former enemy who had changed his ways? An allied mercenary?

"Oh, but you did. Several times, in fact." Daniel shook her wrist. "I wish you peace and happiness, Warlord Janine. Welcome to the Core Lands, I hope you will like it here."

"Thank you… Daniel," Janine forced herself to say his name. Her instincts were running wild inside her body. She sensed no threat from the man; instead, she saw him as a long-lost tribal member who had stopped by to say hello. At the same time, something inside her urged her to remain professional with him. Leaving the questions for later, she placed her hand on Marco's shoulder. "Everyone is safe. Howl to your heart's content."

And so he did. With his fiercest howl yet, Marco threw his head up, filling the skies with a sound of happiness, gratitude for acceptance, and a promise to protect and serve. His voice trembled a little, but Janine was proud of him. Females always practiced their howls in secret; that was why they sounded so bombastic when they passed the test. There is beauty in honesty. And she gave birth to this honesty.

A bone-chilling howl erupted from seemingly everywhere around them, causing the journalists to fall to their knees and cover their ears. The bodyguard jumped in front of Daniel, suspiciously scanning the plains and hills. Janine's ears heard the stomping of two dozen more legs closing in on the hill. More bodyguards fast approached from afar.

Marco's howl sounded like a trickle of water, whereas the newcomer's howl was an avalanche, a wrath of nature personified, so terrible and divine that it shook the nearby trees, bending them under the force of the unleashed air. Before the camera could fly away and hit the rocks, Janine caught it.

Blessed, truly. The Blessed Mother accepted Marco in person. Janine did not know why Ravager wasn't in the crawler, and she didn't care. She hugged her son, thanking the Spirits for this gift. When she stood up, she saw that a part of her white ichor and gore had been licked off Marco's shoulder, and wet drool covered his black fur in its place. And on the ground behind him were four gigantic footprints.

 

[Rookie12]

"Feeling better?" Janine asked as Daniel led the reporters to the main road.

"Yes, Mom." Marco answered, proudly throwing glances at his shoulder. "I'll never clean myself again."

"Just try it, and I'll kick your ass." They stood side by side for a while, enjoying the night's air and the surrounding calmness. When they went back to the crawler, Janine seated her son on her shoulders. "Marco, you are not weak or useless. You are simply weaker than me and can't do everything on your own. And that is okay. I, too, don't know half of what Ignacy knows. Nor can I crack vulgar jokes like Bogdan can, and frankly, I don't regret it. There are tons of Normies who are weaker than you. Do you believe they should feel bad about us protecting them? Do you consider them worthless?"

"No," Marco replied quietly, hugging her neck.

"You are not a loser. A loser is someone who never tries to do anything out of fear of failure. You are trying your best. Just because you can't become as strong as Anissa or me does not devalue you as a person. I trusted Colt with my back, even though he was weaker than me. And he never failed, always protecting those close to him with a well-placed shot." Janine blinked away the memories. "You will grow stronger in time. But strength alone won't bring you calm. Stop fixating on what you can't do. Socialize, party, find a mate, stand by your comrades, learn, hone your skills, and live happily. Then you will truly bury your fears. And… The offer still stands if you want to… you know, live a normal life."

"No," Marco replied quietly. "I want to serve and protect the people."

"The police in the Core Lands serve and protect. Or so I heard," Janine remarked. "And the regulars are full of brave women and men. They sacrificed their lives to protect Just Peachy and its people. Do you think less of them?

"No. But they are not like us. They wait for the bad guys to come while we go into the wild lands, overthrow the oppressors, and hunt down the bastards who have harmed our people. We prevent future tragedies, and this is who I want to be," the boy whispered.

"Then I shall speak no more of it, Marco." Janine dropped the subject. "You are a male of the tribe."

A droplet of water hit her temple, and she looked up, facing the pouring water from the clouds above. Janine opened her jaws wide, ignoring being viewed as silly, and stuck out her tongue, tasting the pleasantly clean water, free of radiation and toxins.

"What's this, Mom?" Marco asked, standing on her shoulders. "Why is the sky crying? Is one of the terraforming facilities nearby damaged or something?"

"I believe it's called rain, Marco." Janine smiled, raising her paw.

It boggled the mind and defied imagination. Once, nothing but sand, rocks, ruins, and corpses covered this place. Cruel sandstorms reigned supreme, fearlessly fighting to topple emptied cities and reduce everything to dust and ash. Yet life returned—water from the skies; animals, plants and insects populated the once-desolate regions; and humans too were here! Their sacrifices were not in vain. Her sons and daughters… They gave their lives for the right cause; Janine was sure of it.

"Marco."

"Yes?"

"Ignore the punishment. Use both eyes. Watch and remember."

The rain was cold, and the mother raced in full haste to the crawler, carrying Marco atop her shoulders and joining her laughter to his as they sought to reach the cover. Janine briefly begged the Spirits to leave some deserts in the world to come. Normies might like it, but Wolfkin preferred the heat.

****

"Are you sure you're okay?" Cordelia asked him.

Marco gave her a sideways glance, and she tapped his jacket. The two cubs sat beneath a cannon's barrel, shielding themselves from the rain. The rain drummed over the steel, but puddles and streaks of water flowed down from the crawler's edge without soaking them.

Cordelia wore a lightweight, not fully zipped underarmor that left her paws and feet exposed to the night air. The silver and gold amulet of her house was visible through the opening in the chest of her suit. After she helped him take off his "crutch," he was forced to take a shower. Cordi also wanted to force him to take a bath, but Marco never trusted a body of liquid that could completely submerge him. He dressed himself in double jackets, two sets of thick pants, heavy boots, and gloves, and pulled a hoodie over his head. Open pizza boxes purchased from the cooks separated them, and the two dangled their legs over the edge, unbothered by a lack of guardrails, enjoying the wonders of the Core Lands.

"Course I am!" Marco tossed a knife in the air and caught it, sending the weapon into a spin. He moved the still spinning blade between his palms, increasing the speed until he could see only a blur, then suddenly hid it in the sleeve of his jacket and raised his arms.

Yenni gave him his first knife: a hooked blade fashioned from a dead insectoid warrior's leg. His big sister taught him to respect and not be afraid of the impeccably sharp edge, and later Ignacy, Anissa, and Bogdan gifted him a full set of brand-new daggers for his birthday.

Weapons were cool. Short-range cold weapons, long-range rifles and pistols, explosives, wires, gases... They helped negate the handicap he was born with, and unlike his useless legs, they moved exactly as he wanted them to and never failed him.

"Left!" Cordelia smiled smugly, and Marco sighed, sheathing the knife. It was impossible to fool her.

"See? Fine! Why do you ask?" Marco swallowed a slice of pizza.

"Try chewing first, dummy!" Cordelia laughed.

"No time!"

"Why?"

"Cuz I want to eat a larger share!" He wasn't lying. The crust of the pizza baked in the Core Lands was soft, smooth, and the spices and sauce made his head spin with pleasure, as did the meat and olives! He had never tasted anything like it!

"You're weird," she accused him. "Layers of layers of clothing… Are you genuinely not sweating in there? If this is some manly act of defiance, then I suggest dropping it at once. I am impressed."

"Nope, no act. Are you not freezing your ass out here?" Marco asked, dumbfounded, how Cordelia could ignore the chilly wind and such a low temperature.

He lied a little. The cold was annoying and unusual, but he had pulled on such large pants to hide his swollen, bandaged knees, ashamed of being afraid that his friend would pity him or, worse, find him weak.

"The weather is awesome!" Cordelia stretched herself and untied a ribbon to loosen her gorgeous white hair, accentuated by occasional darkly dyed strands. "I thought I was going to roast alive in this hell in the north. There wasn't a night in the field when I didn't wake up drenched in sweat."

"Ah, so that is why you were so good at wrestling out of a hold, Icicle," Marco teased.

"I haven't been sweating all day, Dusty!" she argued.

"Sure, sure." He grinned. "It is cool if you like bitter cold. I am glad that you enjoy being here."

"Thanks, and it's not bitter. You'll get used to it, softie!" She tugged at his ear, and he returned the favor. The two stopped fighting, grabbing the dangerously shaking pizzas before they could fly down. "You've grown. A little. How was it?" Cordelia's crimson eyes flashed. "Taking a life? Was it scary?"

"Not sure." Marco scratched furiously at his temple, trying to find words. "It should be scary. I was scared when I saw those bugs. I forgot half of everything I was taught about combat or what I learned from our spars, but then… It clicked. All I thought about was not my safety, not my fear, but concern for people who couldn't protect themselves." He looked down at his paws, moving his fingers, and wondered where the knowledge of how to strike had come from. "It was as if I had become a machine, going through the motions."

"Experience! Sometimes I block a blow from an incoming flurry of blows before I can even see it. I just somehow know it's coming." Cordelia snapped her fingers. "Thank the Planet you're safe."

"Can I tell you something super weird?" Marco asked, and Cordelia nodded. "Promise not to laugh!" The girl moved an imaginary key to her lips, locked the invisible lock, and tossed it away. "I did good tonight. I know it, and Ignacy and Yenny confirmed it. But I still think Mom thinks I should go into exile."

Cordelia's fingers formed a question mark, and Marco nodded, confirming that she could speak. The girl made a show of prying her jaws free from the invisible chains, drawing a chuckle from Marco. They bumped into each other by chance, and their friendship grew out of a heated argument about who should apologize to whom. Cordi was from the Sunblade family, the most influential household in the Order, and she was a direct descendant of First's grandchildren. However, Cordi's sclera lacked palest gold, and she explained that her mother had mixed her Wintersong heritage into the Sunblade line, resulting in a less pure bloodline than other scions. She was the one who pulled him by the ear to introduce him to the initiates, after learning that he had no friends his age. When they sparred, she ate his punches with a fortitude worthy of a Wolfkin, not a lady.

"You totally should get exiled," Cordelia said, tossing aside the imaginary restraints. "I can ask Grandmaster First. I'm sure he'd welcome you."

"Will your household really accept a Wolfkin?" Marco asked.

"Sure!" Cordelia rolled her eyes at the doubt in his eyes, jumped to her feet, and walked around the edge. Suddenly, her legs intertwined, and the girl stumbled.

Marco forgot about the pain in his knees or the tasty pizza in his paw. He leapt to his feet faster than ever, grabbed the girl's wrist and arrested her fall before she could tumble down. A slice of pizza fell, splashing first against a lower deck, and then the wind and rain swept it onto the tread, turning the food to mush.

"Aren't you afraid of falling to your death?" Marco snapped into the calm and mischievous crimson eyes.

"Why should I be afraid when my distant 'cousin' is ready to catch me?" A cheeky grin appeared on Cordi's snout; her hair blowing in the wind, and then he saw she was holding on to the edge of the platform with her toes. Cordi accepted Marco's help to get back on the deck and took him by the paw, raising it above her head: "See? Reliable! Of noble birth. Knows how to fight. A gentleman. What more could the grandmaster want?" She gracefully spun around, as if she and he were dancers at a ball, and the two sat down again. Cordelia began curling her fingers. "We have video games, soft beds, beauty parlors, TVs, smart teachers, treats, parties, comfortable clothes, and cool swords!" The girl elbowed him. "Join the decadent side, Marco; we have pizzas and equality."

"Equality? Is that why you have to dress as a maid and serve refreshments to the sword saint?" Marco asked innocently.

"That's to show respect and learn the manners of a high society! To be able to command, you must first know how to obey! You never know when you'll need the knowledge of how to clean dishes, discern a high-quality wine from a cheap beverage, or how to keep your mouth shut during negotiations…"

"Excuses," Marco stretched the word and dodged a smack.

"Marco, I swear, if you make fun of my attire, I'll bite you!" Cordelia pouted.

"You look adorable and pretty in a long skirt. Dark and white suits you." Marco blushed from embarrassment the moment the words left his mouth. In truth, he was jealous. A little. Cordi somehow managed to be splendid no matter the outfit, and he felt dirty and clumsy in his tattered jackets and patched pants. "I am not lying!" he added hastily. "You are cute even in that funny dress of yours!"

"It's called a gown, silly." Cordelia slipped a paw underneath his arm. "Oh, Marco. You have seen nothing truly glorious yet! But we'll fix that! As soon as Warlord Janine gives her permission, I will take you on a tour of Houstad! Ice cream, parks, game clubs, fast food, fishing, fencing, boxing, comic shops… Swimming! You know how to swim, right? No? Don't worry, you'll learn right away!"

"Cordi, please no, I'll drown!" Marco begged desperately.

"Silly, we, and the instructors, will be nearby. Nobody sends unprepared kids into danger alone." Her crimson eyes briefly sparked, unnaturally bright, and then regained their usual color. "I'm going to introduce you and the initiates to all my friends! We'll have so much fun!"

"Sure, but…" he shrugged, looking down at the caterpillar track. Cordi kept her questioning gaze locked on him, and the boy admitted it in a hushed voice. "I don't have any tokens left. I gave my last ones to pay for my share of pizzas tonight. Had to move crates to earn them, and there's no more work to be done to earn more."

"Don't you get pocket tokens from your mother?"

"We really don't get anything like that. Sure, my family gives me treats, but the tribe expects the cubs to earn their own tokens to spend on entertainment."

"Then why did you insist on splitting the pizza fee?"

"It wouldn't be fair if you had to pay for them alone!"

Cordelia froze; her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. Then she narrowed her left eye, and a tick appeared in the corner. Marco imagined her brain as a cogwheel and saw it grinding to a halt, jerking, twitching, unable to turn. It frightened him and he was about to call someone when she sighed and said: "Braindead mule… Eh, it's my fault; I should've thought of it when I heard your shamans were refusing payment. Still stupid, Cordi, still too stupid… Relax, will you?" She slapped him on the back. "I'll ask Mother and Miss Camelia for a credit card. What's the point of being noble if you don't unwind occasionally?"

"I can't let you or my mom be in debt …"

"Not listening! We are going to buy you clothes, a game console…"

"I have a beret!"

"And it is a very nice beret, Marco," she agreed in a honeyed voice. "But a proper cap will let your lovely ears stand straight. Then a brand new terminal, boxing gloves, no offense, but your right hook hurts, and I prefer something softer to connect with my poor cheeks…"

"Cordi, I am serious; I'll never be able to repay…"

"La-la-la, I'm spoiling Marco, and that's final!" Cordelia laughed and pointed to the horizon. "Look! The town's outskirts!"

Marco followed her finger and gasped. Ahead, on the slope of several hills, light shone. It came from buildings, cars on the streets, lampposts, and working stores. Multicolored lights, yellow, red, and green, blended into a faint halo that formed a rainbow over a town, banishing the dark despite a late hour. He could see figures walking unafraid, dressed in casual clothes, untroubled by the threat of the sun.

"It's…" Unable to find the words, he rose to his toes and pressed his fingers to his chest, feeling so small, so insignificant, and yet so happy. This was the Dynast's will, the reason why the Wolf Tribe fought, and the answer to every life lost. The restored glory of the Old World, a shadow of the dawn of the united world, where no family would ever go hungry again. "… so amazing," he finished his thought, understanding that he couldn't do justice to the scene. "Is Houstad the same?"

"The same?" Cordelia stood beside him, placing a paw on his shoulder. "Houstad is a metropolis, Marco. If this boondock is what counts as amazing to you, then prepare to be awestruck, my friend."

 

[Rookie12]

"Here are our birdies," mused Hryhorij, peering from behind a steel beam.

Piam pressed two fingers to her lips, saying nothing. The magnifying lens of her artificial eye pierced the darkness, catching distant cars approaching the construction site. A lone guard on the night shift jumped to his feet, hastily opened the gates, and then had to leap away to avoid being hit by the gate as the front vehicle accelerated and smashed it open.

Pompous idiots. Piam calmly concluded, observing no dent on the six-wheeler. If one knew where to look, one could glean information from anything, and the agents of the Investigation Bureau weren't known for their laxity. The civilian vehicle had a bulletproof alloy coating, and the flames painted on its side, surrounded by golden shapes, revealed the newcomers as members of the Benguigui family, useful rats who benefited from Houstad's thriving industry in exchange for keeping the underworld clean. For a long time, the Bureau had turned a blind eye to their little business.

A kindness that might be withdrawn tonight.

"Raffy boy," Hryhorij stated the obvious, as a yawning man in a light-toned brown business suit stepped out of the middle car.

Raffy Benguigui, Tony's current eldest son, had lost his handsome looks. The skin around his eyes sagged, the corners of his lips turned downward despite his attempt at a contemptuous smirk as he snapped to send the guard away. Long years of unrestricted alcoholic and narcotic addiction had taken their toll, staining his once yellowish skin. But he moved easily, unaided by any augments.

A larger shape clung to the man from behind, an Orais brute dressed in a studded leather biker suit that left his tattooed forearms exposed. His head was hidden by a helmet, and the man knuckle-walked on his four-fingered hands. Fiery streaks flew from between his knuckles, and Piam nodded, satisfied with the quality of the report. Tony's enforcer, able to wield flames thanks to his power. Arrived illegally, responsible for four assaults; his latest victim is in the hospital, horribly burned.

"The Benguiguis need to be trimmed," she stated. Tony Benguigui swore he had no idea about his goon's whereabouts. A lie. Who knew how many others he had told?

"Eighteen." Hryhorij clicked his tongue, counting the number of guards who left the opulent vehicles. "And I don't even know half of them."

"Neither do they," Piam replied. Most of the rabble carried shotguns and automatic pistols. They formed a circle around the entrance into the unfinished parking lot, standing guard as Raffy, the Orais, and two of his minions stole inside. "They don't want them to see what's going to happen. Your hunch was right."

The Investigation Bureau was on full alert in preparation for the Third's arrival. Recovery was the official reason. In reality, the Dynast and Commander Devourer wished to also civilize the Wolf Tribe. The best way to do this was to introduce their younger generations to the goods of civilization to stimulate a gradual and controllable change. The Bureau's civil specialists had great expertise in introducing the Orais tribe into the nation's life, and they were ready to repeat that feat, smoothing out the rough edges and misunderstandings that will inevitably arise between the locals and the Wolfkins.

The field agents spread around the city, infiltrating every den, forcing every snitch to spill the beans. Sixteen would-be shooters, young fools hungry for fame, were arrested. Four were burned alive as examples, two were recruited, and the rest were sent to prison. Twenty cases of police corruption were reported and solved; the Bureau spared several idiots who now served as double agents, informing the agency of the families' actions. Terrorists tried to prepare bombings; there was a rapid spark in violent crime and the delivery of highly addictive drugs… Too many people thought that the massive event would distract the Bureau.

Houstad had a long history of tolerating petty crimes for the sake of preventing tragedies. Anti-mutant and anti-immigrant movements, bigots who stirred up troubles by rallying fools against the New Breeds, rowdy criminals, drug dealers, flesh trade—the head criminal syndicates reported it, and in exchange, the mayor kept his eyes and ears closed to illegal contraband and occasional snatched construction bids.

But Hryhorij, Planet bless him, had spotted a curious pattern. The Benguigui family acted queer. Their thugs stumbled around, photographing the northern power plant, streets, and even the city's hall. Rather than peddling soft drugs or harassing their debtors, they joined a guided tour of the plant. Next, they discovered an unusual contraband: two all-terrain vehicles plated with pure gold alloy and encrusted with gems, capable of achieving the speed of a high-powered racing car, despite their remarkable weight. And the last piece of the puzzle was at this construction site.

The families cried and whined to the mayor about Murzaliev Construction, Sunblade Corporation, Ironwills Restoration, and Wintersong Renovation's aggressive expansion into the Core Lands construction business. Usual methods didn't work; Ice Fangs stomped out any attempts to intimidate their workers, and Ivar Murzaliev's corporate security put those who dared damage the company's equipment straight into hospital beds. The message was clear: stay away.

Hryhorij called Piam and shared his concerns, pointing out the construction site for a new shopping mall and how far behind schedule Tony's workers were. Why should his family risk losing such a luxurious contract by missing the deadline? Piam compiled a very long and messy list of facts gathered by her colleague into an orderly file and came to the same conclusion. There was something in here—something so big that Tony was willing to risk losing tokens just to keep from showing it to anyone.

"But right about what?" Hryhorij said. "There is nothing below; we checked everything. I don't see any threats or traps. Is this some elaborate misdirection operation? Are we being had, and there is a huge contraband shipment coming in somewhere else?"

The two agents wore camouflage and positioned themselves in the middle of the unfinished first floor of the mall, at the far edge of the construction site. A few days earlier, they had gone through the standard procedure of forging identification and posing as construction workers. They searched for everything, ranging from drugs to experimental weapons, and found nothing. Piam even began to doubt herself because the security was so lax. Could it be that the family had nothing to hide and had simply gone senile from overdosing? Doubtful, since two years ago Raffy had murdered his older sister and usurped her position in the family after she had briefly sunk into a drug-induced bliss. The Benguiguis were cutthroats and opportunists, easy to predict thanks to their gluttonous ambition.

Until today, when shift supervisors suddenly announced a paid day off for all workers. Piam contacted the Provincial Army and received a detailed report about Benguiguis' cars making their way here. Something was fishy, and the agent intended to learn what. She didn't care about the so-called guard; four squads of the Provincial Army stood ready, not recently enlisted recruits, but veterans who had experience subduing hostile New Breeds. At a snap of her fingers, they would swoop in, ending any resistance.

Maybe Hryhorij was right. Maybe the family knew of their presence. Perhaps it would be wiser to go in, guns blazing. But Piam favored a tip-of-the-needle approach to any situation, which involved crippling hostile leadership and keeping the organization intact for the Bureau's future use, rather than leaving a power vacuum that could lead to a bloodbath.

She also trusted in Hryhorij. Messy, unrepresentative, and overly reliant on his intuition he may be, the burly man rarely made mistakes in uncovering crimes against the Reclamation Army and the righteous Dynast.

"Tony doesn't have the manpower to pull it off," Piam said. "We stick to the original plan."

They pulled on the cowls of their gray camouflage suits, and a rumbling jolt passed over their skin as servomotors activated, filling the two agents with newfound strength. Neither of them was a New Breed; the brown-skinned Hryhorij enlisted in the Bureau from a cozy mountain village in the west, and the wheat-skinned Piam was born in Houstad. But both had years of experience dealing with a dangerous opposition, their responses enhanced by the mechanical augments and drugs their suits injected into their bloodstreams.

Quietly, the agents slipped out of the unfinished building and signaled the troopers to stand by. Piam led her partner behind the currently empty workers' barracks, keeping their distance from the hired thugs. There was not enough information to say if any of them had power, so there was no reason to risk detection. They proceeded to the barred entrance of an emergency exit corridor, where a locksmith on Piam's wrist activated, bypassed the electrical system to disable the alarm, and then burned a small, round hole in the door. A manipulator slipped in and pushed the bar aside. The two agents entered cautiously, throwing one last glance at Houstad.

As expected, there was no presence in the narrow corridor created to let the masses out in case a collapse buried the main entrance. Hryhorij and Piam readied their standard modular SMGs and turned their suits' sound detectors to maximum, hearing distant footsteps heading toward the lowest level.

The agents were familiar with the location; they had not only done a sweep with the portable scanners but also worked to secure the western walls. Piam rolled her eyes at the instruments left in the hardened concrete. Someone's ass was going to be grilled tomorrow, but that was none of her business.

Their quarry passed four levels and stopped at the very bottom of the unfinished parking lot. Raffy reached for a cigar, and his Orais bodyguard snapped his fingers, creating a ball of flame lingering in the air for his master to light his cigar. Then the Benguigui paced back and forth, tapping at his belt, and the agents glanced at each other as his Normie minions placed four light bulbs around him to illuminate the place.

This was weird. There was nothing but settled dust, rubble, instruments, and trash here. Gray dust had already dirtied Raffy's pants to his knees; his loud kick sent an empty can against a wall, but there was no answer why he was here. Raffy wasn't an errand boy; when he wasn't wasting his time in brothels, drinking, partying, and overdosing on drugs, he mercilessly investigated his brothers and sisters, seeking to subjugate the weakest and kill those above him to secure his position as Tony's heir. Why was he here? A new kink of solitude? Madness.

Piam calmly sent a silent report to the soldiers, warning them to alert the headquarters and begin the storm the moment communications were cut or jammed. No risk. She and Hryhorij nestled themselves in the unfinished elevator, each pressed tightly against the wall, and the optical camouflage adjusted the colors of their suits to make them indistinguishable from the gray walls.

Then the sensors caught something. A ripping sound came from an empty space in front of Raffy, accompanied by a faint electric surge in the air. A louder crack followed, and a thin finger protruded from the empty space. The finger moved down, bisecting the space and leaving a faint blue light in its wake. The line reached the floor, then the finger disappeared into the blue, and then the line expanded, unleashing a billowing window inside the parking lot.

Music, guttural singing, laughter, and clanking sounded from the opening. Bright lights flashed, quickly banishing the darkness. The other side was filled with a murky mist that even the agents' lenses struggled to see through. Their suits detected a rapid rise in temperature as heat poured in, and the vapor trails carried traces of hallucinogenic narcotics. Raffy inhaled a full breath and grinned, maintaining perfect composure as his Normie bodyguards strapped on rebreathers.

Figures danced in the mist: beautiful women, completely naked except for gold bracelets and jewelry. They leapt and pirouetted, landing gracefully and never breaking their dance - not even to glance at the criminals. Piam's eyes saw burning braziers, incrusted with jade, standing in what appeared to be a gigantic tent. Soft carpets, richly trimmed with real gold, covered the floor.

In the distance, shrouded in the thickest mist, a figure sat on a throne composed of dozens of women. They weren't stitched or fused together; these were living, breathing women doing their best to form the armrests, back, and base of the throne. Covered in sweat and groaning from exertion, they tried their best to maintain a comfortable seat for their cruel overload.

"Raffy, my friend!" the figure boomed in a deep, pleasant baritone. "How's life been treating you? Have you found my modest gifts to your liking?"

"They are beautiful," Raffy replied, his voice trembling. "A single door costs enough to buy a villa."

"Is it possible to do any less for your friends? Stick around, and more good things will inevitably follow!" Piam thought that she saw a pincer briefly appear from the smoke, but it could've been her imagination. Irrelevant. She'll review the recorded footage later. "A new dawn fast approaches Houstad, my dear friend. Our alliance promises a bright future for us both."

"I am sure my father will appreciate it," Raffy said.

"Father? Raffy, let us not speak of Tony; let us speak of you. You are a shrewd man, so drop beating around the bush," the speaker laughed inside the mists. "You want to be in charge. And why shouldn't you? Your genius saw the potential in my offer; it is your diligence that delivered the required photos and intel, securing the wellbeing of your khaganate…"

"Family," Raffy interrupted him. "We prefer the word family." The man walked around the spatial window, examining it from every angle. "Your words are pleasing to the ear, but you have made me wait, and I have the impression that you are forgetting my father on purpose. How do I know you won't be discarding me like him the moment I outlive my usefulness?"

"Raffy, you are a smart man—the smartest man I've met lately." Honeyed words flowed from inside the mists. "Discarding you? And who will replace you? Tony? Your father may believe you are expendable, which is why he sent you instead of coming himself, but is it not the fate of every father to fade into obscurity eventually? It would be foolish to sacrifice a rising star for a fading one. You know the locals; you understand what makes them tick. Why should I replace you? Why would Khatun not want you? My boy, we want you to rise and take the seat of this freak in the City Hall. Just imagine it: Raffy Benguigui, Taluqdar of Houstad. It has a lovely ring to it, does it not?" the voice softened. "Women, drugs, gold, respect and authority could all be yours if you but reach out and take them."

"And what price would I have to pay for it?" Raffy asked carefully.

"A little less than a bauble. A simple, paltry sip of airag to show respect and devotion to our cause. No risks or dangers involved," the deep voice purred from the other side of the spatial window. "You have already provided the images we requested—splendid pictures—the best photos ever. We will ask for more of the same, detailed photos of public squares, sewers, streets, and such. And if you drop in photos of the mayor's office, we'll be much obliged. We also dislike the freak."

"How much time do I have?" Raffy inquired. "And why do you even need these photos? Couldn't you take them off the Net?"

"A month, no less, my friend. We have our own morsel to devour; an ignorant dolt had refused the Khatun's generous offer of submission. The next step is for our forces to reach the wall. It is a tedious, grueling, mundane task, so I leave it to Iron Lord. Let him play at conventional warfare," the speaker chuckled, and his living throne groaned as the poor slaves struggled to bear the immense weight. "As for your question, we need recent pictures; anything over two months old won't do. We wouldn't want to open a hole into a brick wall, am I right? And the trustworthiness of the information found on the Net is overrated."

"The Third Army will be in Houstad," the criminal warned the shrouded figure. "And I heard something about your people dying in the north…"

"Sky Lord Khan had failed? Ha, that's what you get when you act on your own." The swirling mists of drugs elicited a booming laughter, and the throne shook. The slaves' eyes bulged from their efforts. "That's what you get for ignoring allies and living in solitude. You and I are different, Raffy. We are men of vision; we seek to rise high and thrive. Dying on a battlefield is such a bore. Decapitations are coming, my friend. We will show the people that they can't rely on their precious armies, laws, or civilization to protect them. The ensuing chaos will cause the families' leaders to meet in person to assess the situation. And if you, my wonderful, loyal, clever friend, take the helm, it'll be grand."

Piam kept her cool, absorbing the information. These were the scum who attacked the Reclamation Army's territory. Their fate is sealed, their armies will be crushed, and their lands will know prosperity and peace under the Dynast's rule. But she didn't let her loyalty training cloud her judgment. The Net. The leader of those fat bastards knows it, and he doesn't seem to care about losing a New Breed equal to a warlord. They also know about the Third, which means they know about the noble Commander Ravager, the Dynast's trusted sword, and the Tamer of Wilderness.

She sent the recordings to the soldiers outside, disregarding the possibility of detection, along with a strict command to relay them to headquarters immediately and storm the place.

Sky Lord. Not Mad Hatter, as Warlord Janine had assumed. Sky Lord was a servant.

A potential equal to the commander was leading the Horde… If Piam was right in her suspicions, such a being cannot be allowed to enter the Core Lands.

"Agreed," Raffy said and crumbled his cigar. "Tell me the details."

"Raffy's lives, the rest die," Piam ordered, and she and Hryhorij took aim and fired.

 

[Rookie12]

The burst from Piam's SMG exploded the back of a Normie thug's head, and the man fell face down, his brain spilling onto the stone. Hryhorij fired at the Orais, and the massive thug shook and growled in pain as a series of crimson dots appeared on his forearm and his helmet cracked.

Hryhorij shouldered Piam to the side as a wall of flame rolled toward them, engulfing the unfinished elevator. The two agents rolled to safety from the fiery hell that reddened the metal beams and melted them in places. Before Piam could get to her feet, Hryhorij had already landed a shot into the knee of the remaining Normie thug.

The woman wailed, and the Orais grabbed her and Raffy. The New Breed's helmet cracked, revealing a face with deep-set eyes and a flat nose. A tap sent another wall of flame racing toward the agents, and then the Orais jumped. His back slammed into the ceiling, hammering out a path on the floor above for the escapees to take refuge. Piam didn't fire, too worried that her bullets would ricochet off the falling debris and accidentally kill Raffy. The setback was irrelevant; the provincial army…

She stopped, frowning. Three life signs went black. But how? Civilian-grade shotguns wielded by the rabble at the entrance should not be able to penetrate the soldiers' armor! Her partner stiffened, concerned by the same question, but the years of training snapped them out of their confusion.

Ultimately, it changed nothing; Raffy still wouldn't escape. The flames devoured light bulbs, exploding them and melting parts of the floor. Only the bright lights of the window and dying fires kept the room lit, and Piam hesitated. Slaves continued to dance on the other side; she could see burly men and women sitting behind tables, partying and paying little attention to the chaos. Should they fire at the leader and his living throne? The Investigation Bureau did not shy away from collateral damage, but neither did they encourage unnecessary casualties. There were more factors to consider. What would happen if their bullets connected with the spatial anomaly?

A figure stopped their worries. A black-haired woman in a green trench coat filled the window and stepped into the underground parking lot. Gunfire met her, spearing her clavicles and knees. The agents fired, intending to incapacitate her and taking her into custody for further interrogation.

A moment later, they switched to the lethal fire, and the woman didn't even halt her steps. The fabric of her leather trench coat and pants absorbed the bullets, sinking them beneath the surface as if the bullets had hit water. As the woman raised her hand, her fingers spread wide. The flesh flowed back into the sleeve, and the bone structure changed, accompanied by a loud crack as the finger bones joined together to form a bone fan to block the bullets aimed at her face.

"I recommend immediate surrender," the intruder said in a calm tone. "It is the only way I can guarantee your survival."

Piam and Hryhorij didn't panic. They had seen stranger things. Their hands grabbed black cylinders from their belts and mounted them on the barrels of the SMGs. Iterna's military favored modular weapons, transforming a short-range shotgun into a long-range rifle in the midst of battle, or unleashing searing flames to overcome regeneration. The Reclamation Army's modular weapons were cruder and less effective in many areas, but when the agents heard the clicks, they squeezed the triggers.

A burst of sound, potent enough to explode eyes, struck the assailant, followed by the hiss of an electric streak that forced her to twist and contort in pain. A network of bloody veins spread behind the New Breed's irises, and then her head turned quickly to focus her gaze on the agents. Her leg stepped into the pool of blood left by the first goon, and the crimson flowed up her boot, soaking the leg.

Not soaking. Being absorbed. Piam gulped as the remains of brain, muscle, skin, and even bone disappeared into the leg. The woman's legs splintered into six needle-like appendages, her torso stretched so that her upper body could mount the centipede's lower half. She scampered out of their sight, ignoring bursts of sound and forks of electricity.

Piam elbowed Hryhorij back, screaming in pain, as a bone scythe cleaved across her shoulder. The incredibly sharp edge bisected through her suit and cut away a round slice of her flesh, narrowly missing the humerus. Blood, her blood, was trailing after the scythe into which the woman's arm twisted, clinging to the bone, and Piam sprang away, fleeing from the six legs that descended, confused by the lack of pain in her shoulder.

Wires of flesh connected her gaping wound to the transformed woman. Barely visible, these wires spread a soothing, numbing sensation that almost bucked her legs. Biting her tongue, Piam pressed a button that disconnected the sound emitter from her SMG. Then she fired at her own wound, screaming in agony as her bone cracked, and ran, free from the strange confinement as the bone scythe slammed into the floor.

This woman's speed was incredible! Accelerated by the combat drugs and amplified by the lenses of the artificial eye and the suit, Piam failed to detect the New Breed's movements. It was as if she disappeared from reality and reappeared in another place, perfectly poised to strike. Only the stone explosions left in the transformer's wake proved she wasn't teleporting.

Hryhorij rose, but before he could fire, a flick of the wrist sent the bone fan into his weapon. The spinning ring of bone had cut through the center of the SMG. Hryhorij dropped the weapon and drew his knife, glancing briefly at Piam. She was the one closer to the exit, and he lunged at the New Breed, trying to stall the opponent.

She didn't nod. She sprinted toward the exit, intent on warning the soldiers and alerting the command. The instructors mercilessly drilled the need for sacrifice into their minds. No agent was irreplaceable. Death in the field, though uncommon in modern times, was an eventually they all had to live with. She'll mourn her friend later.

Piam had almost reached the road leading to the third floor when she encountered several soldiers of the Provincial Army coming down, fully clad in their dark camouflage armor. The bleeding agent was about to scream in warning when a shot struck her in the chest, knocking her backward.

A shot that came from her allies. She slammed into the ground, ignoring even the pain in her punctured lung. Another shot hit her right in the middle of her body and her legs went cold.

"Greetings, greetings, my dear friend," laughed the man on the other side of the window. Neither the shooting nor the battle made him leave the throne. "Ignore the mess; we had a minor interruption."

"This is what you get for involving laymen," the officer in charge said. The heavy boot slammed into Piam's chest, right into her wound, and she tried in vain to arch her back. But it wasn't the realization that she was paralyzed that made her eyes widen. She knew that voice.

If the rot had reached so high… I need to crawl out; I must warn the Bureau. In her panic, Piam attempted to use all the emergency channels within her suit, but the system indicated that they were jammed.

"Is everyone on board?" the voice from the fog asked mockingly. "No complications, I hope?"

"Not anymore," the officer replied. "Raffy and his rats are on the run. I doubt they'll dare meet you again, so tell me what message I should give them. What do you need to destroy the Reclamation Army?"

"Destroy?" the speaker asked. "My friend, you misunderstand us! We seek to conquer, not destroy. There will be certain amounts of ruin and some not-insignificant murders, but we do not seek to desolate the land we intend to rule over. Is this acceptable to you, or should we amend the terms of our cooperation?" The voice dropped low, and Piam heard the tapping of bone needles against the stone as the New Breed approached, carrying the pierced Hryhorij on her bone-scythe arm. "I would hate to mislead your expectations."

"I am satisfied with our deal," the officer stated.

"Are you certain?"

"As long as they pay for what they've done to my homeland. As long as the Second and Devourer perish in the war, as long as the Reclamation Army is unable to destroy another country, and as long as the Dynast is dragged from his capital and flogged to death for everyone to see and laugh…" the officer stopped and aimed the energy pistol at Piam's head. "Our goals are aligned."

"T-t-tra…" Piam tried to say.

"There is no need to kill her," the New Breed said. "I can safely contain…"

The officer snapped, "Death and fall to the Reclamation Army," and a bright blast shaved off the top of Piam's head.

****

Hryhorij should have been dead. He awoke to find himself impaled on the bone blade. He craned his neck, calmly seeing that it entered his body lower than his left hip, and the blade's tip exited his body around his right shoulder. The heart, the digestive tract, parts of the intestines, the spine, the liver... He should be dead.

But there was no pain—not even irritation—as she carried him on a bone tail that connected to her spine. Aside from that, the woman regained her humanoid shape and her fake trench coat. He breathed normally even if his lungs felt weird, and when the agent opened his mouth to ask a question, no sound left his lips. His limbs were unresponsive.

They were on the other side of the spatial window. He didn't know Piam's fate, but judging by the calmness around his captor, she didn't make it. Hryhorij calmed himself. Even if the ambush failed and the soldiers were all killed, Houstad would be alerted. His diligent partner ensured it by passing the message to the soldiers prior to the battle. And there was no way for forty soldiers to disappear unnoticed.

He focused on the tent, burning the images of the feasting people into his memory. They bore a striking resemblance to the burly bastards who had attacked Just Peachy earlier. Some were more muscular, but the girth and protective fat were unmistakable. He noticed the slaves. While many of them were Normies and mutants, there were women of the same build as the invaders, dancing and delivering food to their masters.

"You promised me free access to the people of Houstad." The female New Breed who had captured him stopped before the swirling narcotic mists. The agent was surprised to hear her speaking in the Common. "How do you plan to deliver it if you hand the city over to Raffy?"

"Trace, don't be silly," the person answered in a pleasant baritone. "Raffy is a cowardly plague rodent. A pest to be unleashed to wreak havoc. His role is to help us cripple Houstad's official leadership while he weakens the illegal one. And when the dust of our conquest settles, yours truly will decide who will rule Houstad and its riches. We are people of vision…"

"Your cheap manipulations won't work on me," Trace replied. The music stopped, and the dancers froze in place. No one was pouring drinks or scraping meat off bones. Every eye in the tent was focused on the woman. Hands moved to weapons on belts; armored guards stepped inside; and the slaves retreated. But the woman stood undaunted.

"Careful, my dear." A crustacean pincer broke through the wall of smoke and closed around the slender neck. Black chitin carapace covered the entire limb, aside from the sharp edges. Trace didn't move to dodge, but the coat on her shoulders bulged, and two bone spikes formed, pointing into the mist. "You are the Khatun's curiosity. But interest tends to wane over time, and you are alone with no one by your side. Learn the virtue of silence, lest you want to alienate your trusted ally."

"I'll keep it in mind when I meet one," Trace replied. "We are conspirators, not allies, Brood Lord. Go ahead, close the pincer, explain the insult to Mad Hatter, and also try to find another infiltrator. Or stop wasting my time and act like an adult."

Hryhorij fully expected to see the woman's head roll. He was still unsure of who was hiding in the fumes, but the light tremble that passed over the hardened bone gave him a clue about the infuriation that was overtaking the speaker. Whoever this Brood Lord might be, the agent had concluded that he expected obedience and delighted in manipulating his servants, raising and lowering them as he deemed appropriate. Trace took it from him.

The pincer retracted. A snap followed, and the music resumed. The guests feasted anew, attended by the women, and the guards left the hall as if nothing had happened.

"Right you are, my friend!" Six legs emerged from the smoke—six massive columns covered by chitin so thickly that even their joints were shielded by scutes. They touched the ground, and the slaves who made up the throne breathed a sigh of relief as the owner rose to his feet, lifting his four-armed body over Trace. "Let's drink, eat, and forget these sour words! Trace is a welcomed guest of Brood Lord and his khaganate! Bring airag, bring wine, bring vodka, carry in thunder bull legs, grapes, and apples; my guest is hungry!"

Hryhorij held on to the last thought as something was throwing him into a state of unconsciousness. Brood Lord wasn't like the attackers. There were obvious similarities—belly and chubbiness—but he was undoubtedly a Malformed.

****

The agent opened his eyes, finding himself lying on an examination table in a cramped room. Glass containers stood everywhere, holding floating organs. These containers filled every corner of this brightly lit place, every shelf and every bench. The nutrient solution was light green and semi-transparent, indicating that the organs were well preserved and belonged to humans of various sizes and origins. Here were the compound eyes of an Insectone, an oversized Troll's lungs, a Normie's heart.

Hryhorij tried to stand up, panicking at the realization of what this entailed for him. But his body refused to listen. He couldn't even move a finger. His eyelids worked, and after an immense effort, he moved his neck, wondering about a wide, already healed scar that covered his shoulder. How long have I been here?

"Two hours." He heard Trace's voice. The woman sat close to the entrance, holding a vial containing gray fibers and typing into a terminal. "Relax. Breathe clearly. Your damaged vital organs were restored. The Bio-Tinkers don't kill their prisoners."

"Now here's a laugh." Hryhorij forced a smile. "They just buy organs and slaves to cut them up and kill them. Nothing evil, sure…"

The agent was completely naked, and his vision was slightly blurred. It took him several seconds to realize that he no longer had his artificial eye. The device itself and the socket were gone, and in their place he now had another eye, simple and normal. He blinked twice, incredulous at such a quick implantation, and recognized the disassembled artificial eye lying on a table nearby. The tracking device inside it was broken.

"We do not kill our patients." Trace turned on her stool and understood that it originated from her pelvis. "It is not our fault that raiders and slavers murder their prisoners to deliver valuable organs to us. It would be a waste not to buy the organs and let them spoil. As for living prisoners, we purchase and release the oldest, examine and collect samples from the curious, and educate the youngest to become adepts. We hold very few geniuses against their will for the betterment of everyone."

"What category am I in?" Hryhorij asked. "Clearly not the oldest, so I guess I count as a genius?"

"You are a curious type," Trace corrected him. They weren't in the tent anymore; the walls of this place were made of solid steel. Not a single surgical instrument was in sight. "We've never examined a person born in the Core Lands. It is time to rectify it. My condolences about your friend."

"Why did the Bio-Tinkers choose to become enemies of the Reclamation Army?" He ignored a pang of sadness when Piam's death was confirmed. She would want him to honor her memory and remain professional. "Last I checked, you had a beef with the Oathtakers."

"We have no enemies." Trace stood up. The stool broke, gathered itself, and disappeared into the fabric of her slightly moving coat. "We don't even wish to kill anyone. Those who oppose us are ignorant of our true purpose. To seek humanity's salvation through artificial evolution. A perfection of flesh and mind for humanity, regardless of race or mutation. It is the Oathtakers who foolishly force us to breed war creatures, misguidedly perceiving our noble work as evil. Once our task is complete, we shall be vindicated."

"Eradicated, you mean." Hryhorij nodded toward the containers. "How many people did you kill to gather this collection of horrors?"

"Zero." Trace cracked her neck and spread her arms. "I have treated hundreds of patients here; the Gilded Horde had abused some to the brink of death, while others were merely captives. None were crippled; none died. They were given adequate replacements and freedom."

"And how many families have you torn apart to secure interesting mutations? How many children were kidnapped on your orders, their families shot by the slavers?" Hryhorij asked dryly.

"Too many," the bio-tinker admitted. "I will not lie or shirk responsibility. Nor will I be judged by you, Reclaimer. The Extinction wiped out countless cultures and civilizations, and now your war machine is doing the same, molding everyone into a monolith to serve the ever-growing expansion led by your emperor."

"The Dynast offers home and prosperity to the desolated Wastes; his will reigns in cruel tyrannies," Hryhorij recited a memorized mantra. "Why weep over lost cultures? It is the people who matter. Let traditions, art, and languages disappear if it means that no child will go hungry and be eaten alive. In time, people will create new culture and art."

"And what about those who simply wanted to live their lives? Will these people thank you for conquering them, I wonder?"

"A strange question coming from someone who works with the slavers." Hryhorij scowled. "The bitterness and sadness of the individuals are irrelevant. The few must sacrifice for the many."

Trace laughed in a clear and melodious tone, "Child. The cruelty and atrocities committed by our nations are despicable, even if they are necessary. The Bio-Tinkers kidnap individuals, while the Reclamation Army steals entire countries. The differences between our countries are merely the end goal and the scope."

"Lies. We provide a home and a future for everyone under our rule. You claim your prisoners are given freedom. How many of them survive the journey home? How many even find their way home? Don't lump us together, criminal. The difference between our nations is that yours pursue an impossible ideal, hypocritically making excuses about serving the greater good while committing every crime imaginable," Hryhorij snarled. "The Reclamation Army has a realistic end goal that benefits everyone, and we could achieve it sooner if people like you could overcome their illusions of grandeur."

"This discussion is unproductive."

Trace's coat ballooned at her shoulders and arms, expanding and expanding, forming spheres. It took the agent a few moments to comprehend the merging of her skin and clothing before it finally dawned on him. The woman wore no clothes. She was fashioning her clothing out of her own body. Trace's arms and spheres came apart, morphing into dozens of thin appendages that ended up in saws, pincers, scalpels, or flesh ropes holding grievous talons. Her bones reshaped, splintering into bone drills. The appendages and bones protruded smoothly from the altered coat.

"Once you cease to pose a threat to the Horde's plans, we will release you. Would you like to endure your vivisection in a conscious or unconscious state?" A talon moved to Hryhorij's neck, stopping over the vein. "It matters not; there is no threat to your life, nor will you experience pain. Any taken organs will be replaced. But some patients find it less stressful to sleep during the procedure."

"Some?" Hryhorij asked weakly. "Awake. Answer me this before you start. Why side against us?"

"It doesn't matter to us who will rule. Originally, the Conclave planned to use the Horde's invasion to secure an important person. But after meeting Mad Hatter, we understood our short-sightedness. In this world, she is unbeatable, invincible," Trace answered dispassionately. Her many limbs moved down, making incisions in his flesh. The woman's neck lengthened, and her head hovered over the agents, like a snake over a hypnotized rabbit. "A quirk of evolution, mutation, or power gave her an unrivaled body. Left unchecked, she will first conquer the Reclamation Army, then the Oathtakers, and finally us. But once we unlock the secret of her biology and improve upon it, we will make humanity invincible. Slavery will be obsolete. No Extinction will ever threaten the creators." The head leaned closer, and Hryhorij experienced a push and rubbing as his body was being pried open. "My apologies. I'm going to have to temporarily disable your vocal cords. The removal of your lungs will cause minor breathing difficulties."

 

[Rookie12]

"Explain yourself," Till Ingo demanded while working on the unconscious patient in a circular-shaped medical dome of his private transport.

The object of his indignation shrank on the video screen, trying his best to become one with a wall while holding a helmet in his hands. Keon, an enlistee from the conquered lands of Techno-Queen, had attracted Ingo's attention for a long while. The boy quickly understood the method behind the working of the seized drones; he eagerly trained to become a full operator on the Inevitable, occasionally assisting with manual tasks, always brimming with energy.

The rejection of his offer to take Keon under his wing surprised Till. He had used the crawler's cameras to locate the youth, then sent a repurposed Techno-Queen drone through a network of air tunnels. Keon, who gained weight and proudly wore an official uniform, had nestled himself in a ventilation shaft, painting the Wolfkin's helmet black.

"Please be quiet, or they'll hear you, Mr. Ingo," Keon whispered to the buzzing drone. "I don't want to get punched like the wolf hag."

"The Wolfkins were aware of your presence from the beginning, Keon."

The vent looked at a small warehouse that housed a very unusual gathering. Warlord Eled, still blindfolded to ease the strain on her cloned eyes, stood atop the crates, dressed in a flowing, slightly glittering gown of black silk that left her shoulders open. She played a simple harp for Arruda, Ashbringer, Melina, and Macarius Voidrunner, filling the hangar with a pleasant melody reminiscent of a long-lost home.

Ingo wasn't a sentimental man, but something in this slow, methodical play reminded him of his own apartment, family, and the dried tree outside, the most precious artifact of their village. It took him back to the days when his family exchanged gifts and his sisters encouraged him not to get frustrated over a small technical problem. What a time it was; he was younger, foolish, more closed in, and his older sisters were never afraid to barge into his private laboratory to get him to eat or carry him into his bed.

Have I lived to your expectations? Ingo shrugged his shoulders and hit the record button. If Eled's piece had such an effect on him, it should make a killing on the market. No doubt the warlord wouldn't worry about losing the rights to the music. His brain's microprocessors offered to slow the flow of time and enhance his memory so he could relive his past in perfect clarity, but the scientist declined the offer.

Some things had to be treasured in a natural way.

The last member of the assembly, Wolf Hag Sarkeesian, glanced at the vent, holding a paw over a swollen dark eye. Ashbringer, without opening her eyes, raised a fist, and the wolf hag quickly sat down, pretending to enjoy the concert.

"Why are you painting the helmet? Have you been drafted for maintenance too?" Ingo demanded to know.

"No, but yes, a little." Keon smiled cheerfully. "Warlord Onyxia had asked me for a favor. She said that someone was pranking her wolf hag by painting her helmet white all the time. The warlord didn't want the girl to be distressed or sad, so she asked me to fix the vandalism while she was away and keep an eye on who it might be."

"Keon, you must learn how to say no, my boy, or the people will walk all over you. The warlord has her own soldiers," Ingo grumbled. "Why have you refused my offer? If tokens are the problem, just tell me and I'll solve everything."

A mutilated body lay on the medical table in front of him. A girl, approximately nine years old, extracted from the cruel harnesses of Techno-Queen. Prior to the first four operations, pus had oozed from every open wound, a blood clot completely covered her remaining eye, and her trachea suffered from severe inflammation and tissue necrosis. Every time the poor thing regained consciousness, she tried to scream, her voice cracking and barely audible.

The microprocessors redesigned Tecno-Queen's emotional transmitter, recording and transmitting the calm and happiness taken from several eager volunteers into the patients' brains. It could hardly help with the mental state problem, but Till Ingo wasn't a therapist, and this was the best he could do to combat the constant nightmares that his patients experienced. They slept better, under the effects of the drugs that blocked dreams, and no longer wanted to die.

That left the problems of the body. Leaving the patients in such a tortured and partially rotting state was unacceptable, no matter what Ravager might say, and Ingo worked day and night, keeping himself awake with medication. He replaced hearts, lungs, treated the deliberate sensory overload that kept the victims in a state of perpetual hellish agony. Currently, the mechanical manipulators have completed the task of severing and extracting the trachea. An additional set of clean mechanical arms lowered the artificial replacement so that the child could breathe on her own. Pus no longer plagued the girl's body, but her kidneys still needed treatment.

Frankly, the surgeries went much better than he expected. Partly, and it pained him to admit it, the success of the operations was thanks to his Iternian colleagues. He had paid them a visit, explaining the situation when they came to pick up the wounded, and for the past several days, their doctors had repeatedly joined him during the medical sessions, providing invaluable insight into the treatment and berating outdated equipment.

Naturally, he recorded it all. Information should never be wasted, and medical colleges and universities can use it.

The other victims of Techno-Queen madness had slumbered in their capsules positioned on the walls, each bearing their own cybernetic augmentations: chrome engines replaced hearts, elastic rods in place of spines, new stomachs, bones coated in metal, and the like. There was little practical use in treating non-lethal damage, but Till Ingo considered himself a cautious man. After visiting Houstad, his private platform will take them on a week-long journey to his company's headquarters. The cybernetics will only ensure that the trip will not be unpleasant if they somehow wake up and reduce the potential risk to their lives in the event of a sudden power outage.

"Sorry, sir." Keon bowed. "I… I was a coward…"

"You were a young slave who never tasted freedom," Ingo interrupted him. "It's hard to call someone a coward when they have been bred to be submissive."

"It doesn't matter." Keon set the helmet aside. "I never was a part of anything. I was a cog…"

"Still are."

"But this time I have friends and people who care about me! I have comrades-in-arms, teachers, mentors, and even…" he blushed.

"Fast boy," Ingo whistled approvingly. "Never miss anything, live to the fullest."

"It's nothing serious, not yet! Regardless, I have a chance to save lives, to help break chains that hold people like me as slaves…"

"There are many ways of saving lives," Till made the last attempt. "A soldier fights, a soldier kills, but a skilled programmer can create wonders capable of both preserving soldiers' lives and aiding in everyday life. And I am sure that many of your countrymen are upset about the deaths wrought by the Third."

The Reclamation Army experienced rapid expansion and grew excessively dependent on individuals. Numerous intelligent and youthful men pursued careers in construction, the army, field medicine, or mechanics to earn easy tokens, as well as because of the generational trauma that shaped them.

Those who survived the extinction were resilient individuals. They had to become so to ensure the survival of their families. They had to learn when to cut their losses and let an infirm die so the rest of their children could survive. Unconsciously, their beliefs were passed on to their sons and daughters, and rather than "wasting" time in university, they sought to learn the craft on-site, helping scavengers and technicians learn how to assemble equipment, or helping hunters learn the skills necessary to join an army. The idea of mastering a skill that would require years of study seemed like pure folly to many. If you didn't earn your keep right away, you weren't pulling your weight.

Till Ingo never blamed people for the views that helped them survive, but a thriving modern society could not function without microsurgeons, scientists, programmers, engineers. Every profession had its value; automated medicine and knowledge stored in vaults could only take them so far. A janitor or a sewer worker are theoretically simple jobs, requiring little complexity. But they are hard, and the manual labor takes a toll on the body, and these professions are invaluable to society.

The problem of simplicity and complexity remained. Experts in intricate fields such as genetic cloning or surgery frequently joined the Army. War was no longer simple; it involved the complexity of making sure your fighting force remained capable, recovered from PTSD, stayed healthy, and used the latest war gear.

Had the Dynast hadn't been so hell-bent on expansion, an equal distribution of personnel would have allowed for the creation of universal free healthcare even in the Outer Regions, but as it was, even in the Core Lands, there was a shortage of qualified medical and civilian personnel. Private clinics helped, but it was harder to find automotive designers, programmers, or engineers for new power plants, since most of them served in the military.

No one could be irreplaceable, so Till Ingo made it one of his life's goals to find bright lads and lasses and send them off to study or take them under his wing. After graduating, his students had their own students, and the process of preserving, spreading, and accumulating knowledge continued and will continue far beyond his expiration date.

As it should be. No one should die from a lack of heart surgeons, as his dear father did.

"Sorry, but no, Mr. Ingo." Keon shook his head. "Yeah, there are a lot of angry people. How could there not be? Almost every family has lost a member or a friend, and some still hold on to the illusion that we could have lived in utopia if we hadn't been conquered. It's hard. It's hard to accept that I worked my entire life to bring the end to the people I love. I thought I was helping people! I thought the rebels were crazy. I was cheering their deaths beside my dad, but instead I was poisoning the air and ruining children's lives…"

"You did nothing of the sort," Ingo interrupted the usual melodrama. "The fault lies with the one who committed the sin, you moron. Have you ever intentionally harmed another person? No? Then shut up; otherwise, by your logic, every victim of a theft is indirectly responsible for the thieves' lavish lifestyle and subsequent thefts. Self-blame is nonsense; snap out of it."

"Thank you, mister." Keon smiled. "I just pray every night so my people can move on and live their lives free of anger. But I'll be a crawler operator. Maybe a part-time assistant in the arsenal. It is the way I want to live and how I set things right. To… if not undo what I did, then to do something right now."

There it is. Another! Ignacy, Keon, and twenty others declined, leaving him with only two students to send to the UNU.

"Will you shut up!" Arruda snapped from below, and a knife landed near the vent. "Get down there, Normie, and stop your chatting! We are trying to listen to the concert here!"

"Live well, Keon," Till Ingo said to the panicked young man, shutting off the communication and setting the drone to return in automatic mode.

His hands operated the console, sewing the girl's horrid wound, but Ingo's thoughts were elsewhere. How many people denied themselves the future because of self-guilt or family traditions? Geneticists, nuclear engineers, robotics specialists, augmentation surgeons, potential creators of artificial intelligence. So many bright minds, all of them not exactly wasted, but rather lost to the annals of history, their breakthroughs denied, their glorious aid not realized because of the never-ending conquests…

"You will stay away from war and danger, young lady," Till Ingo said to his unconscious patient, performing the final checks to make sure the new trachea was working nicely. "No excitement, no traumatic events, a simple, quiet and boring life in the Core Lands, a proper education…" He gritted his teeth at a sudden din in his brain.

'DANGER! DANGER! IMMEDIATE EVACUATION IS REQUIRED! FAILURE TO LOCATE AN ESCAPE ROUTE! ACTIVATION OF THE DEFENSE SYSTEM' A din of voices erupted in his head. The microprocessors had adopted some human habits, but in their panic, they filled his skull with screams more befitting frightened children.

"You lied…" A predatory whisper reached the researcher's ears, but he didn't turn too focused on completing the task at hand.

Mechanical tendrils slid from the ceiling of the dome in response to the unauthorized intrusion, preparing to wrap around and stun the unexpected guest with electricity. Should the guest be resistant to conventional tasing, the tendrils also bore sharp molecular needles around their edges to pump in sedative drugs. Most of the time, that did the trick.

The floor trembled as Ravager grasped the tendrils, disregarding the surges of rapidly escalating electricity strikes and the needles scratching at her hide. She ripped them and the mechanism in the ceiling free and stomped on the shattered debris, growling lightly.

Emergency lights flickered briefly in the room, and the pods holding the wounded sank into the open passageways in the walls. The honeycomb structure of Ingo's private flying saucer allowed entire levels to be moved up and down in response to changing circumstances or to prevent unexpected artillery fire from destroying valuable artifacts. Even the control room was interchangeable, and as Ravager continued to destroy his medical center, the sleeping people were safely moved to the safety of the storage area, whose walls could withstand even a point-blank nuclear explosion.

"Enough," Till Ingo said as a crack in the floor reached the patient's platform. He turned, a small child compared to the rapidly approaching black shape wrapped in metal tendrils and flashing her fangs. His instincts called him to dodge aside, but he refused to expose a child to the danger. "I said enough! There is a patient here! Cease, Ravager!"

Her claw stopped a centimeter away from his eye. The mad rage in her amber suns faded, replaced by some kind of recognition, and Ravager looked around in confusion, twitching nervously at the sight of empty medical tables and the still-twisting tendrils on the floor.

"I am not in the Room; I am not the Room." Ravager pressed her forearms to the sides of her head, squeezing with all her might. "It's gone; he wasn't here; he wasn't there; I am too strong; nothing can happen; I am in control; it wasn't there…" she kicked the broken flying vehicle of the raider's leader, who had assaulted Just Peachy. Ravager never told Ingo what she did to the man himself, as she brought it to him as a gift. "It… It… Why is it always this shit?" Her eyes stopped at the tendrils.

"It's the most effective non-lethal method to stop an intruder," Till Ingo stated. Today's outburst ended better than the last time, when her tantrum had forced him to undergo a knee replacement.

Drones appeared from the open recesses in the floor and walls. Skittering over the ground, they cleared the dust that Ravager had brought in, removed the broken equipment, and scanned the room for structural damage. Given enough time, they will fix the dome back into its original form. Several of the smart machines climbed over the sleeping girl, checking her connection to the life-support system. Then they wheeled her away, and Ravager glanced over at the girl, softening her expression.

"Y-you promised," the commander said accusingly.

"Biological parts, yes." Ingo rolled his eyes as Ravager slashed the dome's side. She shook, drooled, and then stormed out.

Before his friend could cause a ruckus and wake Banshee, who was sleeping for the first time in weeks, Ingo followed her, obeying the silent order. Besides, the idea of teasing his creation for completely failing in her bodyguard duties was amusing.

Ravager clenched a paw to her chest, her heart pounding so loud Till could hear it from several paces away. She stumbled out of his flying lab, punching in access codes she shouldn't have known. Once outside, she reached the crawler's edge and sat, nervously breathing. The researcher joined her.

"Why didn't you ask the Iternians for help when they picked up the injured?" Till Ingo inquired after a period of silence. Small talk wasn't something he had mastered, and the sight of green fields and working engines was boring him.

"Because it would've caused a political shitstorm," Ravager said, hiding her face in the knees. "By healing them, they would be indirectly siding with our conquests."

"Unexpected restraint. I would have thought you, of all people, would enjoy setting Iterna up like this for what they've done in the past."

"You sound like Ivar. What's the point?" Ravager raised her head. "Revenge, hatred, murder, mutilation, lies… Against whom? The guilty are in prison; there is no one left for me to punish; there is nothing left to set right, and they had offered their help out of the goodness of their hearts."

"And to prove to those around them they no longer harbor genocidal intentions towards New Breeds," Ingo remarked.

"Yeah. Politics. So what if the end result is positive? Us, them, these religious freaks... If the little ones are fed, I am satisfied." Ravager shrugged and looked at him. The light in her eyes intensified. "You're dancing around the argument, Till. You promised."

"The promise will be kept," he assured her. "Ravager, you saw the girl. First, we will deliver them to Houstad. But we can't treat them there, so my ship will leave for Stormfiend, where the main laboratory will perform this act of charity. The implants are merely temporary band aid."

"Thanks." Ravager was silent for a bit and then asked. "Did the board give you any troubles?"

"The usual whining," Ingo sighed. "The costs are too high; can't we use the emotional technology in war…"

"We…"

"Can't," he finished for her. "We'll be tiptoeing too damn close to breaking the treaty and giving Iterna a chance to use their holograms in the next scuffle. No, it'll remain strictly for civilian use. But Techno-Queen's stored knowledge is enough to finalize the prototype of the prediction engine and to manufacture the disruptor cannons and mechanical suits for the soldiers. I will stay in Houstad and begin research immediately." He patted Ravager on the back. "Get ready to see our own mechs in combat in a few years. I bet your girls will love the support. And they will soon receive a very special gift to help them survive on a battlefield."

"They'd be better off loving peace," Ravager growled. She noticed the twitch of his eyes and continued: "I am not blind, Till. But it won't work. My children… they are as wretched as I. Monsters. Butchers. This is all we are good for. Almost killing each other all the time, even though there is no enemy here. I hear them roaring, growling, dishing out pain and receiving it in return. No nobility, no future, unlike the Ice Fangs. War is our home."

"Such a melodramatic gloom and doom." Till clicked his tongue.

He didn't bother to argue against the obvious bullshit. What was the point? Ravager lived in her own made-up world, stuck in childish naivete. The Orais, as a whole, had become more civilized. The Ice Fangs, having risen above their incestuous heritage, strictly avoided repeating such disgusting practices. Many of their descendants subsequently founded businesses and corporations.

As for the Wolf Tribe… Eled's music touched his heart; Soulless One proved herself to be more than a rigid priest, and their younger generation was caught reading inappropriate magazines or eagerly helping in the arsenal. Monsters do not behave this way, nor do they perform for the entertainment of children; they subjugate, not collaborate. Even the blind could see that the Wolf Tribe was fully capable of integrating into a functioning society.

"Your meeting with the mayor is scheduled for today," Till said. "Want me to stick around for moral support?"

"No," Ravager responded. She deeply inhaled and stood up on two legs, straightening to her full height, the fear and anger of the cornered prey disappearing from her eyes. For a second, Ingo thought that his heart had skipped a beat. The commander looked an entirely different person—majestic, in control, all-knowing, and commanding. "For my sins, for my sons, for my daughters and my troops, I will keep holding on. I can do it. Little Sis believes in me."

"And I believe, too," Till said against his will. He had to stand on his toes to reach and grab her knee. "Stay well, Ravager. Live. You never know how life will turn out. Don't give up."

"Same to you, Till," Ravager smiled. The corners of her lips quivered nervously, but her eyes were calm, and that scared him to the bone.

She was normal. Ravager had, by some inhuman extension of will, had gotten a grip on her madness.

****

"So," Janine said slowly. "We meet at last, thing."

The Ice Fangs' chambers weren't like their desert cousins. White marble tiles covered the walls and ceiling, so pristine that Janine's eyes hurt from the sheer brightness. This place was devoid of any scent marks or dropped fur, and separate booths covered about three-quarters of the spacious room. Each booth had a stone floor and a sink that smelled wet. On the opposite side of the booth entrance was a panel full of various buttons, and above it was that thing. A long metal-encased hose connected the decadent, diabolical, and devious circular hole capable of pouring water.

"You are fooling me," Bertruda accused her. The sword saint left her spear outside of the bathroom; her black brows were raised high in disbelief. "You can't not know how it works. I thought you dragged me here to talk!"

"If you want to mock me, go ahead." Janine gritted her fangs, pissed off at her own inadequacy. In desperation, she approached the woman and asked for aid, petitioning for permission to enter the Order's territory. "Otherwise, uphold your promise and explain to me which button makes the water the hottest."

"You can't not know how it works!" Bertruda exclaimed again, giving Janine the impression that she was panicking. "It's… it's a prank, right? A humor beyond my understanding? It's impossible to operate a combat armor and not know how a damn shower works."

"I have never seen this device before. Normies used a hose to clean us of gore prior to the Dynast's commendations…"

A Wintersong sage peered from the entrance. Camelia had assigned her own private guard to prevent any possible conflict between the two rivals. Janine accepted this precaution and maintained a relaxed posture, holding her head high to expose her neck in a show of harmlessness.

"Please… No, please. Twins, have mercy," Bertruda begged. "It's a joke; yes, I'll just play along, and then we will have a laugh."

Janine said nothing, but listened intently to the explanations of the purpose of each button. The Blessed Mother visited the dens in person, accompanied by Zero and Alpha. It was rare to see her walking on two feet so casually, and it was doubly unusual to hear the command of getting presentable before the official meeting. Most warlords followed the standard protocol and enforced compulsory self-licking in their packs. But in the absence of sand to clean the fur, the best Janine did the unthinkable. She asked her rival for help.

"This is the hottest, got it." Janine pressed on the yellow button, and numbers appeared on a small display, rapidly increasing as mildly warm water poured onto her head.

"Stop pressing it!" As the numbers tripled, Bertruda jerked her arm back. "Only First takes baths at that temperature! You'll boil yourself alive, Janine!"

"Perfect…" Janine muttered as the numbers stopped rising.

She could actually feel the heat of her home in the water. It wasn't the bitterly chilly waters that the regular army had used to purify them decades ago in preparation for the Dynast's arrival. This water… It was awesome! It got hotter and hotter; streaks ran down her limbs, warming her bones; steam rose, hiding the confused Bertruda from view; and Janine spread her arms, enjoying the divine stream, wanting nothing more than to soak in it a little longer.

It wasn't bad. It was divine.

"Use a gel, barbarian!" Janine blinked and caught a bottle that the sword saint threw at her from outside the booth.

"Is this a snack?" She asked, examining the bottle. "Thanks for the offer. I'm not hungry."

"Stop! Stop pissing me off! You cannot… It's to make your fur cleaner! Rub it in! Not the whole thing!" Bertruda slapped a paw across her muzzle. "Not in the same spot, either!"

Janine ignored her rival hysterics and followed the instructions. She would tolerate this rude behavior for as long as it took, for the entire pack needed to look their best for the meeting, and Janine was only the first volunteer to test the Ice Fangs' contraption and confirm its safety.

 

[Rookie12]

"Form up!" Alpha snapped, stepping onto the crawler's deck.

Janine straightened herself, paws at her sides. Today, she and the other leaders gathered in front of the main elevator. The sword saints, along with their knight captains and warlords, and their wolf hags, stood in two equal opposite lines, without any weapons or armor. The Ice Fangs wore their finest doublets and elegant capes, while the Wolfkins donned the sturdy officers' coats. Together, they formed a welcoming committee to greet Houstad's mayor, a man named Jaquan Kruger, and the local commander of the Provincial Army.

The elevator doors opened, and the Blessed Mother strode outside, flanked by Captain Cristobo, who was little more than a cub compared to her massive bulk. Ravager moved on all fours, sniffing the air and glancing at the assembled Wolfkins, looking more like a caged beast than an honorable leader. Where Cristobo's steps produced a metallic thud upon the surface, Ravager traversed in complete silence, occasionally licking her lips and blinking slowly.

"Why are you shaking?" In a burst of speed, Ravager appeared near Anissa and Melina. The light from her eyes illuminated the women, and they gave up a scent of fear and submission as the giant fangs neared them.

Anissa gulped and said: "It's cold here, Blessed Mother." Ravager tilted her head, observing the speaker as if she were just a gnat. Her amber lights had completely erased the tiny crimson of Anissa's artificial eye.

"We don't enjoy being around here," Melina supported her. "The weather is cool; water comes from the sky, and there is no prey or danger in sight."

Ravager lifted her paw and released a single claw from her index finger. Janine broke ranks, positioning her body to shield her officers, and bravely faced the amber eyes.

"If my pack has caused you any displeasure, take it on me, Blessed Mother," Janine said. The floor shook as Alpha and Ashbringer joined her, forming a wall.

"Is that so?" Ravager stretched out the last word; her claw twitched.

"Yes, Blessed Mother. You had taught us to respect the military command. I am responsible for the well-being of my pack." The claw came down, and Janine thought her soul was about to leave her body. But instead of cutting, the claw merely tapped her chest, unfolding the folds of the official uniform.

"Good girl," Ravager said nonchalantly, standing on two legs. There was a honeyed edge to her voice. "I'd be a liar if I said I didn't hate our situation, too. We were born for war, slaughter, and feasting upon tyrants, for finding warmth in the guts of our foes as we cleave them open. I find calm in the shattering stockages and facing incoming fire head-on. The glory of felling a prey is energizing, the sight of liberated people is intoxicating. My heart sings with joy when I see my brave girls bleeding out an arrogant enemy leader or tearing a fortification apart. Bullets flying past our ears, claws weaving the deadly melody, sisterhood and comradeship on the battlefield... These things are known to us, ingrained in our souls. Spirits, I almost wet myself when I heard about our vacation. No wonder we all feel uncomfortable, stuck in the crawler like food in a refrigerator."

Chuckles met Ravager's words, and even Leonidas Summerspring smiled, nodding in agreement.

"But the joy of battle is finite!" Ravager raised her voice. "Every battle, every war ends. Change is inevitable. The age of turmoil is nearing its end. Mighty is the Reclamation Army, and few dare to challenge us anymore. But what do we know of the peace we fight for? Little, my warriors. But love a life without war we must, for we claim to fight and die for it. And we are not liars! The Dynast, in his wisdom, has decided that it is time for us to know peace. So heed my orders. Partake in civilian activities; read these…" She moved her paws, struggling to find words.

"Books?" Zero offered.

"Newspapers?" suggested Macarius Voidrunner.

"Yes! Both!" Ravager nodded in thanks. "Visit what places you can afford. Play games, eat food, speak to the people, learn of their customs, fears and hopes, cooperate…" She trailed off, inhaling to stop. "Live. Live, my soldiers. It is time for the Ice Fangs to take the lead for once and help us adapt."

"We will obey your wish, oh Blessed Mother." Leonidas fell to a knee, but a huge black paw raised him and gave him a friendly pat.

"I rely on you, sword saints, as I ever relied on the Twins." Ravager said. "As for the cold, the blood of my blood, you'll get used to it in a year or two. Alpha and Zero can attest to that. Don't worry, we won't be here that long, so I recommend wearing warm clothes. At attention!"

Proudly snapping her fingers, Ravager left to join Cristobo, and Alpha, along with Janine, returned to their posts. The column was nearing Houtstad's outskirts, moving along the specially constructed road that had been built to accommodate the military forces. Despite this, cracks ruined the smooth surface, for the Inevitable's weight was so great that even the reinforced concrete could barely support it. The cracks widened even further as the Ice Fangs' smaller mobile bastions followed the massive machine. Behind them trailed artillery units, infantry trucks, and at the far end, tanks moved in to secure the rear. Their long journey was nearing its end.

All around them, a land of wonders was unfolding. Rich fields, teeming with wheat, shared borders with vast pastures where livestock grazed. And not just any livestock! Cows—actual, living, breathing cows, restored by genetics—grazed the grass, their tails lazily slapped at swarms of flies. Janine licked her lips, eager to taste their white milk, so supposedly soft compared to the tough green of the cusacks.

There were no lizard hens anywhere, but thousands of trees, carrying heavy harvests of apples, grew within sight. Far beyond them were greenhouses of the Oakster family, the largest food suppliers in the entire Reclamation Army. Colorful and nice barracks for migrant workers stood near the greenhouses where exotic bananas, lemons, and oranges were grown. Dozens of smaller trucks stood ready to take the workers to the distant slaughterhouses and tanneries, but for some strange reason they stood empty as the workers and several Oaksters on six-legged horses shouted greetings and waved their hats at the soldiers.

Rivers appeared on the horizon, surrounding Houstad like trenches. Only instead of being filled with sand, sharp iron spikes, and mines, cubs of various ages filled the calm waters or swam to shores, fighting over binoculars to survey the approaching mountain of steel. Janine's eyes weren't as sharp as her cousins', but she spotted people in green uniforms herding families away from the main bridge as the growing crowds flashed their terminals.

Above them, a plane, proudly flying Iterna's celestial blue colors, descended to an airport in the city. Janine noticed Zero clenching and unclenching her fists, trying to stay calm. She sympathized with her sister. The Reclamation Army had almost no aviation, and the last time they had seen Iternian planes was when they had bombed them.

"Is this a delivery of sorts?" Predaig inquired, focusing her gaze on the plane.

"Nah," Martyshkina whispered to her. "Iternian goods come by land. These are tourists."

"The who?" Janine asked.

"My fellow citizens who travel to another countries seeking thrills, recreation, or for business," said Jacob Makarevich. The obnoxious Iternian dressed in the simple clothes of a Reclaimer infantryman, but cut off all military insignia. His camera hovered nearby, filming the commander. "The Great Nations have signed many treaties, including treaties on the treatment of tourists, and Houstad has even reopened and rebuilt the ancient airport to accommodate planes. It works both ways, by the way. Drop by Iterna; it's not that hard to get a tourist visa for our country."

"Thanks, but no thanks, pal," Zero hissed.

"The world truly becomes a less savage place…" Janine said proudly. It seemed that just yesterday, they were dragging Iternian prisoners from the downed planes. And now they welcome them as guests.

"It sure is." Jacob nodded. "Anyway, if you change your mind, our embassy is in the south, close to the Oathtakers'. There aren't even queues compared to the lines to get a visa into the lands of your neighbor."

"Can't imagine why," Zero mused, checking her helmet.

"The Oathtakers have an embassy here?" Martyshkina asked. "Jani, think Lyudochka …"

"Don't be ridiculous, Marty," Janine replied. "We haven't had a letter from her in a long time. She probably moved on and is working in a lab somewhere."

Janine could sense the curious eyes of her daughter and others burrowing into the back of her head. Let them guess—this secret didn't belong to them.

A sound of a limousine racing from the city attracted her attention. The car stopped briefly beside the crawler to unload two passengers, then moved aside as the soldiers led the new arrivals to one of the outer elevators. The first to step onto the upper deck was a dark-skinned elderly gentleman in a stern gray business suit and a small gold key emblem on his lapel, marking him as mayor. He hurried toward Ravager; his scarless face flashed a broad smile to everyone.

His companion had a more serious and dignified look. She was a tall woman clad in a standard gray field uniform. A similar gray overcoat hid the carapace body armor; on her chest was a golden medal earned for bravery. Her skin had an unnatural pale hue, the result of a painstakingly long healing process from extreme burns. The top left corner of her head was hairless, briefly revealing ugly scars before the woman donned an officer's cap.

"Commander Ravager, what an honor!" The mayor said in a confident voice. "Jaquan Kruger at your service."

"The honor is all mine, Jaquan," Ravager said pleasantly, and Janine almost bit her tongue in surprise. The Blessed Mother's voice differed from her usual self; she kept a paw behind her back and extended another for a fingershaking, as Jaquan could fit in her palm. As he touched her, Ravager's left pupil collapsed into a dot and the lips parted, revealing fangs and drool. "My apologies," Ravager said in a strained voice. "A headache. Still acclimating. Troops! Greet our guests!"

"No! No need for ceremonies, my friends. I will have none of that from the brave defenders of our safety." Jaquan quickly spoke, preventing the Wolfkins from kneeling. "It is I and the people of Houstad who owe you and the founder a debt of honor for our city's very existence!"

"I founded nothing!" Ravager snapped suddenly, stopping her fangs just short of the man's face. His smile never wavered, and he put on his glasses to shield his eyes from the light. "I am jumpy today, Jaquan. My deepest apologies for the scene, but we had very little to contribute to the creation of this magnificent den."

"Then only the brave defenders. You can't dispute that," the officer said cautiously, coming closer. She nodded to Ravager and saluted to the captain. "Captain Cristobo! I have heard much about your accomplishments in the reclamation efforts. It is an honor to meet you in person, sir. We have received word of an attack on a settlement in the Outer Lands. Do we know anything more about the invaders?"

"Negative, Lieutenant." Cristobo shook her hand. "The raiding party was completely wiped out. Warlord Onyxia is currently trying to find any clues about the whereabouts of the attackers."

"Jacomie, give it a rest. I am sure our guests will tell us everything later, after they have had a well-deserved rest." Jaquan placed a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "How about we all concentrate on the incoming parade instead? Ah, I can already see it! The Wolfkins of both groups marching side by side, with Commander Ravager at the head, giving a speech…"

"Not interested," Ravager said in a hoarse voice. "Hail to you and all that, kind mayor, but just tell me where our dens are, and I'll leave the city for a nap."

"But this just won't do!" Jaquan protested. "Some of your soldiers have families in Houstad, and the brave Ice Fangs own several enterprises. No doubt everyone would like to see the Third arrive in full glory, and this is also a perfect opportunity to show solidarity and unity among the people of our nation."

"You have a point," Ravager said, gently touching his back, drawing the mayor to the elevator. "But the Wolf Tribe seldom parades, and I myself will spoil the beautiful day. How about I meet you halfway? I'll thank the citizens of Houstad for having us, and we'll cut down on the parade."

"Cut it short?" asked Jacomie. "Commander Ravager, this is a joyous occasion, and the mayor, the provincial army, the police, and the Investigation Bureau have spent considerable resources to secure the avenue leading to the base. If you respect our efforts in the slightest, then the least you can do to repay our efforts is to comply with the mayor's idea…"

"Please, Jacomie…" the mayor started.

"Don't 'please' me, Jaquan!" the lieutenant snapped back and stepped closer to Ravager. "Commander, despite our differences, we respect the Third. Your soldiers have just returned from this foolish endeavor; they are weary; the ghosts of the fruitless war no doubt still haunt them. Let them join in the celebration. No one even demands perfect footwork from your soldiers; just be yourself…"

Foolish? Fruitless? The fur rose at the back of Janine's neck, but she said nothing, suppressing the desire to bite the impertinent female. Is this how the people of the Core Lands feel about their conquests? Thunder Emperor, Blood Graf, Techno-Queen… did they believe these threats would not reach them once they had finished playing with the Outer Lands? There could be no negotiation, no reasoning with someone planning to claim you, only an immediate response to prevent a future calamity from happening in the civilized lands.

She was honored to see the flash of indignation in the eyes of Macarius and Leonidas. But Ravager, surprisingly, reacted kindly, wrapping her second paw around the lieutenant's back and nodding for the Iternian to follow.

"You won't like it, believe me," Ravager mused cheerfully.

"Commander, a show of force will instill a sense of safety…" Jacomie insisted.

"Mayor Jaquan, Lieutenant Jacomie, call me Ravager, please. I am open to negotiations," Ravager sighed. "I appreciate your efforts to give us a warm welcome. We have something prepared on our side as well. Camelia! Cristobo!"

 

[Rookie12]

Janine breathed a sigh of relief as the group entered the elevator. Rather than waiting for it to return, she jumped off the upper deck, enjoying the cool breeze ruffling her hair. The crawler was an enormous piece of ever-shifting machinery, and it was dangerous for regulars to operate on the outer hull without being secured by ropes or harnesses. A sudden turn of a turret could've sent a person tumbling down on the massive tracks.

For Wolfkins, it was a second home. Trained since birth to scale the treacherous jagged mountains and ruins of their homeland using only their nimble and strong toes and fingers, they traversed up and down, mocking the caution of their cousins. Janine used the cannons as stairs and made her way to the lower observation deck, the closest point to her pack's dens.

The Wolfkins had manned the observation decks, examining distant fields and civilian cars. Whereas the lower ranks had an air of childish naivete about them and were genuinely shocked about the lack of personal weapons among civilians, the wolf hags and scouts surveyed for perfect locations to plant mines, prepare ambushes, or orchestrate organized retreats. It wasn't done out of malice; years of dedicated service had kept them on edge.

Joining her pack, Janine narrowed her eyes as she spotted Marco on the road below. He begged and asked relentlessly to be permitted to witness the arrival in Houstad, and she had granted him this small boon, cancelling the lessons after her precious buffoons, including even trying to look impartial, Impatient One, had given scents of support. What harm could one day do?

A lot, it seemed, she concluded as her boy dodged the tracks of an APC below..

"Confess, what have you got Marco up to this time?" Janine yanked Bogdan by the ear.

"Nothing, Warlord!" Her son smiled innocently at a clan of fangs near his neck. "Marco is brilliantly performing a community service."

Like most of her soldiers, the boy wore a long-collared buttoned jacket, thick pants, boots, and his beret. He hurried toward the railing separating the road from the field. After a brief moment of confusion, Janine noticed a terrified filly, pounding her hooves on the concrete, leaning against the iron railing, and calling to her mother, who was on the other side of the railing, trying to free herself from the workers' arms. Upon realizing that the young Wolfkin neared them, both six-legged horses squealed in panic, and the filly stood on her hind legs, ready to defend herself.

"He'll get hit!" Ignacy prepared to jump down, but Soulless One grabbed him by the neck and pulled him back.

"Trust in your brother, male," the shaman said. "He isn't half as dumb as you."

Marco evaded the clumsy kicks aimed at his snout and circled around the filly, wrapping his arms around her torso. He tried to lift her over the railing, but his knees gave way. Clenching his fangs, the cub trembled and stood up, refusing to let go of the panicked animal. Janine wondered why he bothered. If it had been her, she would have snapped the horse's neck and thrown the meat back to the farmer. No livestock lacking common sense was tolerated in the Outer Lands; all disobedience and coarseness were forcibly wiped out of them, making the animals easily manageable and docile.

"What are you doing standing around here like mouth-breathers?" A voice snapped above Janine's ears, addressing the Wolfkins on a deck below them. "Help the cub!"

"Yes, Warlord!" Kalaisa answered faster than anyone else, and, like a black streak, she leapt off the deck, weaving her way past the vehicles to reach Marco.

Janine found Warlord Ygrite's ugly snout beside her and let go of Bogdan, guessing the intent. The woman was panting, but not from rage. Fangs, countless fangs, the blessing of the Spirits, covered her entire upper and lower palate, trapping her tongue. They descended into her throat, turning every breath into a struggle. Ygrite unbuttoned her collar and scratched at her neck, where more fangs grew, their cruel red tips poking through strands of fur.

"What are they yapping about?" Ygrite demanded to know, her words accompanied by the loud sucking and clanking of her fangs; the very act of speaking was torturous for her.

Janine heard the distant cries of 'Neriskē, zēns!' and 'Välkommen hem!' mixed in it, but they told her nothing.

"They implore Marco to back off from danger…"

"My son is not that fragile," Janine bristled.

"And are greeting us," Soulless One continued. She put Ignacy down, deciding against discipling him in public. "Seems they are happy to see us."

"Why?" Janine asked. The migrant workers had lost some of their tan, but she recognized the physiques and heaps of blonde hair of several people. "We crushed their homeland sixty years ago."

"Half a century is a long time, Warlord," Bogdan said. "I wasn't born there. Chances are, these people weren't born then, either. And I doubt they'd be content dwelling underground like those insane shamans demanded. Religious freaks are such a bore sometimes." He raised his paws. "No offense intended, Shaman!"

"Naturally." Soulless One locked her eyes with his until Bogdan blinked in submission. Then she pulled out a notepad and began scribbling words.

"Sorry to startle you, Janine," Ygrite said. "But you and Ashbringer treated my girl pretty nasty, I'd say."

"She was the one who started it." Janine placed her paws on the guardrail.

"Oh, I am not overly caring about that." Ygrite's glare caused the rest of the pack to retreat to free them space. "If she is foolish enough to challenge a warlord and die, that's on her. This is what I have a problem with!"

Ygrite's crooked finger pointed at the Wolfkins below. The wolf hag had easily lifted the struggling boy, helping him to push over the struggling filly to reunite the horses. The scared mare still kicked, but Kalaisa blocked the hooves and seated the boy on her shoulder. Before either of them could leave, a farmer rode up to them, apologizing for the incident and thanking them for their help. Kalaisa unhappily tried to wave him away, but Marco kept talking to the smiling farmer, forcing the wolf hag to stay.

"Just a few months ago, she wouldn't bat an eye if the horse had hit the boy. Or better yet, she would've added a kick of her own. And now she is the first to help anyone with anything, has stopped rampant dominations, and comes to talk to you every night." Ygrite sucked in air, furiously tearing off fangs from her neck. "Freaky. Gives the impression that a certain warlord thinks her pack is too small and is propping up a dumb puppet to get rid of a rival."

"More like she's growing up." Janine ignored the accusation. "Feeling paranoid? Good. It means you understand your shortcomings. Try solving problems in your pack. Fewer worries that way."

"Maybe I will." Ygrite flashed an ugly grin and licked her torn lips. "But I ain't the one who screwed up the girl. It was her parents' and shamans' fault. None of them explained to her it is ok to ask for help or food, even if you are a motherless cur. I was given a flawed tool."

"And?" Janine arched a brow. "Ygrite, how the Abyss is this matter? You have an unstable soldier of high rank in your pack. A gift to the tribe, a jewel to be polished. Would the knowledge that you are right sustain you when Kalaisa drives her family to death and leads her pack to ruin? As warlords, everything in our pack is our responsibility. If a male kills himself, it is a failure. If a female dies of her wounds in the field, it reeks of incompetence on our part. If there is a disruptive element that breeds hatred at the expense of unity, it is our job to set things right. Discipline and morale are just as important as martial knowledge. Get on with being a leader, lead by example, educate, or step down and let others do the job. Even Kalaisa is more mature than you are right now, and she is a bitch. But at least she is trying to be better."

She smelled the seething anger in Ygrite's scent, but made no effort to defend herself. If the fool dared to try to dominate her, so be it. Ygrite was a member of Ravager's private circle far earlier than Janine. The woman had first opened her eyes in the laboratory, or so she claimed. Even Janine was nothing more than a youngster compared to her. But she didn't care about the veneration of the elderly. If the old gives in to paranoia and overly clings to their authority, then the old is a threat. She fought and bled to get where she is today, and she'll be damned if she's going to lie to spare the feelings of a senile idiot.

"Truth be told, I had a thought of opening your throat out for a sec here. But ya have a point; the pointless bickering makes us weaker. I'm not really feeling like doing you or Ashbringer in anymore," Ygrite laughed and stood next to Janine; her hostility fading. A hooked dagger the length of her forearm slid from a coat sleeve, and the warlord spun it in her paw. "I'll try to set the girl straight, but I'd appreciate it if you'd stick to your lessons. It used to be so easy. Ensure that everyone is fed, lead the troops into battle, forget the weaklings who died and live to fight another day... Where has all that gone? Laws, ranks, emotions, technology… Why does everything have to be so complex now?"

"Change is inevitable. Few know it better than we," Janine said quietly, examining her oversized paws. "I remember the days of fighting without power armor, when we feasted on the still hot insides of our enemies. And I remember how many died needlessly before Alpha and Lacerated One changed it, forcing us to use weapons instead of relying on trusty claws and hides. We have benefited from change. True, change breeds complexity, but it also breeds life. I can live with it. And so can you."

"Gosh, I remember young Janine, shy and fragile, hiding behind Terrific's back, eyes to the ground. What turned ya into a philosopher?" Ygrite elbowed her.

"Death," Janine replied, rejoining her soldiers.

The farmer gave Marco a large bag, and the boy had to stand up on Kalaisa's shoulder to look inside. Kalaisa took Marco under her arm and held the bag in her mouth. For several breaths, she watched the APCs pass by. And then she darted, passing them like water, avoiding a collision at the last moment and controlling her run perfectly to show off. She jumped at the APC closest to the crawler, stepped over its turret, and soared through the air like a bird. She landed just above the moving tracks and used her only free paw to climb up. Her thumb slipped, but Anji grabbed the woman's paw and helped both adventurers back down to the deck.

"It was kind of you to help the cub, Kali," Anji sang in a honeyed tone.

"Shut your trap, Bootlicker." Kalaisa spat the bag into Marco's paws. "I didn't need your help. I had everything under control!"

"No, you didn't, but it was still cool. Way to go! I'm rooting for you!" Anissa said as she stepped out of the corridor. Shortly after, she had to duck to avoid a swing that was aimed at her nose while maintaining a smug smile on her face.

The swing dented a wall, and Anissa countered by slamming her elbow into Kalaisa's ribs, throwing the woman face up against the wall. Her claws flashed, eager to lacerate the exposed back, but they only struck the steel. Kalaisa disappeared. Her speed and agility, worthy of a warlord, allowed her to slip off the incoming stabs at the small cost of having her clothes torn.

A back kick sent Anissa crashing into the wall. She tried to break free, but an elbow pushed into the scruff of her neck, cratering her head into the steel, despite the wolf hag's desperate efforts to break free. The two women simply occupied different social levels in the tribe. Where Nissa had already reached her peak, Kalaisa's growth continued. Janine's little girl will never be her equal; that was Anji's privilege.

Bogdan's paw moved to a pocket of her jacket, Ignacy's arm transformed, Elzada dropped low, Impatient One bared her fangs, Melina prepared to lunge, and Soulless One released her claws. The sight of unity pleased Janine, but she growled, stopping the struggle. Kalaisa could've easily maimed her girl by now. She didn't. The fool had not yet fully grasped the idea of restraint, but she no longer was a menace.

"Warlord!" Marco checked his beret was in place, saluted Janine, and showed her the bag containing six glass jars of white milk. "Look what the mister gave to us! Cows' milk! Real stuff! He even invited me later to get a ride, and…"

"And you will never again risk your hide without my permission." Janine's finger lightly smacked Marco on the forehead. Technically, she should have also punished Kalaisa for leaving the crawler, but just for today, Janine had decided to ignore minor lapses of insubordination. "You won't be hoarding it for yourself. Three pots go to Ygrite's pack for Kalaisa's help."

"As if I want this piss," Kalaisa mumbled, taking backward steps into the corridor.

"Wait, don't go anywhere!" Marco set aside the bag and hurried into the crawler. He returned from his den, beaming and carrying leather sacks with their names written on them. "Because of the cold, Anji, Kalaisa, and I have made something for you all!"

Intrigued, Janine picked up a sack meant for her. She unfolded it and found a black sweater—more of a turtleneck, really—inside. The sweater was a little rough around the edges, but it was real, proper cloth, and it even had the emblem of her pack, the Taleteller buried in a Wolfkin's skull, on the chest. Bogdan, Ignacy, Elzada, Impatient One, Anissa, and Soulless One received the same sweaters; Anji got a much more elegantly made sweater with an emblem of a paw wrapped in shadows, crushing a bone in its grip. Kalaisa blinked in confusion when Marco handed her a sack.

"When in the Abyss did you make it?" she growled, tearing the leather asunder to find a coarse-looking sweater with Ygrite's pack emblem, an exploding house.

"Since you agreed to help us, I thought it would be fair if you'd get one, too." Marco shrugged. "I've been working on it in my spare time, so…"

"I like it," Kalaisa declared, taking off her coat and dressing into the sweater. "I nominate you as my favorite pipsqueak. If you need someone to beat up, just call me."

"Thank you, Marco." Janine patted him on the head. "You too, Anji, Kalaisa. In gratitude, I authorize you to accompany Marco to this farm if he accepts the farmer's offer."

"Great, more busywork." Kalaisa's shoulders slumped.

"What was that?" Soulless One asked quietly.

"I said, ready and able, ma'am!"

"Excellent," Janine said, heading toward the corridor. "Now back to your posts; we arrive in Houstad in less than an hour. Make yourselves presentable. Bogdan! You are responsible for making sure our pack does not cause any tension with the locals. If any of the females grumble, call me and I'll break her skull."

"Yes, ma'am! It will be done, Warlord!" Her boy stood at attention.

"And no more fighting or dominating! Anyone who spills a drop of an ally's blood will join Lacerated One in the storage bay."

 

[Rookie12]

They marched! Janine's heartbeat quickened against her will; her mood lifted at the sounds of horns and music playing. The national anthem was so intense that it had almost matched the usual chaos of battle, but rather than announcing an impending doom to those resisting the Reclamation Army, it now sang of reunion through life. Adoration and cheers met the weary army, and even the grimmest of veterans found no heart to sour such an occasion.

The Inevitable shone in the sunlight. Dedicated worker teams from Houstad meticulously cleaned every plate, every cannon, and even the tracks themselves. Dirt was scrubbed from the vehicles, flags and banners flowed on the wind from the sides of the crawler and the mobile bastions. Ice Fangs, clad in their parade uniforms, marched across the bridge leading into the city, accompanied by the thunderous cheers of the local populace and fireworks forming the country's colors overhead.

Camelia Wintersong led the parade. She wore a long, light blue overcoat over her power armor, while two initiates held up her dark blue cloak to prevent it from touching the ground. She transformed her weapon into a marshal's staff adorned with a snarling Wolfkin's head, symbolizing a blend of the Blessed Mother's savagery and the Twins' restrained wisdom. On this occasion, she used a special suit of combat armor, a pristine white suit once used by the female Twin, and on her head was the male's helmet. First himself authorized the use of this treasured ancient equipment.

To her left were Zero, Dragena, and Ashbringer, the only warlords who joined the parade. Zero waltzed, rather than walking formally; the light highlighted the gold she had painted over the edges of her armor and reflected from precious gems set into her breastplate. There was little formality in her behavior; the woman basked in welcoming cheers and responded in kind, throwing up her paws and giving thumbs up. She even scooped up three cubs and piggybacked them a few steps before the Blessed Mother snapped her back to reality.

Ashbringer and Dragena were her polar opposites. One clad in the heaviest crimson armor and the other in a lighter dark blue version. Their march was in perfect official unison with the steps of the sword saints. Sages, banner-bearing knights, knights captains in their gleaming battle plates, eighteen selected wolf hags, one from each warlord present in the army, and other soldiers of the Third advanced in their wake.

Senior officers and elite Normie and New Breeds units flanked this gathering. Ravager insisted on it, disregarding the mayor's and the captain's offers to put the regular humans back. By stationing these brave souls on the flanks, she ensured their visibility, for the Wolfkins towered over them. Chak rode atop the APC, his body coiled around its turret, and the chief quartermaster dozed off, ignoring the greeting. His presence here was to show solidarity with the civilized Malformed, and the man's poor eyesight didn't allow him to enjoy the wonders of the city.

Or so the bastard claims. Janine thought icily, biting down on the urge to tell Anissa to stop glancing at Chak. The two had already scheduled their plans to explore the city.

They crossed the bridge, waving and howling in response to the cubs' greetings. The little ones flocked to the riverbanks. A long shadow cast by a statue of the Dynast welcomed the newcomers; their liege stood tall above the gates leading into the inner city; his features and armor were of white. In one hand the statue held a copy of the universal laws, and in the other a mace, the silent warning to anyone who thought of disobeying the law.

Statues of fallen and living heroes dotted the outer perimeter of Houstad, and Janine cringed when she saw a white-furred Ravager smiling happily next to the Twins. Clearly, someone didn't know them very well.

The procession spilled onto the main street, and Janine, overwhelmed with emotion, grabbed Martyshkina's paw. Her friend reacted even more openly: her jaws opened wide. In preparation for their arrival, the mayor had announced a surprise celebration, and the state had promised to compensate businesses for lost profits. Freed from work, the people gathered to pay their respects.

Paradise wouldn't describe this place. The sheer size of the city awed Janine. Light danced and reflected off the countless windows and cars; fresh smells of bread, meat, oil and perfume wafted from the stone streets and small shops. People! So many of them standing on the sidewalks, waving flags, waving their hands, or simply laughing. Orais cheered beside Normies. A family of mutants discussed something with the goat-headed Malformed couple over hotdogs that they purchased from the darting back and forth youths. Policemen in green uniforms maintained iron vigilance. The hem of one of their coats flapped in the wind, revealing an advanced exoskeleton to Janine. The sound of sniper rifles moving on the rooftops caught her attention.

She disregarded the precautions and focused on the city. Coming from the north, they now entered what was known as the Priests' Quarter. His excellency Devourer and the Dynast had a long and distrustful history with religions, seeing them as little more than pleasant lies. However, the diligence of small monastic communities and the selflessness of individual believers in aiding the Restoration had proven otherwise, and the two relented, accepting the necessity of spirituality in society.

Bells tolled from the green gardens surrounding the stone cathedrals of the Church of the Planet, the biggest and fastest-growing religion in Iterna, the Oathtakers, and the Reclamation Army. The training grounds of the Champion, a martial religion that originated from the Orais, remained empty and bloodless. Sweaty trainees and muscular challengers, their bones broken and reforged in sparring, shared space with young and innocent-looking nuns, priests, and rugged ordinands.

The last group caught Janine's interest. All ordinands shared their share of scars; some even had artificial limbs. This bellicose wing of the church was responsible for delivering humanitarian aid to the world's most remote corners. They often used their weapons to stop the lawless and the threatening, to protect their flock and the helpless. Former soldiers and retired mercenaries seeking redemption formed the core of their ranks.

Martyshkina had other tastes, and Janine swallowed a giggle at her friend's intense focus on the Orais challenger, an analog of a priest among the Champion's faithful. There was no high clergy and barely any order in this religion; its members welcomed anyone seeking self-improvement, whether biological or partially mechanical. The Orais themselves rarely reached the size of a wolf hag, but the one that caught Marty's attention seemed capable of folding a shaman in half.

"Planning to convert?" Janine whispered.

"What?" Martyshkina gasped. "No! Jani, look at his muscles. I am telling you, the bastard is showing off. I'll see him eat dirt, don't worry."

"Don't know, he seemed hospitable to me." Janine waved to the Orais, and the five-fingered challenger grinned, showing his impeccable, even, square teeth.

"You dummy, that's how you repay the hospitality! A fair, no-holds-barred match is the greatest gesture of trust you can give to a championian."

"No match against a warlord could be considered fair." Janine shouldered the pouting Martyshkina. "I am joking! Don't hurt him too much."

"I hope to learn something." Martyshkina wrapped an arm around Janine's shoulders. "The news has been reporting about her perfect grappling techniques."

"Good luck with that," Janine said doubtfully and returned her eyes to the crowds. Her head spun a little. "Normies, mutants, everyone, event religions… They coexist together. I… It's…"

"What's the matter, the Blessed Mother got your tongue?" Martyshkina teased. "That peace must be a real tough bitch if it can almost knock out Jani so effortlessly."

"Tough," Janine agreed. "But also the best by right. If it counts as a loss, I don't mind. The food smells make me drool."

"Now you're talking my language! My stomach rumbles and demands fresh sacrifices!"

They fell silent as the Inevitable reached the first square. Janine had to blink trice to believe her eyes. So many people. There had to be thousands, or tens of thousands, of civilians standing to the left and right; their roar of greeting had shocked the warlord to her core. An army… No several armies on their own! And many of them had never even seen war or the cruelty of the Outer Lands, thanks to the genius of the Dynast.

And their own modest efforts.

Reporters filmed the column; fast-food stands were overflowing; acrobats danced, leaped, and juggled in the crowds, earning themselves tokens; singers performed songs of the Outer Lands; priests blessed the returning soldiers; families whimpered in happiness as they spotted a familiar face among the troops; young white-furred cubs were throwing flowers, and painters toiled to mark this occasion.

"Welcome back! Welcome back! No more wars! Let our children stay!" Janine tilted her head, confused, as she picked up a clearly orderly chant in the torrent of cheers, but she decided to ignore it.

There was no threat in these words. Worry yes, but no fear or anger.

Elder Ice Fangs, dressed in expensive dresses or strict business suits, occupied rich rooftop terraces, toasting their passing relatives and greeting everyone in unison. The nation's economic system deeply ingrained these male and female Ice Fangs, who chose civilian lives and held shares in or outright owned firms and stores. All Ice Fangs had been trained in martial arts since birth, but if rumors were to be believed, these ice boys had long since forgotten how to hold a sword properly. Several white-furred Wolfkins, mostly squires and knights, saluted from the ranks of the police. These guards helped keep the cities of the Core Lands safe, fulfilling a role not too dissimilar from that of roaming packs who kept settlements and villages safe.

But they are more gorgeous by far. Janine caught herself smiling, noticing Ignacy's envious expression at the advanced power armor types below. Her boy was too easily distracted by the shiny things. Who cared if their cousins had more advanced and elegant types of armor? Their plating was too thin, unsuitable for rapid advancement, and not large enough to accommodate enough servomotors. The Wolf Tribe's soldiers filled multiple roles in combat: grenadier, shock trooper, melee fighter—you name it, they've done it. When one died, the remaining soldiers seamlessly filled the void.

Their cousins relied on a strict delegation of responsibilities between the troops. Defenders shielded the knights' assaults, while the knights sliced through the main battle lines, allowing the sages to bring in sword saints and sever an enemy's throat. Meanwhile, the hunters reaped their toll from a distance, using their sniper rifles. Idiocy. Instead of focusing on simple standardization, there were too many individual battle plates. War was all about mass warfare; strike fast and end the fight fast to limit the casualties.

The procession reached the terraforming complex, an enormous, square-shaped series of facilities close to the city's edge. Janine did not know many things, but she recognized the heart of the city at once. New Breeds blessed with passive abilities of preventing precognition in an area and those who wielded powers capable of blocking teleportation were stationed here. Houstad was still undergoing the terraforming process. Should these facilities be destroyed or taken offline for weeks, the entire southern region risked suffering an ecological catastrophe or even reverting to a barren wasteland.

A walled encampment was built roughly eight hundred meters away from the complex, a place more fitting to be barracks or a command post. And yet it was the famous orphanage, "No one is unneeded," as Devourer called it. Initially funded from his private coffers, this place and its mirror sisters in other cities had dozens of buildings inside its walls and housed several thousand motherless victims of conquests, raids, or simply natural disasters.

Normies and New Breeds alike were welcomed here, protected, cared for, and educated by the state. A bronze statue of an unknown girl was erected in the courtyard. Her posture betrayed fear and uncertainty: one hand raised to protect the lacerated face against an unseen whip, but her back firmly shielded the entrance to the main building.

"In memory of those we couldn't save," Melina read the inscription on the statue's pedestal. "Well, that's a morbid reminder to the cubs who lost their parents. And why is the statue so ugly? Wounds, scars, skin missing from the ribs, the cut robe. Who? Which freak decided to create…"

"Melina." Every soldier on the observation deck froze when they heard Ravager's voice from above.

"Y-yes, Blessed Mother?" Melina squeaked.

"It was Devourer's decision. A sin or a remembrance of his failure. Or maybe a demand to be better? Even I don't know. Even I didn't reach her in time. But he did. He tried. Shut up and accept it," Ravager maintained her silence and then chuckled. "Teachers regularly petition for the removal of these statues so the little ones won't be traumatized or scared."

"A… a question, Blessed Mother," Melina said.

"You try my patience, wolf hag. Do you not need your tongue? Shall I pull it out?" Ravager growled, and they heard a clanking of fangs.

Janine's claws bit into her paw from worries over her son. The Blessed Mother was sane. She had to be! Spirits, just one day! A day without madness! Give her a day of rest!

"Ask your question, child," Ravager said wearily.

"They welcome volunteers." Melina pointed to a sign near the orphanage's main gates. "Can I…"

"Of course, girl."

Drones, operated by the reporters, swooped down from the buildings. They filmed proud Order warriors up close and tried to get better pictures of their black-furred kin. Bogdan had to grab Ignacy's belt as the soldier swung over the railings to get a better look at the flying machines.

"They are amazing," Ignacy whispered. "Imagine the usefulness! They could deliver small loads to a mountain village, drop grenades onto secured positions, or fire small caliber weapons."

"Or mapping the area." Janine nodded and hugged him. "The First Army already used them extensively, and the Second followed suit. We can't lag behind. A first batch of combat drones is waiting for us at the base. I volunteered our pack to test their synergy with our soldiers." She smiled at her son's awed eyes. "We have received both scanners and weapon models. On Alpha's orders, at least one member of a scout's pack is to learn how to become a field drone operator."

"Really? I mean, that is excellent news, Warlord!" Ignacy beamed and stood at attention.

"I expect you and Elzada to show initiative and pave the way for the rest of our pack to master the control of such devices. We will not lose to the Alpha or Ashbringer packs. Am I clear?"

"Crystal clear, ma'am!" Her sons replied in unison.

She caught Bogdan grinning. Whatever. Just because she could accept Ignacy's desire to possibly remain a loner didn't mean she should stop trying to make him and Elzada soulmates. She wanted more granddaughters. Or grandsons. Either will do at this point. No cub of hers should stay alone in their tent at night.

"People of the Reclamation Army!" The Blessed Mother's voice stopped any mischief on the crawler.

The procession came to a halt in the middle of the city, stopping at the largest square, from which could be seen several large skyscrapers and a modest city hall. A kilometer-tall skyscraper had a large display mounted on its side. The display's screen showed the Blessed Mother, a stunning and glorious sight for everyone to witness.

She refused to put on the military coat; her own fur covered her fully, its void somehow darkened the area near her. But the mayor insisted on regalia, and she obliged to the request. A metal diadem, resembling an olive branch, adorned her brow, encircling her head. Bone totems and amulets of the Wolf Tribe, bones of those who perished in the wars, dangled from her neck, sharing space with the exquisitely crafted golden talismans and necklaces of the Ice Fang Order. She spread her arms wide, greeting the assembling crowds.

Jaquan was by her side, while Jacomie and Cristobo remained in the control center. Despite warnings about the commander's temper and wild outbursts, the mayor declined the offer of safety, insisting that it was ultimately his decision to allow the Third to remain in the city. He had no intention of hiding or protecting himself from the person he had brought in.

Marco and an Ice Fang cub, the initiate who asked Janine to give her young son a message about a pizza, stood on the platforms to the left and right of the Blessed Mother, waving and smiling at the crowds. The initiates found suitable official clothes for Marco in their closets and dyed them dark so that he would have the official colors of his tribe. The Ice Fang girl chose a long, flowing dress, and diamonds glittered in her hair.

Janine noticed the mayor's smile as Ravager veered off the script from the beginning. She was supposed to address the citizens of Houstad, but she chose to address the entire Reclamation Army. Perhaps she had already forgotten the speech and was improvising. Alpha, Lacerated One and Leonidas Summerspring stood close to the cubs, weapons ready. Should madness come upon the progenitor, it would be their duty to halt her. But so far, everything seemed in order.

"My heart sings in joy at hearing your warm and sincere greetings," Ravager continued in a calm and clear voice. The mayor put on a headset to protect his eardrums, and the Blessed Mother's words propelled air that moved the hem of the Ice Fang's girl dress. "Yet I also hear your thanks. My compatriots! Guests from the faraway lands! You need not thank us! It is we who should thank you!" The cheers subsided a little as people whispered questions, trying to guess the meaning of her words. "It is true!" Ravager insisted. "When I left Houstad the last time, it was a miserable place, where people had to claw another day out of life to survive. Look at it now!" She pointed to the buildings, cars, shops, billboards, signs, a hospital on a distant street, a small charity run by priests. "You rose above barbarism; you built not just something, but a life worth living! You did it, not us! Be proud! Your achievements are just as important, nay! They are even more important than any war we have ever won! People of the Reclamation Army, you build your children a beautiful home worth coming back to! The Wolf Tribe could've never created it. We were born to conquer, and when we came to you as terrifying monsters, you reached out to us and help us integrate into normal life. What else can I say, but thank you? Thank you, young and old, for believing in us, for giving us a chance…"

The Blessed Mother continued to speak, praising the implementation of civil rights and the acceptance of people from different backgrounds. Janine grinned after Cristobo shared a worried look with Jacomie, Alpha, and his officers. The Dynast and his cabinet had sent a very specific speech for Ravager to deliver, one that emphasized the continuing dangers in the world and the need for a strong guiding hand to control every person born with power.

Ravager had ignored it, clearly enjoying admiring two street performers during her speech, a man and a woman. One of them conjured flaming dragons that danced above the crowd, and his friend turned the fiery flames into ice sculptures. But before they could fall on the tourists and people, the first artist quickly melted them into drops of water to thunderous applause.

Janine clapped to it too. She didn't wish to think of war on this wonderful day. Peace, however brief, had to be enjoyed and treasured…

"Go back to your deserts, you murderers!" A voice boomed from loudspeakers, and a mixed crowd of people broke through the line of police and stormed the main road.

Aggression coming from their progenitor whipped every Wolfkin on the crawler and below. And the Ravager's face on the display changed into a bloodthirsty frown.

 

[Rookie12]

A section of the larger crowd blocking a street parted as several vans drove by. Janine narrowed her eyes upon noticing that it wasn't a sporadic event; whoever was in charge ensured that no one would accidentally ended up under the wheels. A group of Orais, seemingly by accident, pushed people out of the way of the protesters.

The protesters who drove and marched on the road carried signs: 'Stop needless wars!' and 'Bring our children home!'. A rotten fruit splattered on Camelia's battle plate. The woman ignored the defacement of the precious relic, examining the demonstrators as if they were annoying gnats, while the police closed in on them. Several New Breeds, including a six-armed Malformed, formed a line, not using their claws, blades, or muscles against the law enforcers, but neither did they let them approach a speaker on the leading van.

No. Janine clenched her fangs, sensing Ravager's aimless focus on the people. The Wolf Tribe could instinctively feel their mother's emotions when she was close. When she was in anguish, violent turmoil engulfed the tribe, and artisans of the Order produced the most horrific paintings. When the Blessed Mother paid attention to a domination match, it often ended in death. When she was angry, the tribe sallied out, destroying everything in their path.

"They call themselves monsters!" A tall, tanned man stood atop the van and shouted into a microphone. Reporters captured his face, allowing the man to appear on street displays. "And I'm forced to agree! These glory-seeking, war-mongering parasites speak of peace, but decade after decade, our nation's resources are drained into war so that fiends like Ravager can parade their triumphs before us and bask in the gold stolen from the crushed lands! Does it seem just to anyone?!" He glanced around, and as the police brandished maces and tasers, he hurried. "See how they try to silence us, afraid of the truth! Why is there still no free healthcare in the Outer Lands? Why must our brave boys and girls sacrifice their lives in distant lands while our own remains underdeveloped? Every year the government lures young people to join the army and they come back shell-shocked, traumatized, missing limbs or not at all. Is this a fair exchange? Do we not have problems at home? Imagine if we had put our efforts into civilian industry instead of building these behemoths!" He pointed at the crawler. "Other countries would have joined us on their own! Our citizens starve and die from thirst, while these creatures…"

"You dare?" Ravager's voice silenced the man, and he suddenly found himself in her shadow. Janine was shocked. She could bet her life that no one, not even their cousins, had seen the Blessed Mother move and land with the grace of a falling feather.

Her arms swung to block the tasers, ignoring the electric currents that disappeared in her body. Her fingers took on the policemen's maces. She didn't strike at them, but the reverberation from facing impregnable objects in their path nearly caused the cops to lose their maces. A growl stopped Zero and Camelia from advancing.

"You misconstrue our deeds and seek flaws instead of honoring the necessary sacrifices." Ravager's voice vacillated between calm and fury; her pupils shrank and dilated, and blood spurted from her nose. "There are true monsters lurking behind the walls. Fort Uglo! Ravines of Desolation! Crimson Citadel! Houstad Itself! Remember them well!" Her trembling finger pointed to a family in the crowd. "I smell it, even after generations. Your ancestors were chemically marked, correct?"

"Yes, Lady Ravager," answered a pale man, standing ahead of a snow-white little girl and a tanned woman. "My grandparents underwent a procedure that caused letters of ownership to appear on their children's bodies and made them more susceptible to servitude. It ended with my father."

"It didn't. It permeates you and your daughter to a lesser degree, but no longer affects the psyche," Ravager told him, never taking her eyes off the orator. "The men who did it to his ancestors kept slaves in cages. When the time came, they gave an order, and the poor souls walked to a slaughterhouse of their own volition, one after another." Her fur rose and drool spilled onto the man's face. "How would you stop a filth like that? Do you think they listened to your words? Do you think they will be awed and humbled by your wealth? They'll raid to claim those riches! We murder, so you didn't have to! You named us parasites, but we are a barbarian horde that protects and avenges the helpless! We slaughter so that people may live! So that you may know peace and happiness! Our armies conquer to free others from the horrors of servitude, from the terror of being eaten alive! We bleed and die to protect you! We are the chain breakers, the monster slayers, and you dare to call us creatures, you ignorant, petulant child…"

"Does culling us protect us, monster?" A calm voice inquired.

Ravager froze and turned to face an elderly woman, who held up a sign and used a cane to walk around. An eye patch was placed over her left eye. She tossed the sign aside and hobbled over to Ravager, who sniffed the air.

"I remember, I remember, must remember." More blood spurted from her nostrils. The Blessed Mother shook and slid her own claws under the skin of her temple. "During the subjugation of Mincemeat, right?" she asked, as if nothing had happened.

Mincemeat. Janine tensed. A conquest that happened decades ago. A brutal mutant held nearly half a million people in his thrall, controlling their bodies with his mind. When diplomats of the Reclamation Army delivered the ultimatum, he laughed and made them skin themselves alive before the Dynast's eyes. Even the Wolfkins weren't safe, and several of them stepped into the tyrant's mind control zone and became his willing slaves.

The Dynast then unleashed the Blessed Mother. And the kingdom didn't even last an hour.

"Yes." The woman spat at Ravager. "He controlled us like puppets, our limbs moved against our will; we toiled and danced to his amusement, screaming inside. Men and women breed for him, birthing fresh slaves. More died building statues in his honor. And then he threw us at you. We could never have harmed you." The woman raised a trembling fist. "Did you recognize this, beast? I cracked my knuckles against your hide as you devoured my entire family! I remember your mad laughter and giggles to this day; the crimson sand haunts my dreams. And the stench!"

"I am sorry," Ravager said. She didn't move; she did nothing when a cane struck her leg.

"What good to me your apologies!" The woman shrieked; her feeble voice somehow rose to a tornado. "Ravines of Desolation? You demand us to remember them? You remember them! Over forty thousand lives you ended that day—more than Mincemeat killed in a month! What sin, what unforgivable crime did they commit to perish in your claws? You want forgiveness? Give me back my family!"

"Why is the Blessed Mother tolerating it?" Janine growled. "Why does she allow these unjust accusations to be piled at her feet?"

"Jani, don't do anything reckless." Martyshkina took her by the shoulders, forcing her friend to stay where she was. "This is the progenitor's will…"

"Screw the progenitor's will!" Eled roared.

The warlord pushed from the crowd. Predaig tried to grab her arm, and Eled struck, breaking her fingers. Eled breathed hard; a red gleam danced in her new amber eyes. The Blessed Mother's mood dawned on them; it demanded submission and silence, but the raging fury in Eled's soul took over, and she jumped from the crawler, the concrete exploding under the weight of her body, sending a web of cracks in every direction.

"Bullshit!" She roared to the sky and advanced toward the woman, snarling at Ravager's gaze. "People died. My condolences. Death happens in war. You dare call the Blessed Mother a monster? After Mincemeat's death, we had a hundred thousand slaves who never tasted freedom. Children who never had a chance to grow up and live, trapped in adult bodies. Was it your wish to see them enslaved until their last day? Do you know how to prosecute a war so that no innocent soul dies?"

"Commander Ravager saved them." Camelia interrupted her silence. The sword saint joined Eled and glared icily at the Normie woman. "She paid for their rehabilitation and their integration into society."

"She saved us!" shouted an older man from the crowd. "It was Mincemeat who took our minds! If it weren't for the Blessed Mother, we would all have died in his thrall!" More voices joined him, telling of their misfortunes or the misery of their ancestors before the Third delivered them.

"You weren't there!" The woman shouted, and Ravager raised her arm, silencing everyone so that she could speak. "You know, you just saw how fast that bitch is. Bullets bounced off her hide, laser beams splashed across her fur. What danger were we to her? She could've easily evaded us, but she chose to stay and carve a bloody path out of our bodies!" Tears streamed down her face as she pounded her cane and fist against the black fur. A younger man, who bore a resemblance to the old woman, took her arm and tried to lead her away. "Here! Use your claws, render me asunder, show your true nature, beast; I don't care! Give me back my family, or send me to them, but end this accused nightmare!"

"No." Ravager stopped the police from arresting the protesters, keeping her eyes on the woman. "There will be no violence today, save for one directed at the guilty. Their grievances are fair. They are not to be arrested or harmed. I am sorry," Ravager told the crowd, bowing her head. "I would like to offer some recompense and some measure of satisfaction for what I have caused you…"

"But you did!" Shouted people. "The soldiers of the Third rescued us from Blood Graf, and you gutted the bastard for what he did to our families…"

"What does it matter?" Ravager stood at her full height, looking left and right. "Does a noble deed excuse the evil? What can I possibly do to atone for the sea of dead left in my wake? No. I am a monster, fully and truly. Say your piece, good people; shout your anger and inflict a token of pain on me I have brought upon you. I owe you this much. I would've given my life to pay for what I did, but this coin is not mine to give." She waited a moment and addressed the elderly woman. "Hate me if you must. There is nothing wrong with spite or hatred, not when they are honest. But direct your ire at the guilty! My kin share similarity in visage, but they do not share my crimes."

Ravager knelt on one knee, and Janine was surprised to see the crowd gather around her. There were no more insults; the police removed most of the demonstrators, but on the commander's order, they left their leader, a man with long blond hair. He asked the Blessed Mother about her views for the future of the country, and she answered they were in alignment with the Dynast's vision. Build a nation worth living in. Reunite the planet to prevent even a chance of another Extinction. Eliminate racism. Multiple cultures, different people, one nation.

After hearing her speak so calmly, more people approached. The Blessed Mother smiled at the pale family, whose daughter no longer feared her. A giant paw patted the little one gently, wishing her well. Ravager answered questions about life in the Outer Lands, not shying away from exposing savagery, cruelty, or her own approval of harsh laws. She honestly admitted to not remembering a fallen soldier who died serving in the ranks of the Third to his parents. And she laughed at a question about the wound on her head, pointing out that it didn't bleed anymore. After learning that he was a medic, she bristled and waved the man away.

"Eled." Ravager distracted herself from talking to the crowd to keep the warlord from climbing back into the crawler.

"Yes, Mother." Eled bowed, putting on sunglasses to ease the strain on her eyes. "I am ready to accept punishment…"

"Good. You have damaged a section of the road. You will help the workers to repair it."

"Can't…" Eled licked her lips. "Can't you rip off my arm and call it even as usual? Fixing stuff is not my forte."

"Then it is a perfect punishment," Ravager laughed melodiously, then returned to addressing the crowd as the soldiers marched past and the parade resumed.

The mayor joined the commander and took her by the arm, guiding her to a sidewalk where they, the reporters, and ordinary people sat in a café near a shop that piqued Janine's curiosity. It sold ice cream.

An ice cream cone. Janine reminded herself. She will learn what it is, and Spirits help Anissa if she lied to her.

****

A request from the author: If someone is reading this story, could you please tell why it is bad, so I can maybe improve it in my next one. Feel free to be as harsh as you see fit.

 

[Rookie12]

Leaving the Blessed Mother to entertain the crowd, the column reached Southaven Base, an old military outpost from the early days of the conquest. Once large enough to house the three armies, nowadays it barely had enough space for a single one. The crawler opened its main door, and thousands of legs thundered across the landing ramp, bringing out supplies, weapons, armors, exchanging greetings with the Provincial Army's soldiers, and setting up sentry posts.

"Welcome to Houstad!" A soldier grasped Janine's paw as she pushed ahead of Martyshkina, her eyes blazing, to secure the finest den for her pack. "You've made quite a splash. Schalk Morrow, a humble sergeant at your service, warlord…"

"Janine. No second name." She returned the handshake. The provincial army guard had skin as dark as coal and lush sideburns, but no mustache. His brown eyes, while keen, betrayed more warmth than Jacomie's.

"An honor!" The man pressed a fist over his heart. "The songs of your brave battle against Blood Graf…"

"Schalk, you can kiss the warlord's ass later," Jacomie snapped, stepping out of the vehicle. There was an undeniable resemblance in their facial features, even though Schalk's nose had been broken and reforged in the past and his hair was gray compared to the lieutenant's pitch-black. "Our guests are tired. Help them get stationed."

"By your will!" Schalk led Janine inside the base. "The structure is basic. The main armory is in the center, but your power armors can be stored in individual storages…"

"Are you and Jacomie related?" Janine interrupted him.

"Hail from the same homeland! Pacified by the Second, no less. The lieutenant was badly injured during it, but she is fully capable." Schalk glanced around and lowered his voice. "Listen, I know my commander may seem grumpy at times, but she is completely loyal and means well. But she also likes to do things by the book. I don't know much of how the Third operates, fan of the Second, you understand. If you need to expedite a transfer or take any other action to bypass the official channels, contact me and I'll take care of it."

"Sure. Tell me which barracks are the best." Janine craned her neck, hearing Alpha's heavy footsteps. "Hurry."

Thanks to Schalk's helpful advice, Janine had secured six barracks on the west side of the base, two for herself, one for Marty, and the rest for Predaig and Eled, making them the sole packs that didn't have to enter another warlord's territory to travel elsewhere. Alpha and Ashbringer glared and fumed but said nothing, respecting the right of the first pick.

Cristobo oversaw the setting up of the command center and left Dragena in charge before leaving to watch the crawler move to the airport. While the Normies drove tanks to the armory and reignited flares in the maintenance bay, the Alpha Pack restored firing ranges and worked tirelessly to rebuild training grounds. The task of helping the medics settle in fell to Martyshkina.

Janine gave her pack no time to marvel at the night city, and threw her pack into the firing range to sharpen their instincts, which had been dulled by the relaxing field trip. Her pack defeated Onyxia's girls and immediately found themselves outmatched by Dragena's troops. Janine grinned at the misfortune and whipped her pack into an ignominious run around the base, leading them as work was in full swing around them and shardguns continued to bark on the range.

Soon evening came, and the first dominations began. Howls pierced the night sky, and warriors faced off against scouts trying to earn promotions. Immediately, the males yielded, and Bogdan secured a spot on a crate, meticulously cleaning the bloody mark a scout had left on his neck. As the woman faced off against Elzada for the rank of chief scout, Janine's boy began loudly cheering her on, describing her virtues in exaggerated colors. When the annoyed woman got distracted for a second, Elzada immediately elbowed her in the neck, sending her to the ground puking while the chief scout was busy breaking her ribs.

Janine stopped the fight before it could get too far, but said nothing to Bogdan, who counted the tokens he won from his bet. The ability to keep her cool was essential for a scout. If anything, the loser should be grateful to her boy for the lesson.

"Bitches. All of you," Maxence said. The doctor stepped inside the sand circle and fired a tranquilizer gun into Zlata's back. The wolf hag fell face down on her opponent, a young scout who left half of her face in Zlata's claws. At the doctor's command, his nurses quickly dragged them both away. "A day. Is it so much to ask?"

"Yes," Alpha answered him. She picked up the man under her arm and carried him away from the field.

Eled and Predaig protected their ranks and spent the rest of the match praising their opponents. Anissa caught a scout on her claws and raised the twitching in agony Wolfkin over her head, basking in the cheers of her pack. Rather than casting the scout down, Anissa gently set her down and patted her, sending the scout to the medic before taking on two more challengers at once. Not far from her, Elzada struggled to stand. Her back was open, and the gleaming and wet bones of her spinal column were visible, but she smiled through the pain and accepted Ignacy's help. An unconscious wolf hag lay on her legs, her tongue protruding. The mechanical leg kicked a deep dent in the woman's cranium, squeezing the eye out. It dangled from a string of nerves. Winner and loser were wheeled away to the medical field center, and Janine thought she heard Maxence's roar in the distance.

Two weeks of recovery, if not more. Janine sorrowfully wished her new scout good health and praised Elzada for her ingenuity in adapting her style so soon.

Normies cheered the victors or gasped at the gruesome wounds inflicted on their champions. Schalk lost a small fortune to Keon, but that didn't dampen his spirits, and the officer gesticulated wildly, telling the young man tales of the Second's heroic conquests and occasionally asking about his homeland.

No one challenged Janine, and she, Martyshkina, and Ashbringer sat together. Ashbringer gnashed her fangs as she watched Kalaisa sweep a scout off her feet and slam the woman face down in the dirt. Kalaisa briefly bit her opponent's neck and stepped away, tauntingly inviting the next challenger.

"What's wrong with you, Ash?" Martyshkina asked. A fist swung at her muzzle, but Martyshkina's palms caught it, and an elbow was directed at her neck. "Rude. That'll leave a bruise. Ash, no one can sneak up on me."

"Spill the beans, Ashbringer," Janine said. "You are on edge. If you feel unwell, visit a medic."

"Tch." Ashbringer spat on the ground. "Sorry, Marty. Should've challenged you first. It happens again. No one challenges me."

"No one challenges Alpha either," Martyshkina observed.

"Or us," Janine added.

"Alpha is too strong, and you are too young," Ashbringer panted, her claws tapping on her knee. "Arruda is strong enough to try. It's plain as day. Why is she not challenging me? I haven't maimed anyone; why am I always singled out? What is there to be afraid of?"

Forty paces away from them, Arruda desperately tried her best to save her skin from being brutally shredded by Sarkeesian's drills. The rival wolf hag abruptly broke off the fight with her opponent and went after the other woman, spreading her jaws wide and advancing on all four limbs. She tried to bait the smaller Wolfkin into attacking her, deliberately snapping her jaws in the air and exposing herself.

Arruda wasn't dumb. Her leg kicked, but Sarkeesian's paws grasped the emptiness as Arruda halted her feint and planted her leg firmly on the ground. She struck with the second leg, sending the Alpha Pack's wolf hag back on her feet and shutting her mouth. Two thrusts aimed at the neck followed the attack. Sarkeesian swiftly withdrew, avoiding the worst, but the thrusts sliced through her breasts. Her first adversary lunged at her from behind, sinking her fangs into the wolf hag's neck, and Arruda quickly joined her.

Sarkeesian grabbed the scout's wrist and pulled the limb into her mouth. The drills sliced through skin and muscle to the bone. The scout loosened her grip on the neck and screamed, trying to jerk her arm free. Sarkeesian showed mercy, sparing the bone. She backhanded the scout away and faced an incoming thrust to her forearm. A brutal elbow slammed Arruda against the chin, shattering two of her fangs.

"Maybe she stays as your second out of respect," Janine suggested. She rose to her feet and hurried toward the fighters, ignoring the childish antics of the wolf hags. She picked up the mutilated scout as gently as she could and handed the loser to the medics.

"Then she is a fool," Ashbringer growled upon her return. "You cannot reach greatness without adversity. Failure is the best teacher on the path to strength. If my subordinates lack ambition, then I have failed them."

"Is Arruda's potential future really what bothers you?" Martyshkina asked and leaned closer to Ashbringer, examining her snout.

"That is all you will learn," the warlord stated.

"Warlords." Anji bowed and approached them.

"No one has challenged you?" Janine smiled and slapped at the bench.

"Yep," Anji pouted. She joined them and began untying and retying her braids. "My warlord disappeared, and everyone is having fun while I am being sidelined. Typical."

"Don't let it get you down, girl. Onyxia can't hide forever," Martyshkina said. "Oi, Alpha!" She shouted to the alabaster figure overseeing matches. "No competitor, too? Join the Loser Club, not the worst company…"

A wave of fear swept through the group. Janine frowned, reliving the panic of her first litter, the nervousness of her trembling paws, and the intense desire to gnaw at her fingers again. Ashbringer flipped a middle finger to Alpha, while Martyshkina coughed and wiped drool from her lips. Anji handled the tickling best. The young woman closed and opened her eyes, refusing to bulge.

There wasn't a living soul in the tribe willing to challenge Alpha, and not because of the passive terror that surrounded the warlord. The woman never showed an ounce of restraint. Her claws tore through an opponent mercilessly, opening veins and ripping through bones. The massive bulk of her body slammed an unfortunate soul to the ground, rupturing internal organs by sheer force of impact. When a challenger could no longer move, the Alpha would methodically declaw them, devouring fangs and claws to teach them a lesson.

The Alpha Pack was the strongest unit in the Wolf Tribe, excelling at everything thanks to the iron discipline instilled by such a merciless teacher. But it couldn't change, because its members couldn't hope to match their warlord. So as not to deprive the tribe of potential candidates, Alpha occasionally kicked her wolf hags and scouts into the lesser packs, where they inevitably rose through the ranks.

"Why are you irritating her?" Ashbringer asked.

"I like to tickle her nerves. Alpha is our big sister, and it isn't proper for her to be alone." Martyshkina stretched. "No idea what their deal is, but everyone should live up a little."

With howls, blood, infighting, and struggle, the Wolf Tribe has settled into their new den, scenting every inch of the place. Normies diligently reconnected upgraded ancient terminals to the main network and opened kitchens, serving Houstad food to the soldiers. An officers' club opened its doors, offering the finest beverages from Oaksters' Vineyards, approved even by the high standards of the Ice Fangs. Schalk, playing the role of welcoming host in the absence of his superior, bought several rounds for each officer, and Janine found the drinks sweet.

Those among the winners of the domination were 'recruited' to help the work teams by keeping the toilets clean, and Ashbringer laughed mockingly as the realization of their task settled in Kalaisa's eyes.

Warm clothing, including winter jackets, arrived at Chak's request. The Ice Fangs quietly asked the Normies if their cousins had lost their marbles yet. Upon witnessing Anissa joyfully don three turtlenecks and a coat, Janine heard them conclude that the Wolf Tribe had collectively gone insane and needed immediate psychiatric help. She let this insult go unchallenged.

Janine had to physically drag Ignacy away from tinkering with the drones, so the boy could eat, visit Elzada in the infirmary, and sleep a little. After checking on the wounded, Janine cracked her knuckles and marched to the prayer den. The tribe had a problem, just not the one the ice boys were chatting about. Every problem had to be solved.

*****

Janine entered a spacious, dark den that Lacerated One and the shamans had prepared for their spiritual needs. In accordance with the traditions, the electric lights were turned off. Wolfkins used their eyes to orient themselves, and candles burned for the visitors. Five rough idols were erected from the stone, towering over the faithful from a distant wall. Each idol represented one of the great Spirits. The shamans had poured their skill and passion into four of them, giving them the closest resemblance to the Blessed Mother. The idol dedicated to the Spirit of Rage, a horrific creature with its mouth wide open, received the lightest touch and was placed farthest from the entrance.

Two Ice Fangs sat in the dim light of the candles; one was Sword Saint Leonidas, and beside him was a smaller woman who had elegant metallic prosthetics for legs. Leonidas serenely surveyed the surroundings, while the young woman pressed her paws together in a humble prayer to the Spirit of Pride.

Janine remained in the shadows until the two had finished, then nodded in respect to the sword saint, who returned the gesture. As the Ice Fang left, the shamans extinguished the candles and began laying wooden planks on the stone floor, preparing the den for the ritual prayers.

"Can you imagine? They said they believe in the Spirits!" A shaman whispered to Soulless One.

"One treats it as a joke, but another is serious." Soulless One shook her head, wiping the floor clean. "What could it mean? I'll pray for revelations."

"Forgive my intrusion, sisters." Janine clumsily put her paws together. "May I speak to the supreme shaman?"

"Here, Janine." Lacerated One said it in an icy tone.

She sat in the far corner of the room, using her fingers to prepare bone idols. Flames embraced the soldiers who died in Just Peachy, and Lacerated One molded their remains like clay, creating toys for cubs or making decorated prayer beads the fallen could watch over the living even from the Great Beyond. Unlike the main idol, she gagged and blinded the Spirit of Rage on every image, safeguarding a faithful from the wrathful reaper's attention. An open book lay beside her, opened to a page of prayers for well-being and gratitude. The supreme shaman took off her armor and put on rags.

"Excuse me for disturbing you at this late hour." Janine bowed.

"You visit us so rarely, Janine, that you seem to have forgotten much," Lacerated One replied in the same indifferent tone. The warlord concluded her relative was still pissed off over the loss of the skinwalker. "It is our duty to listen and counsel. Blessed be, Janine. Be at ease and tell me your concerns."

"I want to have your support at the next Gathering," Janine told her bluntly, earning a look for the first time. Gatherings were meetings of the tribe, a time when all violence was forbidden, except for ritual duels. Males and females sat as equals, voicing their ideas for the shamans and warlords to vote on.

In reality, nothing was so simple. While some trifle changes, such as allowing treats for the cubs, happened accidentally, the most important changes went through the shamans first, who outnumbered the warlords by a lot. Alpha also cast her voice in favor of religious leaders, splitting the group even further. A tribe member who wanted to change something had to first pay a visit to Lacerated One, or another high-ranking shaman, and prove the value of their suggestion.

"For whatever cause, pray tell?" Lacerated One inquired.

Janine bared her neck to the shaman's claws, exposing her vulnerability in order to justify her intentions. Lacerated One did not bite her, but she gave Janine a bone talisman for Marco.

"I've met with a Wolf Hag recently. The name's Kalaisa. A motherless cur, like me..."

"I am aware." Lacerated One frowned and left a deep cut on her own nostril. "The investigation is concluded, confirming the shaman's undeniable guilt. Kalaisa's family is not at fault for their malnourishment. The shaman in charge of the village has already received her name back. Her penance is being discussed. No cub will ever suffer from being ignored there. This was our… my failure," the supreme shaman corrected herself. "But you don't need to ask for my support to expose it. Such a situation should never have arisen, not in the days of plenty. Being motherless is a flaw, a sad event, but not a sin, and certainly not something that deserves scorn and neglect. We will come clean to everyone about our grievous wrong." A bone medallion cracked in the shaman's paw, and Janine pitied the fool who had watched over Kalaisa's village. Shamans held themselves to the highest standards, even in punishment.

"I never intended to rub dirt in your faces." Janine gulped, hating herself. Look at her—not even two hundred years old and already daring to think that she had the right to change the tribe! No wonder her own mother had rejected her. "Warlords should be able to choose individual soldiers for themselves, regardless of kinship ties." Lacerated One's face hardened, and Janine hastily continued. "Yes, family is important. Abyss… Forgive the profanity. I know it! But we can't just shove potential aces into mismatched packs and hope it all works out. That bitch... Kalaisa nearly drove her brother to death, believing that her family is holding her back."

"She is wrong." Distraught, Lacerated One swept a paw over her head. "Females are given more, so they are expected to carry more on their shoulders. Duties come before benefits, sister."

"Of course she is wrong; she is a stupid cub!" Janine inhaled and faced the unblinking eyes. "But you saw her, didn't you? A potential warlord, brought low by her own hatred. Any sister would've snatched her from the pits for her own pack. She should have been in Alpha's pack. Surrounded by respect, a subject of strict discipline, Kalaisa would've never gone astray. Instead, we let her rot under ineffective leadership. It doesn't help anyone, it solves nothing. Her family has suffered. Are we not all kin? If yes, why should we cling to the outdated tradition, weakening ourselves?"

"Your suggestion could lead to an imbalance in the packs, as the strongest warlords would grow overly strong by depriving the rest of talented recruits."

"Then let the shamans oversee the situation, having the final say and regulating the distribution as needed, but always ensuring the best growth for the greenhorns," Janine insisted. "Not every mentor can sharpen a flawed tool into an impeccable blade. It is your duty to ensure that no blade is wasted before it can drink its fill of the Dynast's enemies."

"You ask me to share power with the warlords," Lacerated One mused.

"I demand you to do what is best for the tribe." Janine bared her fangs. "If this situation happened once, it means it had happened in the past and it will happen in the future. Take the responsibility and act befitting the leader, Lacerated One. Correct the course."

She expected to meet aggression, a bite, or an assault, but the shaman forged more toys for a good five minutes, ignoring the warlord. Janine shifted her weight, unused to sitting on her legs for so long. She wondered if Lacerated One was expecting something else—a promise of a favor, an oath of loyalty, or maybe a gift of respect? Dammit, this is the last time I ever get involved in the political life of my tribe! I am feeling like a dolt.

"Idiots." he remembered Terrific's words as her mother dragged her and Martyshkina by the ear into a voting booth and forced them to read about a ballot measure that would give governors nearly the same authority as military captains. "Politics is always interested in you, and you can't afford not to respond in kind. Now hurry and vote against it."

"But I kinda like that suggestion," Martyshkina argued back then. "Captains can't possibly know everything that goes on in the settlements."

"Yep, yep." Young Janine nodded. "It is logical to let the locals decide on the improvements. I'll vote in favor of it!"

"Yeah, I'll vote for it too!"

"Then you are not just idiots; you are full-on brain dead." Terrific snarled. "Give civilians any authority, and one day they'll forbid us to eat human flesh! These soft skins are cowards, incapable of seeing…"

Bones and figurines, both finished and unfinished, rained into an iron bucket, rattling and clanking, and Janine returned to the present.

"Janine," Lacerated One said, "when was the last time we fought each other? To tell the truth, I don't recall us ever clashing."

"A perfect occasion to remedy the mistake then, sister." Janine nodded eagerly, catching on to the game. "You and I, and let the Spirits decide."

"Indeed, sister, indeed." The Supreme Shaman smiled amiably. "I challenge you to a domination match. Come, let our blood unite."

 

[Rookie12]

Families held the utmost importance in both the tribe and the state. The Dynast believed that a united society was less likely to succumb to tyranny, and propagandists worked tirelessly to create a positive image of the large family, even among same-sex couples. For them, it was the first link in a chain of unity. Couples found new meaning in life as they solved problems together and raised new lives, learning and befriending other parents. Some couples never wanted their children to experience the same hardships they had, while others simply learned or re-learned empathy and care for human life.

The Wolf Tribe fully embraced this ideology. They traced their lineage from a single mother, even though the first of their number had grown out of her cells. Because of this, the shamans evaluated siblings as a whole, rather than as individuals, when deciding which pack to assign them to. The weak joined the weak, and the strong flocked to the strong.

Janine intended to amend this rule. Even if she had to bend the shamans to her will. A family would remain a family, but it was undeniable that each individual possessed unique talents. No matter how much she loved Ignacy, her precious cub would probably be happier in the Onyxia or Ashbringer packs, since their warlords were less strict about permitting males to pursue their weird hobbies.

Their fight would be held outside the base to preserve the training grounds. Serious sparring between warlords tended to be overly destructive to the environment. Lacerated One did not hold the highest military rank, but she was equal to most of her named sisters.

They both stripped off their clothes, exposing their fur to the pleasant moonlight and the biting cold. The preparations for their battle attracted the people of Houstad, who hurried home after a busy day. Someone called for the press, and the Champion's followers swarmed in, eager to see the martial prowess of the other lands. Defenders slammed their great shield into the ground, creating a protective wall to shield the gathering crowd. The sword saints and warlords arrived to witness their kin.

Janine ignored the murmurs among the Ice Fangs and Normies soldiers and reporters who planned to film the battle. They thought the fight would be one-sided; the warlord bullying a weak woman. Fools. Her sister had survived the fiercest wars and toughened through the harshest times.

Janine was a mountain of muscles, her arms longer than her short legs; the scars earned in battles were little more than pale lines lost in the thickest fur. Her hide could endure both gunfire and flames. Half-turning, she brought her left arm forward to take the brunt of the claws and prepared to wield her right as a precise hammer, shattering her opponent's elongated muzzle and knocking her senseless. Her amber eyes watched the shaman, fishing for any sign of weakness. And by the Spirits, there were many.

Lacerated One shared the combined visage of a male serving as a female's chew toy and a famine victim. The scar tissue, often reopened in several places and oozing red, covered her body, adjacent to enlarged, torn cuts that left pieces of wet flesh hanging. Her arms and legs were of proper length, but the skin clung tightly to the limbs and protruding ribs. She should have been dead, or at least in a healing coma, rather than walking bearing such wounds. Even her fur was sodden. But the woman stood strong, never fainting, breathing easily, and in her eyes blazed a flame of fury.

"Be careful, Jani!" Martyshkina yelled from the sidelines, flanked by the sword saints and warlords. "Lacy is tricky!"

Janine nodded in appreciation, silencing her friend. Martyshkina was a traditionalist who often committed devotional pilgrimages and saw the shaman fight in duels firsthand.

Her eyes widened as the shaman repeated her stance down to the smallest details, even maintaining the same breathing as Janine. Her muscles bulged, growing to mirror the warlord's, and tendons and ligaments moved in the open wounds.

"Planning to beat me in my element?" Janine asked incredulously. "If it's a joke, you won't enjoy it, sister."

"Begin!" Alpha roared, and the two closed the distance in a single leap.

Fist on fist. Their left arms moved, facing each other, and the wind blew into the faces of the shocked reporters and the cheering Wolfkins as they collided. The shaman's arm shook; her paw was the first to retreat, sparing her knuckles, and Janine smiled savagely. She was stronger. She didn't let the shaman escape unscathed; her arm was longer, and the warlord used it to the fullest, keeping up a hail of straight punches. Lacerated One dodged desperately, trying to return the favor, but soon found herself on the receiving end, as a first bludgeoned her on the cheek.

"It's amazing!" A Houstad bystander clapped his hands as a gust of wind propelled by the blows hit him in the face. "It's like standing up to an industrial fan! Can you all flicker so fast?" he asked the warlords.

"This piss is nothing." Ashbringer waved her paw. "I'm faster."

"The large lass makes a passable boxer." An Orais took himself by the chin. "This fight is about to end. The differences in weight and size are far too great."

"Moron," Ygrite laughed. "Watch closely. It's about to begin."

Janine kicked to the boos of the onlookers, drawing a long, torn line across Lacerated One's torso instead of disemboweling her as she had intended. Are they thinking this is a friendly spar? She ignored the distraction, focusing on the fact that her attack had done its job, forcing the shaman to step closer.

Their fists were about to connect again, perplexing Janine as to why her named sister hadn't used her wonderful claws yet. Irrelevant. She decided, and adjusted her punch, planning to break Lacerated One's pinky and ring fingers. Her opponent spotted this and moved her arm to avoid the blow. As Janine's punch flew under the shaman's, Lacerated One suddenly elbowed her wrist.

Here it is. The turning point. Janine got excited. She shaped her style around defense, using it to learn about her opponent, to bait them into an inevitable mistake, or to grind them down with sheer endurance. Lacerated One made such a mistake. By using her elbow to throw Janine off-balance, the shaman set her up for a powerful punch. And opened herself in turn, as Janine didn't miss this opportunity and brought down her own hammer, intending to shatter the jaw of her dear named sister.

She frowned, experiencing pain in her eye. A spit. Lacerated One spat something into her eye. Janine's vision dimmed, and the shaman fell onto her back, surprising the warlord. Lacerated One landed on a paw, and her other paw whipped, almost landing a heavy blow against Janine's ankle joint.

What is going on? The rivalry with Martyshkina saved Janine's butt. She lifted her leg in time to stomp on the shaman's arm, but her claws only cut the skin as Lacerated One jerked her paw back. This is Marty's style!

In their many play fights and actual sparring sessions, Janine frequently dominated over her smaller friend. Her fingers were beams of unyielding iron, choking the light from Martyshkina's eyes; her skin was too rough to be torn by the desperate clawing. Marty fumed and raged, but giving up was not in her nature. She studied physiology under Dragena and Terrific and even helped loosen the tongues of most hardened criminals.

From studying the workings of the human body, she learned the workings of her own, mastering the art of a highly mobile technique in which each move could flow smoothly into an unpredictable attack on an opponent's vitals or important joints. Her improvised, unexpected, and often barely possible whipping strikes brought many girls to their knees, opening them up for her arms to wrap around their necks and strangle them into submission. But it happened in their youth! Marty rarely participated in domination matches!

There was no denying it. Lacerated One swung her whole body on the ground, her free paw pointing a non-existent revolver at Janine's muzzle. Then she sprang to her feet, releasing her claws for the first time.

The shaman's claws were unusual; tiny veins of crimson covered them, but it wasn't what confused her opponent. A double upward thrust. Alpha's technique. Simple in its inevitability, when done by the shaman, the technique lacked in speed and strength. Janine grabbed the woman's wrists, stopping the stabs dead in their tracks.

Pain engulfed her vision as the Lacerated One headbutted her, flowing elegantly from Alpha's style to Ashbringer's, never once losing momentum or hesitating, choosing the right technique at the right time. Janine's nose broke, and the trapped arms slipped from the not-quite-closed grip thanks to the wetness of the fur.

"Soft. Amateur," Ashbringer grumbled, and Janine understood at last.

The elbow strike. It wasn't a simple move; Fatima enjoyed using her elbows in combat, wielding them with the same effectiveness as claws. The spit of something resembling sharp hair or a needle was straight from Ygrite's dishonorable arsenal. Lacerated One switched warlord styles without lag, wielding them at her will!

Lacerated One stood on all fours, her fists buried in the ground. Her muscles tensed and blood spurted from open wounds as she prepared to lunge.

"Hey, that's my technique!" Kalaisa laughed from among the ranks of wolf hags near the base. "Does that mean she thinks I'm a warlord? Anji, Lacerated One chose my move over yours!"

The shaman disappeared, exploding the concrete and flying towards Janine at utmost speed. She had planned to ram the warlord in the exposed belly, wrap her arms around Janine's body, and hook the shoulder blades with her claws. A knee met her jaw, stopping the blindingly fast movement. Lacerated One threw her head up, spurting blood, but Janine wasn't finished. Her fists came down on the shaman's shoulders, slamming her deep into the concrete. But as she tried to grab the woman by the neck, the shaman slipped back, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Janine took the opportunity to set her broken nose and blow it clear.

"And it failed immediately." Anji shook her shoulders.

"That… she didn't do it right!" Kalaisa complained.

"And who did?" Ashbringer inquired, and a booming laughter erupted around the wolf hag.

"You are fighting against a mere shaman, Janine!" Alpha thundered. "Crush her underfoot."

"There is nothing mere about our sister!" Martyshkina argued. "Go Jani! Break her snout, rip her claws out! Lacerated One, don't give up!"

"Whose side are you on?" Predaig asked.

"Both!"

Janine briefly breathed through her nose, confirming it was still working. She blinked a sharp piece out of her eye, and an agony speared her side. Lacerated One had used the brief window of opportunity to race past her and tore at her side. Janine whirled around, taking relentless slashes at her claws.

"Was that a rapid motion just now?" Anji asked.

"The what?" Bogdan looked at her.

"Permit me," said Sword Saint Leonidas. He was sitting in a comfy armchair, covered with a fur cloak, and swirling wine in a silver goblet. "Warlord Onyxia had mastered a style based around hounding an opponent during a distraction. Imagine blinking, sneezing, or simply having a distracting thought, only to find your arteries severed by claws. It sounds simple in theory; what soldier would not take advantage of such an opportunity? But Onyxia has taken it to a whole new level; her divine musculature allows her to reach top speed from a standing position, and she somehow knows in advance when her enemy will be distracted. Twins only know how she finds an opening for her attacks when facing an armored opponent, but it works every time." His servant poured him more wine.

"Uncle, please set aside the refreshment," hushed the metal-legged Ice Fang clad in full battle gear. "You are treating the sanctity of this duel too frivolously."

"I am not the one rolling naked in the dirt and blood like a barbarian." Leonidas sipped some wine. "Precious Malerata, I give this sparring match the exact respect it deserves. But you are correct; we are in Houstad, and I treat my family far too coldly. Drinks for everyone, servants!"

"That's not what I…"

"Now you speak my language, cousin!" Martyshkina snatched a bottle from his squire.

"See? Everyone's satisfied." Leonidas flashed a smile to his niece and raised his goblet. "Four hundred dynasts on the brave Lacerated One! The holy sister is feisty tonight."

"Your childish behavior shames us, Summerspring," hissed Bertruda.

"Well, it's about time someone else did it for a change," Leonidas replied unabashedly.

"Thirty tokens on Mom," Ignacy said.

"Seventy dynasts on Janine to win," Alpha declared.

"Twelve dynasts on the warlord's victory." Bertruda rolled her eyes.

"Fifty tokens on Lacerated One!" Bogdan announced, picking up a glass. His sisters' shadows fell on him, and he smiled shyly. "What?" He turned to Ignacy, who cracked the knuckles of his natural paw. "I'm just making sure we win one way or another. Ignacy, don't pull out the flamethrower; that's cheating!"

Slash at slash, cut at cut. Their claws woven the deadly patterns facing each other. The ground shook, the concrete cracking from the stomps and the force of their pushes. Neither agreed to retreat. In Janine's mind, she was not facing a single opponent, but the entire swarm of her sisters, stepping in one by one to test her mettle. Here were Predaig's calm and precise strikes, Eled's brazen courage, Dragena's careful cuts, Onyxia's etherealness, Ashbringer's ferocity, Martyshkina's unorthodox movement, and many more. A martial arts chimera that incorporated the fighting styles of the living and the dead. A legacy of sorts.

Lacerated One was not without flaws. Her movements lacked finesse, as if she had learned a general idea but never really honed it. Her imitation of Janine's punches, hooks, and swings felt more like pebbling than bouldering. She lacked the durability and power to match Alpha's brutal attacks. Still, the shaman deserved praise for her dedication to mastering such skills, and Janine's heart brimmed with happiness.

She knew it to be wrong. The last time she had let go, she had murdered one of her dearest people, robbed the tribe of a valuable soldier, and it endangered her own cubs by proxy. Her duties tonight were too important. But as their blows collided, creating waves of air that tore at the guards' and civilians' clothes, as her heart pounded with adrenaline, as streaks of blood ran down her legs, Janine could not help but enjoy every second of this deadly dance.

And dance it was! The shaman had reached her pure state, unleashing unparalleled aggression on Janine, aiming her blows not to maim but to slaughter. A cut nearly blinded Janine. The claw sliced through her ear, opening her cheek to the bone. Janine responded by kneeing her opponent in the stomach, and Lacerated One spewed blood into the warlord's face, clouding her vision.

A blink left her growl in pain as her already slashed side exploded in fire anew. As Janine's eyes opened, her opponent shifted into Eled's feral style; fangs closing on Janine's trapezius, claws sinking deep into the warlord's arms, attempting to pin them to her torso. The warlord succumbed to her primal instincts and clamped her jaws on the shaman's shoulder, causing the woman to jerk her neck away to avoid any potential harm.

The rich and supernatural blood of her sister sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Janine's body; its taste was intoxicating, empowering, exquisite. She lived again. Her heart raced even faster, the entire life flashed before the amber eyes, and this saved Lacerated One's shoulder for Janine to loosen her grip on it, too caught up in the strange sensations. She barely noticed that Lacerated One had torn away a piece of her own flesh.

Janine moved her right paw up slowly, as if in a dream, realizing too late that her sister had purposely let herself be bitten to gain an advantage through confusion. However, every dream had to end. The fingers locked around the tormented neck, choke-slamming the shaman into the concrete, cratering her so hard that jagged rocks rose around the fighters. Lacerated One gasped for air; her paws were already trying to close in on Janine's arm, forcing the warlord to release the shaman, or the woman would have sliced open her veins. Still on her back, the shaman planted her palms on the ground and sprang away with the agility of a cockroach.

She came at her again, switching from Dragena to Ashbringer, then to Alpha, and finally to Martyshkina again to evade a swing of claws. The shaman's feet swiftly maneuvered around Janine, while her fists flickered in an attempt to bypass the warlord's calm defenses. They fought for the better part of an hour, painting the gray surface of the ground crimson. They bit and gnawed at each other's flesh, exchanging lacerations and cuts, elbowing and punching at the first opportunity.

Years of restraint! Years of being afraid of killing another sister! Elated, Janine slammed her fist into Lacerated One's shoulder, exploding the ground beneath her legs. The shaman tried to retreat, and Janine stomped, kicking out a boulder and elbowing it into Lacerated One's face. But you can handle it, right, sister? She thought, she pleaded, as her own stab closed on the wide open chest.

"This was a passable warm-up," Lacerated One said calmly, stone dust falling from her whiskers.

An agony paralyzed Janine's body as Lacerated One's claws pierced four of Janine's teats. It was a dirty move, but an effective one, and many Ice Fangs and several Wolfkins shuddered and cringed at the thought of it happening to them. The excruciating pain had blinded Janine; she stood on her toes against her will, and Lacerated One gained the distance again, pulling the claw free. Her leg blurred, and the warlord gasped and vomited in equal measure.

She was kicked. It tossed her off her feet, sending the warlord flying like a cannonball over the defenders and splattering her against the base's wall. The impact rocked her insides. She rolled off the wall like a ball, trembling from the reverberations in her bones. Her trembling fingers found the stone, and falling pieces of debris from above surprised her even further. The reinforced concrete of the base was supposed to withstand heavy artillery shells. Just how hard did the shaman launch Janine? She wobbled like a drunk and stood up, touching the pulsating hot spot on her side. Ribs cracked.

The supreme shaman stood on one leg, the other still in the air, her snout calm and focused. A kick. A single kick swatted Janine away like a parasite. Seeing that she was still conscious, Lacerated One began walking towards her.

You are joking, right? She just started using her kicks now? Janine grimaced at the thought.

"The rage behind your movements is genuine, sister." Lacerated One tilted her head.

"You are too much…" Janine chuckled.

"Are you surrendering, Janine?" Lacerated One asked icily, all warmth gone from her voice.

"I like it! This is amazing! For the first time in years, I feel like I don't have to hold anything back!" Janine's laughter rose to the sky, and the shaman froze.

"Oh, sister." Lacerated One touched her swollen lips. "I understand. If I had known of your fear and hunger earlier. Trust me, you never have to hold back anything against us. We are tough girls." A cheeky smile, unbecoming of the high-ranking shaman, appeared on her lips. "But every match has a loser and a winner."

"Right you are, sis," Janine said, taking advantage of the time the defenders had to reposition themselves and form a semi-circle around them.

Her ribs were cracked but not broken. She could breathe fine. The pain in her poor teats subsided to a manageable level. The skin around the gushing wounds twitched, but it wasn't fatal damage. Psychological warfare. A trick from Terrific's playbook. Yes, Lacerated One's kick was hard, but it was delivered when Janine was at her weakest, unable to block.

It went further than that. The ruptured teats were on the same side as the slashes. The shaman had sheared off skin and damaged the exoskeleton underneath before immobilizing her and landing this excellent blow. Her sister carefully guided her through the fight, step by step, instilling fear and uncertainty through the use of different styles, shackling her moves through the fear instilled by the spit and out of worry of missing another slash from Onyxia's style. Everything to distract Janine from noticing the strategy. Even the exchange of bites worked to Lacerated One's advantage.

The damage piled up, but the same was true for the shaman, and Janine saw the star of victory clearer than before. She persevered; she had studied her opponent. There would be no more mood swings or uncertainty for Lacerated One to capitalize on. Janine held her temper in an iron vise, embracing her inner beast to reach and accept her own pure state. There was one thing left in store: the ultimate dirty move, saved to the last to secure the victory. It should shock Janine to the core, but she was ready to face her past.

She blinked. It was time for her strategy.

 

[Rookie12]

How do you stop an opponent who can effortlessly switch between fighting styles, always choosing the one that best suits the situation? There were ways. The most obvious solution was to shoot them or lure them into a trap and blow them up with explosives. These options were not available to Janine in this honorable duel.

What did she know? She was physically stronger. Lacerated One stopped her attack and deliberately spoke to her. Like Janine, she was regaining her strength for the final assault. They were exhausted, almost gassed, their bodies suffering from the vicious battle. If her opponent used the right style in the right situation, all she had to do was create a favorable situation and turn it perilous.

Janine's forearm rammed into Lacerated One's throat, hard enough to make her choke. The shoulder tackle knocked the shaman back, throwing her out of Onyxia's style, and the ensuing breathing problem disrupted her attempt to slip into Martyshkina's style. But that wasn't the end. Claws scraped the concrete, creating the indentations. The sheer force of the attack moved Lacerated One two paces away. Right into the incoming swing.

"So what if you know some crappy techniques?!" Janine roared and landed a heavy blow on the shaman's right arm, deeply denting in the flesh. The long-awaited loud crackling was the sweetest music to the warlord's ears. "I'll overcome them all through sheer might!"

"Whose styles are you calling crappy?" Alpha's snout hardened.

"Let's bury Jani for it!" Martyshkina eagerly clapped her paws together.

"I won't die until I've tasted an ice cream cone!" Janine snapped and struck at the stopped shaman.

Lacerated One raised her paws, using Janine's own technique to shield herself, fully aware of the damage a well-aimed blow to the jaw could cause. Even Wolfkins, who were naturally resistant to concussion, would find themselves hard-pressed against bone-shattering attacks.

The right technique at the right time. Janine used this rule against the shaman, limiting her options. Her knuckles connected with the shaman's wrists, damaging the bones. She put every ounce of her strength into the blow, and the air erupted; the wind blew stronger than before, flapping the capes of the knight-captains to the amazement of the crowd. Lacerated One was thrown back; the claws of her legs destroyed a vast swath of reinforced concrete, and she staggered, trying to inhale.

"An ice cream cone?" Predaig asked.

"Is she means… You know, the Ice Fangs'…" Eled's finger danced in the air.

"I saw her enter the prayer den and shortly after Leonidas left it," said Ashbringer.

"Wait a sec… Does it mean that Jani and he are…" Martyshkina's fingers formed a circle, and she slid an index finger through it. "Way to go, Janie! Not the worst hunk of meat! I always knew you had a taste for the exotic. Name a cub after me! A white one!"

"Perhaps we should call her a lady now?" Ashbringer laughed.

"Warlords, I believe you are…"

"No, no, don't interrupt them; I am curious about where this is going." Zero quickly put a paw over Anissa's mouth.

"I wasn't aware that the order's rules permitted concubines." Camelia's shadow fell on the Summerspring.

"Uncle, if this is true…" Malerata shuddered. "You disgust me."

"Gossips and rumors! Fairy tales!" Sword Saint Leonidas spilled his wine back into the goblet and turned to Martyshkina. "Lady Martyshkina, how could you even imply that I would besmirch the honor of Lady Janine in such an uncouth manner?"

"What, is she not good enough in bed for you?"

"I am married, you vulgar dolt! And what did you mean by calling me not the worst hunk of meat? Who, among this rabble, can even approach the physical and spiritual greatness that I am?!"

Janine charged ahead, closing the distance to the shaman in a step. Shame burned her cheeks, and she embraced it, letting the emotion drive her movements. The teasing was to be expected; all warlords enjoyed having fun at the expense of contenders during official domination matches.

Lacerated One reacted as Janine had expected. The most optimal strategy to face her would be Alpha's stabs, but the previous heavy blow to the upper part of her right arm left the shaman unsure of its mobility; she no longer believed she could jerk it in time to evade a grab if the warlord dodged the initial stab. The shaman used Janine's own style, flicking blindingly fast strikes, hoping to break the warlord's nose and knock her off course as she tested her right paw.

Janine advanced through the hail of blows, shifting her torso slightly to avoid the worst of the blows and take the fist onto her cheeks. Her sliced ear ached as a glancing punch touched it, but the job was done. She closed the distance and then immediately stopped, leaning back as the shaman launched an upward thrust with her right paw. It scraped Janine's belly; her left paw rose to shield her neck. Her leg slammed down on the shaman's foot; the claw of her big toe sliced through the flesh.

Even though she had expected this move, it still caught her off guard. The shaman did not follow up with a direct stab, knowing full well that she would not penetrate Janine's arm completely. The muscles were too thick, too sturdy for it to happen. What she did was more insidious. Lacerated One's fingers closed on Janine's forearm, and the claws' tips sank beneath the skin, not deeply, but just enough to pinch the nerves. Terrific's technique—it wasn't much of an offensive play but rather an attempt to induce a sepulchral shock out of familiarity.

The warlord didn't flinch. No ugly mug emerged from the darkness; no revenant lurked behind the crowd. Terrific was dead, buried, not forgotten, but gone. Her adoptive mother was in the Great Beyond, sent there by Janine's paw. The very paw she was now swinging, preparing for a wide sweep. Lacerated One stopped her attack; her shoulders slumped as if in acceptance of inevitable defeat.

Ygrite's trick. Lacerated One sprang into action as the fist was about to touch her forehead. The blow merely grazed some of her fur as she slipped away, paying with the parted foot for her release. As she fled, the shaman changed her style to Martyshkina, weaving around Janine's arm to get to her back and grab the great neck in a lock.

She knew it was coming. It was a perfect counterstrategy, as Marty had defeated Janine in a similar situation. The unconscious girl woke up wiser and received a bottle of beer from her friend. Today, Janine stopped her strike and dropped onto her back, using her full weight to ram her elbow into the shaman's abdomen.

To her credit, Lacerated One barely gasped, whirling underneath Janine. But this time the warlord had no intention of letting her named sister flee. She turned and mounted the woman, pinning her legs to the ground as she sat on her waist. Their paws locked in the fight and their jaws opened wide, facing each other in a desperate struggle.

Fangs scratched against Janine's fangs as the two fighters stood still in an ugly parody of a kiss, trying their best to overcome their opponent. Both growled; both tensed their muscles to the extreme, and Janine experienced a tingling pain in her fangs. Despite the disadvantage, Lacerated One possessed the sharper chompers. In a minute, Janine would lose most of her fangs to the bite, along with her gums.

It was acceptable. Sometimes, for the sake of the many, an individual had to sacrifice something precious. Eight of Lacerated One's fingers spasmed when they found themselves in the semblance of caterpillar tracks grinding them down. Janine's blows had weakened the bones of the already exhausted shaman. The skin on her fingers swelled; more blood seeped through the opened cuts. She may have the warlord's jaw. In exchange, the shaman would lose her paws, as her fingers would burst like pimples under pressure.

Janine's fang broke; a louder snap of the shaman's skin echoed its shattering.

"Enough." A single word turned them into statues. The black paws grabbed the two by the napes, yanking them off each other. The shining amber orbs illuminated them.

Ravager was here, surrounded by the buzzing, hovering drones, constantly filmed by the reporters. She was drooling red. The Blessed Mother kept shaking her head, trying to control her emotions. Janine sensed it in the great body; she wanted to bite them; she desired to claw them to instill discipline and prove her superiority.

"No killing each other," Ravager forced out the words and set them down. "This is a civilized place. Be the good girls. Peace. Cooperate. Don't bicker." She abruptly grabbed herself by both sides.

"Blessed Mother!" Janine and Lacerated One spoke in unison, but a swing of Ravager's paw kept them at bay.

"I… I am fine. Need… Need to feel gore. Must… rip and tear. Zero. Take these baubles off me, please," she said weakly, trembling, with her whole body shaking. Janine physically sensed the progenitor's suppressed aggression, rage, and desperate attempt to maintain control. It made her own body twitch against her will; the desire to savage and rend sparked in her chest, but even the thought of disobeying the command was unthinkable.

Talons showed from Ravager's fingers, weapons of mass murder so large and deadly that not even a warlord could hope to withstand their full touch. The great paws closed, hungry for prey, but Zero approached her sister unafraid.

"Ingo called, Big Sis," Zero said, taking off Ravager's jewelry and bracelets and ruffling her fur. Her fingers massaged the progenitor temples, and something cleared in the gigantic eyes. "There was an accident. A patient woke up. They are in a bit of panic…"

"Let them panic."

"Big Sis, it'll take a year to grow the needed amount of cloned organs and limbs…"

"No, Zero," Ravager said sternly. "I will not hear it. They are not to leave the facility. They are not to get used to this metal… filth. Tell Ingo to turn on TVs for them or invite priests or soothsayers or keep them asleep, I don't care. He is supposed to be smart. It's disgusting and heartless to replace one's hot blood and insides with cold and uncaring metal, to forever lose the ability to experience touch. They deserve a proper life."

"Of course, Big Sis," Zero agreed.

"We must stay in Houstad for a month… Two months, maximum. Outsider is bound to return from the west, eventually." Ravager addressed the officers. "Zero, I am heading to the snow peaks. There have been sightings of unbound bioweapons. Can you handle public relations?"

"A loner," Zero said.

"When will you grow up?" Ravager sighed. "Alpha?"

"I am better suited for military missions, Commander." The warlord bowed.

"Dragena and Cristobo are in charge of our forces until my return. If anything happens to either of them, Alpha is to take over. When First comes back, he is to be their equal. Trust the Sunblade as if he were me; is that understood?" Ravager snarled at the Wolfkins, seeking for a hint of disobedience in their smells, but they all bared their necks in acknowledgement. "Janine. Get healed. You and Camelia are to represent the Third to the mayor."

"Blessed Mother?" Janine prostrated herself, and Ravager nodded, permitting the question. "I do not understand. Predaig, Alpha, and Dragena are wiser and more competent than I. Surely they deserve this privilege more."

"And what will we do when they pass? Learn and grow while you have the chance." Ravager's eyes shot at Janine's sons. "The little one… Marco. He is permitted to enjoy Houstad, unhindered. It can be a positive experience. No Ice Fang or Wolfkin shall harm him. Males are to share the same privileges as females for the duration of our stay, as long as they maintain discipline. If they get mischievous, spank them, but that's it. I forbid losing body parts or lives in dominations. Lacerated One, you will see to it. If an anti-war demonstrator insults you on the street or throws a fruit at you, I expect you to stick your tongues up your collective assess and take it like a woman or a man of whom I can be proud of!"

"Commander Ravager." A priest wearing the garments of the Church of the Planet stepped out of the crowd. "Are you truly planning to leave so soon? Have we offended you in any way? Was it because of the demonstration earlier today?"

"No, holy father." Ravager's chuckle reached every ear in the crowd. She laid a trembling finger on the man's shoulder. "I bear them no ill will, and neither should you. The Dynast has changed his policies in the past. The Houstad you know today is the result of one of those changes. No one is infallible, and we must never become so arrogant that we close our ears to different opinions."

"Let us at least treat your wounds!" the priest pleaded.

"Stay in Houstad, Commander!" A group of civilians shouted. "We wish to honor the Third and you for your heroic deeds!"

"Hear this, my soldiers?" Ravager asked. She whirled to face the base and spread her arms wide. "Our beliefs differ from those who live in peace. Yet here are humble souls offering aid to a monster out of the goodness of their hearts. Do you need a further reason to love that which you protect? Do any of you still fear that there is no place for them in a world devoid of war?"

"No, Blessed Mother!" Janine roared, surprised to hear the Ice Fangs, Normies, New Breeds, and Mutants join in the Wolfkin's cries.

"It brings me joy to hear you speak true, my soldiers." Ravager paced before their ranks. There was no hint of growl or bestiality in her voice. She sounded radiant, complete, and pure, and even standing naked, she exuded dignity and a commanding presence. Janine experienced a wave of assurance, a promise of a better tomorrow beaming from the Blessed Mother, and she smiled, thanking the Spirits for giving this small grace to a soul who so desperately needed it. "Not always was I a leader worthy of your veneration. I lost those whom I could save and murdered those whom I could spare. Yet you chose to become my trusted claws, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my blackened heart. For me, peace is unattainable, but for you, the future is open. Choose wisely. Live, my troops. Rest, protect, and serve."

"Protect and serve!" Janine and the others thundered.

"I thank you for your gentle offer, holy father," Ravager addressed the priest. "But it is unneeded. As the first life suffocates in my grasp, my madness will temporarily cease. I will bring ruin if I remain with you. That honest woman spoke true; I am a monster, fully and truly. Reclaimers. People. I despise delusions. I cannot take back what I've done, nor can I stop fully what I will do in the future. But I will continue to try to protect you and pave the way to your happiness in the best way a monster can. I'll try to use my wickedness for good! I am the monster who devours monsters; I am the bane of the oppressors and the end of the nightmares! You desire to honor me? Then don't leave a single child to be abandoned or abused, no matter their origin!"

Saying nothing else, Ravager let her arms fall and jumped, creating a loud boom somewhere high above. She lingered in place for a second, as if suspended on ropes, and then vanished to the gasps of surprised citizens trying to spot her in the air. Even the buzzing news drones looked lost; their cameras whirled, struggling to comprehend the disappearance. Janine smiled at hearing suggestions that the Blessed Mother had flown or teleported away. They weren't far off.

Ravager was gone even before the first boom. What people saw was her afterimage.

Under the right pressure, an unleashed jet of liquid could cut a steel plate in half. Slam a body against a pool of toxic sludge fast enough and its surface will momentarily solidify, perfectly replicating the purpose of the floor. Even a simple drop of blood can penetrate a head if it is flicked at incredible speed. To a lesser extent, the same was true of air; a powerful blow could propel it and cause another person to fall.

Ravager transcended these limits. A swing of her claws was capable of unleashing doom, not through physical contact, but by channeling a shockwave. A slap could create a vacuum. Her divine muscles bounced off the emptiness above and carried the Blessed Mother over Houstad to a destination of her choosing.

"Cooperate…" Lacerated One stood and stretched herself, ignoring the pain in her sausage-sized fingers. "Two went in, and two came out whole, spared the wrath. Spirits have spoken. The shamans will support your decision."

"My thanks." Janine rose to her feet and helped her sister limp to the base's entrance as their sisters and soldiers cheered on. "You could've gone for the eyes in Onyxia's style. That way, I'd… Wait." She turned to Lacerated One. "The Blessed Mother's arrival, her words… Did you…"

"You are unwell, Janine." The supreme shaman smiled. "In need of healing. Visit me sometimes, and we'll talk to ease your burdens."

Janine frowned, trying to gauge if her suspicions were true. Lacerated One breathed heavily, pushed to the very limits of her endurance; her foot was split in two by the claw, and the edges of her broken bones scratched against each other as she walked. Bruises and cuts covered her, and it was a miracle she was conscious. Still, there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that the situation wasn't as simple as she believed.

It is not a simple thing to surrender political power in the tribe. Even if the supreme shaman had demanded it, not everyone would fall in line behind her. But if she interpreted the Blessed Mother's words correctly…

Oh, sister. You truly know how to play us.

Janine let go of her worries and weakness, concentrating on the task. The shamans are with her. Technically, this should already win her the vote, but why stop here? She wasn't a politician, but strength in numbers was a valid strategy. Who among the warlords could she convince to join her?

Eled and Predaig will support her out of friendship alone. Ygrite could be persuaded, or she can call in the debt. Alpha? Janine glanced at Alpha's back. The strongest warlord was regarded as the second mother by her pack. But the length of her claws led Janine to wonder morbidly if she could survive a round if Alpha decided to test her resolve like the shaman. Nah, I am worried about future cubs and the well-being of packs, but I also kind of want to live and see my granddaughters. This is a pointless risk, and… I am scared shitless of Alpha.

Marty was a staunch traditionalist. But it can't hurt to talk to her. Who else? Ashbringer. If she really was mentoring Janine, she might join her, but she won't push the woman. She owes her that much for Marco's well-being. Maybe Zero? Onyxia? In their last spar, Onyxia defeated Janine, but occasionally showed a softer side of her, stopping a male's beating. Next to no males ever offed themselves intentionally in hers or Ashbringer's packs. She'll see Janine's point. Fatima? No, too stubborn.

A rumbling in her stomach distracted the warlord from her thoughts. She had done everything she could; the rest will have to wait. Janine ignored Maxence's berating and the needles' stings. She paid no attention to the fact that her ear was being stitched up and greedily grabbed the frozen cusack carcass that Impatient One had brought her. Janine thanked her and sunk her fangs into the meat, sharing it with the supreme shaman. The ice cracked on their bloodied gums; their stomachs were cold, but both ate their fill, confident that a little cold could not possibly harm them.

 

[Rookie12]

"Haven't seen you in years, Cristobo," laughed Maxim Puchkov, a heavy man in his early sixties.

Time hadn't left a single black strand in his formerly brown hair, and he'd gained weight, tiptoeing closer to being called burly. However, years of proper medical care had faded his patchwork of scars; his typically reddish eye, which had suffered from exposure to a rare neurotoxin, had regained its pristine whiteness, and his keen eyes had scanned the captain.

"I'd read the reports, but I had a hard time believing them. A commissioner, really? How did you get this rank?" Cristobo surveyed the office.

For some reason, the former sergeant in charge of the anti-New Breeds unit had abandoned the sunny and cozy office at the top of the police building and retreated to a cramped, narrow room that had once been used to store ancient archives. On his orders, every case in here was pulled for a review, and the whipped into frenzy police force had found several hiding criminals and proved the innocence of a group of citizens, releasing them from prison against the advice of the Investigation Bureau. Maxim personally offered his earnest apologies to the falsely accused and instituted several Iterna and Oathtakers' practices to prevent such a travesty from occurring.

The walls bore no marks of office or merit badges; instead, Maxim's hand casually pinned up letters of gratitude from citizens, photos of his old military buddies, and dragged a full set of riot gear into the corner of the small room. A gruesome shardgun with two notches left by a deceased warlord hung behind his table. The skull of the previous commissioner, a woman caught embezzling funds and tampering with evidence, had been bronze-plated and welded to the office's staff. Their gracious host didn't disappoint. He pushed a table into the middle of the room, and bottles of vodka, steaming cusack sausages, and fresh bread awaited the guests.

"You tell me." Maxim shrugged. "I'm more suited to quelling riots and winning urban battles. I was thinking of spending my days toiling on the Oaksters farm and raising kids, but I wasn't foolish enough to refuse the gig when it was offered to me." He twirled a finger at the temple. "Lemme tell you, the Investigation Bureau is queer. They'd petitioned me to assist in finding two missing agents…"

"We have missing people?" Jacomie slammed a bottle down on the table. "Why wasn't I informed? Sir, do you need the aid of my troops to do a city's wide sweep?"

"Nah, one of the lost lambs had reported back. Apparently, they are on an undercover mission." Maxim waved his arm and clicked glasses with the officers, gulping the alcohol down. "Nice to see everyone again, in fine health. Shame about Terrific and Margery. Can't believe Duck didn't make it. Fuck, I'm missing the old bugger. He saved my butt more times than I can count." They held a moment of silence to honor the fallen. "Truth be told, today was the first day I felt like I knew what I was doing."

"Yeah, right." Cristobo grinned.

"No, really!" Maxim insisted. "Ensure safety, apprehend criminal elements…"

"Apprehend?" Cristobo raised his brow. "I wasn't aware that any of the protesters were taken in."

"Ain't no one arrested them. The Dynast will have my ass grilled over blazing coals if I so much as infringe on free speech. Those bozos will be fined for public disorder, reckless driving, and littering." The commissioner yawned, and red tin appeared on his cheeks. Maxim had never been much of a drinker, but Cristobo was happy to see his former soldier doing well. On his table was a carefully dusted family photograph. The photo featured two smiling women, six children trying desperately to look serious, and the overjoyed commissioner himself. "We caught four shooters."

"There will be immolations tomorrow, then," Jacomie said.

Whore. A voice uttered inside Cristobo's skull. His hand no longer even wavered when his 'passenger' offered her input. He first heard this voice after Ravager's 'lover' tap, which not only changed his lungs forever but also grew an extra organ near his heart. Little R, as he called this strange phantom that had taken up residence in his brain, paid her rent by offering advice and alerting the captain to potential dangers. When Bogdan and his crew bravely volunteered to repair the recycling system, she warned him about a pipe that was about to burst and spill digestive waste into the corridor.

He came to tolerate her behavior and even visited the commander, requesting her to ensure that Little R would stay a permanent guest in his mind, after her voice began to fade. Ravager inquired if he was certain about this desire, and then she did something.

Cristobo wasn't sure how to comprehend what he had experienced. It was as if the commander's chambers had suddenly turned hot and a cloud of storm had enveloped him. But these lightnings didn't scorch him; they imprinted something in his very DNA. Shortly thereafter, he visited Maxence, carefully avoiding telling him anything. After an electroencephalography, the shocked doctor checked Cristobo several times, worried that the man might be suffering from epilepsy. His bio-signals spiked, far exceeding beta waves. Little R was sour about it, claiming it was wicked to prolong a natural life span.

She despised Jacomie ever since their first meeting, cursing the officer for being ugly, unpleasant, and brutish.

Yeah, sure, have your fill, stinking drunkard. Little R growled in his head as he drank another glass of vodka. Maybe you'll learn manners when you pass out in your vomit, shitting and pissing.

Pot calls kettle, lassie. Cristobo thought.

What was that, dipshit?

Then again, being disliked by Little R meant little. She hurled insults at everyone, not sparing even the Blessed Mother. But Cristobo was wise enough to know an asset when he heard one, and having a speck of the divinity in him was inspiring. He never shared the belief in the Spirits, not fully anyway. His occasional religious gestures and words were more of a slip of the tongue. He no longer doubted the shamans.

That cowardly bitch is no god! Little R growled.

Just a messenger of gods. Cristobo responded, enjoying the infuriation emanating from Little R. Why are you so rude to your mom, spirit?

Because I am an aberration. I should not exist. My very presence may violate your freedom of will, fool. She, more than anyone, should know how horrible and disgusting it is to subject me to the constant temptation to take you over. Grumbled his inner angel.

Well, I don't mind you existing. Cristobo told her. As for taking the helm, we might…

We won't. Never. I have principles, shit for brains.

"Nah, nobody's going to burn," said Maxim.

"Elaborate." Jacomie's face hardened.

"I will not inform the Investigation Bureau." The commissioner drank from the bottle and tapped on the bronze skull. "They can flay me like that traitor, but I will not condemn minors to their deaths. I was put here to protect and serve, not to murder and torture. The teens made a bad decision, thinking to land a shot at the commander for clout. There will be a trial, free from the influence of the Bureau. Two-three years in a quarry will set them straight, and the whip will knock any foolish thoughts out of their heads. Gonna report me?"

Cristobo tensed, preparing to order the lieutenant to ignore this oversight. The army and the Investigation Bureau had a long and strained history. Soldiers believed investigators to be bloodthirsty bastards who solved every inconvenience through excessive violence. The investigators not only set fire to the corrupt governors but also to their families. The captain, using the Blessed Mother's name as a shield, secretly rescued several infants and many children from such a fate.

The Bureau believed the soldiers to be too soft and tolerating to the problems that risked turning a cut on a society into a festering wound that could risk them potentially seeing the horrors of the Extinction once more in the future if the rot reached high enough. Even if it was true, Cristobo opposed taking part in culling children for the crimes of their parents and regularly voted to repeal these antique laws. The time of barbarism had come and gone. They had to be better than this.

"No." Jacomie touched the sagging skin on her cheek and frowned. Her skin was loose in many places and the color of wax. "It isn't pretty, being engulfed in flames. Guess you found yourself an accomplice, sir."

"Accomplices," Cristobo corrected her, raising his glass. "Cheers to a common conspiracy and to reunification!"

"To serve the state!" Jacomie flashed a rare, shy smile.

Not a total bastard. Little R grumbled.

Is that an approval in your voice? Cristobo asked slyly.

Go die in a ditch!

"True that!" Maxim joined them. "Jacomie, I don't mean to be a dick, but have you ever considered visiting a surgeon to have your skin repaired? I know several; they helped me get rid of the scaly patches on my back."

"The language and culture of my people are gone, and they don't seem to care." Scowled Jacomie. "The Second can have my hide as a bonus. I am functional and live still."

Bitterness. Mood shifts. Don't trust her. Little R warned.

The vodka speaks in her. Cristobo dismissed the worries.

Why drink it if it turns you into a babbling clown?

Alcohol has been man's companion for thousands of years. Cristobo raised his glass, catching electric rays on its surface. In shared times of unity, it bridges gaps between us and helps subordinates speak truthfully to their superiors. It lets us mourn and rejoice alike. It truly is a friend, if taken in moderation. How can I abandon a friend?

Self-deceiving alcoholic. Little R accused him. You itch to suckle from the bottle like a cub from a mother's breast.

"Irrelevant." Jacomie shook away the memories. "Sirs, we need to talk seriously. Commander Ravager has left, leaving a bored, wild army at our hands. I mean no disrespect," she addressed Cristobo, who nodded amiably, "but we must formulate a strategy to prevent incidents. I am particularly concerned about the protesters. If they annoy a Wolfkin enough and blood is spilled...." She rubbed her head. "What a mess. There are also those Horde bastards. I refuse to believe that no one has heard of them; you don't get to show from nowhere, wielding top-of-the-line weaponry and assaulting our settlements…"

****

Welp. I am officially no longer the ugliest person on the ship. Decided Sergeant Daion, a heavily augmented member of the First Army. Till Ingo requested a New Breed test subject for a stress run of a new type of power armor, and his Excellency Outsider commanded Daion to arrive in Houstad and participate in the trials. The Sergeant took the humiliating assignment in stride. Yeah, he'd miss the glories of the current conquest, but if the new battleplates are as hot shit as Ingo sold them to be, they might help him stick around for longer.

In front of him stood a young girl who moved her mechanical fingers uncertainly, as if struggling to believe that she had arms. Prosthetic limbs had replaced her arms and legs and were attached directly to her spine. There were no longer any pelvis or clavicles in her worth speaking about; the surgery had removed most of her internal organs, going so far as to replace her trachea. She sat on an examination table, her head bald and every inch of her skin covered in a thick layer of scars and freshly healed incisions. Daion gave her his coat to wear.

He saw her frightened eyes as she floated in a healing tank, and instinctively he reached into the green liquid and pulled the girl out. She thrashed and pleaded not to be seared anymore in a broken language of some crushed country, and Daion held her steady until his old translator adjusted to her speech, then he seated her so the child could relax.

"Commander Ravager won't like it." A man in a white lab coat licked his lips nervously. "She insisted for every wounded to remain asleep…"

"Well, I don't see her or Till Ingo on board, and as the highest ranking officer, I have personally decided to remove the restraints from the completely healthy individual to facilitate her further integration into civilized society. Commander Ravager is free to direct her ire at Commander Outsider, so he can slap her across a field again. Okay? Great. Glad we reached an understanding. Now hop-hop away and bring the girl food and you," he pointed at a female doctor, "towels, now. Why the hesitation, egghead? Haven't you matured to motherhood yet?"

"And you're not overripe for it, loudmouth?" the woman snapped and hurried to the girl, gently helping her to clean herself of the sticky liquid.

"Nope." Daion's bombastic laughter filled the medical bay, echoing off the wall. "Raised sixteen orphans. Let's see if your womb ever matches that number, girlie."

Whether it was his comrades, commanders of the Dynast himself, he wasn't afraid to speak his mind and never minced his words. New Breeds of his abilities and closeness to the superiors had access to the rejuvenation injections, and this led them to become tamer as a potential eternity stretched before them. But Daion was finite. Acrid mucus gathered in his mouth, clogging his windpipe and overwhelming his filtering system. Patches of sickly yellow hue covered his skin; he was losing hair, and his joints ached. Short of a miracle cure to heal his poisoned brain, his time was finite. The sergeant came to terms that he'd shamble and break at some point. What's the point of crying over a natural order? His life hadn't been that bad, and he still had decades ahead of him.

"How are you feeling?" Daion asked the kid, and the translator repeated his words with a slightly snarling, feminine accent. Soulless One from the Third had taken on the task of recording the language and storing it in the databases, and no real linguist had yet corrected her mispronunciations.

"Weird," the girl said. She pressed a metal finger against the table and gasped. "Is this a dream? I have fingers, but I don't feel them."

"You will," Daion promised, and the girl shrank in terror. "Not like that!" For the first time in his life, he yearned to be a member of another army, to have a go on the bitch who did this to these poor souls. He knelt and took the girl by the jaw. "Listen, the nightmare is over. Hard to believe, I know, but there will be no more pain."

"P-promise?" the girl whispered. Her face lacked color, and there were no eyebrows over her gray eyes. She clenched her hands over her chest, clutching the coat closer.

"I swear." Daion put a hand over his heart. "Feel scared or threatened? Call me, and I'll arrange a meeting between the face and the ass of a creep who does it to you. How about we read a book while we wait for a late breakfast?"

"I… I don't know how to read," the girl admitted. "Techno-Queen took me… She took me."

"About time to learn, then." He didn't tell her to forget. There were things impossible to be banished from the memory. The creaking of rusty metal cages, the stench of rotting flesh, and the moans of dying slaves haunted his dreams to this day. Daion used his traumatic past to spite himself into living the best life he could. In time, the little one would learn to do the same, but for now, she needed other memories, and fast. "We have a road ahead of us." Daion let go of her and gave her a pat before addressing the doctor. "Wake up the rest of the kiddies, sweetheart; the kindergarten is open. And where is the food, dammit!?"

"Will…" Daion halted his commands and turned to face the girl, who swallowed and asked, "Will I see the night queen? The one who toppled the mistress!" She clarified, noticing the confusion in the sergeant's eyes.

"Ah, you mean that stinking animal…" A flash of anger appeared in the doctor's eyes, and Daion conceded he was being too rude. "The great Commander Ravager is not here. Doubt you'll ever see her again; she tends to go places."

"She spoke to me," the girl stated. "The mistress tormented us, never showing mercy, and then it ended. And there was a voice that sang a beautiful but so sad song to me while someone freed me from the metal. It somehow took away the pain and gave me hope."

"Okay, time to learn new words," Daion snapped his fingers, ignoring the girl's obviously muddy memories. There was no way she could hear the commander. Every patient was put into a coma. "No mistress. Say bitch instead."

 

[Rookie12]

Kalaisa scrubbed at the toilet seat and sink, trying to clean up the piss and brown mess. Her paws trembled with barely contained rage. Shit! Everything, everything is covered in shit! A mixture of bones clogged a toilet, and she had to fix it, choking on the disgusting smell. Bastards! What did they eat to make such a mess? And how come there were undigested bones?!

Why did you hurt your family? She remembered Janine's question.

Kalaisa wasn't sure why the bitch kept pestering her by asking the same question during every visit. Tonight, like usual, she went to the wounded warlord for guidance. The lessons weren't half bad. Janine imparted the wisdom of trench warfare to the wolf hag, explaining how to prevent a pack from wasting time by forcing them to construct an extensive tunnel system. This system could be useful for surviving an artillery barrage or launching a surprise attack on the enemy. In hindsight, it made sense; the Wolfkins preferred deep underground dens, and Kalaisa eagerly shared the information with the lesser females in Ygrite's pack, earning a begrudging thanks.

She expected the granny, who bled like a cusack, to kick her out, but Janine kept her word, and her doors were open.

Because it is their fault that I am in this situation. Kalaisa answered then and paced back and forth across the room, trying not to look into these bored amber eyes. Had they only been strong, had they only had the dignity to not hold me back after everything that I have done for them, then everything would be normal!

Liar. Janine sneezed. Kalaisa. You can keep making amends and pretending to change all you want. But you can't really get better and move on until you answer this simple question. Why?

Fuck off, old bitch. Rage made her shake, and the automatic pump fell from her paw. The damn device shattered, scattering pieces across the floor. What does Janine think she knows? Lying, as if! Kalaisa was the reason her useless siblings survived. She guarded them in the pits, fed them, cleaned them, and stood guard when those useless sacks of shit whimpered in their sleep, calling Mommy and Daddy! The bastards that abandoned them! No one ever called her! She took care of them, and there was always fear in their eyes! Even before she started... started…

Storming out of the toilet booth, Kalaisa sat on the floor. Besides, what does it matter? Her brothers were males, her sister was weak. They deserved to be dominated; she had done nothing wrong! They were the ones who held her back and stole her happiness! Happy... With trembling fingers, Kalaisa started reassembling the pump, putting the chords back into sockets, and mounting the rubber tube back on.

Kalaisa could have been normal. If… If only she were admitted into Alpha's pack. The respect she so richly deserved, the good pay, and plenty of free time on her paws! She'd served a warlord who stood up for their own, who taught and guided! Had she been in Alpha's pack, she'd never have won her first domination match. Crushed by a wolf hag, Kalaisa would have been accepted as a warrior, and for the first time she would be able to relax and... and be okay, never fearing, never cursing herself for letting her soldiers die because of her inexperience.

The rubber tube slipped from her fingers, eliciting a growl from Kalaisa.

"Shit to shit, how fitting," a cheerful voice said. Lifting her head, she saw Bogdan enter.

"Do you mind, shithead?" The pump almost broke in her paws. "I am trying to work here. Find yourself another toilet… Bastard!"

Kalaisa recoiled in disgust as Bogdan approached, unzipped his pants, and began leaking casually into the nearest urinal, almost showering her with yellowish water. She drew herself high and cast a long shadow on him, doing her best to resist the urge to see his insides splattered on the dirty floor.

"What is your problem, shit stain? Wanna die?"

"You heard the Blessed Mother." The insufferable scum flashed a smile, continuing his business! "Try touching me, and Lacerated One will see you skinned. As for my problem, well… It is you. You don't deserve to be in the army, but that I can live with. What bothers me is your proximity to my family," his voice grew cold. "Your family and I had a chitchat. I know what you did to them, you sick psycho. And now you cling to my mother, like a wounded cub asking to be coddled. You aren't a hot shit, you know it? You are not a soldier, just a useless bully. Because of your behavior, you got your ass handed to you, and someone else had to go on the mission. And they had died as a result, taking a place in the grave so richly reserved for you."

Kalaisa's fist closed as her heart pumped blood so hard that the veins in her temples pulsated. Remembering Janine's lessons, she looked aside, taking deep breaths. First. The fucker knows nothing. Second. Does he think she doesn't blame herself? Third. She volunteered, damn it! It wasn't her fault! Who does this self-righteous bastard think he is? Bogdan had it easy: a mother, a father, and a family that actually cared! Kalaisa had none of that; her siblings were useless; she had to try to whip them into shape after the shame they brought upon her! It was all their fault, not hers! She was ready to go and die if necessary; it was Janine's fault; she denied Kalaisa a place on the team; she…

She let someone die. The realization slowly sank in. It made sense, didn't it? If Kalaisa hadn't spent all her free time beating up her siblings, if she had trained and kept her pack up to date, she would have gone on the mission that night, because then Ashbringer would have had no reason to challenge her. Kalaisa would've cleaved a path for the advance team… And there would be less grief that night.

"Get the fuck out." She spoke through clenched fangs, trembling. "Now! Or I will report you for… unworthy conduct in front of the commanding officer."

"Sure, ma'am." Bogdan deliberately slowly finished his business, pausing near the exit to rest a paw on the door casing. "I have ears, Kalaisa, and they heard your boasts about harming Marco." His claws splintered wood. "You're always whining about not being where you belong. Well, listen here. Try to so much as scratch my little bro, and I send you where you belong. Lay a finger on my buddy Kirk and I'll bury you. And no one will bat an eyelid."

Kalaisa slammed the door after him, hard enough to damage the jamb. She groaned in frustration when she heard the crack. Now she had to fix that too! She returned to the pump, reassembling it more slowly this time, using her claws to push screws into positions, taking slow breaths, and not caring about smells anymore.

Why did you hurt your family? She didn't lie, right? Her siblings were weak; they stole her future in spite of everything she did for them. They deserved to suffer as much as she did! There wasn't anything else.

Kalaisa tried to remember the past when she returned home from the pits, carrying food for the squeaking fuzzies at home. Tired, her bones cracking, she fed her siblings, chewing meat for them and letting them crawl over her. Did she... did she really never care about them? If so, why did she care about their wellbeing? Why on earth did she go to such lengths to ensure their survival?

She bit her lip, getting progressively angrier at herself for wasting so much time beating Kirk. Kalaisa could've trained her pack! She could have taught them new tricks or learned more about fighting herself. Why did she... Why in the holy names of the Spirits did she waste so much of her life on something so petty, so useless… vile.

Kalaisa paid little attention to Bogdan's threat. A: He is a male. What is he going to do—bleed on her? B: She was the expendable one. Like all normal people, Anji had people who cared about her; that bastard Bogdan had a family who cared about him, and friends to boot! Even that dork Marco was genuinely adorable; no wonder Anji always tried helping him. Who does Kalaisa have? Bogdan spoke true; should she die right now, no one will care.

I wish I was normal. Kalaisa reassembled the pump and looked at the doorjamb. I can fix it. She promised herself, remembering Anji's offer.

Yeah. She'll take it. It was too scary to go to a therapist alone. And then she'll help Marco. She owed him that much. There… there had to be steps to mend everything. To change.

No one will ever die because of me ever again.

****

I can give you everything.

Mad Hatter stood in the center of a crater, her curved blades sheathed. Heat still emanated from the molten rock that swirled around her boots. It was a pleasant heat. No longer focused on the here and now, she could hear the rumble of artillery trying desperately to keep the Horde at bay, and the war cries of the khaganates. So many of them were here. Tens of thousands of hearts were beating: excited, furious, frightened. A music of war.

Another heart lay at her feet, slowly stopping. She hadn't the faintest idea who he was. Mad Hatter left the camp for a stroll, speaking her mind to her Great Father above, ignoring the aberration. A streak of lightning carrying a silver-clad idiot across the night sky had caught her attention, and then he was on her, shouting that she would pay for her crimes. It ended as usual—the weak chattered, the strong acted. To honor his dedication at least, she caught him on the blade and opened him from chest to groin. Already dying, the man spat in her face, pleasing her with his defiance. She had already prepared a little poem in his honor.

You stand on the threshold of immortality.

"No one is immortal, save for the Sky, demon," she laughed at the white motes flowing around her. Sounds faded, the molten rivers stopped, and even the rain of debris around her stopped. "The strong get fat, grow old and fall. It is our nature. We come, we go, and the Sky remains."

You are worshipping a non-existent deity, girl. I have seen this rock floating in the void, lifeless and cold. My hands sowed it with life; my words greeted the first ape rising to the first sunset. Such power you can gain if you but accept me. The voice was everywhere and nowhere; its warm, assuring words were meant for her ears alone. She knew better than to swing her head left and right, hoping to see the deceiver.

"Heaven had already given me enough. The rest is up to me." There was someone at the edge of her vision. A figure formed of coalesced blinding light, its eyes burning red. Her arm moved, and a blade of propelled air sliced the figure in half, cutting a long line across the ground behind it. The figure reformed, laughing sadly, and hands touched her shoulders, beseeching her to be calm.

The strong lead, the weak obey. Is that not your creed? He whispered into her ear. Accept me, and the ultimate power shall be yours this instant. In place of a human, the sun will shine on the queen of the new world, a true transcended being, worthy of my love. Your hand shall sweep away the remnants of the unworthy so that true servants may come in their place.

"What I want, I take by my own hand." She turned, but there was no one behind her. "Your words reek of lies, deceiver. God does not hide." She pointed above. "The Sky never hides nor demands submission; he does not care for heresy; he does not need the help of a mortal. My father simply is, and this is the true divinity. Eliminate humanity, shed my mortal coil? I am mad, not genocidal or idiotic!" Her bombastic laughter tore clean the veil of suspended stones around them.

Do they not offend you? Even from here, I can sense their ambition and hear the words of cowards who can never muster the courage to face you. They scheme, skulking in your shadow, smiling in your face while holding daggers behind their backs. He clung to her back, his voice pleading, soft and concerned. Worthless slaves, undeserving of your gaze, disloyal servants, and fools who resist your rightful rule. What is there to cherish?

"Worthless?" Such ignorance amused her. She remembered the first slave whom she earned by breaking the neck of an arrogant khan. The wizened, bent man created such beautiful music from his flute. It moved her, the strongest human, to grab a fan and dance, laughing happily. "Strength comes in many forms, fiend. If those below me can kill me, it means I became weak and deserve to lose. You say you can give me anything…" she asked slyly, giving the figure a sideways glance.

Yes. Anything. Wealth. Eternal life. Your every wish can be granted in an instant. I am a gift.

"Then gift me your life. Die. Cease to be." Mad Hatter smiled.

His disapproval was palpable, his irritation sweeter than any drink she had recently. He had cost her so many years of stolen sleep. The demon laid promises at her feet day and night, often intruding and forcing her into conversation. Idiot. Not everything had a price, and her soul and her devotion to the Sky weren't that cheap.

She bore no ill-will to her father above for not helping her. A parent can't be expected to stand in never-ending vigil over their child eternally. At some point, the child had to mature and make their own decisions. Mad Hatter did just that. A raven does not forgive a rat for feasting on its offspring. It doesn't forget insults hurled at it. The Gilded Horde will rule from continent to continent and find this coward for her to…

The dying man at her legs shifted, and she tilted her head. There was no pop, no slurping sound common to regenerators, and the edges of the bisected flesh didn't shift. No, a simple line of light ran down the wound, closing it, and she heard a thumb. Very loud, it soon rose to a drumming worthy of a theater play, beating on and on, and Mad Hatter clapped her palms in tune to it, enraptured by the music of revived life.

Lightnings flashed everywhere, flowing over her, superheating the surface anew and bathing the land in a blue and white glow. The assailant's hands twitched, his legs convulsed, while she danced, regretting not having her harp. It was fun! A normal person standing here would have burned to the ground long ago., but the fury of the elements pleased her. It was as if she were a small child again, climbing the highest mountain to pay her respects to her revered father and the God of all.

"Goooood…" half-yawned, half-stretched the dead man. His eyes flashed, focusing on her, and more muscles wriggled under the skin, like a tight knot of rope unraveling. The skin stretched but never tore, the man's silvery clothes evaporating into smoke as lightning forks leapt into her eyes. "Divine punishment awaits any who blasphemes against God."

"Weren't you yelling about protecting your nation just now?" asked Mad Hatter and ate a straight uppercut landed on her jaw, and a jolt of electricity raced over her skin, intensifying to become a spear of light that hid her head. His skin turned gold. A pillar of light completely engulfed her head, jumping from the thrown-up strands of hair as the energy pillar disappeared into the clouds above.

"Take up your swords, heathen," demanded the creature.

"Nah," the khatun replied. She touched her smooth skin, whipping away the streaks of blood seeping from under her eyelids. "You sold your soul for this?" she asked in disgust.

It, Mad Hatter no longer considering this filth to be human, erupted, sending out a dome of electricity. The khatun laughed and opened her arms wide to welcome the tickling sensation, not caring that the pins and rings holding her furs turned red. Warm! This was fun. The world spun, and she leaned to the left, still laughing after the thunderbolt-covered leg kicked her against the temple.

"Still unimpressed, non-believer?" The creature asked mockingly.

"Yep," Mad Hatter confirmed, not bothering to straighten up. Another kick to the head followed from the other side; the golden figure disappeared, keeping the dome of crackling electricity around her. She was struck almost simultaneously from the left and the back, on the nose, then a finger poked her in the eye, but the khatun continued to jeer, ignoring the shockwaves from its punches and kicks. The silly buffoon tried to impress her with its speed. "To tell you the truth, you were much more beautiful when you fought like a man for a cause you believed in."

"You dare?!" The figure stopped flickering around her. The dome disappeared, and the electricity and lightning generated by its power gathered into this figure, fleetingly moving toward his fists. Orbs of pure energy grew on them, pure white gloves that completely covered its arms. Blue streaks rose from their surface and jumped between the man's hands. "You dare question my unending devotion to God? I will shut your heinous mouth once and for all!"

He jumped, and Mad Hatter's gaze followed him, barely curious about what he would do. Its power increased tenfold, it moved faster, its blows were far more powerful than before, but the khatun viewed the disgusting lump of flesh as a cautionary tale. Free will is precious; it was worth more than stupid strength. A slave, faking smiles and hating her in secret, was infinitely more important to her than this extension of a foreign will, whose every desire was inverted in exchange for accepting the deal. The deceiver…

A line of white linked her to the sky as the creature hurled its thunderbolts at Mad Hatter. The ground erupted; the force of the impact had driven the khatun up to her neck into the quagmire that the overheated stone had become. She climbed free, hearing the roar of the exploded projectile that dwarfed even the distant battle and witnessing the widening crater.

"You…" A ray of light shone down and transformed into the golden figure. "How much longer must I endure your impertinence…"

"Enough," Mad Hatter said.

She was on the fool before it could register her movement. The creature had done something far worse than simply surrendering its will. It bored her. Her arm plunged into the golden chest, breaking through the ribcage as if it were made of paper. Wind flapped her hair as the driven air finally caught up with them, tearing house-sized chunks of rock from the untouched ground. It tried to squeak; beams of light formed in the creature's irises, but she clenched her hand, bursting its heart.

It died disappointingly fast; blue lightnings from the initial shot still lingered, changing to a red hue when life was banished from the eyes.

Do you see now? The white mist swirled around Mad Hatter, its edges pointing at the widened crater, and fissures opened in the ground. Devotion is greatly rewarded. I am not a silent deity who never responds to the pleas of my flock.

"No, you lie and use them." She focused her eyes on the figure in the mist. "He asked for a power to cast me down. And you have assigned him the role of an example to entice my interest, false pretender. True God has no need for falsehoods."

Any person has their limits. Yours are simply greater than the most. The whisper came. Play your silly game. When the end comes, you'll beg me for aid.

"When my last hour comes, I will face it with integrity and ask for no more mercy than I have shown others," responded Mad Hatter.

The flow of time returned to normal. Her own perception dropped from its height, so she would not be exhausted for months watching a stone fall. It was a lonely existence to be at the peak. Mad Hatter purposely put herself on the normal human level, ignoring the Purebloods' confusion. They were too engrossed in their game, vying for a scrap of authority. Alliances were formed only to be dissolved the next day, oaths were sworn and then broken, and occasionally there was even a hint of stubborn nobility, a sign so rare and exotic in the Gilded Horde.

What a wonderful existence! Competition sharpens the mind, but since birth, no one could match hers. Mad Hatter deliberately ventured into traps to turn them around, used Dirtybloods and even bondsmen to humble arrogant khans. Nothing brought her joy; it was so simple, the flaws to exploit so obvious. Any game becomes stale when you win all the time. It was unfair to the loser and to her.

A stage had drawn her. First, she shyly recited poems, bringing tears to the eyes of murderers, and then she dared to dance, encouraged by her wizened slave. The man never told her his name, and though it would be trivial to break him, Mad Hatter granted him this cloak of dignity, personally giving him a sky burial after Darkie, as she called him, died of old age. Flutes, harps, throat singing, drums, dances, performance! Infinite variations—a pure sea of untapped creativity—waited for her to pour her emotions and intellect into. Former rapists no longer turned to violence; murderers pursued dignity; butchers showed mercy to the youngest after hearing her songs. It thrilled her, even more than conquering.

But things come to a halt, if not to an end. There was the night the weak demon sat on her shoulder. He whispered even now, denying her a chance to sleep, a chance to formulate her thoughts, disrupting her creativity. Mad Hatter was not a kind person. First, she bent the Steppes to her will, searching for the trickster. He was not found. And the Gilded Horde marched on, burning their own legacy upon the world.

"It is ready, Khan of Khans," said a stern voice. It had touches of static that disturbed some syllables. Mad Hatter smiled, hearing her dear curiosity from tens of kilometers away. One last hurdle to clear before facing the Reclamation Army, fellow madmen bent on world domination. It should be fun.

There is a play brewing. She decided. Iron Lord and Brood Lord. So different, so ambitious. She envied their equality, the thrill of uncertainty, and uttered a simple prayer to her true father, begging the Sky to send her an opponent of superior or equal abilities to face so she could taste pain again.

The battlefields were her stages now.

"What unforgivable crimes have you committed that the Sky has deafened your ears to my demands?" Mad Hatter asked aloud, addressing all those foolish enough to oppose her. She lifted the corpse to the heavens for approval and sank her teeth into it, ignoring the whispers of the false filth.

 

[Rookie12]

The city was about to fall. Dokholkhu looked down at it with empty eyes, seeing the same picture that he had seen years after years after years. Conquerors had herded the locals into the main square, where clans' chief overseers examined the frightened men and women, determining who would fetch a good price on a flesh market and who was too valuable to protect at any cost. The elderly and infirm weren't cut down on the spot, for this was not a raid. Their value to the invaders was non-existent, so they would be free to live under the new rulers. Next came the monuments and historical records. There was no mercy here. Cattle had no need for such things. Cattle only had to work to pay tithes. That was the price of resisting the Gilded Horde.

It started like usual. Prior to the invasion, Brood Lord had sent his agents, entering into a conspiration involving one of the trading houses holding great authority in these lands. His father picked the most ambitious and the least influential house, the fools who would never have risen on their own. Then came Phaser, and portals opened in the streets. Assassins poured in, staging massacres, disrupting industry, eliminating key targets, often in daylight. The lord of this city was far too strong for Phaser to take on; a true and shining example of an Abnormal, his sword has cut down hundreds of fools who tried to encroach on his lands and ended many of their assassins. He was left untouched.

Once panic was sowed and sufficient information was gathered, the Horde arrived in force, seizing local farms and mines. There were deaths, but Iron Lord's decree was clear: the people were to be sent back to work, providing food and metal for the Merchants and the clans. The Horde came to conquer, not to despoil. As the first hoverbikes neared the city's outer walls, Iron Lord announced the terms of surrender: Lay down your weapons and swear fealty to the Horde. Your leader shall become a bondsman in Mad Hatter's employ, a lucrative and generous offer that had often resulted in the creation of another great khan. The leader's offspring will be divided equally to serve the great khans. Do so, and a paltry tribute will satiate the Horde, and your history and culture will be preserved. Any response short of immediate agreement was considered a refusal.

It was deliberately insulting, of course. The Gilded Horde grew fat and mighty, but without a constant abundance of fresh gifts and lands to share, its warriors grumbled. But the offer was sincere. A broken word cost far more in the long run, and Mad Hatter mercilessly flayed those who dared to break it. Several countries that accepted the offer enjoyed relatively safe and comfortable lives, often more secure from outside threats than before.

But not this one, unfortunately. A negotiator, a head of one of the noble houses, came to parley with Iron Lord. The poor man received a glaive to his belly; his shrieking screams filled the air when the great khan raised him high over himself, carefully avoiding rupturing the lungs. Before the defenders could unleash fire and brimstone on him, the Horde's mobile artillery started speaking.

This city was a prosperous place. During the Extinction, its future citizens hid themselves in several bunkers scattered throughout these regions, and thousands of lives were saved. Upon leaving the safety, they used the precious wonders of the Old World to erect reinforced walls and construct massive guard towers manned by well-trained crews. The shells of their artillery pieces could hit over the horizon, and deadly and precise howitzers stood ready to flatten those who got close. No less than three ancient missiles slept hidden in the city's missile silo. But all that was undone by the betrayal from within.

The firing patterns were well evaluated; fast-moving missile launchers zigzagged around the city, firing non-stop, silencing one defensive position after another. Mass-reactive projectiles pierced the outer shells of the protective bunkers, releasing poisonous gases inside to suffocate the defenders. Crimson flowers bloomed on the walls, with the heat of the flame being potent enough to melt both steel alloys and reinforced stone. A few unlucky fools firing from the hidden balconies in the wall died, boiled alive in the rolling down napalm.

Screams and curses filled the air, but the Horde kept their distance, sending forth snipers who began thinning those few defenders left. This was just the softening, and at Iron Lord's gesture, soldiers marched on, digging trenches leading to the walls. Dokholkhu volunteered to join, fully expecting the rival of his father to send him to his death, but the great khan paid no attention to an additional toy in his arsenal, and his officers handed the young man a shovel.

Force generators hummed over their heads, partially shielding them from the intense shelling. Occasionally they were overwhelmed, and a landed shell cratered the ground, reaping a grievous toll of a dozen lives. Information gathered by Brood Lord also wasn't wholly correct, and hidden passageways opened in the ground. The defenders rushed out in a counterattack, hoping to stem the tide.

None of it mattered to Iron Lord. The battlefield was a horrible orchestra of the dead and dying, of explosives and ever furthering siege warfare, of moving vehicles heading to positions, and sonic cannons firing to disable minefields. And Iron Lord was the conductor. Nothing was left to chance. When a soldier, whose eyes were wide from fear or excitement, rose from the ground to shoot Dokholkhu, he was immediately cut down by a fire from a well-placed automatic turret. Dokholkhu spared a single minute to the dead, wondering what he had lived for, whether he had loved or been loved.

An officer's snap brought him back to the world, and the young man kept digging, doing his part to bring the conquest to its appointed conclusion. Iron Lord command was so widely different from anything he had experienced under his father. There were no killings to inspire the rest; when a soldier slumped, holding hands over her ears, an officer closed in and lifted her chin, expecting the Pureblood's eyes. He gave her water and sent her to the rear to recuperate. Purebloods, Dirtybloods, and even bondsmen toiled equally in a well-organized machine directed by Iron Lord, their differences forgotten. Do your part. Bring about the victory. Trust in protection.

It was almost divine in its simplicity.

Seven hours later, the preparations were complete and the outer resistance had collapsed. Brood Lord raised a hand, announcing his own advance, and fear gripped Dokholkhu's heart. He didn't want to go against dilapidated, but still steady defenses; he didn't want to see more of his brothers and sisters die.

"Devour the world!" came the terrible, terrible war cry ushered first by Mad Hatter and echoed by every soldier.

There was no choice. Serve or be culled. Their father left them with no other option, ruthlessly hunting down any escapees and brutally torturing them before the eyes of his other children. His father's soldiers surged on, and there was gunfire. The front wave was made up of what the great khan called rabble. Their job was to soak up the bullets and detect any last surprises at the cost of their lives. Those who dared to turn back as the shells fell upon them after exiting the cover of the shields' protective perimeter faced death as the elite force followed in their wake. Brood Lord's host lacked uniformity; every khan was permitted to use what they wanted if they got the job done.

The invincible son of Mungke's khan rushed to the gates, laughing as laser beams, bullets, and fire harmlessly slipped off his body. Portals opened on the walls, spewing out soldiers whose purpose was to die and buy time for the Horde to close in. Dokholkhu gritted his teeth, enduring a surge of artificial aggression tugging at his brain. It resulted in further chaos among the defenders and a series of fights amidst his father's forces. Monsters of all kinds used their abilities freely, disregarding the safety of their allies.

By comparison, Iron Lord's progress was more orderly. The Brood had converged on Dokholkhu's location, joining him in advancing on the right flank, away from their father. Explosions erupted above their heads, expanding into bubbles of hot plasma that engulfed parts of the incoming projectiles. Iron Lord tolerated no challengers. Those who joined the accepted superiority of his khaganate kept their heads down and strictly obeyed the laws, or his glaive collected the head of an upstart.

A flaming dragon soared above the advancing ranks, landing on the battlements and curling its tail around itself. It exploded, incinerating those in its path and deftly dodged aside as a slice of water, traversing fast enough to slit the stone, nearly touched its edge. The fiery mass gathered, still little more than a living flame, but its shape changed to a more humanoid form, and the richly blessed Pureblood faced an Abnormal opponent. Flame and water collided, and steam obscured part of the wall.

Iron Lord advanced at the head of his forces, riding the largest thunder bull Dokholkhu had ever seen. Surrounded by his iron-clad bodyguards, the indomitable cavalry was heading for the main gates when suddenly a section of the wall fell and the khan redirected his forces in one smooth motion. Not to be outdone, Brood Lord raced to his portion of the wall; his six legs easily scaled up the ruined surface. He didn't pay attention to his children's sufferings and struggled. Buyantu, a seven-year-old boy, had died when a soldier shot him from an opening in the wall. Dokholkhu cherished his brother, educated him, tried to protect him, and he was gone in a flash. A hail of armor-piercing bullets struck the boy in the head, and his massive body slammed down. Lifeless. Broken. Dokholkhu roared and skewered the soldier who did it, sending him down after his brother.

Brood Lord never looked back. He reached the top of the wall, filling everything with his deep, elegant laughter. His sword moved up and down, doing butcher's work and weaving arcs of blur before him. The khan fired his pistol; his pincers closed on the retreating soldiers, tearing them apart. Dokholkhu shouted at the top of his lungs, hating that the enemies refused to surrender, hating being here, despising the sound of bullets drumming against his chitin plates, and went on killing, firing his pulse rifle at the defenders.

"Turn them back!" A voice cut through the chaos of battle, and a shot knocked the rifle from Dokholkhu's hand.

There was a new fighter on the wall. Dressed in a rugged black and green robe, the man wielded a pistol and a mace. A battle plate was visible in the wide gashes of his clothes, his face hidden by an old visor. He whirled, fitting into an open breach in a defensive line, and fired a Pureblood into his stomach. Then he brought down his mace, smashing the man's head.

"Soldiers of the Kingdom!" The man continued, still fighting. "Your homeland faces twilight! But dawn comes! Sunlight banishes even the thickest darkness! For those who can't protect themselves, for those whom you love, and for those you protect, cast them off the walls! Fight! Fight until your bodies can no longer support you! Kill to save the living! For the future!"

"Listen to the reverend ordinand!" An enemy officer roared, and a hundred voices joined his. "Ancestors! Watch over us in our hour of need! Send the bastards to hell!"

There weren't many soldiers on the wall yet. Cold sweat covered Dokholkhu as he realized that the Brood were still climbing up. Opened balconies halted them, and only he and several Purebloods had reached the top. Swallowing his fear, he charged at the enemy, his sword in a double grip. Together with the two Purebloods, they faced the brazen ordinand. The man's mace was seemingly everywhere; it blocked a Pureblood's dagger, and the pistol shot him in the eye. Then its knob struck the other Pureblood in the throat as the ordinand took Dokholkhu's blade on his pistol.

They were left alone. The soldiers closed in, brandishing their bayonets and firing at close range, denying them from climbing up. The ordinand mace crashed at Dokholkhu's curved sword, and the man pulled it down, trying to break the Brood's fingers. Dokholkhu headbutted him, but it only cracked his own chitin plate and sent the man back a step. Not even a dent appeared on his visor, and the young man dove to the side to avoid a shot.

"Father! Brood Lord Khan!" he said into the communicator, panting heavily and trying to block the rain of blows. Heavy. He was an Abnormal, his body enhanced by the protective exoskeleton he wore. The molecular blade in his arms was designed to cleave through the regular steel. Yet this dusty, old-fashioned mace endured, and the man's strength overpowered him. "I need help! Right now!"

"Noted, but I have a situation." Brood Lord replied, not even looking at his son. The HUD showed the khan advancing toward the stairs leading down; his shot speared through two Dirtybloods serving Iron Lord and tore an enemy officer in two. "Gotta secure the gold in the banks."

"Father, please." Dokholkhu licked his lips. Another heavy blow of the mace tore at his cheek, sending his helmet flying. "I'll die!"

"Sad, but such is the fate of children to sacrifice themselves to ensure their father's goals. Do make it count; I'll promise to mourn you later." Brood Lord's voice came from the gorget of the Brood's armor.

Heavy swings rained on Dokholkhu as he tried his best to survive. Fear, not for himself but for his brothers and sisters, gave him strength. He gritted his teeth and tried to kick the bastard back, using his front legs, but the ordinand pushed ahead, his gun blasting fist-sized holes in the climbing up soldiers. The man's situational awareness and skill made all the difference. Even using a single arm, he was overwhelming Dokholkhu.

"Sinner," Dokholkhu froze, hearing the screech behind him. A weight, part of the torn wall, flew past him, beating away the mace directed at his exposed head, and the young man exhaled a sigh of relief.

Not at him. The sentence wasn't directed at him.

Taloned hands lifted the climbing figure. The head priest was completely naked, except for bone necklaces wrapped around his body and sharp fetishes in his long hair. Pitch-black feathers grew down the length of his limbs; despite the climb, he breathed easily, his bird-like, round eyes locked at the ordinand.

"Sinner?" the ordinand asked, raising the hand above his head and holding his gun close to his body. "Why are you calling me so? Have I sinned against you in the past?"

"You stand in our path," the priest stated. His talons moved, and Dokholkhu obeyed and stepped away.

"There is many a sin I have committed, and my penance is long. But by the Planet's holy name and spirit, it is no sin to stand against you," the ordinand said. "It is right to stand against the merciless invaders, who bring woe where peace reigns, and tears to the eyes of children."

"Right?" Dalantai screeched so loudly that a prickle of pain touched Dokholkhu's eardrums. "You dare persist in your blasphemy? How can you be right when I am stronger?"

"You judge rightness by mere strength?" the ordinand inquired.

"What else is there to judge by?" The priest gestured at the dead around. "The strong desire, the weak give in or suffer. That is the part of the natural order set by the Sky. Your false sermons have led these poor souls astray, shaman. Their children will weep because of you." The talons beckoned the man in the dark robe. "Let us dispel these inflicted delusions. Play the part."

Another gun slipped into the ordinand's free arm, and he fired. The bullets flew past Dokholkhu, one aimed between the priest's eyes and another at his heart. Both projectiles stopped in midair, several centimeters from their targets.

"They'll never reach me," Dalantai said, stepping past them. His opponent fired again. "These were never fired." Twin booms exploded the guns before the priest had finished speaking. The weapons weren't damaged; they slipped from the ordinand's hands, disassembling into their natural components. Dalantai closed the distance in a single step and grabbed the enemy priest by the neck. "Tell me. Have you ever heard of a creature calling itself God…" he hesitated, closing his face to the helmet. "Or of the White Raven?"

"What are you talking about?" the man whispered, struggling to speak as the talons crumpled his gorget. He grabbed Dalantai's wrist, but the priest ignored feeble attempts to break his bones.

"One is a blasphemer, a self-proclaimed deity who torments God's child. And the vision of another intrudes on my dreams. I see a great bird, its wings of the brightest white, its head black, closing in on me, its talons ready to shred me apart." A crooked laugh left his lips. "Let the apparition try! I will not run from my fate! I will strike it down and grind its bones to dust!"

"I have no idea of whom you speak," the ordinand squeezed out the words. "My deity is the Planet."

"Is that so?" Dalantai tilted his head, forgetting about the battle raging around. "Let us test your devotion. A thousand years of punishment shall suffice."

His talons released the man, and Dokholkhu heard a low whine as a cage of blurred air closed around the ordinand. The man's body twisted and jerked, performing hundreds of movements in a single second as every ounce of pain he had ever known in his life was returned to him. But there was no relief. When one injury was over, another would appear, and the agony of the previous one still lingered. Death was denied to the person trapped in the stasis of time; each injury was healed the instant it appeared, just to reappear again, but the brain experienced the pain in full, adapted to a different time-stream by Dalantai's power.

This was the true terror of Mad Hatter's chief adviser and the Horde's spiritual leader. Ancient he was, born long before the great khatun, and he still looked young. His gifts allowed him to stretch space itself and manipulate time. His visions located the unborn Mad Hatter after the fiercest glowing storm that spawned countless mutants. So many have tried to usurp him, and all have failed.

To anger him was worse than death. Back in the steppes, in the Sacred Mountain, there was a gallery. It was a showcase of human bodies in unimaginable agony.

A snap of the fingers freed the man from the cage, and the ordinand splattered on the ground before the shocked eyes of the defenders. Not a shred of self-control or intellect remained in the man as he screamed, rolling around, foaming from the mouth. The scream paused only to suck in more air and then immediately resumed. It wasn't a man's scream; it was the desperate cry of a collapsed mind, begging for resolution, unable to go on.

"How frail you are, how pitiful your god is. Fall to it and bother me not," Dalantai sang. The man's torn robes turned into rolls of cloth, his armor separated into ingots, microchips, wires, shining generators, and other stuff. The naked person shrank, rapidly becoming younger; scars disappeared from his body, but the madness in his eyes persisted. The man de-aged into a teen, the teen into a kid, and the child was reduced to a fetus. Dalantai stomped, reducing the writhing mass into a blood smear.

Silence descended upon this section of the wall. Both the invaders and the defenders were horrified in equal measure. The roar from the palace distracted everyone as the surface-to-surface missiles were launched to wreak untold havoc. They soared high, and then something thundered as cuts split them apart. Mad Hatter had deemed it important to intervene in person.

People on the streets, civilians, defenders, and invaders alike, yelled in panic as the burning rubble began to fall. Dalantai waved his arm, and the debris changed direction, rolling down an unseen chute and then exploding into bright domes on the horizon.

"Have your eyes opened at last?" Dalantai spread his arms. "Your gods are mere idols, unworthy of notice. Your toys won't help you. The Sky is real. His gifts are real. Bow and…" His talon moved, stopping a bullet fired at him. "Yield, I say!" roared the chief priest and swung his arm, locking dozens of soldiers into stasis of pain. "Yield and serve! Bow to the Sky's Daughter!"

"Bow to the Khatun!" The Horde's warriors chanted and charged ahead, cutting down the last remnants of the feeble resistance.

More screeching filled the walls, and the Raptor Unit swooped in, unleashed at last. These Purebloods were blessed; streaks of flames, acid, warping of reality itself came from their hands as they assailed the defenders, enjoying the total air superiority after the defenders' guns had ceased firing.

"Devotion is rewarded, Dokholkhu," Dalantai said to him after the struggle was over and the soldiers began to descend. "Sky's servants are never alone. Something is on your mind. Speak."

Dokholkhu wanted to keep his mouth shut, but the priest's black eyes were on him, digging into his temple in anticipation of an answer. To lie was unthinkable, inconceivable, unless he wanted to experience the same agony as the priest's victims.

"I… was scared," Dokholkhu said, and the priest moved. He embraced the warrior, gently pressing the young man's head against his chest.

"It is understandable," Dalantai said softly, speaking in a human voice. The screeching was gone. "Only demigods and madmen are not afraid of battle or getting hurt."

"I hate war," Dokholkhu admitted.

"Of course you do," Dalantai drew back and nodded. "Who in their right mind loves it? But there will always be war. Be it for authority or riches or respect, people will keep killing each other over nothing till the end of time. It is naive to think otherwise. Violence courses in our veins. But!" The shaman raised a finger and smiled. "We'll hurt war. One of the causes of deaths is faith. Differences in it have led to total exterminations in the past. But as we tear falsehoods away and unite the entire world under a single religion, this reason for war will disappear. Is this not the greatest act of pacifism? Let it sustain you, child, for we will strike a blow against war itself!" Dalantai stood and faced the city. Behind him, the stasis cages exploded, releasing gasping people, who spasmed and soon went limp as the shock stopped their hearts. "Tell me, Dokholkhu. Have you ever heard of the White Raven?"

"Until today, never," Dokholkhu put a hand over his heart. "Who is it, holy father?"

The priest gave him a long look and breathed. Dokholkhu was simply happy to be here. He did not believe in Dalantai's reasoning; the life taught him that nothing lasted, and no place remained empty. But his daring charge somehow ended with him leading the Brood today, and his kin waited away from the slaughterhouse.

"Many visions have I seen. Not all are meant to be, for I carefully sift through them to aid the Gilded Horde navigate the myriad paths that lead to the future," Dalantai said slowly. "But in every single variation of what is to come, I see the same thing. The White Raven challenges me. Where and when? What's the outcome? Never have I faced difficulty divining the exact time. Before, if I pushed myself, I could predict entire lives, down to their hair and where they would lose it. Now everything is muddy. I had heard that the Reclamation Army has minions capable of disrupting gifts such as mine… But it does not worry me. What is meant to happen will happen." He shrugged. "Come, young warrior. Let us attend to the inevitable."

 

[Rookie12]

Dokholkhu hardly remembered what happened next. When he glanced back, he saw Jaliqai next to himself. The girl's arm went limp; one of her four legs had snapped, but her rifle had killed a soldier aiming at his back. Out of the brood, sixty-eight died, leaving just forty alive despite Dalantai's assistance. But they were at the main keep's walls, a proud towering building that oversaw the city below!

Thanks to Iron Lord's preparation, the losses from the bombardment were limited. Shells that tore through the shield found troops hidden in the trenches and vehicles protected by the earthen walls. Armor carriers delivered their packages to the breaches; soldiers used siege equipment to scale the captured walls, and the enemy arsenals had already fallen.

And the lord of the city was below, blocking shots of the buzzing raiders with his weapon while his elite guard fired back, killing the riders.

"Face me!" shouted the magnificent warrior in golden power armor and raised his sword high in the air. "If you are half the man you claim to be, Iron Lord, come and face me!"

The claymore in the man's hand exploded into a rainbow of light, blinding the raiders. This unnatural light, a miracle of the Old World, had pierced through the lenses, and the hordemen veered off course and smashed against the stone. The lord's legs carried him on, making almost impossibly elegant moves for a gigantic three-meter-tall body. In three mighty swings, he ended eight lives, and the bikes exploded in his wake as the man marched on, intending to either push the foes out of his city or die trying. There were traces of battle on his armor; a pauldron was missing, his visor was cracked, blood spurted from cracks in his armor, and he probably battled against exhaustion by overdosing on drugs. This king wasn't a coward.

His guard followed him, loyal to the fault, aiming to face the towering figure that rode inside the courtyard. Iron Lord. He came to collect the prize, holding his position behind the troops, the grisly remains of the defenders dangling from his glaive, while the conquerors scoured the streets behind him, gathering the population.

The rest of the leaders came to join Iron Lord. Impossibly thin Phaser caused reality itself to shatter around his claws, and small passages leading to the realms unknown lingered in the air at the touch of his fingers. Drozna, a beast of hardened muscles and ferocity, approached Iron Lord from behind. His oversized hands carried no weapons; gore and crimson belonging to the defenders covered his body. Slavetaker, a man of similar stature, shoved Brood Lord's bodyguard away from Iron Lord and slammed his machete into the ground, his cloak of flayed skin billowing in the air. Widowmaker, a tall and utterly rabid woman, still laughing from the thrill of the battle, flanked Iron Lord from the other side, hungrily eyeing the twins, killers in Brood Lord's employ. The brother and sister, dressed in matching domino suits, lurked in the background; a mask of one of them had a laughing face painted on it, while the second had a mask of a grief-stricken man. They bowed gracefully, responding to the minor khatun's attention. And others came too—the strongest and most merciless fighters of the horde, Abnormals and Purebloods with few equals.

For a second, it looked as if two groups would collide: a man in golden armor facing a man in steel armor, sword against glaive, for the best man to win. Dokholkhu knew why the enemy leader had rushed out, abandoning safe positions in the courtyard. Civilians were rushing toward the castle, and their noble leader was prepared to give his life to buy them time.

Alas, it was not to be. Dokholkhu learned and learned well, that there was no justice in this world. Drozna stomped, and a wave of rage emanated from him, forcing the most weak-willed of the defenders to turn their weapons on each other in confusion. The king turned back, stunned by a sudden call to mindless violence that had sparked in his mind. Every single grievance and frustration he had ever experienced in his life came back to him, turned up to eleven. His discipline held, his people's did not. Civilians and soldiers alike clawed and tore at their friends, and gunfire speared those who tried to escape.

And in the midst of it all, Brood Lord leapt from the castle, and with horror, Dokholkhu saw a screaming infant in his pincer hand. Striding proudly, Brood Lord approached to the frozen-in-fear ruler, dangling his crying son before his very eyes.

"Please…" the man whispered before Brood Lord spat acid. The cracked lenses of the helmet did a poor job of holding it back, and the man screamed, reaching for his eyes as his vision was obscured. Immediately, the twins were on him, hacking at his sides.

The lord swung blindly, driving them back, and Phaser stepped out of an opened portal behind him. His claws passed through the king's swordarm with disgusting ease, taking it away. Drozna charged in next, kicking the man through the fountain in the center of the courtyard with enough force to shatter the golden breastplate. Brood Lord tossed the infant aside and hacked away at the man's knees, not allowing him the dignity of facing the end standing.

Finally, Iron Lord closed in; the tread of his thundering bull flattened the few remaining loyal defenders. His steel mask's white lenses dispassionately examined the writhing in pain man, and the golden glaive struck. The disruption field formed around the edge, breaking the molecular bonds of the gorget and sending the head flying.

"The Gilded Horde has conquered!" Iron Lord's augmented voice boomed loud enough to shake the windows. He thrust his weapon skyward, and the surrounding khans roared in support, ignoring the dead and dying around them.

Hundreds stormed into the palace, ending the last few pockets of resistance and dragging away precious paintings, artwork, and historical records. Simple things were flung into flames; precious metalwork was melted down as weeping servants watched the rich history of the royal house reduced to ashes. The Gilded Horde will spare nothing; no statue will be left untouched, and no artistically crafted staircase will be permitted to stay.

"Greetings, my dear friends!" Brood Lord spread his mighty shoulders, his voice sounding surprisingly soft for his enormous bulk, and the countless golden amulets around his neck chattered in rhythm with his many steps as he advanced toward the traitors who gave the information to the horde. Only they, the doctors and scientists, will be protected. Dalantai joined him, silently watching for Mad Hatter. "We will now discuss how this place will be run."

Dokholkhu jumped off the wall, relieved that the fighting was over. He knew what would happen next. The traitors will be celebrated before the entire city and put in charge. Naturally, no one will trust the bastards, and this will spark rebellions in the horde's absence. But therein lay his father's cruel plan. The Gilded Horde did not care for cities; they lived on the distant steppes, where the only buildings were the weapons factories. Cities led to false security, to a desire to settle down, and in turn to weakening and decline. Khans coveted farms and mines to feed their khaganates and pay the Merchants. Their minions held cities and towns, but a careful stroking of hatred ensured constant infighting so that none would ever be strong enough to break free from the oppressors.

In the corner lay the forgotten infant, screaming at the top of his lungs because of his broken arm. Dokholkhu picked the child up as gently as he could with his pincer arm and headed into the palace. He knew what his father would do later. Brood Lord will taste women, and in a week their wombs will explode, sending forth a new and for a time mindless brood. Dokholkhu could not save them.

But he could save someone.

****

Dokholkhu came upon two soldiers standing guard nervously before the inner chambers of the ruler's family. The men clearly wanted to be with the others, to pillage and loot, and Dokholkhu took advantage of this.

"Leave," he told them, striding forward.

"But our orders," one of them tried to say, and the boy grabbed the fool by the neck, silencing him.

"My prize." His eyes glowed in the corridor's darkness as his fingers bent the metal gorget. "Leave and find something else to amuse yourself."

Dokholkhu's body ached; several of his chitin plates were missing, his armor was in tatters, and one finger on his human hand was broken. But something in his eyes had convinced the guards to quickly nod and walk away, allowing him to enter the vandalized room. He handed the child to a weeping woman in a crimson gown and looked down at the frail woman and several servants, including a few older people who bore a resemblance to the dead ruler, but were smaller.

The place itself was a mess. The once rich bed had been torn to shreds when Brood Lord came through the ceiling earlier. One of the three infant cribs was smashed, and something red within it twisted the young man's stomach in disgust. The other kid was alive; thank the Sky.

"Do you have a way out? A secret tunnel, anything?" Dokholkhu asked, and the woman stopped crying and retreated, worried. He grimaced, clenched his fist in anger, and tried to speak more clearly. Common was a difficult language. "I am not joking. They will kill you. Listen to me, and your two remaining children will live."

"There is a tunnel, but…" The woman's eyes flashed with concern, and Dokholkhu turned around. The same two guards from before had returned.

They said nothing, seeing their fate in his eyes. Their hands reached for weapons, but before either could pull the trigger, Dokholkhu's pincer hand closed around the neck of one, ripping the man's head from his body. The second guard gasped for air as a stinger emerged from his chest.

"What are you doing?" Jaliqai dropped the dead man. The older girl closed her face to his, nearly head-butting him. "The father is going to murder us for this!"

"And yet you decided to help. Thank you, sister." Dokholkhu grinned back, turning his head toward the people. "He can't kill us if he never learns of it. Accidents happen."

"I can't believe I am helping with this madness," his sister said. "And for whom? Normies! They would've left us to rot at the first opportunity! Nobody cares about the Brood but the Brood."

"Oh, don't say such harsh words!" They whirled at the sound of laughter. Ulagchi, the Cupbearer and their father's current favorite sycophant, clapped his hands in the corridor, and a stinky line joined his palms. Three more Purebloods raised their weapons. "I'd be delighted to see you burn…" Hearing heavy stomping footsteps, his pale-lipped grin widened. "And it seems we are not a…"

A line appeared across his lower jaw, on the necks and shoulders of the Purebloods. None of the warriors had managed to so much as gasp as their heads left their bodies and pieces of stone fell from the cut corridor, leaving a single figure standing against the Brood siblings.

He was entombed into a heavy suit of metal, devoid of gold jewelry and amulets. A shoulder cannon moved, taking aim at the young people. His lenses were illuminated by a pale light like his master's, but instead of a glaive, the member of Iron Lord's elite guard wielded a large axe with which he decapitated four people at once. Were it not for his generator, he could easily be mistaken for a metal statue.

"Dokholkhu, son of Brood Lord." The boy slapped himself over the chest. "Have you come to kill us?"

"Mehmed, son of Iron Lord," in the warrior introduced himself. There was no static to disturb his worn tone. "Brood Lord looked funny at my father. He sent me to slap the bitch. It is done. Had I wanted to kill you, I'd already done so."

The siblings said nothing. They wanted their potential opponent to think they were vulnerable or weak. The hulking behemoths in Iron Lord's employ often overestimated the thickness of their plates and underestimated the resilience of a human body. Dokholkhu raised a hand and stopped Jaliqai. Perhaps there is no need for a fight?

"What are you doing?" Mehmed asked, and his lenses flickered, zooming in on the room. "I see. Might as well help. I have a map for planned external raids."

"And how do we know you won't betray us?" Jaliqai asked calmly.

"Do you enjoy murdering children?" Mehmed asked her, and the girl shrugged and accepted his reasoning.

In the end, everything was easier than they had expected. There was a tunnel that led straight out of the chambers to a small underground river. Dokholkhu helped the Normies get there by removing the debris left by his father and giving them the weapons of the dead guards. Even now, their chances of survival were slim, for the raiders would be plundering the area for weeks to come. But at least he had done something.

Together, the three traitors set the room ablaze, feeding corpses to the flames and hiding every sign of their involvement. The legend was simple: Ulagchi's group got into an argument over women and riches and got themselves killed after a lamp fell over while they fought.

"Not sure I like it." Mehmed scratched his chin. "Father hoped to leave a message."

"Then you'd be the target," Dokholkhu told him. "Brood Lord doesn't forgive insults…"

"You give that whore too much credit." The iron warrior hoisted his axe over his shoulder. "If you ever need help pulling off a stunt like that, call me; I don't mind helping. And I saw you leading the Brood. When the time comes, stand aside. Iron Lord's beef with Brood Lord, not with the Brood."

"What makes you think he can win?" Jaliqai inquired.

"In the war between the conventional and the unconventional, the conventional always prevails!" Mehmed laughed. "Come to my tent later. Father gives us good and kind healers."

****

They found the khans feasting before the titanic statue of the former king. It stood taller than most buildings, sword to the sky, its hand outstretched toward the people below. In the days before the conquest, the people must have used this place for prayers or ceremonies. Now the conquerors were celebrating here, and someone had already shot out the eyes of the statue.

Wooden planks were laid all around the square, and underneath them were the city's defenders—those soldiers who refused to bend the knee to the new rulers—groaning and screaming. And the khans and their closest subordinates sat on these planks, laughing and drinking, shifting their bodies slightly when a bone or an organ of mutilated people below them burst or cracked. The stone statue watched them, its inspiring smile turning more and more into a horrified scowl formed by the shadows cast by the dancing fires.

Brood Lord surrounded himself with the ring of his champions and supplicants; the mercenaries from outside the Horde had formed a protective circle around their employer, knowing full well what awaited them should he die. Iron Lord sat surrounded by his children, their helmetless heads far too small for their massive armor. This surprised Dokholkhu.

In the Horde, children served as a continuation of the bloodline. Each parent knew their offspring might one day overtake them, and kept them at arm's length, elevating the weakest to foster competition and divert the attention of the strongest. To die in one's bed, surrounded by a family too frightened to end you, was considered the pinnacle of a successful life, and any life-prolonging medicine was frowned upon. You came into the world when Heaven ordained, and you went out at the end of your natural lifespan.

Iron Lord seemingly ignored these rules, boosting himself through the science. Rumor had it that he treated his wife and concubines kindly, and rarely used a whip to discipline his children, instead enlisting them in his personal guard and transplanting his mechanical knowledge upon them when they reached adulthood, elevating them above Dirtybloods and close to Purebloods. Several of his guards kept vigil even now, standing silently alongside automatic turrets.

"Dokholkhu, Jaliqai!" Their father called them, spreading his arms. His nose was red from the alcohol he had consumed. "Come, sit by me. Let us drink and sing before the next conquest!"

"Why should we continue?" The grey-haired Mungke Khan grumbled. He was an old ruler who had pledged ten thousand people to the horde when he overthrew his father as a sixteen-year-old. Today, he had over thirty thousand warriors guarding his domain and more in the army. "We have conquered enough land to feed us for millennia to come. Why should we bother with these desolate lands any longer?"

"Are you challenging my rule, Mungke?" A single voice cut through all the celebration, turning the blood of every member of the horde into ice. Only the tortured soldiers continued to groan, begging for a quick release from death.

Jaliqai wept and prostrated herself, her body shaking, and Dokholkhu followed her example, casting a glance at the statue's head. Mad Hatter. She came in person. The woman was head and shoulders taller than the tallest khan; her body, covered in exquisite furs, had a chubby appearance, but Dokholkhu knew how deceptive looks could be. Incomparable muscles and unbreakable bones were hidden under a protective layer of fat. Her legendary fury had united the Gilded Horde into a unified force that had devoured entire countries. She wore a simple leather cap that covered her head like a suction cup, and a long feather swayed in the wind. A golden half-mask covered the woman's upper face, revealing her bloodshot eyes and two trickles of blood running down her chin.

"Mungke Khan meant no disrespect, Khan of Khans." Brood Lord folded all six of his insectoid legs and bowed to the supreme rider of the skies. "Arkhi simply got to his head, that's all."

"Yes," the elderly Khan said quickly. "Pray forgive my impertinence, oh peerless ruler."

Mad Hatter jumped off the statue, landing on the wooden planks. The wood splintered, unable to endure her weight, and small torrents of blood splashed upward, forming a brief crimson halo around the woman. She ignored it and walked toward the khans, killing a soldier with every step. Servants gave her a wooden cup of buttered milk tea as an appetizer.

"Have you found any mention of him?" Mad Hatter asked Dalantai.

"No. We have tortured the shamans, but they know of no god fitting your description," the priest replied.

"A pity. What land is next?"

"The Reclamation Army." Iron Lord reported. He was the only one who hadn't removed his helmet. He used an analyzer to check his food and drinks before taking any. "Their lands are just to the northeast of us. We will be ready to leave in a few weeks after we receive supplies. I caution against advancing sooner. Our new booty is quite large; it would be disastrous if we ran out of ammunition in the middle of the conquest."

"In the meantime, we have learned something," Brood Lord eagerly interjected. "My agents have already found us moles in Houstad, one of their richest capitals. Our mole has revealed that the Reclaimers are responsible for wiping out the raiding party led by Sky Lord and my dearest son... What was his name again?"

"Chimbai," Dokholkhu said. Chimbai is dead? Sure, he was insane as a rat, but among the brood, he survived the longest, enduring sixteen winters, the father's tortures, and countless raids. How did he die? Wait, Sky Lord was with him; does that mean…

"Ah, yes, him. How sad. These Reclaimers also butchered Sky Lord Khan," Brood Lord continued. At this revelation, the Khans murmured, plotting to take his lands and worrying over whoever was strong enough to match him in combat. "So I plan to return the favor. While we are waiting, me and the others will pay a visit to this Houstad, stir up things a bit, and help our mole get into a more advantageous position to aid with the coming conquest."

"You plan to wage war against the Reclamation Army?" The new city's ruler paled, grasping his thin white beard. "I have heard that their champions are unrivaled in might and…"

"Brood Lord Khan, did this place share a border with the Reclaimers?" Mad Hatter asked deceptively calmly.

"It did, yes. Now we share that border. We also found some of their diplomats, as they called themselves, in an embassy nearby." Brood Lord flashed a smile. "They weren't much of a bother to crack."

Mad Hatter's scimitar struck. Dokholkhu never saw the woman place her hand on the hilt or draw the blade, but what he did see was the statue behind her crack. A single line split the stone in two, and the shockwave that followed soon reduced the statue to countless pieces of stone that fell on the houses behind. The arc of air unleashed by Mad Hatter did not stop there. It cleaved through the wall and raced across the land, tearing up swaths of ground before coming to a slow halt far from the city.

The Khans fell silent. Worried about drawing Mad Hatter's wrath upon themselves. She could have easily finished off a number of their own troops and citizens, but perhaps as part of the challenge, her cataclysmic swing was aimed for devastation, and even the guards at the wall froze, silently thanking the heavens for their salvation. The khatun had found her blades in an ancient bunker and coated them in gold to celebrate her regal blood and savage soul. Besides their incredible toughness, they had no secret technology or trick.

"I alone could have taken this city in less than an hour, but that would have decimated my future servants. If you have been free all this time, it makes the Reclaimers weak." She returned her scimitar to its sheath. "Sky Lord's lands are my lands. Any threatening his family is my snack. Brood Lord. They have killed a khan. Proceed as you wish, but I want the head of someone equally valuable before the fun begins."

"As you wish." Brood Lord bowed back. "I will see to it myself once my concubines amuse me enough."

"The horde shall conquer all. Including false gods," Mad Hatter told the elder, frozen with horror, and sat down, laughing and feasting beside her khans.

Dokholkhu wept, pressing his face against the wood. The khan of khans spoke true. Nothing in the entire world could escape her power. Nothing at all. He and his siblings were stuck with the father, who valued them less than bullets, and with an insatiable ruler, who would eventually see them dead in one conquest or another. They may hate, fear, loathe her, but it mattered not, for she commanded their very existence, and there was no place to run or hide. And no one could stop her.

There truly is no peace left in this world.

 

[Rookie12]

As it turned out, the cold could actually be a hindrance to a Wolfkin. Coughing and sneezing in the morning, Janine put on the gifted sweater, a new stylish coat and two pairs of pants, and wrapped herself in a warm blanket. She was still shivering and called Maxence, wondering about possible poisoning.

It was a novel experience. Her skin shivered, demanding warmth, and she held a paw over a radiator, chanting prayers to the Spirits. Janine was ever a morning bird, waking ahead of her pack to survey the defenses and taking pride in hearing gossip praising her diligence. She couldn't do it today and called Melina, assigning the traditional task to the wolf hag. The doctor arrived soon, checking her mouth and helping her replace bandages. From him, Janine learned that her condition wasn't unusual; a total of one hundred and fifteen soldiers, Normies and Wolfkin, had what was known as the common cold, a typical illness resulting from acclimatization to the new temperature.

Janine ignored pleas to stay and recuperate, gulping down insipid medical pills. She swam through the toxic wastes; she endured the poisonous stings of the insectoids; she traversed zones filled with enough radiation to kill a Normie; a damned common cold will not bring her low!

Her bravado could only last so long, as Janine soon learned. Her legs were shaking! She survived the bout against Lacerated One and lived to tell the tale; her whole body itched as the wounds, bones, and muscles healed, and yet the reason she had trouble moving around was because of a simple illness!

Okay, Janine, calm down; there is no reason to be upset. Lacerated One is stuck in the praying den after feasting on the frozen food. You are not alone in your misery. The thought of the Supreme Shaman lying in bed like a little cub, sneezing and coughing, had lifted her spirit a bit. She herself had spent yesterday sleeping off the damage to her body, with her Wolf Hags taking turns bringing her food and water. Eventually, she chased them away and waited for Kalaisa to show up for the scheduled morning lecture, but she never did. Out of curiosity, Janine called Ygrite and received the answer that Kalaisa and Anji were lost in reading and studying Houstad's map. What in the Abyss could that ball of rage be reading?

Oh, well, one less problem on my paws. Janine looked sourly at the approaching Soulless One.

"A soup?" She raised her eyebrows, noticing a plate in her friend's paws.

"There is a bit of chicken in there, the doctors said…"

"Shaman, my body is literally devouring itself to heal my wounds, and you bring me water to nourish me?" Janine interjected, her stomach rumbling. "Fine, give it here. And make sure no one ever again eats frozen food…"

"About that." Soulless One scratched behind her ear. "Our cousins introduced us yesterday to a treat known as ice cream. It is cold itself, but the soldiers seem to like it. I tried it myself!" she said quickly under Janine's heavy gaze. "It is a degeneration of pleasure, but quite nutritious and has caused no illnesses so far."

"Great," Janine grumbled, drinking the soup in one gulp like milk, "so I am the only one cold-sensitive here. Are there any ice cream cones in these gifts?"

"There are, but you are not permitted to taste it until your recovery, warlord," Soulless One said sternly.

Janine nodded, dismissing the shaman to her duties and concentrating on the training field. The workers constructed a small dais and put armchairs for the sword saints and warlords alike to use. The positive news was that this seat easily supported their weight. But its softness threatened to swallow her whole. Janine didn't mind the pleasant, enveloping warmth of this strange luxury, but as a leader, she had a duty to be brutish and presentable.

Four packs practiced on the training grounds. Wolfkins from Ygrite's and Janine's packs were busy with the rescue training. Carrying shardguns, loaded with paint-filled dud rounds, in their paws, they stormed a special set of buildings and mowed down Normies and New Breeds from the ranks of the Provincial Army and police, who graciously, even eagerly, agreed to play the roles of slavers and raiders.

The 'slaver' camp was set up in the center of the mound's rubble walls, and scouts sneaked inside the cracks, mapping routes and the locations of the mines the enemy had planted. Elzada's leaderless pack flew silent drones over the camp, pinpointing targets for elimination and patrol routes. Optical camouflage turned the drones invisible to the naked eye from afar, as their coating mimicked the sky color.

Then Anissa struck from the south and Kalaisa advanced from the north, taking only scouts in this initial assault. Silently, like splattered shadows flowing over the stones, the Wolfkins crept around the rubble, bypassing the defenses, and started the 'carnage'. Four points for the sneaky approach. One point for incorporating the unknown equipment into their strategy.

Claws touched temples, and strong paws grabbed necks briefly, simulating mortal wounds. Obeying the rules, the defenders immediately went limp, and the Wolfkins hid the 'bodies', before climbing the outer towers and eliminating the remaining opposition. Four points for efficiency. Next came the signal, and the main force charged, led by Melina. Like a storm of darkness, the two packs converged on their prey simultaneously, sweeping from floor to floor, giving the opposition no chance to breathe and rescuing the hostages. One point for a well-timed and well-executed assault.

Janine tapped on the terminal next to her, observing the packs' performance inside the building. To spice things up, the interior had been made to look like a ramshackle copy of a mall in the Inner Core Lands, in the hopes of sowing confusion in the attackers' ranks. To her delight, Kirk and Bogdan came up with the solution, offering the Wolf Hag maps downloaded from the Net. Constant drills were the reason for this laudable efficiency in handling the unexpected trials, and every member of the pack had performed to the best of their abilities so far.

So far. Shardguns were by no means precise weapons, but rather butcher's tools used to shock and overcome the opposition, and many defenders would need to take a shower afterwards. But now the packs would have to prove their mettle as the 'raiders' crammed into the command post and their leader grabbed a designated 'sex slave' by the throat to use as a human shield.

More 'slavers' tried to push hostages in front of them, and Bogdan fired, painting the shoulder of one 'raider' and the face of the man behind him yellow. In a real field, he would have maimed and killed his victims. Janine meticulously deducted two points, since there was plenty of time to fire before the 'victim' could be grabbed. She added one point for saving a life and left a note for Anissa to take her brothers through the additional shooting drills.

Kalaisa entered the room after the males and approached the enemy leader, loudly demanding a surrender. Janine narrowed her eyes, ready to give the packs more demerits for wasting their time, when the wall and ceiling above the slavers erupted, unleashing a rain of wolfkins on the enemy. Spinning and firing at point-blank range, they gutted the remaining opposition, and Kirk wrestled the weapon's barrel away from the hostage's neck. His opponent was a police sergeant, a large Orais who elbowed the Wolfkin to the ground, determined to play his part to the last. Jaws closed on his ankle, and Kirk's brother dragged the Orais off his feet, throwing him off balance long enough for Kirk's younger sister to shoot the policeman in the head.

Clever stunt. Janine grinned and added a point for quick thinking. A standard protocol in this situation was either to speed up and spear the enemy's eye with a claw, rupturing the brain, or to shoot at the legs, causing both people to fall. Implants were cheap, and hesitation meant more potential deaths.

Kirk and Kalaisa advanced, painting the opposition yellow. To the boy's credit, he had little trouble watching and working with his sister during the battle. Only his breathing was slightly elevated. Perhaps the helmet helped him tolerate his abuser. He kicked one of the 'raiders' away and accidentally discharged his weapon into the ground. So not only his breathing. Janine chastised herself for not noticing that the boy's finger was on the trigger all along. As the person overseeing the operation, it was partly her duty to contact the group and prevent this very behavior. Minus one point for her error. Minus two points for Kirk's error.

The exercise ended shortly: the 'slaves' were freed and the 'raiders' surrendered. The packs stormed outside, laughing and joking, no longer bothering with strict formation or discipline. They helped the downed Normies to their feet, throwing a few over their heads in celebration of the mission's success. Anissa had to slap a few fools around before the rest of them dropped the cubbish behavior, but she permitted friendly spars against the Orais involved in the operation, who were itching to even the score.

Around them, the army's regulars were already hard at work, constructing new buildings and various hazards for the packs to overcome. Even Janine wasn't privy to the building's inner workings; under Cristobo's command, the packs would have to master the art of subduing and rescuing in shopping malls, movie theaters, hospitals, and power grids. Once that was done, more exciting urban warfare awaited them outside the walls of the base. A thunderous roar from the opposite base showed that the other two packs had also passed their training course.

"My bad," Kirk said quietly, taking off his helmet. "I've made a mess."

"Eh, relax," Ignacy yawned, coming closer. "Bogdan was the first one to make a mistake."

"Yeah, and you could've kept your mouth shut about it!"

"And miss the chance to rub it in your face? Nah." Ignacy dodged his brother's friendly slap and retreated to Elzada, who was only supervising today's training but could not take part because of her injury.

"Asshole!" Bogdan laughed and put a paw on Kirk's shoulder. "Stop fretting about it. We are here to learn, and so we learn, even from mistakes. A few toilets to clean aren't that big a price to pay for survival on a battlefield. Besides, you are not even close to being the biggest screw-up around here; trust me, Kirk." Bogdan gave Kalaisa a sideways glance and retreated to Anissa's side. The wolf hag snapped her fingers, calling Ignacy to her, and bowed her head, whispering something.

Janine's finger lingered over a button when she noticed Kalaisa approaching her brother. Hissing angrily, Janine prepared to call Ashbringer, who oversaw camp discipline today. It pained the warlord to admit it, but she was too weak to beat the youngster into the ground right now.

"We've been over it, Kirk! Want to fire, finger on the trigger, don't want to shoot, off the trigger," Kalaisa told her brother, hesitating at the last moment when she saw him trembling. "Tch, come on, you're way better than this. Fine, scout, explain to the buffoon how it's done again," she threw to her sister and approached the greenhorns of her pack, correcting their mistakes. Without hitting anyone.

Who bit her? Janine tilted her head, removing her finger from the call button. Should I call security and report a potential spy in our ranks?

"Hey!" Kalaisa turned to look at Anissa, who had climbed atop the ruined wall. "Are you up to the challenge? Want to have a fun trial?"

"That depends." The corner of Kalaisa's lips twitched. "What can a weakling like you do to give me even the slightest challenge?"

Ah, still the same bitch. Janine eased a little.

"Wait, sorry, let me rephrase that." Kalaisa raised a finger. "Sure, A… Wolf Hag Anissa, I would like to have some fun. What are the rules?"

What in the name of the lightless Abyss' bowels is going on!? Janine tensed. Should she call the medics? Ygrite? Dammit, what happened yesterday to this woman?

"The rules are simple. You." Anissa pointed at Kalaisa with two fingers. "Come at me and try to knock me off the wall while Bogdan and the others are taking shots at you. Loser pays for tonight's drinks…"

Kalaisa bellowed her fiercest roar, silencing Anissa's words. Lowering herself on all fours, the wolf hag had not exactly charged but fired herself from place, soaring over her brother and leaving her helmet behind, seeking to close in on the smaller wolf hag in three leaps. Her power armor was offline, becoming a dead weight like Anissa's.

And this didn't hinder the woman one bit. Janine nodded in respect as she watched the bloodthirsty Kalaisa easily spot Bogdan emerging from a ruined stone. Using only her fingertips, the wolf hag sidestepped to the right, deliberately letting the balls of paint fly close to her to show off. Two more Wolfkins jumped out of hiding and fired at Kalaisa, driving her further to the right to avoid the shots.

She was driven straight into the wall of debris. Janine continued to watch through the cameras, resting her head on a paw. Anissa had put her head into this plan. A mine filled with paint was hidden among the stones, a suitable trap for a wild beast. Wolf hags would sometimes take their soldiers into the wilderness, playing the role of mindless beasts for their soldiers to overcome with modern methods. Such games were used to build confidence and bonds.

A clever ploy, but one that ultimately did not matter in the slightest here. Anissa hadn't stated in the rules that Kalaisa had to act like a rabid animal here. Despite her roar and rapid movements on the four limbs, the wolf hag had merely pretended to be lost in the heat of battle.

Her eyes tracked everything in her path, spotting a mine just in time. Normally, Wolfkins would run on all fours, using all their paws and feet to slam into the stone. Kalaisa had followed in the footsteps of the late Terrific, crossing the field on her fingers. Aside from the obviously perfect training to turn her fingers into a truly terrifying weapon even without claws, this gave Kalaisa an excellent range of motion. Without a hint of hesitation or a moment of stalling, the wolf hag's fingers have grabbed a stuck piece of stone, stopping a millimeter away from entering the mine's activation zone.

And then she hurled herself at Anissa without destroying the stone or activating the mine. Her body spun in the air, dodging shots with almost disgusting ease, her paws clenched into fists as Anissa hastily put on her helmet and a drone buzzed in the air behind her back.

"The booze is mine!" Kalaisa laughed.

A burst of sound from the drone silenced her laughter. The intense frequency moved pebbles, and even through the microphones, Janine grimaced at the high-pitched sound that drummed in her ears. Kalaisa squirmed and pressed her paws to her ears; her armor rang, and Anissa took advantage of the weakness. She stepped up to the flying wolf hag, grabbed her by the throat, and threw her off the rubble wall. The wolf hag splattered on the stone, still convulsing from the sound, and was mercilessly 'gunned down' by the soldiers, raising a paw in surrender after a fifteen-shot round landed between her eyes. She lay still for a while, then laughed and joined in the soldiers' celebration.

"I thought shamans were not supposed to use weapons!" Kalaisa complained to Anissa, trying in vain to wipe the paint off her snout. "What in the Spirits' names was that?"

"Technically, I didn't use any weapons; it was all Ignacy," Anissa beamed and gave Kalaisa a paw. Kalaisa looked at the outstretched limb, stunned. Slowly, she took the paw and Anissa lifted her, massaging the younger woman's ears. "And shamans are allowed a bit of trickery when needed. Packs hunt as one, always using the strengths of each other. Breathe slowly, yes, like that. In and out. I have experienced it tonight. The effect will wear off soon."

"This is the sound beam emitter!" Ignacy explained, coming closer with the drone drifting behind him. "You know how disruption fields work, right? It vibrates sound to such a level that it breaks molecular boundaries, cutting through everything in its path. Well, this beauty operates," Ignacy took off his helmet and lovingly patted the drone, "by emitting a thin, narrowly focused stream of sound. It is too weak to kill a New Breed, but when it enters your eardrums, it causes a mild shock to your sensory system, resulting in temporary disorientation. It is still very much in the testing phase, but once perfected, perhaps one day it can be mounted on a mech suit to serve as a mobile disruption cannon…"

"Magic. Got it." Kalaisa replied sourly.

"It isn't magic, it is…"

"Witchcraft. Black sorcery. You deserve to be burned at a stake," Kalaisa accused him. "But since we don't do it, I'm going to bathe you in cold water to drive out the evil spirit that possesses you."

"I am not the one needing a shower." Ignacy smirked.

Kalaisa only shook her shoulders, disappearing from sight in a blur. Janine stood up, worried that the wolf hag might strike her son, when Kalaisa kicked the rubble near the wall. The mine went off, splashing yellow paint on everyone nearby. Anissa looked like she was going to let her claws do the talking, then she wrapped her arms around herself and fell back, laughing.

"Oopsie-daisy, it seems like you do now." Kalaisa grabbed Ignacy with one paw and tucked him under her shoulder. "Off to the shower you go, and I assure you, it's going to be freezing." She looked down, distracted by a kick to her hip. Elzada stood beside her, panting, and Kalaisa had to grab her shoulder to help the newly promoted wolf hag stand. "Elzada, I disrespect you and all, but you can barely walk! No need to make it easier for me, 'kay? I was just fooling around. We already have one stupid piss-head here." She tossed Ignacy into Bogdan, stumbling them both. "No need for you to turn into one. Come on, let's get you to the medics. Don't growl and I'll let you bite me, deal?"

A tingle of fear announced Alpha's approach. The dais shook when Alpha slammed a steel chair next to Janine and seated herself. She wore a red coat provided by the city, and her red hair rose above her head like a bonfire. She had no eyebrows or fur—just the pure whiteness of her enormous body. Not a single vein was visible beneath the skin. Her gigantic claws could operate no machinery, so the woman motioned for a scout from her pack to approach and show her a terminal.

"The packs performed adequately," Janine said, seeing the overall score of Onyxia's and Alpha's packs. Alpha mercilessly subtracted twenty points from their score because they failed to silently approach their target.

"Adequate," Alpha snapped angrily. "For Normies, perhaps. Woe to us that we don't have such numbers to allow our soldiers to die in vain. We need better infiltrators."

"And more firing drills." Janine showed her own terminal, pointing out the mistakes.

"Free hugs!" Kalaisa's roar on the field distracted them as the woman ran towards Anji. "Hey, didn't ya promise me one not too long ago?"

"I retract my offer for the time being," Anji chuckled, stepping back to avoid the painted paws.

"Too late! It's hugging time! Come 'ere!" Kalaisa cheered and jumped at Anji. The white-haired woman barely dodged the hug and backed away, holding back a giggle and trying desperately to stay clean.

"Cubs," Janine sighed. "We are dealing with cubs here."

"They merely take the lead after their leaders," Alpha replied dryly. She turned her head, and cold sweat broke out beneath Janine's fur.

The memories of her mother abandoning her came back; she remembered the cold look in her mother's eyes years later, when Janine had found her. No daughter of mine can be such a worthless freak. This was the response to the question. The fear of seeing an insectoid chewing on her leg, the fear of losing her cubs, the pure horror of seeing her firstborn die... It all came back, threatening to still her heart. She tried to breathe and felt as if an iron hand gripped her windpipe, denying her any access to oxygen.

"What is the deal between you and Lacerated One?" Alpha growled, wielding fear like a needle and jabbing it straight into Janine's brain, intensifying the horrible waves.

"I plan to make a proposal at the Gathering," Janine gasped, and the fear vanished as a reward for her cooperation. "The shamans test a family pack and send all the members to a pack based on an average score. I want the shamans to give us that privilege so we can choose people for our packs based on merit, even if it means breaking up an individual family between villages."

"You want them to give up the power."

"It will be their decision to make."

"Our decision. A stupid, pointless change, Janine." Alpha grabbed her by the neck and closed their heads. "Ponder about potential flaws. Most of the time, the warlords are in the field. Do you expect us to leave and go to each village to select a single soldier to join us? What kind of lunacy is this?"

"You…" Janine stopped, thinking about her sister's words. "You are right. It won't work. But we can't continue the…"

"I agree." Alpha removed her paw, leaning back in the chair. "The idea behind the change is sound. You just haven't thought it through. Let all—shamans, wolf hags, and us—select troops based on individual merit rather than family ties. If a warlord is present, she chooses. If she can't attend, she can send a wolf hag in her place. Or she can let the shamans choose, or they can choose if a warlord can't be reached. There, five seconds, already a better plan." Alpha glanced at Janine. "When you bring change to a society, you must always consider the negatives. Lives are at stake, sister. Were you planning to ask for my support?"

"No," Janine replied honestly. "I can't endure a round against you."

"Coward. Moron," Alpha said. "Think, Janine! Ravager's command binds us while we are in the city. What better time to ask, if not now? Ask everyone, be open to ideas, and share your fears with your sisters already! Stop acting behind our backs like a shaman. Even if we don't agree, we can listen, and we're here for you."

"Is that why you opened Ashbringer's belly fifty years ago?" Janine asked plainly, ignoring the rage burning in her named sister's eyes. "Alpha, you are wise. But you respond to every suggestion from your sister with the utmost cruelty, pushing us away. How can you be there for us if we can't hope to approach you without losing body parts?"

"Simply, just get stronger and rein me in." Alpha crossed her arms and snorted. "Fair. There is a touch of fighter in you, Janine. But then Ashbringer brought the punishment upon herself. Her offer would not be accepted, and she tried to force my paw. I act in ancient ways, sister, but my ear is opened to every mouth."

"Then answer me this. Am I a mutant?" Janine asked, holding her breath.

"If you are a mutant, then what am I, sister?" Alpha opened her jaws to reveal a double row of fangs. "You are a Wolfkin, Janine; the blood of a Ravager runs through your veins. So what if you are deformed? Not every cub is worthy of her parent, and not every parent deserves a litter. Forget and move on."

"I will," Janine said earnestly and sneezed.

Never again will she be involved in the tribe's politics. Alpha was right; Janine's first proposal was abysmal and pure stupidity. She must be better and know her place.

 

[Rookie12]

Day 2: Evening.

"It's already 19:31," Zlata checked the time on her terminal. "We're going to be late."

"Relax, they show commercials for the future movies for the first fifteen minutes." Schalk waved his hand, stepping from the bus, and grabbed Keon and a young soldier by their collars. "Wait a minute, lovebirds. I know you heard it a thousand times, but stay on the main roads, avoid trouble…"

"We will," Keon promised.

"Don't worry, I'll keep him safe," the woman slipped her hand under the blushing Keon's arm.

Zlata ignored the confusing mating dance of the Normies and stormed through the crowd to the building, accompanied by Arruda. Her whole body itched; the medicine of the Core Lands had done wonders for the skin cancer that had plagued her since she had been shot by a green disintegration ray. She'd been half content with perishing as her organs began to give in; one after another, the throat hurt and it was difficult to swallow food.

Then her friends dominated her and forced the disgraced wolf hag to receive medical help. It was humiliating; the Wolfkins weren't supposed to get sick, but it saved her life, even if she became dependent on pills and procedures to keep going.

Dressed in heavy military coats, sweaters, and thick pants, the wolf hag ignored the tasty smells emanating from the stalls and headed for the movie theater. It was built according to the structures of the Old Times. Stone pillars supported the triangular roof, stairs of fake marble led to the entrance, and in place of modern light, it had bright projectors illuminating ferocious monsters on the walls.

Houstad boasted a wide array of cinemas, but Arruda and Zlata had been eyeing this particular place since they heard about their "vacation". This theater didn't show recently made movies or those from the last days of the Old World; no, its selection of films predated even the first space flight, and movies about cowboys, the Middle Ages, and black-and-white pictures awaited guests interested in the old times of the Old World.

"Two…" Zlata stumbled and glanced at Arruda for help as they stopped before a booth. The woman inside, a young lass in a full-body black-furred costume, squealed and pulled the animal mask from her head.

"Tickets. It's what you call a permit, right?" Arruda said, tilting her head at the Normie's strange behavior.

Zlata sensed panic and… shame reeking from the young woman. She could somehow understand the panic; the news kept talking about the brutal fight between Janine and Lacerated One. Since the army had refused to comment, the experts said that the Wolf Tribe had consecrated the base in this way.

Not the worst way to put it. Zlata thought, curious about the reason for the shame.

"S-sure!" the cashier quickly fired the words and pushed the tokens back. "N-no need! The government is paying for you…"

"Cool," Zlata grinned. Those tasty sausages in bread will be hers on the way back. "So, we just go in?"

"Which seats do we take? Never visited a cinema before," Arruda explained.

"The staff will show you to your seats." The woman pressed her palms together. "But are you sure you want to go? The 'Blood-Curdling Howl Five' can be... you know... insensitive, offensive, that sort of thing."

"You're joking, right?" Zlata smiled. "We waited years for a chance to see a proper horror."

The two officers were led into a wide hall. Its surface sloped down from the entrance so that every customer could see the wide white screen in its entirety. The sounds of teeth munching popcorn, children laughing, and parents hushing greeted the Wolfkins as they were seated in wide chairs more suited to Orais than to them. Aside from a few curious looks, no one had disturbed them, and they relaxed, listening to advertisements for local restaurants as the movie was about to start.

****

"Is this a horror or a comedy?" Zlata gritted her fangs, checked the brochure, and tried to keep her voice low. "No, don't growl; you imbecile; bite and chew already, you evolutionary mistake."

On the screen, a huge gray werewolf crept closer to a small window of the attic where the survivors of the party massacre had gathered, hoping to wait until the sunset. Zlata grabbed her own throat, choking on her own rage, as the idiot creature roared, removing every ounce of advantage gained through stealth.

It smashed through the window, yellow eyes burning, moonlight reflecting off the glass stuck in the matted fur, and dropped Kirk, the muscle-head of the group. Instead of ripping his face off, it roared into his face and then closed its jaws around the teen's neck, shaking his body in the air as the others screamed, tried to help, or ran. Then it tossed Kirk, still alive, at a girl, sending them both through the thin wall of the attic.

And roared. Zlata grabbed her hair.

"Easy," Arruda's steely fingers pressed on Zlata's wrists, loosening her grip. "It's a male; what did you expect? Are you rooting for a bad guy?"

"I can't help it; he's so pathetic and retarded. Again. Why are you howling, you freak?" Zlata cursed.

"Everyone is retarded in this movie," Arruda stated, sipping off a soda drink. "Oh, we found bloody bones in the creepy guy's house. Let's call him out loud instead of... running away…" she growled, the fur on her back rising as the group of survivors tried to get into a car outside the house. "Flee, dumbasses! There was an engineless car before; it's self-evident…" A panicked woman hurriedly searched for the keys on the screen and tried to start the car when the beast landed on top of it, crumpling the roof. "… You deserve to die." Arruda rubbed her nose.

"Even cubs would be more mature." Zlata leaned back in her chair. "Those actors in the movie. They're dead, right?"

"Probably." Arruda shrugged. "It's been what, over a millennium? Why do you ask?"

"It's just dawned on me," Zlata laughed, scratching her chin. "We were filmed entering the city yesterday. Imagine someone pulling up that old video a thousand years from now and seeing us, living, breathing, while we are long decomposed."

"Morbid," Arruda said. "It doesn't bother me. We'll die doing our duty and living to the fullest. How many can claim the same?"

Zlata shut her mouth, surprised at the statement. Indeed, how many people are blessed with gifts and second chances like hers? She was honored to be born in an era where she could pay the blood price to protect others and bask in the radiance of a living god fighting by her side. Is she afraid of death? No, it couldn't be so; she had brazenly faced and overcame mortal perils enough times to be sure of her dedication.

Eternity dreaded her, Zlata realized. Surely none of the actors on the screen could have imagined that one day their homelands would be reduced to ashes, that the oceans and lakes where they relaxed would dry up, and that life itself would be in danger of withering away. They, too, were living good lives, bringing emotions to their viewers, and there came a moment when everything anyone had ever done was in danger. Humanity nearly died. Who was to say that somewhere in the impossible, distant future, the Reclamation Army would not be toppled, eroded, or burned? She imagined the walls of the movie theater crumbling, its halls empty of human speech for decades, debris falling from the ceiling…

"Are you werewolves?" A girl's voice brought Zlata back to the present.

Several kids left their seats and came to the Wolfkin as the group on the screen had reached the police station. The girl who asked the question was accompanied by her father and looked completely normal, aside from having a set of fat, oily, and pale tendrils for legs.

"Don't lump us in with that junk, little one," Arruda said.

"We are Wolfkins." Zlata smiled. "We are like Ice Fangs…"

"Only better," Arruda interjected.

"And can't shapeshift," Zlata finished her words.

"I've never seen your kind in the city," a boy said.

"That's because we live outside the wall," Zlata answered, and a flood of questions about the people living outside the Core Lands poured at her. She grinned, waved the personnel away, and began explaining the situation, customs, traditions, settlements, and cultures, as she understood them, to the curious little ones, forgetting all about her fear.

She wasn't a god, so why worry about the future? It was best to concentrate on living here and now, serving the state honestly and protecting the weak. Soon Arruda joined her, and their explanation continued long after the movie ended.

****

Day 2: Deep Night.

Soulless One put paws behind her head, examining the white disk hiding in the clouds above. Lacerated One sent her and several other shamans to learn more about Houstad, and the shaman spent her time familiarizing herself with an extensive park in the city's south. There were many trees here she had never even seen before, not even on the Net. From firs that decorated the streets during New Year's celebrations to sturdy oaks, their branches decorated with wooden gazebos. Soulless One snuck into one to meditate in peace.

It wasn't easy this time, no matter how hard she tried. Worries clouded her thoughts, selfish worries that focused strictly on herself rather than the betterment of the tribe. The augments buried in her body no longer ticked or clanked; they worked so quietly that she sometimes forgot their existence altogether. Pus no longer covered her eyebrows in the morning; the coughing and cramping had left her; her limbs were elastic; food brought her joy; and, worst of all, she was grateful to Janine.

The shaman clenched her paws. The sanctity of the body was paramount to the Wolfkin, ever since forced copulation had been outlawed as abhorrent and barbaric. No female had the right to order a male or female to change the color of their hair, let alone ravage their souls by breaking their connection to the divine through the insertion of foreign metal. This law was being circumvented all the time, but the knowledge of it didn't help Soulless One.

Who knows how long she will live now? Days, years, decades, centuries, or worse? A taste of technology was enticing; already Soulless One had the thought of asking Till Ingo and Banshee to improve her further, to give her the ability to feel in the numbed parts of her body, to make her stronger and faster, and… it was Janine's doing. She saved the shaman's life; she helped Soulless One to come into this world, but this ultimate breach of trust and the nagging temptation bothered the shaman, denying her the clarity of her earlier vision, where she knew for certain the imminent end of her misfortune.

"Why did you hit him?" Soulless One's ear perked at hearing little ones going below. It was unusual; the park's paths were brightly lit, but very few families still walked in this late hour.

"That asshole yelled at me after I accidentally crashed into him on my bicycle. He even kicked it…"

"You crashed into him?" the first voice asked, and there was a sound of struggle. "Come, let's apologize."

"I am not going to do this cringe! He'll come to his senses tomorrow!" The second voice panicked.

"And what if not? Would you like to have one less friend, T?" the first voice inquired.

"Ughm… No," the second voice admitted. "But it's kind of dark already. Can I apologize tomorrow, Jay?"

Thank you. Soulless One thanked the Spirits for guidance. They never intervened directly, but there were signs, and this here was exactly it. Friendship. Janine wanted to save her in her own awkward way, not just because of what the shaman represented to the pack, but because of who Soulless One was to Janine. In a way, it was a weakness; the warlords were meant beyond such feelings, but the shaman smiled and jumped down, frightening a pale, fat boy on a bicycle and his taller friend, whose face was covered with freckles.

"You have allies in the night too, little ones." Soulless One bowed low, showing that she meant no threat. "If you allow me, I will accompany you to ease your souls and then back to your parents."

"I am not ready!" T, the fatter boy, panicked suddenly, and Jay took him by the shoulder.

"We're orphans, miss," Jay said. "It's not time for us to go to our parents yet," he finished with a sad smile.

"Then I'll simply be your guardian for tonight," Soulless One offered and extended her paws. After some hesitation, they took her by the paw and led her to the playground, telling her about their fight and firing questions about whether it was true that the Wolfkins preferred to eat human flesh.

Soulless One enlightened them to the best of her abilities and waited patiently for T to apologize for his actions toward another boy. There was no chance for life in her womb. But thanks to Janine, there was still strength within her to protect and safeguard the little ones of the world, and to help her kin reach greater heights. And in finding this purpose, Soulless One found contentment and her measure of peace.

The fight was soon forgotten, and the group of little ones surrounded her, loudly urging her to flash her claws and cut something to show how amazingly sharp they were.

****

Day 3: Morning.

"I was expecting more people," Zero said, glancing out of the cab at the front gate of Ironwill Mansion. "I don't even see any Wintersongs, Sunblades, Summersprings, or even Voidrunners here."

Zero smelled of soft violet perfume and put on silver bracelets and necklaces gifted to her by the Twins themselves for this happy occasion. She wore the sleeveless black gown, cut at one side to reveal her elegant leg and the dark purple of the inner side of the gown. There was still a helmet on her head, but she adjusted it to show her snout, hiding her ears and eyes from the curious people.

"It's politics," Ashbringer replied, checking the gifts. "Our cousins are weird like that. It isn't proper for the upper households to grace a lower one without receiving a proper bribe, and the Ironwills are heavily invested in their expansion. Technically, even Bertruda shouldn't be here, since the Mountaintop household is much larger than the Ironwill, and rumor has it that Tancred isn't really a sword saint."

"The rumors lie; I can attest to that, sister," Zero said.

"Don't ask, don't care," Ashbringer snorted. "Shameful. The girl is shaking, entering another house, and the old fucks play rituals, flaunting their ranks and showing the Ironwills their place."

"Is that so…" Zero mused.

Ashbringer got drafted by her sister for this wedding invitation. Out of respect for the anxious young one who will marry Tancred, Ashbringer dressed for the occasion, donning the stern business suit she had purchased at the Ironwill boutique. A stern blue tie held up the collar of her auburn shirt, golden pins held up the sleeves to free her paws, and on her legs were comfortable boots. The annoying salesman tried to force her to put on the skirt, but she told him to piss off and took the pants, not seeing what the big deal was. On her head was a simple helmet that hid her hideousness from the eyes.

Then came the trickier part. Every guest attending a sword saint wedding was expected to bring a gift. This, in and of itself, wasn't that much different from the Wolf Tribe, where the warlords did the same. But the Ice Fangs were an exquisite group, and a simple beer like Zero wanted at first just wouldn't do. No, they needed a proper gift, and Ashbringer dragged Zero by the ear into a jewelry workshop belonging to Mountaintop after receiving tokens from Lacerated One. The materials for the gifts were found in the trophy rack of the Inevitable. Upon learning of their purpose, the workshop's owner refused to accept payment and explained that First Sunblade would cover the expenses.

It was satisfactory, and Ashbringer entered the smeltery at night and left in the morning, having fused the golden ore, a bar of platinum, several chunks of silver, and diamonds into two amulets. Zero's sharpest claws then woven the tapestry onto the metal. Then a thin layer of diamond was placed over the open side of the amulets, forever sealing the drops of blood taken from each warlord inside, and the overlapping metals forming the chains created pleasant-to-the-eye imagery of dancing wolves woven into each link of the chain. Ashbringer truly enjoyed the warmth of the forge and thanked the overjoyed owner for his kindness.

If the Ice Fangs won't support their family, the Wolf Tribe will. Sure, not every wolf was the same size, and the amulets were rough around the edges, but the named sisters were proud of the results.

They stepped out of the taxi and were greeted by the worried youths of Ironwill, who escorted the two warlords to the mansion. Guests from the city were there, chatting in the gardens and being entertained by performers. Ashbringer hesitated, drawn by the pageantry of the Fireeaters' crew. They leapt through the rings of fire to the accompaniment of music, stepped into the burning cages, only to be launched from their tops and devouring burning stakes. To an outsider's eye, they were the masters of the flames, bending them to their will, but the warlord noted how respectable and cautious this family of five was. They never left their members without support; every trick and jump was the product of tireless practice, and she applauded their skill.

Rare dishes, tables of hurrying servants, displays of the latest Ironwills products filled the modest gardens. The household tried its best to portray opulence, but it showed primarily prosperity, and the most interesting people in today's marriage were the investors. The mayor sent his secretary to represent him; there were no civilian representatives from the larger households present; the guests took their time before bowing to the masters of the house, and Ashbringer got pissed even further when she finally met the newlyweds.

Lord Tancred held himself with dignity, dressed in a black suit, and greeted each guest who stepped under the defense of his house. There was a glint of uncertainty in the eyes of his lady—a young and somewhat fragile Ice Fang in a sky-blue gown, her hair adorned with jewels.

"Welcome!" the lady said, her clear voice trembling as the warlords closed and Ashbringer knelt to reassure her. No wonder she's worried; in a pack, her family would be at her side, teasing, cheering, and infuriating her to the point where anger would drown out worry. If any of her wretches and buffoons would've needed her at their wedding, but didn't call her thinking for fear of being too low status, she would first explain to them that this is not so, and then she would break their skulls for such idiocy. "Please do not kneel, honored guests. Everyone is equal under the roof of our house today. Guests of your stature bless us with your presence alone."

"Hard it is not to kneel before the sight of such splendor," Ashbringer recycled the words she had once heard at First's wedding. "May the light of your union shine upon Houstad for many years to come. I wish you many healthy offspring and offer these humble gifts to show our sincerity." She handed the amulet to the woman.

"Yeah, me too." Zero smiled, giving her gift to Tancred.

Ashbringer straightened up, not listening to the lady's gasp. She turned around and spread her arms wide.

"Is it fitting that our civilized friends should lag behind mere barbarians? We can see the greatest pearl from afar. What is your excuse, honorable sirs and ladies?" Ashbringer addressed the crowd.

"Hear, hear!" Bertruda replied and hurried to the mansion's owners, ignoring the intention of being fashionably late. She bowed and presented her gifts, warmly wishing them many years of happiness, and the guests followed her example, dropping their ceremonial indifference and easing the worries of the Ironwills.

The procession entered the mansion, where the sages of the Ironwill household proudly stood ready to complete the ceremony. Ashbringer and Zero found themselves placed in the front row, but where her named sister paid close attention to the sages' words, Ashbringer's focus lay elsewhere.

Music! Classical music echoed from the tower of glasses. The soothing song of the harp joined the flow of champagne, the piano sounds reflected off the sages' armor, and Ashbringer found herself lost, enjoying her passion. She adored the classical music of any kind, but an orchestra was her favorite. It reminded her of home—about the days she returned after the pits straight into Mom's and Dad's embraces—of the years when her brothers and sisters were still alive and there was always a shoulder to lean on.

Now she was that shoulder. But even an adult can get weary over ages.

She was so lost that she didn't even notice Zero standing up during the last part of the ceremony and approaching the Tancred and his lady. At her request, the sages quickly placed a black booth to hide Zero, Tancred, his wife, and Bertruda from the prying eyes of the curious assembly.

That idiot… Ashbringer shook her head when a newborn sun suddenly flashed from behind the booth, coming from Zero's eyes. The people didn't see her, but they witnessed Bertruda fall to her knees, a trembling paw pressed to her chest, and murmurs filled the room as Zero spoke casually. She lacked her sister's grace and eloquence, but her words came from the heart. The strongest warlord wasn't just offering the newlyweds her best wishes; she was, in a sense, a conduit for the Blessed Mother's will. Try beating that, Sunblades. Ashbringer grinned and elbowed a nearby Ice Fang.

"The place is getting quiet. Care for a dance?"

"Of course, Sir Ashbringer," the young man said. "Which ladies shall we ask to be our partners?"

"I'm a woman, you degenerate!"

 

[Rookie12]

Day 6: Evening

Blue. It splashed, wetting his toes, and the sunlight reflected in the droplets left on the white-tiled floor. The water was so clean that Marco could easily see the bottom and the occasional diver swimming nimbly from one corner of the pool to the other.

"So… this is swimming," he said, fighting back against a fear he never knew existed. Every ounce of common sense screamed in the corners of his mind: Don't drown!

"Yep," Cordelia confirmed, hiding her hair under a leather cap. She was wearing a tight-fitting blue swimsuit. "You'll like it."

Marco doubted it. A sort of ancestral dread washed over him, pounding in his temple, telling him to run, else something utterly irreversible might've happened to him. He wasn't sure what was going on; Marco certainly didn't consider himself a coward, as he had teased every one of his siblings, including Yennifer, and lived to tell the tale.

Besides, today was a great day! Cordelia took him… Well, more like he was forcibly caught in the natural disaster of a sandstorm that the young girl had turned herself into, but that was beside the point. Joined by the other young Ice Fangs, the group had visited several shops and bought Marco's stylish black jacket with silver zippers and similar pants that were incredibly comfortable and warm. The boy pleaded and tried his best to convince Cordi that he didn't have the tokens to pay for them, but the girl was merciless.

They spent thirty minutes picking out a hat for him, during which time Marco got to know the other cubs. He fully expected to be hated for being the reason they were stuck in the mall for so long, but a large Sunblade told him not to worry. The cubs refused to believe that Marco did not know how to use a sword, especially after he won an arm-wrestling contest against a Voidrunner, and Cordelia proudly led them to a fencing club, where Marco accidentally broke the Sunblade's training sword in two after a hard swing, surprising both the youngster and the instructor.

After that moderate fun, they visited a park, and for a while he had the time of his life, competing with his new friends in climbing rope ladders and scaling rocks. It didn't last; the happy moments never lasted long for Marco, and after fifteen minutes, his knees began pulsating. Anissa, who accompanied him on this trip, noticed it and led her brother away, hiding the true reason for his absence from everyone but Cordelia. The medical gel helped; his knees ached no longer, but Marco was bitter about not being able to join in the fun for long.

Cordelia noticed, and the group next visited a place called 'Steak House', where the smell of fat, heavenly tender meat had lifted his spirits. He even enjoyed the genuinely shocked looks of the cubs as he and Cordi ravenously competed to devour the largest pile of steaks, and when his new friends whispered and bet on which of the two cubs would burst first, it was music to his ears. He was normal! And he was normal when they visited the comic bookstore, and his eyes flashed at the sight of all those awesome superheroes pummeling down the vicious villains, and the cubs left the store, carrying away months of reading material. Marco planned to read all tonight long.

So, maybe this isn't that bad, either? Marco pondered, sniffing the water. It had a soft chemical scent to it that made his fur rose, but the other non-Wolfkin cubs swam here confidently, and there were people sitting on the tall chairs, watching the pool and ready to rescue someone at a moment's notice. The pool itself was large, easily reaching five hundred meters in length. Several sections were set aside for the adults to practice in, while the youngest cubs and their parents splashed around near the walls.

"Here goes nothing," Marco mumbled and made a great step for himself into the blue waters.

"Wait for us!" Cordelia yelled, but the waters had already closed over him.

He was submerged. The sounds faded. Marco opened his eyes hesitantly, unsure what to do as his weight carried him to the bottom. He wasn't afraid at first. The situation was more funny than anything else; his arms and legs moved slowly, the bubbles flying out of his mouth. Then he swallowed, sensed water in his ears, in his nose, around his face, and understood that he couldn't breathe and that he had no idea how to get oxygen! He wanted to breathe, but there was no air, and Marco flapped his arms in panic, trying to calm himself to climb out, when a paw grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

Anissa lifted her worried brother out of the water, ahead of Cordelia, who jumped into the pool, and the approaching lifeguard. Positioned on her stomach, her head resting on her fist, she asked: "Feeling fine? Ready to try again?"

"I…" Marco closed his eyes, calming his heart. "Yeah… Thank you for the rescue, sis."

"I will always be by your side to help you, brother." Her artificial eye swirled in tune with her smile. "Off you go."

"Wait!" He screamed, but Nissi already let him go.

He expected to disappear under the waters again, but this time, Cordi and another cub of the Sunblade household were there to help him stay above the water.

"Is he clowning us?" a chubby Voidrunner girl asked, swimming nearby on her back. After a few glances, she stopped and raised her paws. "I mean, you saw how he climbed! Marco is strong and fast."

"Not a swimmer, though." Marco smiled nervously, lifting his head high. "Don't know how."

"Don't panic, everything is okay," Cordi advised him and left him in the Sunblade care. She swam in front of Marco. "Observe and repeat my movements, Marco, and don't worry a bit…"

The boy obeyed Cordelia, mimicking her arm movements, and soon gasped when he realized the Sunblade wasn't holding him anymore. The white-furred boy grinned broadly and gave Marco a thumbs up, while the boy did his best to remember his lessons and stay above water. His new friends never let him down; another boy replaced Cordelia, patiently explaining and showing how to swim on the back, and Marco lost track of time, finding himself playing and even splashing water at his new friends.

And the best of all came later. His legs. His knees didn't hurt, not a single cramp ran up his muscles, his limbs obeyed him, and he spread his arms and legs and laughed at the ceiling:

"It's so awesome! Anissa, I am swimming!"

"You sure are," his sister replied, sipping tea at a safe distance from the water. She frowned as the Orais instructor looked down at her. "What?"

"You're wearing a swimming suit." The New Breed pointed at her bright crimson suit.

"Yeah, and your point?" Anissa tensed.

"In here you either swim or you're a creep who watches young children." The Orais crossed his arms and tapped his short leg.

"Guess I am a creep then, because I am overseeing these cubs." Anissa shrugged. The man's eyes never wavered, and a low growl escaped the wolf hag's lips. "You are pushing your luck, male. Fine," she sighed and slammed a glass down on the table, "a single dive won't hurt."

"Join us, Anissa!" Marco waved his paw. "The water is warm, promise!"

"If that's what you wish," Anissa chuckled and eyed the instructor. "Well, time for a bomb. A dive-bomb."

Anissa bounced off the tiled floor, almost touching the high ceiling, and spun around in the air, her arms and legs wrapped around her. She came down like a cannonball, sending wide ripples around the pool and showering the laughing and clapping cubs with water. Appearing awkwardly above the water, flailing her arms and legs to stay afloat, she joined in their fun, beaming when they asked if the sword saints could jump as high.

****

Day 8: Midday

"Told you it wasn't the right direction," Elzada sang after Melina faced a dead end at the end of the alley.

"Shut it; you are not a scout anymore. A wolf hag is never wrong; she merely unearths interesting surprises on the way to her destination." Melina ran a paw over the rough surface and pulled out the map. "I could've sworn it was here…" She walked back to the group, shouldering the laughing Elzada aside.

Their small group of Wolfkins recovering from their wounds was on their way to an unusual destination today. Elzada was the one to find it by accident after browsing Ignacy's terminal when her honey passed out in her den after a long day of tinkering with drones. She pulled a blanket over him and decided to see what was on the net and what curious things Houstad had to offer.

A healing massage. The word was unfamiliar to her, and she asked Maxence about it, who explained to Elzada that there were indeed procedures to restore the elasticity of a limb after trauma, and that specialists helped Normies recover in military hospitals. However, he had no knowledge of anyone providing the same services to the New Breeds, who healed at their own speed.

Her interest was piqued. Elzada thanked the helpful doctor for giving her medical materials to read and stormed off to summon her crew. A post-traumatic healing massage? She just had to learn what it was, and she, Melina, Sarkeesian, and Impatient One ventured into the city.

They quickly got lost in its many alleys, to the scowling and cursing of the shaman, who spat bile at the wolf hags for not learning the environment already.

"I familiarized myself with the local bars rather well." Sarkeesian tugged the collar of her coat, frightening the passing cubs with her drill smile.

"And what good will that do you if you have to set up a defensive perimeter?" Impatient One elbowed Sarkeesian in the jaw, closing her mouth, and nodded to the cubs. "Competence. Instead of scaring the little ones, act your age and stay alert. Any ideas on how to find this palace of promiscuity?"

"If you'll give me another chance…" Melina started.

"Let's ask the police," Elzada offered, too horrified about the idea of spending a good portion of an hour walking after the hopelessly lost wolf hags. The two navigated the concrete jungle well when their destination was within reach of a bus stop, but outside of it they stumbled and came to a halt, too proud to ask for help.

The white-haired policeman in charge of a small unit that kept the peace in these streets saluted them with two fingers on his cap.

"Beta and Gamma mending and relaxation center…" His friendly face hardened after the police officer learned of their destination. The man scratched his tanned face. "You sure you want to go in there? Freaks are running this place."

"Pray explain, what do you mean, sir?" Sarkeesian asked innocently.

"Non-humans." The officer faced her eyes. "They are not like us. Not New Breeds, not Normies, but the lab-grown vat monsters that escaped containment and somehow wormed their way into the trust of the humans. You never know what to expect from them…"

"According to the reviews, they are masters of their craft," Melina showed the terminal to the officer, who waved his arm.

"Lies or fakery. These things can bide their time before striking…"

"Well, it is good that everyone is equal under the Dynast's rule," Elzada said steely, watching the officer. "Any discrimination is forbidden, and slurs are punished. Mind your mouth," she read the officer's name from his badge, "Officer Zurkov, and treat every citizen with the dignity and care they deserve. You can start showing care by showing us the way, personally."

"Your funeral," Zurkov sighed. "I warned you."

Zurkov escorted them to a building hidden under a busy highway. Placed among a series of similar stores offering various services, it was always invisible. Each merchant and artisan here gave his place of work its own unique look, and Elzada was pleasantly surprised to see hanging insectoid legs in the Pest Eliminator shop and clay lamps from her distant home. Tourists were the primary visitors to this place, and Zurkov excused himself to help an elderly woman find her family after they were separated in the rush.

The center itself was a nice, two-story block building, gray, but covered by the colorful billboards advertising the very best relaxation a Normie or New Breed could receive in several languages. Impatient One slapped Elzada over the back, and the wolf hag took the lead and knocked on the door.

"Coming, coming!" The door opened, and the speaker pressed his thirty arms together. "My, what rare guests! Step in, step in; there is no truth in legs; sit down and relax, please."

Rare was not a word Elzada would have used to describe them, not when the speaker was one of the most exotic people she'd ever seen. He, she assumed from the voice to be a male, moved on a fat 'foot' similar to that of a snail, and his black body resembled an oily substance held in place by a thin membrane. Their host throbbed, shrinking and expanding in response to his excitement. Stalks grew from his head, supporting round, wet eyes. Occasionally, flashes of light appeared over his body, always close to where the tendrils grew. At the end of each tendril was a suction cup, which this strange human used as a hand, as Elzada understood when he placed one on the door handle. He was taller than her on a head.

The owner led them inside a small, clean room with a counter, a white sofa, and a spiral staircase leading up. One of his arms banged on the kettle, turning it off; another muted a drum beat; several others rummaged through shelves, placing mugs on the table near the sofa. Letters of thanks and health advice were pinned to the walls.

"We, uh…" Elzada blushed as her host shoved a cookie into her paw after she sat down on the sofa. "We have recently healed our wounds and would like a massage. I read you offer the first session for free."

"We do! It's wonderful... I don't mean wonderful that you got hurt; that's very sad, but wonderful that you came, ladies. I am Gamma-18." Their host bowed, almost pressing his face into his leg. "Beta-18! Wake up, we have visitors!"

"Is it the protesters again?" asked a voice from above, and they heard a heavy splash against the floor. "Do you want me to hug you so you can sleep?"

"No, customers!" Gamma-18 replied, and his stalks twitched. "I'm terribly sorry about the closed doors, but there were incidents…"

"Customers trying to escape?" Sarkeesian grinned.

"Planet forbid!" Gamma-18 gasped. "No, we have never let customers down. It's just… the origin of our birth attracts a certain amount of ire from people."

"We are not human," stated a complete copy of Gamma-18, slithering down the stairs and stretching out his thirty arms. "Brother and I woke up in a laboratory, locked in a vat, then we were freed by the explorers and taken to an orphanage. Is that going to be a problem?"

"My only problem is that I came to experience your hardest massage and instead you feed me cookies," Impatient One growled, then nodded at Gamma-18. "Very nice treats, by the way."

"My pleasure. I had baked them myself." A thin white line appeared on Gamma-18's upper body, symbolizing a smile.

"Hardest, huh? That would be the deep tissue massage procedure. Lady, you'll be crying your eyes out." Beta-18 opened a door leading to a small room. "I suggest opting for something more relaxing."

"It is my duty as a shaman to learn about the perils of civilized life. If I so much as scream, you may consider yourself the winner of this bout, male." Impatient One narrowed her eyes and entered the room.

"This is not a fight, and I don't care about winning. Understand, this is a procedure done at the strength of a New Breed; it will be unpleasant for the first time…"

Gamma-18 asked the wolf hags questions and helped them decide which relaxation session they would get this time. Melina chose the aid with stiffening the neck after a chokehold. Sarkeesian stopped at the facial massage, and Elzada picked a full course, both for the rest of her biological leg and for her bad back. They were led into individual rooms, but Gamma-18 didn't follow them. Elzada lay down on a table in the middle of the room and pushed her snout into the cut opening. The arms of the sentient bio-weapon slid through the round opening into the room, and soon Elzada felt them rubbing a gel into her body.

"If anything hurts, say so immediately, Elzada." Gamma-18's voice came from all around her. "This massage does not involve any irritation sensations. Relax and enjoy."

She barely listened to him, closing her eyes and shivering with her whole body as his arms began to work on her tired muscles. Elzada knew a little about relaxation massage; she and Ignacy often rubbed each other's backs after a hard day's work, but what Gamma-18 was doing was in a whole other league.

His suction cups clung tightly to her body, but they didn't harm a single strand of hair as they traced the muscles working on the knots. He rubbed and drummed, accelerating the wolf hag's breathing as calm descended upon her. The careful, targeted pressure and circular movements over the muscles in her waist made her legs twitch. Gentle stretching helped Gamma-18 determine the limits of her biological leg, and he carefully tested the elasticity of her artificial replacement.

The massager seemed to know everything about her. When a twinge of pain tensed Elzada's back where one of her scars hadn't yet healed, Gamma-18 adjusted his massage and pressed on the other spot in her back. There was a pop, and Elzada's shoulders spread a little, and she thought she had grown an inch. When she expressed this thought, Gamma-18 pleasantly assured her it was just her imagination. Stiffened muscles, strained fingers—nothing escaped the master's treatment.

"This is… a novelty…" Elzada picked up the approving grunt of Impatient One. "Go on! I didn't say stop."

"How are you tolerating it?" Beta-18 demanded to know. "I had patients crying during the procedure."

"We should have paid you," Elzada groaned. "Can we still give you tokens, Gamma-18? I don't have much, but they are yours…"

"No, no, no, I don't want to hear about breaking the terms of the contract! If you want to pay me back, please leave a review. It helps me earn a reputation to achieve my dream." Gamma-18 assured her.

"What is this reputation?" Melina asked sleepily.

"You see, since the world has become more interconnected, the companies are pickier whom to employ," Beta-18 explained. "Sure, the Reclamation Army government clamps down on every asshole, requiring years of experience just to become a janitor…"

"Why? Isn't that an important job?" Melina interrupted him.

"It is, but it is also an entry-level job," Impatient One said. "I am not certain what this 'entry' term really means, but as the supreme shaman explained to us, it goes somewhat like that. When people can't put food on the table, they get bitter and rebel. So the government is forcing big companies to swallow this pill and actually teach young men and women on the spot how to work. They also combat inequality, so that no one would hire only New Breeds over Normies because New Breeds can work longer. Am I right?"

"In a way, miss," Gamma-18 said. "There are also mandatory regulations to ensure proper shifts, but in spirit, you are correct. As my brother said, the corporations are picky. For me to become a massage therapist in a military rehabilitation clinic, I need to have five years of experience and a pristine clean online history."

"As in never visiting the Net?" Sarkeesian inquired.

"Not exactly." Gamma-18 produced a clicking sound. "I must steer clear of gambling, don't throw racial slurs, don't conduct myself in inflammatory behavior, treat religion with respect, don't impose my beliefs on others, and so on."

"I wouldn't know how to build it," Elzada admitted. She occasionally had very heated arguments with her son over the Net.

"Oh, it is easy!" Gamma-18 assured her. "Just go with your conscience. And for my dream of joining the official rehabilitation service, I will try my best."

"A weird dream, considering we earn more here, brother!" Beta-18 laughed.

"The pursuit of material wealth doesn't interest me, brother," Gamma-18 responded, working on Elzada's neck, and she had to slow her breath so not to gasp from pleasure. "I enjoy helping people. It is my calling, which I found when I helped with the daycare at the orphanage."

"A noble desire," Melina noted.

"Thank you…"

"Get out of our city, monsters! Down with the freaks!"

Elzada was on her feet the moment she heard the angry scream from the window. Ignoring the biological cups that tried to get her to sit down, the wolf hag looked outside, where a small crowd of Normies, mutants, and New Breeds had gathered. They waved posters of painted hanged monsters over their heads and threw rotten fruit and garbage at the building, but a line of police officers standing in front of them ensured that no violence would be used against the brothers today.

A familiar white-haired figure swatted aside the rotten fruit aimed at the house and snapped an order to the officers to raise their shields and protect the property. Elzada expected swift retaliation, but Zurkov remained in place, seemingly content to prevent violence.

"Protesters again." Gamma-18 opened the door and handed Elzada her clothes. "I am so sorry about the disturbance. We will call the police right away."

"Why are they doing nothing?" Elzada nodded at the officers.

"Zurkov hates us." Beta-18 appeared in the corridor. "No idea why. The bastard always does the bare minimum…"

"Don't say that. He protects our property and gives us names to sue for damages," his brother said, dialing the call. "And when the families tried to muscle us out, he stood by us."

"Want us to crack some skulls?" Melina asked.

"Not going to lie, tempting," Sarkeesian said. "They denied me my pleasure. I'll deny them their lives. Fair?"

"Do nothing, idiots!" Impatient One bared her fangs. "Remember the words of the Blessed Mother. Don't create problems."

Elzada said nothing and just looked out the window, clutching her shoulder in annoyance at the interruption. Racism wasn't something unusual; the folks of the Ravaged Lands called her kind doggies, but in the Wastes any racism was quickly overcome. Everyone had to work together to survive, and by the end of the second grueling shift, most assholes did not care who replaced them. There were radicals in the past, but they stayed in the past, buried and forgotten.

The situation in Houstad was a bit different. And she struggled to understand why. Who cares how someone came into this world?

 

[Rookie12]

Day 15: Noon.

A fist thrust through the rising dust, and Martyshkina blocked it with the palm of her right arm. The warlord had already anticipated the movements of her stubborn opponent, hidden by the sand veil, and added an elbow right into the incoming headbutt. Such was the speed of the Orais that the resulting collision of two moving forces sent gusts of wind that tore the veil and carried away pebbles.

She frowned in pain at the dislocation of her pinkie, and the championian stepped through the elbow that hit his nose. His leg hooked into Martyshkina's, his hand closed around her throat, and the warlord was thrown back to the stone floor of the arena, landing hard enough to be mistaken for an explosive round. But the cheers of the Champion's faithful were premature, for in her fall she let go of his fist and closed her paws on the arm that was strangling her. She grabbed the wrist and around the elbow, forcing him to choose between shattering his limb or letting go. His grip loosened, and she tossed the opponent to the side, planting him face down on the stones and sending up another billow of sand.

The warlord sprang to her feet and added a kick to the rolling aside opponent, throwing her arm up in the air just in time to block the shards of rock thrown at her snout. She smiled, biding her time to set the dislocated finger and calm the aching bones. The Orais was an exquisite joy to face against. The man fought dirty, not shying away from spitting and throwing stuff at her; his grabbing technique was supreme, and, ah, every inch of his body was a weapon! When she blocked his punch, he seized her pinky with his own fingers and dislocated it, and her hide bled in several places where the steely fingers had torn flesh in a grip.

Bruises covered the championian's limbs; his arms and legs were swollen, but he matched her smile with his own. The Orais were naturally built to withstand heavy throws, and their skin absorbed blunt trauma. Though Martyshkina pulled back a bit on her punches and kicks and refrained from using her claws, the two were evenly matched.

They fought in the primary sparring arena, a large stone platform built inside the Champion's training grounds. Unlike other temples, this one had no sacred relics, and the most ceremonial things were the oil that young students rubbed on the fighters and the fumes of incense that rose from brass braziers. Crowds gathered in the seats around the platform, eagerly studying the full contact of these unusual fighters.

"Again, you stand, waiting for me to make the first move." The Orais spread his arms wide, ignoring the urging of the crowd of students and onlookers to continue the match. Broken teeth rained down from his fur. This arena was seldom unused. "Dear guest, what is troubling you? I can see it in your amber eyes, a glimmer of sadness flashing through the excitement."

"I spoke the truth; I came here to learn." Martyshkina hesitated to admit her reason in front of a thousand people, but then she took a breath and spilled it all out. "And to forget the pain of losing those whom I love."

She didn't lie. Janine, busy as she was with introducing her pack to the new methods of warfare, was a great friend and tried to get Martyshkina to open up. But she saw that the young one, the feisty Kalaisa, needed guidance, and so Martyshkina joked her way out of the talks with Janine. Sadness swelled in Martyshkina's chest, sadness that her girl never took her advice, that she had missed the splendor and peace of Houstad, that her princess had to die to escape madness. The realization that she would outlive her precious cubs haunted the warlord again and again, poisoning her dreams.

Her conversations with the therapist helped. The sessions were long, no less than two hours each, and slowly Martyshkina's desire to take a revolver and put a bullet through her skull began to fade. There were reasons for her to live and ways to be happy. But the depression refused to let go, and the warlord dared to relax.

"Forget?" The Orais raised his massive eyebrow. "Sister, you stand on the holy grounds of the Champion, on the very border between this world and the next. Through our struggle, we reach those who have left their mortal coil, for improvement never ends. You need not forget. Let loose, unchain your clenches and fists, your claws and fangs, rip and tear, and speak to them. Open your heart to the fallen, and I will serve as an enduring conduit. Talk. Permit yourself to be free."

Martyshkina blinked, wanting to denounce the stupid idea, and then she howled at the sky, her muscles bulging, summoning every ounce of her rage and power. She stepped into the incoming rain of blows, grabs, and throws, taking the lead in this match, brutally landing her kicks on the Orais' shoulders and hips, sending ripples across his skin and exploding the ground beneath the man. He stayed true to his promise, withstanding her every blow and returning the gesture in kind.

The world merged and collapsed in the intense, fast-paced fight: the vast arena, the red splotches in the air, the torn fur and flying debris, the clouds of sand and the cheering crowds. Through it all, Martyshkina imagined another sight. Maybe it was the incense burning in the braziers, or perhaps the Spirits opened a hidden pathway, but a shadow of her lost princess stepped into the air, flanked by her sisters and brothers.

"I am sorry," water ran down Martyshkina's eyes, blurring her vision. Her head rocked up as a fist connected to her nose, producing a ringing sound as if a steel hammer hit a metal gong. The warlord persevered, dodging the trajectory of the next strike, and kicked the Orais in the groin. "All I ever wished was for you to live long and happily, to find yourself soulmates, build a tent, and to have a knoll of little ones waiting for you when you returned from the wars. I dreamed of helping you raise them, cooking for them, and teasing you about how to be parents…" she whimpered, spitting blood. "I never wanted to poison your veins, to have you be inverted or risk losing themselves. The time I gave birth to you and first enclosed your warm bodies in my embrace were the happiest days of my life. I… don't know what to say to your cubs every time I see them. I am so, so sorry for taking you away from them and for failing you."

She expected curses or hatred. But what came from those phantoms was love, unconditional and reassuring. Memories of how she trained, raised, and helped them burned anew in the warlord's eyes. The ghosts of her children flickered out of existence, and the world returned to the arena where she wept and dodged and countered the raining blows of her opponent, who now took the place of the defender. Whether it was a mirage or the truth, something had changed in her. Martyshkina felt the supporting paws of her children on her shoulders. It was as if she was back in the past, and her cubs were already urging her to win against Janine in a ranked match.

"My duty's done." The Orais bloody lips parted in a smile. "It is a joy to witness a successful communion. May your burden be lightened.

"It is." Martyshkina nodded eagerly. Her body hurt from all the pounding she had received, but her spirit was exhilarated. Her cubs didn't hate her! "Apologies, but the fun is over. Little ones are watching. It'd be bad if they saw their mom kiss the dirt again." She snapped her fingers. "Time to drop you, Holy Father."

"Dream on!" the Orais roared, and they lunged at each other, their fists colliding, the loud shockwave of the impact silencing the crowd. Through the pain of that day, a most unusual understanding was born.

When Martyshkina was returning from the arena, happy, bruised, and dirty, she ran into the waiting Eled at the entrance.

"You look different," her named sister remarked.

It was sweet. Janine had her paws full of her own pack, but Martyshkina suspected that her friend had asked people to watch over her. Regularly, the warlord would run into a familiar soldier on her way from the therapist's office, or a friendly face in a bar. Sometimes it was Predaig. Or Zlata. But she was never alone, and it was time to break out of her dark thoughts.

"I live," Martyshkina said simply, smiling. "Come."

"To bars?"

"Screw the bars." Martyshkina cracked her neck. "I've been drinking too long. We have duties to perform."

****

Day 20: Early morning.

Mindy was a very happy Wolfkin. The survivor of the first litter, she was smaller and leaner than her siblings, but she never understood the pity with which her mother and they treated her. She was enlisted in Warlord Dragena's pack—the best pack there was! After ten years of service, only a handful of scars marred her body. She became a scout through a promotion and had a loving husband and four adorable cubs back at home. What was there to pity?

She was ecstatic about the news of visiting Houstad, regretting the inability to bring her honey and the little ones here, while the rest of the pack sulked over the lack of war glory. Glory? What glory is there in getting hurt and dying in war? Mindy could never understand the savagery of her kin, not even when it came to protecting her rank. She often heard other scouts and even several wolf hags call her 'Weird Mindy', but all she did was shrug.

Houstad was incredible! No war, an abundance of various foods, people constantly asking her questions about customs and traditions instead of boring fights, and she got to wear a gifted parade uniform! It consisted of a simple blue jacket decorated by four medals, long leather pants, a blue shirt, boots, a cap, and a skirt. She failed to understand why her combat sisters balked at it, preferring to stay within the confines of the base. Mindy ventured out to explore the city at the first opportunity, wasting all of her tokens.

This was a problem. Mindy was weird, but not stupid; she understood the importance of money and sent most of her pay to her honey so he could raise the little ones right. It was okay; side jobs paid enough for her personal interests, but Houstad was so expensive! A cake here cost more than a spare bullet magazine in the Wastes. Mindy was about to settle for sightseeing when Warlord Dragena summoned her and Iternian Jacob Makarevich for a private mission! Her! A mere scout!

They were to find a person. It sounded difficult at first, but Mindy wasn't the one to pull a long face. She and Jacob visited the archives and retrieved files about the Assassins' Guild. As expected, there was no mention of this person after the guild was dissolved, but that was no problem! The assassins, silly buggers they were, watched each other jealously, trying to swoop in and steal customers at the first opportunity.

It was then that she really came to appreciate the kind Iternian who paid for every expense. Sure, Jacob had endless questions about the tribe, but it was not forbidden to discuss these matters, and the two bonded over their morning coffees. The former assassins, now working in offices or escorting merchants outside the wall, were a great help, and after a little digging, they found their person and called the warlord, sending her the information they had gathered.

"Any idea why Dragena wanted to meet this woman?" Jacob asked, sipping coffee as he and Mindy sat in a simple coffee shop in the morning. It was a one-story place, built in a spherical shape, near a platform overlooking a river. People often gathered here before going to work in a nearby skyscraper, and during the day, several children delivered hot coffee to the offices.

"Nope! Not even a hint," Mindy said, admiring the rich aroma of the coffee. Jacob paid for a monthly subscription in exchange for her personal experience of how the "reward" of her power affected her. Mindy wasn't strong by any means, but even she gained fifty centimeters just by winning her share of the domination matches. The scout adjusted her cap and watched as the shop's sign lit up, announcing its opening. "Doubt it anything bad, though."

Warlord Dragena appeared from around the corner, punctual as always. As she walked to the entrance, nodding once to greet her helpers, the sun began to appear on the horizon and lamps were turned off. Yawning couples and morning birds left their homes to go to work. Several people gathered on the platform, taking pictures of the first boats to float. A bearded man turned and filmed the warlord and the sitting couple. Mindy noticed him and waved at the man, who quickly turned away. The store's doors flew open, unleashing the storming-out crowd of young children of various ages and origins, who quickly spread around, wiping the white plastic tables clean. One girl, not quite awake, nearly rammed her head into Mindy's stomach before she realized that someone was sitting at a table.

"Uh… you can't bring your own coffee," the girl said with a yawn, pointing to the paper bag where Mindy kept her thermos. She blushed when the scout pulled out the flask and showed that it had the store's logo on it. "Sorry, miss."

"This coffee is delicious." Mindy's praise made the girl's blush again.

"Woah, you are tall," another child said to Dragena.

The warlord's cold and dispassionate eyes surveyed the unusual work crew. "Aren't you too young to be working at such an early hour? What if you run into some drunks?" she asked, glancing at Jacob.

"Mom will beat them up!" said a Malformed kid. Like the others, he wore the store's uniform, but his was always on the verge of bursting under the rolling muscles, the many knotted, sinuous limbs that ended in square fingers covered in bone crust. "She is the best!"

"Yeah, when she picks up her scythe, even the craziest scum wets themselves!" The sleepy girl boasted.

"Is that it? Call her then, it is time to settle this blood debt," Dragena said icily, and opened the store's door to let the kids run inside.

"That's bad," Mindy swallowed.

"I wasn't hired to be an accomplice to murder," Jacob snapped and charged in.

Mindy followed, unsure of what to do. She certainly didn't want anyone to die, and the orders of the Blessed Mother were clear. No causing troubles. If it came to it, she'd throw herself to stop her warlord. The problem was that it wouldn't be enough. Even if they called the entire police department, it wouldn't be enough. A warlord, especially Dragena, could not be stopped by mere New Breeds.

"Stay where you are," Dragena warned them, sitting in a chair near the counter.

"The hell I am." Jacob closed in, and Mindy took a step.

"It… It's against the rules, Warlord," Mindy squeaked into the icy eyes.

"What is the commotion?" An impersonal voice inquired as the planks in the ceiling above the counter shifted, unleashing warm air and the wonderful smell of fresh seed.

An elegant figure jumped down, wearing a white apron and black clothes. Mindy thought the woman was wearing a strange pitch-black body glove, but then she understood that the store owner's skin was black. Not as black as that of a Normie, but completely black, so that not even the light of the Warlord's eyes could illuminate it. She wasn't tall or muscular; the woman was about one and a half meters tall, and the whites of her eyes were two narrow slits of color on her round face. Ignoring the glowering warlord, she handed pocket change to the children, shooed them outside, and began cleaning metal pipes, turning her back on Dragena.

"Desert Death," Dragena tapped on the counter. "Once considered the best in the guild."

"That was my nickname, yes. And I wasn't the best. Reaper always was." The woman replied in an even voice. She stood on the counter and closed the entrance to the ceiling, then jumped down and reached for a hanging scythe on the wall. Mindy tensed, but the woman just picked up cups from the shelf, filled them with hot coffee, added sugar, and set one in front of Dragena. "On the house. I go by the name of Sitota Ezkeiel these days."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dragena promised and casually drank the cup, baring her throat without care or worry for having it slit or if the coffee was poisoned. The hem of her coat shifted from the movement, and Mindy noticed the long, sheathed knives. "Forty years ago, at the request of the Oathtakers, my wolf hag and four warriors had lost their heads in the night. It was done by a single scythe cut."

"I had to wait over a week, covering my scent with chemicals," Sitota said, sitting across from Dragena. She offered another full cup, and the warlord accepted. "At the end, it was for nothing. They sensed me and riddled my stomach full of shards. It was a miracle I reached civilization to treat my wounds."

"You don't deny it," Dragena's unblinking eyes found their perfect match.

"No," Sitota answered. "Have you come to collect my neck?"

Dragena glanced around the place and, at last, the door, observing working children through its glass.

"They are not yours."

"They are not part of this," Sitota said.

The warlord's amber eyes returned to the woman's face. There was no thought or anger in them. Mindy knew that many, herself included, were unnerved during private conversations with the warlord. It was stupid; their leader had risked her life many times to turn the tide of battles in their favor; her unparalleled fighting style left no opponent alive, yet her presence resembled that of a very large snake. She threatened to open her mouth and swallow you whole just by being in the same room. Dragena never raised her voice or hurt her subordinates, but there was something wrong with her, as if she was missing a vital part of being human.

Jacob squeezed in between the warlord and the former assassin, a mere human barely reaching the chest of the seated Dragena. He stood his ground, holding a terminal like a weapon in his hand.

"Warlord. No," he said.

"Warlord." Mindy reached out and put a paw over the knives. "I can call the police. This... this isn't right."

"This is no concern of yours, Iternian, scout," Dragena replied coldly. "It was said that Desert Death lived to kill, valuing neither tokens nor the lives of her victims or even her own. She didn't live; she merely existed, wasting oxygen day after day." Dragena tapped on the cup, and Sitota refilled it. "Desert Death never returned to Houstad. Sitota did, and her purpose is far nobler." Dragena drank the coffee. "There is no one left for me to kill. Raise these cubs, and we're even."

"Just like that?" Sitota asked. Dragena nodded.

"And if Sitota hadn't changed," Jacob pressed. "What would have happened then? Would there have been bloodshed?"

"Don't push it, Jacob," Mindy whispered, removing her paw.

"You underestimate me, Iternian." Dragena examined the menu. "I gleaned the necessary information about what kind of person Desert Death had become from the results of your search. My mind was already made up before I came here. But if we were to theorize, I would've apprehended…"

"You would've tried," Sitota interjected.

"I never made a mistake in my life," Dragena said bluntly. "If you had wasted the years of life you were given, I would have broken you and turned you over to the police. There is no if in that; it is simply a fact. Now, unless you want to have breakfast too, leave us. And Mindy…"

"Yes, Warlord?" She saluted.

"Good job. Never be afraid to stand up to me," Dragena said and turned to the menu. "I'll start with the omelet. Twelve eggs and bread, please."

"Lizard or chicken eggs?"

"Chicken."

Mindy took that as a hint and dragged Jacob out into the street after her, wiping the nervous sweat from her brow.

"Sorry," she said, checking her cap critically to see if there was any sweat on it. She liked the thing for its prettiness. "I didn't know the Warlord would use you." Mindy glanced at the crowd of people near the secure railing, filming the boats below.

"I don't mind being used like that," Jacob responded. "I plan to skip the city; maybe check out the wall to the west."

"What for?" Mindy asked, narrowing her eyes. There was a man who looked worriedly at the store instead of filming the river. She wasn't surprised when this bearded weirdo took a peek at Dragena, but why was he so focused on filming the entrance?

"I'll film the smaller settlements to show how people live in these changed regions. And there is a kingdom outside the Reclamation Army's border. I have heard that your leaders are trying to integrate it peacefully. Material like this can make a killing back home, if I can get permission to venture outside. Shouldn't be hard; if the Oathtakers got one for their trip to the wall, there's no reason…" Jacob placed a hand over her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"Not sure," Mindy admitted, nodding at the suspicious man. "The dude over there keeps paying more attention to here than to the boat. Is he a freak interested in children?"

"Don't make accusations like that, Mindy; they can easily ruin a person's life. But come to think of it, he is a rather twitchy fellow," Jacob focused on the man.

"Let's go ask him!" Mindy pushed forward, ignoring Jacob's pleas to stop. She waved her paw and called, "Hey! Mister!"

The bearded man darted away from the platform, shoving the tourists out of his way. She saw his panicked eyes as he ran to the intersection and almost jumped under the car to get to the alleys on the other side, while Mindy ran after him, gaining distance. This unusual behavior surprised her even more, and she made her way to the left alley entrance, knowing full well that the path the man had taken would end in the metal grating and a sealed door leading into the houses. This much she learned as she scouted the area in anticipation of the warlord's arrival. The scout gestured for Jacob to stay behind her for safety.

What do they know? The man took pictures of her and Dragena. By no means a crime, so Mindy wasn't going to let her claws do the talking. Facing the grate, the man would have to choose between returning to the street or fleeing further into the alleys, and Mindy chuckled as she noticed him rushing around the bend ahead. She changed her walk to a stride and was about to catch up with the man when a figure in a black leather cloak suddenly stepped into her path.

"Halt," the newcomer's eye flashed in the dark, and Mindy understood it was a woman. She showed an ID. "Piam from the Investigation Bureau. We're conducting an investigation into the Benguigui family and would appreciate it if you'd stop stirring our potential suspects."

"Suspects in what?" Jacob asked, and Piam smoothly turned to him.

"Their rats have been spotted doing unusual activities around town. Nothing illegal, but enough to attract our eye." A terminal slipped into the agent's hand. "Do you happen to know who Warlord Dragena was meeting with this morning, and why that might be of interest to the criminals?"

"Not sure about the latter, but the former is…" Mindy started happily.

"Is none of your business," Jacob snapped. "Thanks for your warning, Investigator. We will certainly stay out of your business."

"What bit you?" Mindy asked when they left the alley and ventured to a bus stop.

"Think about it, Mindy. Why would an investigator stop us in the alley instead of picking up that creep and grilling him until he answers her questions? And if she's leading the investigation…" Jacob scratched his chin. "Why can't she simply come to Dragena and ask her? It's almost as if she doesn't want to meet her."

"We best to inform the warlord," Mindy decided and smirked. "And get a breakfast!"

"I'll pay, of course?" Jacob laughed at Mindy's whistle.

 

[Rookie12]

Day 23: Noon.

Kirk rubbed the collar of his jacket, hoping to banish this annoying stiffness, and looked anywhere but at his sister's back while wishing he could be anywhere but here. To tell the truth, he hadn't disliked the last few weeks. First, he made new friends. He did not know why Bogdan had reached out to him; Kirk was sort of an outsider in his own pack; only his sister and brother spoke to him. And Kalaisa. He blinked, banishing his fear.

But suddenly, Bogdan barged into his life, invited him to play cards, taught him how to banter for fun, and never, never got upset with him. Even when Kirk accidentally broke the pipe and they were all submerged in shit and urine. He half expected to be beaten to death, but everyone laughed while they fixed the pipe.

Kirk himself was fine. Other females in the pack chose not to dominate him or his siblings. A little of his fur grew back, making him look more like a real Wolfkin, but every time he faced the eyes of his comrades, he saw the same thing. Pity. As annoying as it was, he came to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to ever find a soulmate. The last heat season had already passed, and no girl had asked him to dance.

Kalaisa… behaved weird, too. Gone were the beatings; she would occasionally snap at him, calling him and the rest of the family useless, but now she would always stop, apologize, and rephrase her words, almost inviting them to get back at her. While his sister gave Kalaisa a piece of her mind, essentially denouncing her, Kirk remained silent. It was all a trap; it had to be. The moment he spoke, Kalaisa would punish him worse than before.

Kalaisa dragged her siblings out of the base, requesting leaves from Ygrite. Kirk begged the Spirits to make the warlord ignore these requests as usual, but Ygrite approved all of them. Fortunately, they were never alone; either Anissa or Anji accompanied them.

Their elder sister led her family into a quiet building, where a good-natured woman listened to them. Kirk wasn't sure what the point was; the woman talked to them one at a time, asking how they were feeling and carefully probing their family history.

After the sixth session, Kirk felt comfortable enough to tell her a little. Their family had never been normal. No father, no mother; Kalaisa was always angry, but she had never raised a paw at them. When she came home, all bruised and beaten, she gave them milk and meat and then left to get more. They tried to help her, but without anyone to teach them, they broke more things than they fixed, which made Kalaisa's mood even worse, especially after Kirk accidentally ruined her toy. Still, she just glared at him and cleaned up the mess. Their family was dysfunctional, but they were together, and Kirk remembered how Kalaisa's lips twitched into a shy smile after he presented her with a barely working flute he had made with his own paws while she slept.

And then the shamans announced their verdict. Kirk remembered that day it burned itself into his memory. She came back, choking with grief, her once amber eyes a blind crimson sea of burst blood vessels. Her paws trembled, and when the sister asked cheerfully which pack had taken her in, Kalaisa struck. Breaking a bone. She screamed in rage, and they screamed from pain. Their torment only spiraled upward from there.

The kind woman gave Kirk some pointers on how to deal with Kalaisa. Do not look at her when talking to her. Try to concentrate on happier thoughts and distance yourself from her. Find a hobby. He tried that, of course, but the problem was that the damned Kalaisa refused to get out of his muzzle!

Today, she announced they would be withdrawing tokens from her bank account and that he would help. Unfortunately, neither Anji nor Bogdan could come. Bogdan was busy showing Marco around the city, and Anji had to watch over Onyxia's pack while the warlord was away. Thank the Spirits, Anissa and Ignacy volunteered to go along. They rode a tram in awkward silence until Ignacy showed Kirk a 'web game', a humorous little shooter. Things livened up a bit after that, with Anissa and Kalaisa even cheering him on after each win and groaning in frustration at his slow reaction. At the end of their journey, all four sat down and played on the same map. Kirk even beat Kalaisa, though he suspected she was just letting him win.

"Is this where all our payments go?" Kirk tried the woman's advice and start a conversation while ignoring Kalaisa. He looked to the side where four black vans were parked near the tall white bank building. Then he smiled at the sight of a sibling playing under the supervision of an elderly matron.

She can't hurt you. Not here. Everything is fine. Breathe.

"No, no!" Ignacy said. "Kirk, the National Bank has many branches all over the country; even the smallest settlement has at least one place where you can deposit your tokens. To exchange your tokens for, say, Iternian credits, you have to visit a larger settlement. This is just one of the many buildings owned by the Bank."

"How do they know how much we own?" Anissa's ears perked. "I've only ever spoken to the bank clerk near our village."

"Simple." Ignacy showed his terminal. "Remember how we played together over the net? Well, this is the same principle, though much more encrypted. All transactions are in real time, so if you deposit something in a bank, all the banks know about it."

"And what if someone hacks in?" Kirk asked suspiciously.

"Virtually impossible." Ignacy beamed, opened a web page, and displayed a fifty-page explanation of dimensional encryption. Seeing the raised eyebrows, he sighed. "Well, after the Extinction happened and we all sort of got along, Lada, an AI from Iterna, has provided the Three Great Nations with a special encryption that is impervious even to Artificer's tampering. This protection ensures that no one can repeat the Extinction and hack into the military and unleash WMDs on the world. After extensive research, Till Ingo created a lesser copy of this model, which is now used in our banking system. So know that if your tokens, shares, or interest go missing, it means the Iternian Elite has scammed you," Ignacy chuckled at the last words.

"Interest?" He heard Kalaisa scratching her neck. "The Abyss is what?"

I will be fine. I am fine.

"Basically, you put tokens in a special account, don't take anything out for a certain amount of time, and the bank uses those tokens to invest and pays you back the entire amount plus some extra at the end of that time. I don't really know the details; I've never been in the 'get more tokens' business."

"Wait, we can do it?" Anissa's eyes widened. "Why didn't anyone tell us?" She reached out for her terminal and quickly punched in a number. "Lacerated One? Excuse the sudden call, but I have important information to report…"

They earned themselves surprised glances upon entering the bank. Kirk paid no attention. He and Kalaisa were dressed in bright crimson jackets, shirts, scarves, hats, thick pants to keep them warm, and specially tailored sneakers. Anissa and Ignacy wore similar outfits, but theirs were dark blue, the unofficial color of their pack. The company owned by His Excellency, Devourer, had provided these obscene riches to the Wolf Tribe as part of a welcome gift.

The people inside wore summer clothes, and the coolers were running at full power to combat the supposed summer heat. A guard even approached and asked the Wolfkins if they were okay.

"Yeah, totally." Kalaisa waved him aside and took place in a line.

"You." Anissa jumped to sit before a consultant. "Tell me everything about interest rates."

Ignacy picked out some brochures to read, and Kirk landed on a sofa and stretched out, both paws behind his head. He was enjoying Houstad and its lack of danger.

"I would like to withdraw three hundred tokens." He heard Kalaisa's voice.

"A moment, please." The bank clerk checked her ID before returning it. "Would you like to withdraw them from your primary account or from the state's account?"

"I only have one account." Kalaisa frowned.

"This is incorrect, miss. The state has set up a separate account at the command of Governor Devourer. All members of your tribe are eligible for a certain sum from this account. As an officer, you can withdraw two thousand tokens per day while in Houstad." The bank clerk explained.

"Why hasn't anyone told us?" Anissa exploded on her seat, reaching for the terminal again. "Lacerated One? I have an update. About those cusacks that the tribe couldn't afford? Now we can…"

"Nobody moves! Hands in the air!" Kirk opened his eyes to the click of a gun and a loud slam of the front door. The barrel of a machinegun was pointed directly at his face.

People dressed in black leather and wearing biker helmets rushed the main entrance, armed with machine guns. One guard tried to reach for his gun when a bandit pointed his empty palm at him. The guard convulsed and fell to the ground, vomiting and shaking all over. The terrorist who had pointed his hand at him came closer and stomped down with his boot, no doubt giving the poor man a minor skull fracture and knocking him unconscious. Kirk saw a trickle of blood coming from the guard's ear and nose.

The rest of the assailant had spread around the room, taking aim at customers and bank employees. Kirk noticed a teller trying to reach for an emergency alarm button. She shuddered as a tongue of flame burned a hole through the security window, snaking around the woman's hand like a snake before disappearing. A bulky Orais stomped closer.

"Try it again, and I'll melt you, bitch," the device in his helmet severely distorted his voice. "Open the main vault, and no one else will get hurt."

"I'm sorry, is this some kind of stupid joke I'm not in on, or do you have a death wish?" Kalaisa's fingers broke through the counter.

The Orais snapped his fingers and fire rose around Kalaisa, hiding her from view. A ring of fire encircled her, trapping the wolf hag as the terrorist barked orders and several of his thugs rushed to the second floor. Another terrorist began pacing the room, searching for someone.

A cub's scream attracted Kirk's attention. The little girl was sitting somewhere away from her grandfather, looking out the window at the outside world, when the thugs burst in. Scared, the girl tried to run to the old man, and the butt of a rifle slammed into her skull. A robber kicked the fallen girl and yelled at her to stop moving or he would break every bone in her body.

The world changed, and Kirk found himself back in the tent, shivering and crying at the sound of footsteps. Her footsteps. Kalaisa never bothered to hide, and she returned from her training in Ygrite's pack in a foul mood that grew worse with each passing day.

Today, she sucker punched her sister in the gut and needed her in the jaw. Kirk whimpered, and she turned to him, eyes burning like embers. He felt pain in his ear when she lifted him up, forcing him to see her face, before pain speared his solar plexus. Gasping for air, he received another hit across his neck, robbing him of any chance to breathe. Kalaisa threw him into the air, and the fabric of the tent touched his head. In the next moment, the light dimmed, pushed out by the otherworldly pain that flowed from his groin after her kick.

Wordlessly, he fell to the ground, trying to gasp, tears streaming down his face. Why? Kalaisa lunged at his brother, who tried desperately to appear smaller, and Kirk cursed himself. Why is he so weak? Why is she allowed to do it? Why had everything changed!?

He snapped back to reality and found himself biting deep into the terrorist's neck. The man choked desperately, trying to form a plea for surrender, but Kirk would hear none of it. The man's form shifted between two people. Terrorist. Kalaisa. Terrorist. Kalaisa. Kirk ripped out the throat, spilling a stream of red over the shocked people.

He collapsed to his knees, his stomach revolting. His breakfast came out in a stream of vomit; his lungs refused to take in an ounce of air; and the muscles in his legs spasmed incessantly. Above him was the bastard who had incapacitated the guard earlier. The Orais approached too, snarling at his men to get the tokens faster.

"Shouldn't have done it, kiddo," the Orais said. "Now you are about to become a crust." A tongue of fire appeared on his index finger as the terrorist pointed his hand at him.

"I will…." Kirk muttered as the cub whimpered behind him.

"Pleading for mercy?" the Orais inquired.

"I will never let my family be hurt ever again!" Kirk howled out the words and leapt, ignoring the agony.

He grabbed the Orais' arm and forcibly lifted it up, sending the streak of flame to lick the ceiling rather than immolate him or the cub. He headbutted the bastard, breaking his own nose against the helmet, and stabbed at his throat with the claws.

The New Breed easily caught Kirk by the wrist, twisted his arm to the point of breaking, and kicked him in the chest. Fierce and fearless, many of the Orais surpass low-ranked Wolfkins in sheer physical strength. This one was far stronger than Kirk; his kick sent the soldier cartwheeling across the room, slamming him into a wall and stealing the remaining air from his lungs.

"Plan B. Take this girl hostage; I will burn this one…" A fireball flickered to life in his left hand, but the terrorist never finished his speech.

The terrorist beside him gasped weakly, unable to use his power, and claws appeared from his chest. Each warlord had his own style. Be it the use of melee weapons along with ranged fire like Janine or a brutal attack like Alpha, no two were the same in their method of fighting. Kalaisa's preferred method of slaughter was speed, and she mercilessly trained every part of her body to be as elastic as possible, shattering her own bones so that they would regrow, tougher than before and with a greater range of motion.

Kalaisa took off from the circle of fire, landing on the ceiling and using it as a springboard to attack her prey. Before the stones of the ruined ceiling could get halfway to the floor, Kalaisa's arm went into the man's body up to the elbow. The Orais turned and struck back blindly.

"You touched my family," Kalaisa growled, crumpling his fist in her paw like a clay figurine.

Pieces of flesh and bone pushed themselves between her fingers. The terrorist screamed, calling flame into his remaining hand, only to have the Wolfkin grab his head. With a single violent twist, Kalaisa broke his neck; the second twist left him headless forever, and his flames died.

And there it is. Kirk thought, looking at Kalaisa at her full height, meeting her eyes for the first time this day. He heard roars and screaming when Anissa joined in and saw Ignacy punching a man's head down the chest. But one thing dominated it all, filling him with hopelessness and fear. Kalaisa's figure standing over him.

He pissed himself and blacked out.

****

"Sorry for the mess." Kirk angrily wiped off the tears, sitting on the stairs leading into the bank while the police officers busily removed the bodies.

By the grace of the Spirits, no civilians died, and the guard, his skull cracked, was the only critical victim. The robbers quickly surrendered after Anissa gored five of them. News agencies arrived a minute before the police and filmed the scene. The officers stated no charges would be filed against the Wolfkins, but the group would have to be escorted to a police station.

"Mess?" Anissa laughed, sitting next to him. "That was a fantastic warm-up."

"Sis, there were cubs in here," Ignacy said quietly.

"People die all the time. It's better for them to learn that the world is a dangerous place now rather than later." Anissa shrugged unconcernedly.

"I am sorry, I… I just wanted to keep my brother safe," Kirk said, his body shaking.

Their eyes were on him, and Kirk wondered what had happened. Was it something he said?

"Kirk, are you ok?" Ignacy started. "You saved a girl. And the only member of your family here is…"

He got up, unable to hear the rest, and walked straight to the police van. Remembering the kind woman's lessons, he pulled out a small mechanical toy from his pocket. The toy resembled Grand Commander Outsider; his cloak billowed behind his back, a cowl covered his face, and steel armor encased his entire body. Slowly and carefully, he took the toy apart and began to reassemble it, not forgetting to breathe.

I can fix my life. Kirk tried to concentrate on this thought. He was still young. He didn't have to be afraid all the time. Kalaisa no longer had any influence over him. That part of his life was over. Kirk reassembled the toy and immediately took it apart, repeating the process as his heartbeat slowed. He is not useless. He is a human being.

His thoughts went back to the earlier vision. He tore at the man's throat, but it was Kalaisa in his vision. Did he... Does he want to murder his big sister? Who would that help? What kind of monster was he?

"Hey, champ, how are you doing?" Ignacy asked, stepping inside the van.

"I am broken, Ignacy," Kirk replied.

"Oh, so the hero who saves a little girl is broken now. Wish I was this broken. Check it out; you are all over the news! They called you the black-furred savior." Ignacy reached for a terminal and showed it to Kirk. Reporters moved quickly, interviewing people before the police could clear the scene. And the elderly grandfather, holding the cub in his arms, loudly thanked Kirk and blessed the planet for the Third's arrival in Houstad.

Hearing no response, Ignacy put the terminal back into his pocket and sat nearby, wrapping his natural arm around Kirk's shoulders. "Listen. I am not Mom or Bogdan. Not even Anissa. I can't do the whole… motivational speech. But I do know this. If one of my devices is broken, I fix it. It takes time—weeks sometimes—but in the end, they do their job. So... never give up on yourself, okay? If you ever feel the need to talk to somebody, find me. I can at least listen."

"Thanks, Ignacy." Kirk rubbed his eyes. "I am not sure how I can ever repay your family for such care."

"Here's the funny thing: There's no need to repay! That's what friends are for! Now, snap out of doom and gloom, and let's think about where to go tomorrow. I suggest the zoo…"

Kirk just groaned in frustration, but a smile touched his lips. It was great to be part of a group.

 

[Rookie12]

Day 23: Evening.

Elzada.

"Right in here, Miss…"

"The name's Elzada." She waved the officer away, sniffing the route.

Ignacy was in trouble! Her heart almost jumped out of her chest at the news, and it surprised her. Elzada had always thought of Ignacy as more of a fleeting thing than a serious soul mate. Oh, the boy was handsome, no doubt. His fur was enchanting, his cheeks were simply perfect, and even their size wasn't far off. His mother's divinity ran through his veins. Their cubs would have been so beautiful!

But there was something off about him. The mating rituals of the Wolf Tribe weren't very complicated. In the old days, females simply chose a male at random as their soulmate, regardless of their desires. But after Terrific killed her second mate for failing to make her some male cubs, Lacerated One, Zero, Alpha, Ashbringer, and Dragena, accompanied by the Twins, visited the Blessed Mother and forced her to change things. As always, Ravager refused to stay in charge for long, but some laws were implemented.

Now the Wolfkins needed the approval of both sides to form a union. It was foolish to expect anything reasonable from the males, so the females invented a whole ritual of flashing their claws and not dominating their future soulmates to get their attention. The only exception was the Season of Heat, but that was, well, heat. When a female came of age, there was an urge to mate, and any male was game.

Almost none of them refused free copulation. Except Ignacy. Not only did he reject Elzada, he ignored her advances altogether, begging her not to ruin his blueprints. To this day, the confusion of that moment filled her mind. How could a male reject a female for the sake of mundane things? Elzada respected his odd hobby and tried to avoid the strange buffoon, but something in his gaze always drew her back.

She did not see him as someone who would prepare breakfast for her cubs in the morning. He was more likely to set fire to the tent while tinkering with new gadgets. But when she saw the news, Elzada leaped to Janine and begged to for the right to bring Ignacy back.

I am weird.

"It was Benguigui's freaks," she overheard a white-haired officer speaking to the commissioner. "I recognized the head. That creep was seen with Raffy. If you give me a squad, I'll…"

"Agent Piam has already contacted me," the commissioner responded. "The Investigation Bureau is handling the situation."

"The investigators have been sleeping on this robbery! Sir, there is queerness in the air. The Benguiguis are doing God knows what, now that robbery." The officer put his hands on the table. "They couldn't have hoped to escape from Houstad. And the Investigation Bureau's agents are stalling things. Sir, we must act."

"Notice a log in your own eye before you accuse the investigators of incompetence, Zurkov," the commissioner said. "I have received complaints about your treatment of non-humans…"

Elzada found Ignacy not in a waiting room or a cell, but down the hall in the basement, where he was busy fixing a leaking battery.

"Why is he here?!" she demanded to know.

"He asked himself." The officer scratched his head. "We offered him a room to wait in, but Mr. Ignacy insisted on being useful and fixed a water dispenser, lights in the basement, and is now…"

"Elzada!" Ignacy turned, and his happy muzzle made her smile against her anger. "Glad to see you!"

"Same here. I came to pick you up. How are you doing?"

"This place is awesome! They have a library here, the food is simply magnificent, and the people are super nice." Ignacy put aside the wretch and wiped his paws on his jacket, leaving dirty smears. "Anyway, I wanted to ask you something... if it's okay."

"What about?" I swear, if he asks to stay here, I will bite him.

"I've read about a cool thing in the city. Called a theater. It's similar to the way artists perform in the main squares of the settlements, but on a much bigger stage. I thought... Would you like to come with me and check it out?"

"Sure." Elzada smiled, and Ignacy beamed. She took him under the arm and marched him out. "First, we return to the base. You need to clean up. Then we'll go."

Yes! He finally makes the first move! Elzada dragged Ignacy to the car, too worried about him getting distracted again and grinning from ear to ear at the warmth in her chest. Maybe he felt something for her after all. If so, she was ready to find out what kind of man he was. And perhaps give birth to five or ten cubs. Yes, cubs would be nice.

****

Anji.

Anji was relieved that Janine permitted her to leave the base. In recent weeks, the warlords had limited the packs' training hours. Rumor had it that the order came from high up: the Third Army was here to rest and recuperate. Leaves were available on first request, but many Wolfkins preferred to spend their time in their dens, not showing a nose behind the walls. But not Kalaisa.

Her unexpected companion wasn't a lost cause. Anji was sure of that. If the Tribe could tolerate people like Terrific, they could tolerate Kalaisa. There was a future for her, and Anji was glad to see that the younger woman was trying her best to become a better person.

In the past few days, Kalaisa had come out of her shell more and more, accepting the jokes and insults aimed at her without the usual claws and fangs. She even pulled a few harmless pranks. Seeing her now, bloodied and brooding, soured Anji's mood a bit.

I hope our progress won't go to waste.

"How's Kirk?" Kalaisa asked as Anji sat down on the opposite side of a table.

"Your brother and sister came to pick him up with Ygrite's permission. I volunteered to bring you back. I thought you two shouldn't bump into each other today."

"Oh. Right. Good idea." Kalaisa put her legs on the chair and grabbed her knees. "I am broken, Anji."

"The therapist didn't think so. She said that you have anger issues, abandonment issues, and…"

"What does she know!?" Kalaisa clicked her fangs. "Anji, let's be real. Who wouldn't abandon a trash like me? Especially after what I've done to my family." She rubbed her nose.

"Kalaisa," Anji stopped, trying to find the right words. "I am... If you are fishing for pity, I have none to offer. I'm your friend, but you're not exactly a victim when it comes to your family. They are."

"I know it, Abyss take it! I just have no idea how to fix it!"

"You could try apologizing," Anji suggested.

"And how do you think that would work? 'Sorry for beating you up all these years? Kirk, remember that one time I used you as toilet paper? Or that time I nearly broke your legs? Yeah, sorry about that. We cool?' Arghr!" Kalaisa wrapped her paws around her head and slowed her breathing. For a moment, Anji thought she was going to pass out. "No. Asking for forgiveness puts a burden on them, an obligation to forgive or not. I can't... Nothing can atone for what I've done. The best I can do is give them space. Get out of their lives as much as I can."

"That may be right." Anji nodded, placing a paw over Kalaisa's. "But it's only a start. Don't give up professional help. Keep reading the self-help books. Regulate your anger. Keep trying to improve yourself."

"Where further?" A grin came upon Kalaisa's muzzle. "I am already stronger than you."

"In your dreams, perhaps," Anji let out a ringing laugh. She stopped after Kalaisa fell silent again.

"Today is Kirk's stupidass birthday. You know, he gave me a toy once and slept on my belly later. How could I forget how happy I was then? Where does this hatred, this anger, come from? I wanted to give him my own gift, to show him I'd never hurt him again. Instead, I have caused him to freak out." Kalaisa bit her lower lip. "Can you ask that fucker… Bogdan, to throw a party or something? Anything to cheer Kirk up. Tell them I'm staying away."

"Too late for that," Anji said. "Ygrite has already announced a big celebration, honoring Kirk's and your involvement in disposing of the robbers."

"Ain't that great," Kalaisa grumbled, closing her eyes. "I'll just skulk in the shadows. My family's had enough of my shit for a lifetime. To be honest, I don't want to get better. I want them to be better and happier. Myself? Didn't earn that, Anj."

Anji reached out across the table and slapped Kalaisa across the face. The amber eyes opened wide, fueled by the fury, and Kalaisa growled, her claws splintering the wood.

"The Abyss was that for?"

"You are a wolf hag, Kali." Anji tried to speak evenly and not spurn this idiot away. "Your self-loathing won't help anyone. Think for once. If you disappear, your pack will suffer for the lack of your strength. Unless you missed, you saved Kirk's life today…"

"And that fixes everything? Absolves me of guilt? Bullshit." Kalaisa bared her fangs. "One good deed means nothing."

"I did not imply it." Anji ignored the desire to break the table over Kalaisa's head. "The point is that your strength saved a life. Kirk still lives and can potentially heal the damage you caused. Stay in the shadows instead of leading, and your pack will suffer for lack of training. Your family will suffer."

"Duties," Kalaisa groaned. "Always duties. You know, I never wanted to be a wolf hag. I just… snapped when I arrived in Ygrite's pack and challenged my superior. What I wanted was to loosen up, and in a few blows I won and ended up commanding almost a hundred soldiers. Me! A person with no experience. I dreamed of shiny power armor; instead, ours are rusted and dented. Our shardguns often misfire in real combat and even explode from time to time; that's why Ygrite forces her pack to accept augmetics. Tracking equipment is of similar quality, radars barely work, and PA's HUDs flash mid-mission. Guess I deserve it, corroded armor, corroded soul…"

"Again with the self-pity!" Anji slapped her paw on the table. "Drop it! You said you didn't earn to get better? It's not what you've earned that matters, it's what you need. The power armor in your pack are rusty? Off to Chak and demand it be repaired. Your pack's equipment and weapons are barely functional? To Chak you go, write a report; if he doesn't fix it, write directly to Captain Cristobo; if he drops the ball too, write to the higher-ups. Keep pestering everyone; ask the warlords for help, but solve the problem! These are your soldiers; you are responsible for their lives! Fuck Ygrite, if she does nothing, that doesn't mean you have to follow in her footsteps!

"Yes. Your life is full of duties. And responsibilities. This is adult life; get used to it, because it is here to stay," Anji added warmth into her voice. "But you don't have to be unhappy, Kali. You can both excel in your duties and be happy, and that way you can help others as Janine has helped you. Maybe, no, most likely your family will never forgive you," Anji told the harsh truth. "They have a right to that. But you are alive, save lives, and educate younger scouts not to end up like you. Don't give up; hang in there, heal, and let me help you, 'kay?"

Kalaisa gave a single nod. Anji relaxed a bit and pressed a finger to her lips. By the looks of it, her comrade had taken her advice to heart, but leaving her alone in her paws felt wrong. Dad did not leave anyone in trouble, daring to come to the rescue even in the most remote villages. She won't drop the situation either.

"Capital. Get up; we go to the base, clean you up, and go straight to Alpha and come clean to her about everything."

"Anj, I don't care what happens to me, but you can't expect me to rat on my warlord. For all her flaws, she is our leader and has always risked her life to save us when our PA failed…"

"That is exactly what I expect from you! If I ever become as irresponsible as Ygrite, I expect you to kick my ass and report me. You know Onyxia acts like Ravager, right? She drops out of the shadows, gives orders to the wolf hags, and fucks off back into the darkness, never training us herself. But every time supplies come in, she meticulously checks every detail—every shardgun, every grenade. And if she doesn't like something, Onyxia sits down, writes a report, and doesn't leave until our equipment is up to her standards. Because our lives are at stake, and that is how a warlord should act." Anji tapped on the table to calm herself. She hadn't expected to be so riled up about Onyxia's eternal absence from the pack's life. "Here's the thing. If we go to Janine, she will talk to Ygrite and hardly anything will be resolved. Onyxia is still on the mission, and Ashbringer hates your guts…"

"The feeling is mutual," Kalaisa muttered. "I am going to get that ferret one day."

"…Alpha is not safe, but she is a problem solver. Kali, this is your duty. Our duty at this point. For the sake of not only the soldiers under your command, but for the sake of Ygrite's entire pack, we must put an end to this incompetence. Ygrite may be a genius at ambushes and traps, and perhaps she is truly willing to give her life for her soldiers. All this may be true. But we cannot allow her indifference to the equipment in her pack to cost any more lives. So what is your answer, Kalaisa? Are you with me?"

"I am. But we will tell the full truth and let Alpha judge me as she will." Kalaisa stood up, ready to move toward the exit, when a piercing howl filled the corridor.

"What in the name of the lightless Abyss' bowels is that?"

****

A police officer.

The police officer barely had time to open the door before a giant Wolfkin stormed past him and into the interrogation room. Impatient One, as the woman called herself, paced the room, towering over the seated woman who had a crimson implant for an eye. The reports said these two were sisters, but to him, all Wolfkins looked the same.

Am I a racist? The man wondered, desperately trying to find any differences between the women, aside from their size. The same color of their natural eyes, heavy fur coverings, and even their hair were pretty much the same.

In the past few days, the situation in the city became unstable. Not because of Wolfkins. Today's four were the second to be taken into custody, the first being Warlord Martyshkina's wolf hags, who drank themselves into a stupor and had to be thrown into a drunk tank for everyone's safety.

But criminals of all kinds have become extremely active, trying to smuggle huge amounts of ill-gotten gains out of the city. The higher-ups were informed of this and attributed the result to Tancred's influence. The sword saint had already brought more than a dozen smaller gangs to justice. Even though their cells were filled with criminals and the streets were getting safer by the day, the police officer felt uneasy. It was as if an unseen storm was gathering, and no one seemed to care.

I must be getting paranoid. Decided the man.

"You are a complete disappointment!" Impatient One barked at Anissa.

"Listen, I can explain." The other woman raised her paws.

"I don't think you do."

"No, really! Armed thugs stormed into the bank; we snapped and…"

"And you let the bloody male take the lead!" Impatient One shook her fist. "I commend Kirk for his determination, but you should have taken the initiative and gotten the first kill! Didn't Mother and I teach you better than that?" She leaped on the table, ignoring the police officer's worried look. Raising a finger, Impatient One continued. "Why did you rip out that bastard's chest if you weren't going to eat him? People got scared! Kill efficiently! And why did you pull a spine out of another?"

"I…" Anissa licked her lips, "may or may not have used it as a club."

"A… club. Instead of the noble blades you were blessed with." Impatient One stopped speaking, shaking with rage. She released her claws, and the police officer shuddered at the size of them. Impatient One grabbed Anissa's throat. "I will choke the life out of you for this disgrace!"

The police officer reached for a button on his belt and pressed it, summoning the riot squad. He had experience with New Breeds, of course; they committed crimes just like anyone else. New Breeds were stronger and faster, and they were usually apprehended by other New Breeds or shot with tranquilizer darts.

But he had never seen people like this. Impatient One and Anissa turned into a blurry ball, kicking, slashing and biting each other. Their weight crashed into the table, and as they rolled around the room, hitting the walls and shaking them with the impact of their titanic struggle.

"I will peel the skin off your face!"

"Time to see the color of your guts!" Surprisingly, their voices did not sound angry. They reminded him of times when he and his sister played silly pranks on each other and swore revenge, only to burst out laughing.

A splash of blood fell on his face, and the police officer wondered if he should try to stop it. But how do you stop a fight when you can't even see the fighters? Where is this damn riot squad?

He breathed a sigh of relief as the officers in green power armor, wielding large shields and clubs, rushed past him. Immediately, they surrounded the fighters, pushing the ball of violence into the center of the room, slamming their shields into the floor to get a better foothold, and bringing down their maces. Electricity crackling, the weapons meant to knock out suspects had landed on the black-furred forms. Again. And again.

"Is this a joke? A grandmother can hit harder than this!" One of the Wolfkins shouted.

"Put your soul into it! You are the soldiers of the state, not some wimps!" added the second.

Neither of the Wolfkins even stopped struggling; they were still hacking, kicking, and tearing chunks of flesh from each other as they snapped at the policemen, more annoyed at their weakness than at their interference. One officer shouted an order to bring in the tranquilizer rifles.

"Anissa! I came as soon as I heard! Are you fine…" A monster straight from hell scuttled into the room, moving quickly on many legs; its chitin-covered body barely squeezed through the doorway, and the newcomer coiled inside the room, raising his head to the ceiling. "What the horror is going on here?"

In the end, it took sixty darts before the perpetrators finally fell asleep, snorting loudly and still holding each other by the.

****

Brood Lord.

"My friends!" The khan spread his arms wide to greet his troops.

He stood with his back to a burning pyre, and hundreds of Purebloods, Dirtybloods, and bondsmen greeted him, banging their golden cups against wooden tables that stretched a dozen meters each. Every food imaginable was here, alcohol and chai flowed like rivers, and beautiful women and men stood ready to serve their every whim. It annoyed him to waste his riches on sacrificial lambs, but Brood Lord needed them in high spirits for what was to come.

His keen eyes scanned the room, taking note of the ambitious and the cowardly gathered under his command. Only these could pose a problem, for they could see the pattern and try to save their hides before doing their jobs. It was no bother. Brood Lord had been playing this game for decades, and he had already figured out who to keep and who to discard. Everything will happen much too fast for anything to go awry.

"What is the best way to topple a nation?" he asked, walking through their ranks, goblet in hand. "Is it to attack, attack, and attack, as Iron Lord Khan claims?" The soldiers laughed. "Overwhelming force is simply not enough if we are to preserve our skins. Eventually a bullet finds its mark! No, my friends. In your eyes I see a true understanding of how the world works. Fear is what paralyzes the hands that prepare to pull the trigger. It is the will that must be broken!"

Brood Lord drew himself up to his full height and drank rice mead, tasting its honey and feeling his hearts race faster. Droplets of sweat from the long celebration glittered in the flames. Drozna was sitting, surrounded by a host of men who fed him grapes. The fingers of his loyal follower caressed their backs. Phaser lingered in the shadows, covetously and meticulously checking his share of the day's trophies. Farther back, the hired killers, the twins, stood watching, never joining in the festivities as usual.

In their loyalty, Brood Lord wasn't sure. But their skills were valuable, and he had decided to dance with danger and tolerate their presence. There were safe ways to dispose of them.

"Tomorrow we shall erode the Reclamation Army's confidence and remind them of the savagery. Their city will suffer and burn, their leaders will die, and fear will touch every corner of their nation. Their wall, hopes, and dreams will crumble amid it all." He saluted his troops. "You know your targets, but do not stop there. Murder and desolate, do not retreat until you have fired your last bullet. Let them wail in horror at the sight of piles of corpses in the streets; let them know that their order is lost. And as our forces break through the wall, our steeds shall march upon the backs of broken and frightened populace. Our raid will haunt their dreams to the end of days!"

He paused, waiting for a slave servant girl to refill his goblet. She had a nice, muscular build, and the blackness of her skin was simply irresistible. Brood Lord decided to taste her first on this night.

"Some of you will die. I may die," he lowered his voice to give it gravitas and briefly softened his face. "Doubtlessly, you have all experienced loss. Brother, mother, sister, father… By your strength, you have stood where they fell! Conquest is in our blood! If we die, we will go out as martyrs, saluting the Sky and watching as our horde crushes the unbelievers!" Brood Lord yelled. "And to the survivors go the spoils. Glory! Wealth! Women! Lands! Slaves! To each their own, and our prey has it all in abundance! It is a great land, but one swollen with the fat of peace, while you are in your prime! So as you face your fate tomorrow, know that whatever it may be, it won't be in vain! The Horde is merely beginning, and our deeds will go down in legends! Slaughter for me! Victory for Mad Hatter Khan! Devour the world and prosper!"

"Devour the world!" The roar of his soldiers surrounded him, and Brood Lord smiled, basking in their adoration and enjoying their stupidity.

There will be prosperity, but it will be reserved for the survivors. Mad Hatter will conquer the world. These willing pawns will pay the blood price for it. And he will rule it.

 

[Rookie12]

Day 24: Early morning.

Keon shuddered, trying to overcome the splitting, pounding pain that threatened to split his brain in two. He heard voices, but they came as a din, and no matter how hard he blinked, only murky shadows filled his crimson-stained vision. He tried to stand and found ropes biting into his arms and legs, securing him tightly to a wooden frame.

What… What had happened? Keon concentrated on his memories. He and Emily decided to visit a movie theater and stumbled upon a crowd in a dark alley. A man invited him for a ride, but Keon declined. Then a multicolored flash devoured everything as a bat connected to his head and Emily... What happened to her?

"Where is she?" A whisper escaped his lips, and Keon's leg touched a wet, hairy broom. Why was there a broom on the floor? He didn't understand.

"Wakey, wakey, shitstain." A finger snap in front of his nose sent another surge of agony through his head. It was torture just to see anything, let alone concentrate on anything. "Time to rise and shine."

"I didn't ask you to open his head, Raffy," said a cold voice, and another shape appeared before Keon. It sounded familiar.

"A minor inconvenience," the first voice responded mockingly. "What matters is that he is here, right, boss?" Even through his confusion, Keon heard the sheer venom in the man's words. "It wasn't all bad, you had to admit. We even started to settle the score for what those barbarians did to my men."

"Layman. Go on, play your succession game, and leave us." Gentle hands touched Keon's face, lifting it, and a soft cloth cleaned his inflamed skin. A bottle was pressed to his swollen lips, and the soldier drank hungrily. "Apologies, Keon."

"Who… are you?" the soldier asked in a hoarse voice, spitting out teeth.

"A kindred soul, cruelly torn from its homeland. Like you, I have witnessed my country vanish in conquest," the figure said in a soft, sad voice. "The homes we grew up in are gone or abandoned, the streets where we had our first kisses are buried under the sand, and our friends and family are scattered everywhere. Our cultures, our languages, our very identities are on the verge of disappearing. And for what? So that the Reclamation Army can say 'Mission Accomplished' as it chokes down another helpless nation?" the speaker spat. "You and I have been given a unique opportunity. Fate has maneuvered us into a position where we can do great harm to the Reclamation Army and possibly cripple this colossus. The salvation of our way of life has slipped from our grasp, but vengeance is within our grasp."

The speaker cleaned Keon's wounds, wiped the blood from his swollen eyebrows, injected medicine around his cracked cranium, and bandaged the gaping gash in his head.

"Revenge?" Keon managed to ask. Images of toxic waste and towering blocks of stone, erected on the orders of Techno Queen and the lifeless land, flashed through his mind. "How are you going to do that?"

"For every force, there is a counterforce. We will use a beast to wound another. The details will be revealed to you if you join us, Keon."

"What will it solve?"

"It will bring justice to the dead," the voice insisted. "Do you mean to tell me you have not lost a friend, a loved one, or a family member to the war that was forced upon you? The Dynast is merely another warmonger masquerading as a liberator. By his actions, you can judge his true nature. Was your country perfect? I doubt it. None is. Did it deserve to die?"

"Die? No," Keon said, regaining his will. "It did not deserve to perish, nor is it dead. The land is not a place or a stone, nor is it a language or a culture. It is people, and they live on, carrying their dreams and finding their purpose in the lands of the Reclamation Army. You say the Dynast is a warmonger. I cannot deny that. I will go further and say that the man is a monster. Only the ultimate monster can bind beings like Commanders Ravager and Devourer to his will."

"Then you see him for what he is! He and that cursed serpent throw entire nations into their melting pot to boil until every shred of individuality and uniqueness is lost.…"

"There is merit to your words. The Dynast is a monster that devours the worst monsters," Keon interrupted the speaker, shaking off the last of the dizziness. He expected to whimper and beg for mercy, but strangely, fear no longer gripped his heart. "He is also the chainbreaker, the liberator, the builder, and the unifier. Perhaps he deserves a bullet for all that is done under his command. I am not a philosopher or a judge; all I know is that my people found a second chance under his leadership and that my loyalty is to him and the Third. To take revenge on the Reclamation Army is to harm my own countrymen and the woman I love. I refuse."

"Such foolishness," the voice said, giving Keon more water. "You are so blinded by propaganda that you are deaf to the cries of the innocent lives lost in conquest. Keon, I do not want to harm you, but I must tend to the bigger picture. So many countries exist in the world, big and small, and every single one of them is under a threat as long as the Reclamation Army exists. Perhaps if we had extracted you more carefully, if I had more time to explain to you… But today is an important day and I have little time. Go to your woman, Keon."

To your woman? The realization sent a shiver down his spine. Keon whimpered, mourning not for himself but for the dear soul who had accepted him and beside whose warm body he had shared nights dreaming of the future, planning their retirement and one day returning to Houstad. He tore at the restraints, understanding that it wasn't the broom next to his leg, and a gun was forced into his mouth.

A shot pierced his brain, and Keon, a man who had traveled so far to see the Core Lands, saw nothing more in his life.

****

Day 24: Midday.

"Sorry for the blunder we have caused." Janine stood at attention and the mayor motioned for her to sit in an armchair.

Jaquan's office was not what she had expected. She thought it would be drowning in opulence, as magnificent as the ancient building itself. But once Janine passed through the massive stone columns and took the elevator to the fifth floor, she entered a plain white office with a vast window behind the mayor's desk that looked out onto the crowded plaza. Wooden bookcases lined the walls, and a single picture of the Three Great Commanders dominated the left wall. Next to it was a detailed map of Houstad, casually marked in several places.

The mayor's leather-upholstered chair seemed a bit too rough, and Janine knew the morbid reason behind it. One of Houtstad's first mayors was caught embezzling funds from the city budget. The Dynast made an example of her by turning the woman's remains into an eternal reminder for all future servants.

"I do not think we should be dwelling on this event," said Schalk, offering an oversized glass of wine to Janine. "Several thugs died, boo-hoo. Who's going to cry about that? Should we really bother the mighty berserker who stalled Blood Graf with such trifles?"

"I didn't halt him at all." Janine shook his head. "He crushed me in a single blow."

"Schalk, stop licking boots of your superiors and act your rank," Jacomie ordered, sitting sourly on a sofa. "Kids saw guts spilling on the floor. That is no way for soldiers to behave in the Core Lands."

Janine nodded in agreement. There have been many misunderstandings over the past few days. Upon getting a leave, dozens of black-furred bodies charged across the streets, crept under the bridges, climbed on the roofs, sniffed everything they could and left marks for future groups. The police had to physically stop a wolf hag from scent-marking the statue of Devourer in the park. Janine herself had to calm the distraught woman, who was ready to offer her head to atone for the shame. Soon, another mishap occurred.

Her cubs and the soldiers of the Ygrite pack were involved in a bank robbery. The standard protocol for such an event was to surrender and let the police handle things, who often captured the criminals without firing a shot. To her great shame, no one explained such a tradition to the Wolfkins, and they reacted naturally. The news sang praises, elevating Kirk to the status of a national hero for saving a cub, and by the Spirits he deserved every ounce of glory. But Janine suspected that hearing the gurgling of the dying and the desperate pleas for mercy had disrupted the sleep of many civilians present on the scene.

Their problems weren't over there. Impatient One initiated a bout at the police station, seeking to cheer up her sister. The two woke up in a different cell to a police therapist, who quickly became concerned after inquiring about the sisters' childhood and the reason for their intense aggression.

One problem followed another. Janine was burning with shame and worried sick about her girls when the news of Alpha's arrest reached her. She still had no idea what exactly had driven the strongest warlord into such an unusual fit of rage. It happened during the celebration of Kirk's bravery. The party soon grew into the base-wide explosion of fun and debauchery that came to an abrupt halt at Dragena's and Alpha's arrival. Alpha nearly caved in Ygrite's skull in front of the shocked state's journalists and kept beating her until Captain Cristobo arrived.

The police had to get involved, but Ygrite, of course, chose not to press charges. Janine still did not know what this all was about, but Dragena now never left Ygrite's side, and the weakest warlord sat down and wrote several reports, resulting in Chak's complaining about a sudden obscene amount of work dropped at him. Alpha was taken to the state's jail and spent her time discipling local druggies and alcoholics into changing their ways or dying at her claws.

"Come on, ma'am," Schalk said. "The city will be cleaner without some trash littering the streets."

"Regardless, we should have known better," Janine quickly interjected before the lieutenant could speak. "On behalf of the Wolf Tribe, I offer our sincerest apologies. Should you ask for a blood price…"

"I will hear none of it." The mayor slammed a hand onto the table. "Warlord, I understand that savagery is a way of life in the north, but here we act as civilized people. Your soldiers…"

"Not all of them are under my command. Alpha is...."

"Irrelevant. They will do community service under the supervision of Sword Saint Tancred Ironwill, who has taken on the role of protector of the city. Not that there is much to protect against, but they can clean streets and serve in soup kitchens…"

"Fur," Jacomie said angrily.

"Yes, right," the mayor allowed himself a smile. "Well, we'll find something for them to do," he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Why can't your kind be normal like Ice Fangs? Your cousins have already mostly left the city, checking on their fiefdoms and schools, spreading their majesty everywhere. And your kind seclude themselves and act like barbarians."

"We are the barbarians," Janine reminded him.

"But you don't have to be! I have received a report that six of your kind have visited the therapy clinic. Six! Out of thousands!" The mayor pressed his hands together. "Our mental institutions are a far cry from those in Iterna, but they can aid your people in overcoming traumas. You may feign a strong façade…"

"I will not," Janine said, remembering Colt. "There are times when even we need help."

Therapists, or soothsayers, as the tribe called them, were a constant source of contention among the shamans. Soulless One believed that their interruption softened the warriors, creating a potential risk for greater casualties. Other shamans calmly pointed out the clear improvement in the souls of those who had dared to visit the strange mind fixers. Janine had no strong opinion about the matter. She once stumbled upon Kalaisa's and Anji's joint exercise, where two wolf hags skated down the street, falling, getting up, and learning from each other. Then the two played chess. It was a beneficial exercise in bonding, but try as she might, the warlord could not understand how it helped with Kalaisa's aggression.

"And we want to help!" Jaquan put a hand to his chest. "Trust me when I say it; I want to see your people integrated into the Reclamation Army at large to see your children attend schools and universities. The state is willing to spare no expense, and the Wolfkins are not inherently inimical to a peaceful life. Cinemas, theaters, markets, and stores—are all open for you, and my heart sings when I see Wolfkins visit them." Jaquan shook his head. "But so few do it. It's as if you don't want to live in a world you helped create and would rather wage pointless wars."

"Pointless? Elaborate." Janine demanded, quenching her anger before a growl could escape her lips.

"Take your last conquest. This Tecno-Queen. What have we won?" Jaquan met Janine's eyes. "A fat nothing. The land that can't be used, we got thousands of new mouths to feed, lost loyal soldiers during the conquest, and your own tribe ended up being bled dry on the campaign."

"We stopped Techno-Queen…"

"Don't give me that crap," Jacomie sneered. "I've read the reports and spoke with the captain. She ruined her own country. It was only a matter of time before it became a necropolis sticking out like a sore thumb in the Wastes. And we just walked into a hornet's nest and got our asses red. Death is all you brought home."

"And lives," the warlord rebuked her. "You are wrong, Lieutenant. Had we waited, hundreds of cubs would have died…"

"Matters of another country…"

"Don't interrupt me ever again, Jacomie." Janine stood up over the soldier. Her sudden move caused an unusual sensation, as if unseen eyes were hardening and examining her back. She ignored it; no doubt the mayor had his own defenses. "The Dynast's will is clear. All are to be united under his banner. And we can't do that if these people are dead. Even if you don't care about lives, think of the danger. Techno-Queen wasn't some crazed ruler or politician we can ignore. No, she was an evolving threat that desolated a country. By eliminating her, we may have spared our own country from a future invasion."

"Again with the same argument," the mayor groaned. "Warlord. I deeply respect the Third's action. But look at Houstad." He gestured to the window. "For all our splendor and glory, we still have people living in slums or on the streets and migrants huddling in barracks. There is a clear shortage of available housing. Yet two quarters of our annual budget goes to support the armies. Two quarters! Can you imagine what we could have done with those resources?" A light came into his eyes. "Renovation of run-down neighborhoods, orphanages to house war victims, new factories to create jobs, and, of course, the construction segment! Rather than saving others, we should first solidify our own industrial base. Teachers, doctors, specialists ready to solve every hurdle the Wastes and the Ravaged Lands may face…"

"Those who don't feed their own army are bound to feed the army of another nation," Schalk recited an ancient proverb.

"Rubbish." Jacomie tapped on the sofa, getting Janine's attention. "You spoke plainly; let me return the favor. These rumors of invasions from afar? They are nothing but fear-mongering to keep our war machine going, to make people like you feel needed and heroic."

"I disagree with this assessment. You are not fully understanding what you are talking about. The danger is real. The Core Lands were invaded in the past," Janine replied, keeping her cool. There was an honesty in Jacomie that she respected. Of course, the woman was clearly misguided in her views.

"And we crushed the invaders! We, the Provincial Army, did all the heavy lifting while our armies conquered elsewhere." The lieutenant's fist clenched. "And I know what I am talking about, Warlord. My tribe were peaceful people who lived their own lives…"

"Ma'am, please…" Schalk tried to stop her.

"And you know what happened?" The woman ignored him. "One day the Second Army showed up, smashing our gates and shooting everywhere." She stood up, pointing at her waxy skin covered by scars. "I was six years old back then. Black-skinned. My mother tried to carry me away when a building near us caught a flaming bomb. The conquerors dragged us to the Outer Lands and declared us civilized. As if we weren't! And now the language of my tribe and our traditions exist only in museums and…"

"Jacomie. Enough," the mayor asked, but Janine raised her paw, requesting a word.

She bowed to Jacomie, showing the back of her neck.

"I am deeply sorry for what has happened to you and your tribe."

Janine meant that. To lose one's identity was unthinkable. Janine imagined the situation reversed: she dreamed of herself witnessing the fires devouring many tents in her village, soldiers dragging cubs away to be locked in orphanages, adults taken to the re-education camps, their religion dead, and survivors hesitantly searching for a job to feed their cubs, alone and isolated from the rest of their people… No, even though their cause was just, she wished no one to experience that kind of agony.

"Keep your soldiers on a leash, and we are even," Jacomie forced out a laugh. "It's all ancient history, anyway. Sorry for getting emotional, Warlord. My point was that there is simply no one outside strong enough to challenge us. Oh, I know of Iterna and the Oathtakers, but let's be honest, there is no new war brewing. We are allies now. Countries like in the Old World." She rubbed her forehead. "I am leaving to meet with Cristobo and Maxim. We will be at a shooting range, thinking about how to explain Alpha's shitshow to the press and how to avoid future incidents."

"Of course. Janine, we will solve the problems and get your soldiers cleared. Just please inform them not to start a ruckus in the future," Jaquan asked.

"I swear on my pride," Janine said.

She spent more times with the man, discussing Houstad's customs and Jaquan's plans to 'civilize' the Wolf Tribe. The mayor had grand ideas, ranging from moving the entire tribe to the lands east of Houstad, and Janine flatly refused, along with sending her cubs to the schools. Such a decision was simply out of her paws, but she agreed to command six hundred soldiers to attend the evening celebration of the one hundred and sixty-seventh anniversary of the creation of the Core Lands.

Jaquan revealed more of himself in their conversation, explaining that he and the lieutenant were officially members of the Restoration political party, an ever-growing movement attempting to persuade the Dynast to cease expansion and turn the state's attention inward. Their primary goal was the total removal of the distinction between the Outer Lands and the Core Lands, granting every citizen the same privilege of access to universal health care and bringing every settlement up to the standards of the Core Lands. Their short-term goal was to reduce the barbarism of the warring tribes serving the state, and the Wolf Tribe was their current prime target in this pursuit.

"I wish you the best of luck," Janine said honestly, indulging in tasty morsels known as shrimp. Their juicy insides slid easily down her throat, giving the warlord immense pleasure. "Mind if I take a few for my son…"

"No need. They'll be on the base's menu. My gift," Jaquan said. "I didn't expect you to show an understanding of our goal."

"Had I been younger, you'd offend me. Not anymore," Janine admitted. "I tried my best to convince Marco to try life in the Core Lands, but to no avail."

"Send the boy to me," Jaquan offered. "Officially, he'll be in charge of passing messages to you and working as my secretary. In the meantime, I'll try to give him a new perspective on things."

"I will give it a thought," Janine warmly thanked the man, leaving the office.

"Warlord!" Schalk caught up with her, slipping into the elevator at the last second. Janine had already had to squeeze in to fit, and with another person, it got cramped. "I just wanted to say that Jacomie Bronkhorst is a loyal soldier of the state, despite her harsh words. You can trust her with your life, so please don't…"

"There was no harm," Janine grumbled, trying not to smear the man against a wall. "Honesty is appreciated. You told me you and Jacomie were from the same homeland."

"The same town, actually," Schalk said. "My father served in the garrison. Got himself killed by an agent of the Second Army prior to the invasion. After the conquest, I decided to follow in his footsteps, minus getting killed, of course." The man flashed a strained smile. "The lieutenant and I first joined the militia in the Outer Lands before being transferred here as a reward for our service."

"I am sorry about your home and family," Janine said softly.

"Well, it's not like we can change the past, right? We must move on and live in the present." The man shrugged.

A buzz of the terminal distracted the warlord from the dark thoughts.

"Janine, what is it?"

"We have a problem," Chak said on the other side. "Keon is missing."

"You sure he didn't simply overslept?"

"Yes." Chak's mandibles produced a click. "Keon is a nice boy, unlike your flea-ridden rabble. Besides, his partner also didn't report to the morning training either."

"Tell Ashbringer, at once. Have her contact the police and see if he is in jail. I'll get back to you as soon as we find anything," Janine switched the channel, raising a finger to halt Schalk's questions while she called Till Ingo.

"Warlord," he answered in a calm voice. "I sincerely hope this is important and not a friendly call, as my presence has been requested for the pointless inspection of the power plant and my patience is at an end. Also, Banshee says hi," he added with a hunt of irritation.

"Good health to her and you. We have a missing soldier. I remember reports that you tried to recruit Keon, a recruit from…"

"I know who it is," Ingo interrupted her. "He turned down my offer, and no, I don't know where the boy is. Report to me immediately if you find him, Warlord. Yes, Agent Piam, I am ready…" the researcher cut off the communications.

"Something happened?" Schalk inquired as the elevator stopped at the first floor. Janine stepped out and briefly explained the situation to the sergeant. "Keon, huh?" he whistled. "I remember the boy and the girl; they were in a hurry to ditch us while we escorted the wolf hags to the cinema. Perhaps the lovebirds built themselves a nest and forgot about the time? Ah, the wonders of youth," he giggled. "I'll ask around for them; it shouldn't be hard to find them in one of their usual spots."

"Thank you, Schalk," Janine told him.