Horde doom

[Rookie12]

When Janine stepped out of the city hall, the bustling street greeted her and the loud honking of dozens of passing cars. To this day, the sheer volume of people living in Houstad boggled her mind. Life surrounded her from every side, not the kind that waited in crevices to prey on unsuspecting travelers. Mothers walked their cubs in parks or met their laughing little ones as they hurried off buses to get home after school. Future soulmates played ball or whispered intimacy in cafes. It was nothing like the Wastes.

A trio of cubs raced down the stairs of a store, racing to a bus, and a mutant girl had tripped on her knotted tentacles. Janine stepped to catch her before the girl's head smashed against the pavement, but another colossal black form outpaced her.

Eled caught the girl on her palm and joked to the terrifying cub, eliciting a chuckle out of her. Gently, the warlord placed the girl next to her friends: an Orais boy, already as tall as a grown man, his body covered with short brown fur and boasting impressive biceps, and a Normie girl who was a beanpole compared to the boy. Their cheers and pleas for an autograph brought a smile to Janine's lips.

Marco would have been happy here.

It was a miracle. Cubs of different origins laughed, studied, and, yes, the suspicious timing of the girl's fall didn't elude her, cheated together. No one was afraid because of their appearance. Marco would have fit in well, even if she still didn't understand how the teachers prevented the Orais cubs from murdering anyone by accident. Abyss, Houstad even had special schools that nurtured and helped mismatched cubs find happiness and purpose.

Could we be wrong? Janine wondered. Her wounds healed, and she was back in her prime. Fighting had made her who she was. But the picture of males and females being equal, the absence of domination matches, and the lack of the need to prove superiority over and over again tugged at her heartstrings. What if there was another way for the Wolf Tribe…

Foolish. She reprimanded herself, focusing on what was important. The Orais boy was incredibly gentle as he patted his friends, pulling out a pencil for Eled to write in their diaries. Cubs raised in peace were hardly suited for the horrors of war, and that was okay. Proper even. They deserved to be happy; otherwise, what was all this for? But that happiness came at a price. This stability around them, this wondrous paradise… Should everyone be like the locals, the state will grow weak.

If they permit it to happen, there will be mere ruins littering the lands and chilly winds howling on the empty streets. The world was not safe, far from it. Janine and every wolfkin had to continue to serve, watering the fertile soil of their nation with their blood until every corner of their world was united and peace was established.

"What news of our sisters?" asked Predaig, rising from a bench before the city hall.

"Servitude for a while," Janine answered.

"I found an awesome bar nearby!" Martyshkina boomed, placing an elbow on Janine's shoulder. "Say, how about we taste some of the beverage they pass for booze around here?"

"We need to pick up Alpha, and our soldiers went missing," Janine briefly explained the situation.

"Eled can do it," Martyshkina pointed to the warlord, who was giving the Normie girl a piggyback ride. "Anything to keep her away from the cubs before we end up being silly on the news."

"Too late for that," Predaig said in a raspy voice, pointing to the crew of reporters. Martyshkina groaned in frustration.

Janine wanted to refuse, but remembered the mayor's words.

It's as if you don't want to live in a world you helped create.

What was the harm in seeing something other than war? Ravager herself demanded that they know Houstad, and she could do nothing to help in the search for Keon.

"You know what? Let's go. Predaig, please keep Eled out of trouble. The task of escorting Alpha out of jail falls to you. Ashbringer is in charge of searching for our missing troops. After we are done." Janine eyed an ice cream shop. "I have a promise to uphold."

"Want to get sick again?"

"Shut it, Marty."

****

Brood Lord spread his arms, patiently waiting for his servants to mount the battleplate onto his body. Overlapping plates covered his inhuman, sinuous legs. Wires went into sockets, and a jolt of strength brought a smile to his lips. The initial phase of the raid was the most dangerous, requiring his direct intervention. He would have to be the first to step through a portal, to set things in motion.

The thrill of uncertainty was exhilarating. Will everything go as planned? He maneuvered the pieces on the board to his liking, but any plan could easily fall apart. Behind him, his troops were gearing for battle, ready to slaughter in his name. The twin assassins tossed their knives up and down, relaxed. Drozna tensed, pacing back and forth, annoyed at having to miss the action. There was no danger of betrayal from them. One lacked the desire, the other the brains.

But there were others, those he had entrusted to lead his portion of the Horde in the coming assault. The ambitious rabble, impatient for any sign of weakness that would allow them to usurp him.

"The Horde values strength," Brood Lord said, licking a slave who was strapping his pistol to his belt. The woman became so submissive after he ate the second of her five children. "Are you strong, Phaser?"

"Valuable," screeched the thin man, waving his claws in the air and setting up the portals.

"Valuable." Brood Lord moved his humanoid hand, testing the gauntlet's fingers. "Do you remember that bullet of the Old World we found in the ruins? So unique, elongated, richly encrusted with unknown metals, and shining like the morning sun. When Mad Hatter gifted it to Iron Lord, he melted it down to learn more about the alloys involved in its creation. That was the limit of its preciousness to him. Many Purebloods sought to kill me for the origin of my birth, and I forced them to bow." He gestured to where his Brood and the soldiers stood. "Can you do the same?"

"No," the mutant answered cautiously. "What's this about, Brood Lord?"

A pincer closed around his neck, and Phaser froze, blinking nervously.

"Khan. Brood Lord Khan," Brood Lord reminded him. "By my force, I have earned that rank. Just checking to see if we are on the same wave, my friend. I know of your visit to dear Mungke. If I disappear, the Purebloods won't tolerate you. Not as equal. Even Dirtybloods may enslave you, and you know that they can break you into submission. Everyone breaks." He stroked the slave's cheek, regretting that she no longer served him poison. It was good for his stomach. "You lead a pleasurable existence thanks to my might. No Brood Lord, no rank, no wealth, nothing, but servitude." He let go of Phaser and let the slaves work.

The cables of his generator joined the assembled plate, and it added its rumble to the din of the lesser models. The slaves attached a scabbard to his belt and filled his amotion pockets. Brood Lord inhaled recycled air, receiving updates projected onto his retina by his heavily modified version of a battle helmet. His little helper was busy sending to him the exact positions of his chosen prey and the sacrificial lambs. Brood Lord declined offers of adrenaline stimulants, trusting his own abilities to reach the state of supreme exhilaration where his perception would be heightened enough to slow even falling pebbles to a crawl.

His host prepared. Soon.

****

"This is exactly my kind of place!" Martyshkina laughed, landing herself on a chair.

It had been almost a month since the Wolf Tribe had arrived in Houstad. But it was only now that Janine understood what a labyrinth this place was. Her shoulders scratched the edges of the stone walls as they navigated their way through the narrow alleys that flowed into one another and another into three more. Hundreds of advertisements flashed on the masonry, and the homeless scavenged through the trash, looking for metal cans. Her every instinct called for a jump—to plunge her claws into the walls and reach the rooftops from where she could survey her surroundings.

Her friend led them to a small street bar, half-empty at this hour. A welcoming and familiar darkness greeted them inside, clouds of smoke hid them from the patrons, and low, unhurried, wordless music was pleasing to her ears. Judging by the bartender's warm greeting and the scents outside, this was not Marty's first visit.

Tentatively, Janine ordered an orange juice, sniffing the glass several times before finally tasting it with her tongue. Her eyes widened in delight and Janine gulped down the entire thing. It felt good! The taste was delicious and pleasant, as the addition of sugar took away the sourness. The warlord snapped her fingers and ordered more juice, mixing it with cognac.

"Care to explain what is bothering you?" Martyshkina hiccuped, emptying the first bottle. "Or should I beat it out of ya?"

"That obvious?" Janine laughed. "Marty, I am engaging in a little politics. I want to make a proposition at the next Gathering and was wondering if you…"

"Lemme stop you right here. Sorry, Jani, can't support you here." Hungrily, Martyshkina snatched a plate of fish from the bartender's hands.

"But why? You haven't even listened to what I want to change…"

"Because it is arrogant," Martyshkina replied. "Jani, the tribe is divided between civilian and military life for a reason. The shamans are the ones who help new mothers with lifegiving. They are the ones managing food, and it is only thanks to their cleverness that we have survived the famines. And yet, despite all this, they willingly serve us in times of war, risking their lives to preserve ours." Martyshkina put the glass away and folded her paws. "We, who spend our lives on the battlefield, who lead our cubs…" She closed her eyes. "We are the tools of death. They are the instruments of life. Both are needed, but neither should encroach on the territory of the other. If we try to lead villages as we lead packs, it may be tempting to cut our losses, so to speak, and force everyone to conform to our vision. But what if we are wrong? Gatherings, more than one warlord, the shamans created such a system to avoid tyranny, to let our people speak their minds."

"Then you are ignoring their wishes by refusing to listen to the opposing point of view and blindly voting for the shamans' side every time," Janine insisted.

"Well, perhaps I am a hypocrite. Or perhaps I don't trust myself enough to decide how the tribe should live! But that's not what's bothering you, is it?" Martyshkina roared and slammed her paw against the table, rocking the drinks. Janine quickly waved her paw to the patrons to show them that everything was fine. "Jani, I saw your hesitation in the fight against the bull. I had spoken to Bertruda…"

"You did what?!"

"Don't look at me like that, sister." Martyshkina pressed her forehead against Janine's, locking eyes with her. "I planned to break her for hurting you, but she was kind of sad, and her description of a battle threw me off. The Janine I know never held back in battle, consequences be damned."

"The Janine you knew grew up."

"Bullshit! You nearly broke my back when we were cubs over that boy…"

"Wait, what the fuck, Marty?" The bartender asked.

"Shut up! It was a phase!" They cried in unison, still looking at each other. Martyshkina continued. "Jani, I am sorry. I am sorry for being so consumed with my own problems..."

"Don't be," Janine interrupted her. "Don't you ever dare to downplay the importance of what has happened in your life. I should have…"

"You did." Martyshkina grinned, still sober. "Eled, Zlata, Predaig, even Anissa that one time…"

"That obvious, huh?" Janine said dejectedly. "I've… Subtlety is not my thing, but I couldn't… I was worried, okay, Marty?!"

"Jani, I'm not mad! It was sweet!" Martyshkina hugged her. "Thank you! Thank you for caring. But that is over now. I am not yet back in my sane mind, but I feel better. Tell me honestly what's bothering you before I claw an answer out of you! If I am still your sister in blood and friendship, trust me!"

Janine sighed, emptying another glass of cognac. It's true, in the past, they always shared everything with Marty. Boys, fights, sorrows, victories, treats, secrets… When one got hurt, the other treated her wounds. When one suffered defeat, the other would pounce on the victor. Janine filled the glass again, rolled the liquid inside and decided not to add juice. The two substances were better separated.

"It's about Terrific," Janine admitted, taking another shot.

"About that bitch? What about her?" Martyshkina asked bitterly, making Janine smile.

"She is… Terrific wasn't a bitch!" Janine looked weakly at Marty. "Well, she wasn't a bitch to me. Remember when I was weak in the pits and then I could take you in battle? That's because Terrific stood by me and pushed me to excellence. Under her care, my body had healed; she nursed me from a near grave to my peak." Janine put aside the glass, reliving the past. "The warlord was a bad person."

"You mean a monster," Martyshkina said. "She broke our ribs and limbs to torture those little ones."

"Should I call the police?" the bartender asked.

"No need. Terrific is long dead," Janine told him. "Marty, she had a hard life. Terrific was one of the first generation, a person who stood by Ravager at the dawn of our tribe. And yet she was different. Her claws were so tiny, they barely left her fingers." Janine raised her own paw. At the end of each fingertip, every Wolfkin had wrinkled skin that was loose and baggy. Claws protruded from these places. Janine let out a few millimeters of her own claws and showed them to Marty. "Here. This is all she could do with them—not enough to reach for a jugular or anything vital.

"And she was weak too, not like other warlords who grow naturally. Marty, she trained—actually trained all day long, carrying tremendous weights on her fingers, injecting steroids, and fighting everything she could. She challenged other warlords over and over, even Alpha, and always ended up losing. At the end, it was the shamans who promoted her to warlord after the tribe grew big enough. Can you imagine this shame? To obtain the long-desired rank, not through strength, but through pity-victory. It was eating her alive, probably causing her to lash out in the way she did. But she cared for us. She helped with your transfer. She honed my skills, turning me from a useless wreck…"

"Useless? You think I'd waste my time on a useless person? Jani, a wreck would not have the guts to stand up to the warlord when she was about to off me. A useless person would not have persuaded me to team up and share food with the entire pits," Martyshkina said calmly. "Call yourself useless ever again, and I am dragging you to my therapist. Let's see you cry your heart out during a session."

"Well…" Janine stumbled and patted her friend. "I am quite large, can stop a lot of bullets, at least." They burst out laughing and refilled their glasses. The rebuke helped push back the poisonous self-pity. So what if her biological mother tossed her aside? Who cared? Janine had friends, sisters, family. "Thanks. I needed that. Marty, Terrific was… is like a mother to me. Cruel, ever-angry bitch threatening my friends, but still part of my family. That is why I feel like a traitor after murdering her."

"Okay, I am calling the police, ladies," the bartender warned, and a few customers hurried to leave the establishment.

"Go ahead. The MP has already investigated me and cleared me of any guilt." Janine waved a glass at him and continued. "It happened when Terrific captured the slavers' cubs. You know how she was; she had plans to slowly skin them alive to force the bastards into panic and swoop in, saving the hostages. And I couldn't stand it. Couldn't fail again. Those cubs were what, under eight years old? There was no fault on them. I…" Janine licked her lips. "I challenged her. I will never forget the look of utter betrayal on her snout. Terrific wanted either you or me to succeed her, but only after her death."

Marty chuckled, "Well, she can suck dick on that one. We have several warlords who have lost and reclaimed their ranks. Ain't nothing weird about that. Abyss, Ygrite lost her rank five times and jokes about it!"

"That may be true, but they earned their original rank by right," Janine argued, fighting the urge to grin. "Terrific did not. For her, losing a rank was the end—proof that she was unworthy of being one of the first generation. And when we fought, she refused to quit. And when we fought, she refused to give up. Marty, if you had only seen her fight, you would've forever respected her stubborn refusal to lose! She was weaker than me, but her ferocity is forever etched in my soul. But in the end, there could be only one victor. As I held her by the neck, pinned on the ground, she dug her fingers into my side and tore at my ribs. It enraged me; that stupid refusal to admit reality pissed me off; the fear for the cubs' lives drove my paws, and I snapped her neck. I've been dreaming about that moment ever since, wondering how I could've resolved it differently and saved my mom."

"It wasn't your fault." Martyshkina placed a paw on her shoulder. "Boo-hoo, the prideful bitch refused to go down and tried to kill you. Should you have coddled her into submission?"

"Maybe!" Janine snapped. "Maybe it's what I should have done! Each new warlord must be better than the last. Soldiers who died under my command, civilians I failed to protect... Imagine how many lives would have been saved if I had reined in Terrific?"

"Janine…"

"Good, bad, it doesn't matter, Marty. We have to grab them both by the ears and drag them, drag them into the future. This is the only way the tribe can grow."

Martyshkina said nothing to it. She simply poured more drinks into their glasses, and the two friends toasted in memory of those who were no longer in this world.

****

Brood Lord smiled, opening his helmet. A leader had to set an example, and he walked bravely to the crackling line in the air. It spread to his left and right, forming a V-shape and opening a gateway onto the road. His front legs carried the khan through the portal, into the realm of honking horns, where white-furred mutants played on the sidewalks, escorted by the larger, black-furred mutants. Light danced in the hundreds of windows, people of many races chatting, oblivious to the complete upheaval of their way of life that was about to occur.

There were eyes on him. Brood Lord had expected it, the arrogant sword saint standing at the crossroads not far ahead, surrounded by his white-clad knights. The man came here for an inspection, carrying only his weapon. His whelps were the ones who posed a danger. They reached for their ranged weapons, noticing his oversized handgun.

It was too late. The mole's reports were correct, and Brood Lord quickly aimed and fired at the car driving toward him, liquidating the driver's head and shearing off the head of Maxim Puchkov, beheading the local police as he returned to the station. Pieces into places. Fear was a universal tool for conquering nations, but there was so much more to this art. Brood Lord wisely never taught his subjects everything he knew, letting them act against him based on the incomplete ideas of his modus operandi. Pretend to be stupid in order to survive and thrive.

The projectile left a wide gap in the car and kept ongoing, hitting a family in the next car, and the ensuing screams were music to his ears. And they were about to grow so much louder.

"Hello, wonderful place," sang the khan.

Countless portals opened all around the city.

 

[Rookie12]

Zlata laughed out loud, nearly spilling the soda as the bad guy's wrench on the screen missed the hero's head after the man ducked to pick up a coin. The evildoer lost his footing on the slippery floor and tumbled over the railing, mounting a cannon several meters below. His speed took the shocked man into the spin, while his mouth was opened in a wordless cry. Little ones in the cinema cheered as the oblivious hero went about his day, oblivious to the attempt on his life.

Hot popcorn showered over a sitting close cub, and the boy whirled, returning the favor in kind to his friends who had sneaked up on him. Their parents began apologizing, but Zlata simply shook off the popcorn stuck in her fur and stuck out her tongue at the mischievous youth, too absorbed by the atmosphere of joy in the cinema. Old movies were fun!

She had eased up in the latest weeks and deeply regretted that none of her friends could come up today. The wolf hag eagerly picked up phrases from the films and hungrily studied the ancient architecture, shocked to the core at the sheer safety of the ancient times. There were no skinwalkers prowling in the darkness, no ravenous monsters lurking beneath the sand, and no rampant slave gangs trying to carve out a nation for themselves. It was a paradise, and it saddened her how much the humans didn't appreciate what they had.

But truth be told, she was guilty of the same vice. Was she not the one who shunned doctors, like the Blessed Mother? Not anymore; once they returned to the villages, she'd do her best to change the Wolfkins' perception of their trusted allies.

A gunshot jerked Zlata out of her blissful mood. She was already on her feet before a hole appeared in the screen. People stopped their laughter, standing up to the faint screams coming from the corridor.

"Is this part of a show…" asked a blond man in a black leather jacket.

"No," Zlata said, narrowing her eyes at the fist side hole in the doors. "To the emergency exit, at once!" she snapped and grabbed the confused man by the collar. "Don't just stand there; lead everyone out…"

The world shook, and the doors came apart in an explosion of burning wood. A triangle shone in the swirling smoke, and Zlata growled, recognizing a visor pattern. It was a mistake; her growl alerted the intruder, and bullets raced through the smoke, spearing her chair as the wolf hag jumped. She pushed the panicked crowd out of her mind, ignoring a little one being trampled by the bodies rushing to the second exit, the dead and wounded falling, light shining through the holes in their bodies. Zlata kept her focus even when a bullet hit a little one between the eyes and her brain splattered on the seat.

Don't anguish in a battle. Do what is possible to preserve lives. This was Martyshkina creed, and Zlata bounced off the ceiling, landing in the swirling smoke. Her claws raked against the metal, gouging deep lines into the suit. A metal hand grabbed her by the wrist, and she was kicked in the stomach, hard enough to make her spit blood. No matter, she still lived. Zlata broke free, shuddering from the shot to her stomach, and stabbed into one place she was certain her claws could penetrate.

The visor. Her eyes adjusted to the smoke, and she saw a large, chubby even, figure bedecked into the heavy plate. The tips of her claws shattered the reinforced glass, and she plunged her fingers to the full length into the eyes of the screaming enemy, falling alongside him into the corridor. A burst of gunfire ripped through her abdomen, and splinters rained down from above.

It was a slaughterhouse there. Mere twenty minutes ago, the corridor was full of the running cubs, cartoon cutouts, adults, and personnel roleplaying as the movies' characters. There was life, calmness, and a tasty smell of hot butter. Broken bodies now lay on the floor, arms and legs missing. The disgusting odor of released bowels permeated everything. Three more fat bastards fired indiscriminately, downing everyone in sight. There was no logic, no sense in it; the armored freaks simply enjoyed butchering, and it enraged Zlata. She twisted her claws, ending her opponent, and snatched his oversized machinegun from the dead hand.

A burst of fire cracked power armor and tore chunks of flesh from her left leg. Zlata rolled aside, scowling at the realization that her femur was shattered in several places. She lifted the dead invader and used him as a shield while she fired at his fellows. The one she aimed at was thrown a step back. Dents covered his chest plate, and a trickle of blood appeared from the joint of his elbow.

"Useless garbage," Zlata muttered the words, struggling for a breath. Her knee joint was torn, and the leg dangled on a string of muscles. "Shardguns are the best." T The battered bastard reached for a grenade. "Good, meat." Her vision dimmed, but the wolf hag took aim and fired, exploding the grenade in the steel fingers.

She embraced the rage. It was what kept her alive and awake. Holes, more than she cared to count, covered her body; one lung gave out completely and she was kneeling in a pool of her own blood, her insides slithering out. That was it, the last test of her mettle. Ravager often asked: 'What were they willing to sacrifice to protect the helpless?' Zlata was willing to deny death for it, savagely tormenting her body for another second of life, embracing fear for those in the hall, and using it to fuel her life.

The grenade exploded, tossing the fatty aside. Two of his fingers cracked, and his companions lost their footing. That was the limit of Zlata's lucky shot, and she accepted it, running her trembling paw over the dead man's belt. The amber embers of her eyes flickered and faded, but the wolf hag wildly grinned, activated the grenades, and threw them in the general direction of the enemy. She didn't see the bright explosion that collapsed the entrance and flung the armored forms outside. She barely recognized the steel beams and the ceiling that came crashing down on her. Zlata fought for every breath, trying to find a weapon even buried under the rubble when her paws stopped.

Wolf Hag Zlata of the Martyshkina Pack bled out, stalling the attackers to give the citizens time to escape.

****

"Everything is in order." Till Ingo rolled his eyes at the data on the screen. The consoles' operators reported stability of the power grid. "Pointless." He frowned. "Where are these voltage drop disturbances, Agent Piam?" he eyed the woman looming over the operator.

Ingo was in a foul mood since the morning, and the summon only served to sour it even further. The dragon, that flying vehicle of the dead Horde's leader, refused to yield its secrets. He took it apart, marveling at the exotic reactor of this ship. The researcher had expected it to be a regular plasma reactor, but it was a rudimentary proton engine, a technology long stuck in Iterna's grasp. If he could understand how it worked, the Reclamation Army would be one step closer to unlocking the secrets of the wireless energy transfer. The implants in his head urged Ingo to continue, infected by his enthusiasm, but the scientist remained cautious. Slow and steady wins the race.

The cursed soldier of the First had woken up every victim of Techno Queen, and his students reported that the children had befriended Banshee's siblings and often played ball with them. This disturbed Ingo to no end, for if the information about their inhuman origins were to reach the press, it would leave a mark on their lives. In an act of petty revenge, Till Ingo immediately gave the order to test the heavy ordinance on Daion, using his volunteer guinea pig to test the abilities of the recreated combat intelligence, whose schematics he had gleaned from Techno Queen's knowledge.

Finally, this. There was a power outage yesterday, suspiciously timed to coincide with the attempted bank robbery. It reached a hospital in the south, and several patients in the emergency ward died during this short period. Furious, Till Ingo sent an official complaint to the Dynast, demanding the removal of the Minister of Health if the woman was dumb enough not to supply hospitals with the additional generators. Then came the invitation from the Investigation Bureau.

"The reports didn't lie," Piam said in a steely voice; her artificial eye gleamed. "There was interference. If we have a virus or a backdoor in the system…"

Till Ingo raised a finger, halting the woman. Reports filled his eyes about spatial anomalies happening all around the city. He slowed his perception of time, trying to make sense of the situation when an elbow rammed him into the chest.

"Dad, duck!" Banshee screamed. "Watch out everyone!"

Sizzling cracks appeared on the platforms that overlooked the Operations Center. They widened into lines, and before Till Ingo could say a word, armored bodies stomped out of them, carrying oversized rifles. The researcher gulped, expecting an offer of surrender or anything. These iron-clad giants stood three meters tall, and the helpers in his head readily confirmed that, based on their expanded bulk, these New Breeds shared the same heritage as those who had attacked the settlement.

The Horde wasn't done. It came for them.

There were no battle cries or taunts. The invaders aimed their weapons down and fired with deadly efficiency, eradicating the trying-to-run operators, while three of their number jumped down. Their hands slammed into the helmets of the security guards, pinning the men to the walls, and weapons barked, sowing death. An Orais threw an operator into the opened corridor and closed the distance to the nearest giant, grunting as the projectiles drummed over his plate.

His opponent was still turning after killing a Normie guard, and the Orais' foot caught the Horde soldier in the knee, sending him sprawling. Long arms, each capable of shredding power armor without the added aid of the security suit's synthetic fibers and servo motors, closed in on the helmet. The Horde soldier's head was jerked aside, his gorget and neck cracked under the pressure, reaching for his shotgun.

"Piam, get out of the open…" Ingo shouted, and his daughter grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him behind a console.

"Dad," she hissed, "the bitch is with them."

He looked at her incredulously, thinking that Banshee went crazy from the stress when Piam's head swayed from side to side, her features flowing and reforming into the face of an unknown woman, her hair growing longer, and the artificial eye falling to the ground. Even her uniform melted and solidified into a green trench coat.

"That Khan," the woman masquerading as Piam hissed, "it wasn't needed."

She nodded after an armored giant shouted at her words in an unknown language. The woman headed for the control center, and the Orais tried to bar her path. His shotgun fired, and armor-piercing slugs disappeared into the depths of the green coat, bringing the woman no discomfort. She swung her arm; fleshy growths sprouted on the leather, spitting out bone blades that impaled the guard. Legs, arms, chest. Against his will, Ingo marveled at the precision with which the bones were immobilized without damaging the arteries. The bones turned into elastic muscle whips, and the false Piam flung her opponent into the open corridor. She continued her advance; the elastic muscle whips shifted to become barbed living wire, and it whipped at the guards trying to stop the creature. Legs snapped, arms bent at impossible angles, blindingly fast whips bisected weapons, but left the guards alive.

Banshee peeked out of hiding and fired her coil gun Ingo had handcrafted for her. Blue energy flew out of the barrel, hitting the Horde soldier on the platform top right in the head. A round hole appeared in the helmet, and the body toppled down, while Banshee screamed in pain, clutching her shoulder, lightly nicked by a ricocheting bullet. Another shot hit bounced off her bone ridge, and the third sheared off her earrings and a piece of flesh from her ear.

Till Ingo punched the console before him in frustration, got up quickly, and dragged the wounded operator to safety. The woman was missing everything below the waist. The scientist calmly injected her with the experimental nanomachines. It was an unfinished product, one that fell short of his expectations due to its immaturity. Instead of creating metal legs, it will simply stop the bleeding and preserve the host's life at all costs. After that, it will take another injection of another set of nanomachines to remove the first ones from the bloodstream so that prosthetics can be installed.

Screams, gunfire, hissing wires and explosions surrounded Till Ingo, but he wasn't afraid for himself. Not anymore. These degenerates had turned his precious student into a killer. Banshee was crafted for war; the readiness to kill was in her very DNA, but he came to respect and care for the pale-skinned girl, trying to guide her to a better future, first according to Ravager's wishes and then, surprisingly, his own. He often scowled and mocked her for falling asleep during lessons, and yet something in him drove him to cover her with a blanket more than once.

She deserved better. The people here deserved better.

They stole her innocence. An implant responsible for survival took over, joined by virtual combat intelligence. They killed his countrymen and brought war to his city. A cluster of nanomachines in Ingo's body synthesized stimulants, causing his forehead to glow. The researcher essentially relinquished control of his body to the helpers and receded into the background.

Hunting mode enabled.

Ingo's arm moved into his coat on its own, closing around the toxic gun. Just when the implants calculated that no one would pay attention to the spot to his left, his body slid there. The implants briefly navigated his body to appear from behind the ruined console terminal and fire at the wires behind two Horde soldiers on the platform above. A concentrated, searing beam of acid traveling at two thousand kilometers per hour burned through the wires, causing them to explode, sparks obscuring the soldiers' view. Ingo aimed quickly and fired twice at each of them, once to damage the armor over the heart and the second time to kill.

"Hide the wounded behind the terminals!" Ingo shouted as his body fired again, melting away the top of one console so Banshee could take a shot. His student didn't miss the opportunity, and another dead body dropped to the ground. "Activate the emergency, summon…"

He stopped talking, too shocked to his very core when his connection to the city's system was abruptly cut off. He received no panic calls from the police or the mayor's office, and there was no connection to the Net. White static filled the channels. The alarm systems weren't directing civilians to shelters; rudimentary artificial intelligence assistants didn't guide the police, forcing the officers to rely on old-fashioned radio communications. Advertisements blinked and disappeared, and one glitch after another piled up in Houstad as automated systems, under the conflicting commands of the unknown malware, began to create emergencies. Gas pipes exploded, traffic lights flashed brightly and spat sparks, massive displays relayed unknown messages.

This unknown malware only spared three locations in Houstad. Iternian Embassy, which came as no surprise. The terraformation complex's systems had held, saved by the software provided as part of the joint restoration treaty. And the last was the Inevitable, as the behemoth's crew had severed its connection to the city's network. The ruination was spreading; Till Ingo's implants nearly failed prey to it, and they whispered, angrily, in the back of his mind, trying their best to figure out what horror of the Old World had been unleashed today.

It was irrelevant. The source of this poison came from the control room, and Till Ingo stood up.

"Stay in cover," he ordered Banshee.

Many people called him a cold person. Even his sisters doubted his intentions. And there was a grain of truth in those doubts; Ingo almost stumbled countless times on the path of learning. He often dismissed good advice, forced his will onto others, and nearly ended his creation in his arrogance. There were allies who helped him stay human, and as a human, he intended to help keep Houstad safe.

A splitting headache gripped Ingo's brain; his forehead glittered like a New Year's decoration. The New Breed security team was already in the hall, and Orais faced up against the bulky giants. Despite the threat coming from the arriving reinforcements, many of the Horde troops sought to end Ingo, and his body jerked, manipulated by the helpers, dodging bullets before they left the barrel.

Cuts appeared on his body. It was a funny thing about precognition. If he had been able to predict the future flawlessly, and the simulations of his implants were far from that level, his body was still that of an overweight Normie. Knowledge was useless if he couldn't keep up, and as a shell hit his shoulder, Till realized that he certainly wasn't fast enough. His cut limb fell, and he braced himself for the inevitable death as a shot landed in the shooter's stomach and the second blue flash left a wide gash in his eye.

"You never make things easy for me, do you, Dad?" Banshee asked, helping Ingo walk. "Why are you risking your bacon out here?"

"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't call me dad, student. We need to flush the virus out of the system before half of Houstad is set on fire."

They marched on together.

 

[Rookie12]

With a trembling hand, Till Ingo injected nanomachines into his ruined arm. Relief came immediately, and the blood had clotted. The battle was still raging around them. Five Orais in heavy assault suits came in from the corridor, filling the air with the rapid fire of their autocannons. A sixth rushed in with flamethrowers mounted on his arms, the intense flames scorching the armor of the Horde soldiers.

The Orais' onslaught was cut short when an attacker burst through the wall of flame and kicked the guard in the stomach hard enough to crack the plate. A series of shots narrowly missed the guard's head as he closed in, engulfing himself and his opponent in flames. Ammunition belts exploded; the Horde soldier's machine gun melted in his hands, but the giant drew his sword and plunged it into the Orais chest. Mighty hands grabbed the intruder's wrist and pulled the blade free, just in time for the Orais to headbutt his opponent, laughing all the way. Strangely, the Horde madman, oblivious to the heat seeping through the cracks in his suit, laughed as well.

Banshee and Till Ingo ignored it and stepped inside the small corridor leading to the control room At the sound of the first emergency, the defense system raised steel plates to block the entrance, but the woman wearing Piam's face tore through them as if they were paper.

Pulsating growths covered the room inside. Red flesh connected every pimple the size of a man's body, and dark vines spread everywhere. Pools of crimson flesh swallowed whole terminals, and the room's crew was pinned to the wall, covered from neck to toe in the strange biological material. Both guards and operators had gags around their mouths, but Till Ingo was relieved to see them breathing, even if they were unconscious.

His first step was accompanied by a disgusting champ sound, and the reddish substance on the ground shuddered. The arterial vines joined together to form a web on the ceiling, digging into the walls in places. Till Ingo moved on, heading for a single untouched terminal on the opposite side of the room and gesturing for Banshee to stay back.

"We both know this is a trap," Ingo said aloud. There was no response; the surrounding vines continued to throb. "Based on your actions so far, you are not a killer. Let us negotiate."

"I am as many things as my mission requires, Till Ingo," a voice came from his left, and his aides began their calculations, trying to locate the unseen spy.

Human lips appeared on a vine, but a loud series of wet pops and cracks behind Ingo's back filled him with dread. He spun around just in time to see bones, ligaments, and muscles appearing in an innocent-looking vine in the corner. The top of the vine broke free from the mass of flesh above and whipped, heavily slapping Banshee against the jaw. She fell with a crack, dropping the coil gun. The vine lay next to her, sprouting appendages that secured his creation to the floor before a bubbling mass appeared at its center.

On an instinct, Ingo fired the searing toxic ray at the upper part of the mass, but his shot missed as the mass spread, creating a hole through which the deadly stream could pass. A hand, then another, formed from the flesh, and soon the woman in the green trench coat rose to her full height and met his eyes. A single hair whipped out, slicing through the toxic gun.

"Now we can converse in peace," she said and noticed his eyes on Banshee. "Your companion is alive. I merely dislocated a few vertebrae. I suggest you do what you came here for while we are speaking. There may not be time for it later, and neither of us desires more needless deaths."

Till nodded and proceeded to the terminal, flying his hand over the keyboard. Wary of the malware that overrode most precautions built into Houstad, he didn't risk establishing a direct link to operate it remotely.

"Your deeds don't match your words," Ingo said coldly.

"I am deeply sorry about your wound." The woman placed a hand on her chest and bowed. "The arrangements were clear; you were not to be harmed. It was not according to my plan, and the one responsible will pay. But I reject your implied accusation. None died by my hand. Collective responsibility is a sham, Mr. Ingo, and I am responsible only for what I have committed with my many arms. Every woe that befell Houstad resulted from the actions of its citizens."

"Keep making excuses," Ingo halted, trying to summon anti-malware programs. "How should I call you?"

"Trace." The woman walked over to the operators and placed a hand on the twisted leg of one. The limb jerked and straightened.

"What have you released into the system?" Ingo demanded. He expected to see some unknown device attached to the terminal, but there was a simple USB drive inserted into a slot. "I have never seen anything like that."

"A self-propagating virus. Your observation matches mine, as I tried to stop it as soon as I noticed the area of effect. It was meant to deliver a message, not risk causing untold devastation," Trace said dispassionately, healing the trapped wounded. "I assume my allies are unaware of its function. It differs greatly from their standard malware. A third party involved in our situation, I am certain of it. Mayhap it is even beyond your abilities to stop it now."

"How about a bet? If I can solve this problem, you will surrender," the researcher offered, smiling thinly as he discovered a possible approach to tackling the system. It was the experimental malware cleaner he kept in his aide, a crude copy of Iternian programs modified with what he had found in the ruins around the globe.

"I'm afraid it risks compromising my mission," Trace answered.

"Judging by your behavior, you are not in the business of mindless killing," Ingo stated. He briefly established the connection, and his aide released the hunter and shut down, already infected. The cluster in his brain showed unusual activity as they pitied their affected friend. "Riches, knowledge? What are you after?"

"You, Till Ingo." Trace checked a guard's heartbeat and frowned, sending more tentacles into the man's chest, returning color to his cheeks. "Bio-Tinkers desire the brightest and the smartest to assist in the glorious task of improving human biology, and you should be honored for attracting their attention. As an instrument of their reach, I have been charged with gathering you. Circumstances don't allow me to take you whole, but the brain will do. Do not worry, once the Great Mission is completed, we will reimburse you for such indignity."

"Bio-Tinkers, Great Mission" Ingo laughed. "Bollocks! I have seen the reports of hordes of biological horrors used in the anvil of war. Twisted, hapless, created for a single purpose. Vat-grown mutants, unleashed at the snap of your masters' fingers. There is no greatness in propagating such misery."

"None of them are sentient," Trace traced an old scar on the man's face with her finger, leaving perfectly smooth skin behind. "The Oathtakers forced our hands, forced the conclave to deny my brothers and sisters sentience and use them as the cannon fodder."

Till Ingo stood with his back to Banshee. He couldn't see his daring creation, but a whisper reached his eardrums, transmitted at such a low frequency that no one else in the room had a chance to catch it.

"Ready."

Wait. There is much to learn. On my signal. Till Ingo tapped a code on the surface of the terminal, disguising it as a gesture of frustration. It was a language they had invented together, a secret they shared. His ears didn't pick up the soft tapping, but Banshee picked it up loud and clear.

"Brothers… So you are not human," Ingo stated.

"We are the Second Chance, the intermediate link between the present humans and the next race." Trace nodded and removed her tentacles from the guard, giving the unconscious man a gentle pat. "I would recommend intensive medical checks for your personnel. Dying of heart problems is an embarrassing way to go."

"Another idiots seeking to eradicate the human race." Ingo shook his head, pretending to work on the terminal. The hunter program no longer needed his input, but the researcher attempted to buy time to learn more. "Can't believe there are so many morons obsessing over it."

"Eradicate?" Trace asked, an emotion of surprise creeping into her voice. "You misunderstand our intentions. Humans are our parents. How could we hate them?" she said passionately. "We do not seek to expedite the death of humanity in any way, shape, or form. We'd rather prefer to live alongside it."

"Under your guidance, I trust?" Ingo asked. "What is the angle of your cult, Trace? Do you plan to forcibly evolve every human or something equally wicked?"

"Your fear is understandable, but entirely misplaced," Trace said. "Bio-Tinkers have no enemies. Nor do the Second Chance. Neither I nor my brothers and sisters seek to subsume, alter, or control humanity. We cannot say that we love each and every one of you, but by and large, you are our kin, and I personally want nothing more than to become a doctor one day. In my own way, I weep over the deaths happening in Houstad."

"Why can't you be a doctor now? Why help the murderers?" Ingo asked bluntly.

"To collect you," Trace sighed. "And to obtain genetic material from extremely rare humans. The Gilded Horde is coming, hundreds of thousands of them, and unless I take you away, there is a risk of losing your potential to the world. Hate me if you wish, but you can't deny the necessity of the Great Mission." Till Ingo raised his eyebrow, and Trace stepped closer to him. "Consider the tragedy of the Old World. Our own history almost ended. The Second Chance was meant to lessen that possibility in the future. My future siblings will be perfect in every way, capable of surviving any conditions, and human at their core. They are the salvation of us all, and your mind will help design them."

"Perfection doesn't exist. There will always be a flaw to remove, a biological function to improve. Can't you see, Trace, that your Great Mission is, by its very definition, unattainable? It is a task without end; all the while you kidnap, kill, and maim for it." He caught a glimmer of irritation in the woman's eyes. "You actually agree with me. Curious. You have called yourself an instrument. Do you have free will, Trace?"

"I have faith that the conclave knows better. Certain limits to my freedom are unfortunate precautions for the sake of a better future for all." The light above flashed, and Trace took a terminal from the pocket that appeared on her arm. "Connection to the Investigation Bureaus has been restored. How naughty of you to stall for time after I was so cooperative."

"Wait," Till Ingo pleaded, placing a hand on the stump of his shoulder. "Last question. Were you created using the knowledge of the Old World?"

"No. The conclave had failed to secure data vaults containing the knowledge of the Old World biotechnology." Trace tilted her head. "Why do you ask?"

"Then you are out of luck," Till Ingo laughed and sat, leaning against the terminal.

Trace took a step, and the floor shook. The living ropes wrapped around Banshee broke, and the woman rose, snapping her neck and grabbing her head, forcing the dislocated vertebrae back into place.

"Hey," she coughed. "Get away from Dad."

Bone spikes shot up from the vine closest to Banshee, splintering centimeters away. The bone fragments dropped to the ground. Vines moved, giving birth to smaller arteries; hands ending in claws emerged from the flesh, trying to tear the student apart, while organic ropes would bind her. Banshee's mouth opened, her lower jaw touching her chest, and Trace hastily carved a hole in her body, spreading her torso wide as she calculated the presumed line of attack.

An omnidirectional blast of sound liquidated everything around Banshee. It bounced off the walls and joined a second scream that tore through the throbbing web created by Trace. The agent formed a bone shield in front of her, only to see it shatter and hiss in pain as the third scream splattered her between the two trapped guards. The intensity of the screams from Banshee's mouth increased, and the organic covering on the floor raced into corners and was crushed into tiny spheres.

But nothing touched Ingo or the captives. Not a single hair fell from their heads.

Banshee often frightened him, Till Ingo was willing to admit this much. Where her vat-grown siblings were perfectly normal kids growing up, their youngest sister was different. As her hands touched the edges of the vat and her head showed from the green waters, she addressed Ravager and the scientist in perfect Common, claiming that she had heard everything. There was no secret in the lab that could be kept from her ears, and she often first congratulated confused students on finally deciding to become a couple. In time, such hearing became a bother, and Till Ingo made her noise suppressors in the shape of jewelry, giving the girl the same hearing as a normal human. She beamed with happiness all day long, testing them, jumping like crazy, screaming that it wasn't noisy anymore and that her head wasn't hurting.

Sound was her weapon; her vocal cords were capable of amplifying a simple sound to the point of leveling a tank. The ancient records stated that 'products' like her served as spies and assassins. But there was more to it. Ingo experimented with the Glow, trying to understand the mechanics behind the fact that it was giving powers to the few and ending the many. His results were inconclusive; there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the glow's power-giving, but it accepted Banshee, and she gained control of the sound by her. The student wielded it with perfect precision.

That was what hit Trace. A scalper of thinned and magnified sound caught the woman, wrapped around her like a cloak, and slammed her against the wall. Trace's eyes exploded, her fingers snapped, her body tortured and ravaged by the merciless waves of sound. Ingo was about to ask Banshee to stop when the agent's finger lengthened and touched the ropes holding a suspended guard.

Her whole body was sucked into this rope, clothes, and bones. Banshee's scream hit the wall, but Trace had already reappeared on the ceiling. Her right arm morphed into a thin bone blade nearing Banshee's head. The point cracked, stopped by a hastily created sonic shield. The tip cracked, stopped by a hastily created shield of sound. A sonic burst bisected Trace in two, but a bubbling mass emerged from beneath the floor and tried to close in on Banshee's legs. The student inhaled and screamed.

The scream shattered the ground and lifted Banshee, saving her from a reddish mass that was trying desperately to cling to the boot. Bone shards were shot from the mass, tendrils of hardened muscle unfurled, whipping madly in an attempt to bypass the sphere of sound around the student. Banshee screamed again, uprooting the mass from the ground. It twisted and contorted, suspended in the air as unseen pistons pounded on its surface, flattening it.

"Surrender," Banshee demanded. Ingo heard no response, but another scream opened a panel on a wall and the mass was thrown against it, flailing wildly as the currents of electricity raced through its body, burning the outer skin. "Give it up. Now," Banshee repeated. Listening to an answer deafened by the tearing and burning of muscles, she nodded and screamed again.

Covered by extensive burns, its outer shell darkening, the mass slumped to the ground. It gave a single, faint pulsation, trying to change, and slumped into a pool.

"Because you didn't kill when you had the chance, and you never aimed for my vitals," Banshee said to the black mass. "You really don't like killing, do you?" She gave Ingo a worried look. "Dad! How are you?!"

"Fine, Banshee," he grumbled, not sure what she was grinning like an idiot about. "Release the prisoners, carefully, please. What happened to Trace?"

"Incapacitated for a while." Banshee nodded at the dark mass. "But it won't be for long. Lying is bad, by the way," she said in the air, gently liberating an operator from the ropes. "I can hear your capillaries growing. Can you contain her?"

"I'll find a way," Ingo promised when the stomping of the approaching guards made him realize that they must have been aware of the screams and if the cameras were online during the fight… "Banshee, let me explain everything…"

"Guys!" The insufferable girl waved a hand to the barged in Orais. "Dad and I stopped the baddie; don't step on her by accident; she is our prisoner and can still bite. There she is, that heap of shit. Also, I am not a human, was grown in a vat."

Till Ingo stopped, clenched his fist and prepared to shout the order to stand down.

"So what?" the leading Orais stumbled. "The fuck am I supposed to do with the last part of that information? You want a medal or something? Help her get the people down and the injured out," he snapped to his soldiers.

"If you can find my earpiece, it'll be awesome," Banshee asked, touching the remaining jewelry on her good ear. "It's so noisy. People screaming, bones breaking, explosions and gunfire outside. It's rough." She licked her lips, sweating. "Tough," she added.

"Banshee," Ingo began.

"I'll manage, Dad," she assured him. "No drugs. Never drugs."

"Find the pretty thing for the girlie!" the Orais in charge told a Normie soldier, reloading his rotating autocannon. "As for us," he told his team. "On the road. Honor the Champion and the Dynast by spilling the blood of their enemies!"

 

[Rookie12]

Mindy struggled to fathom the reasons for Dragena's visits to Sitota's café. The woman was responsible for the deaths of their comrades, yet every morning since their meetings, the warlord had visited this place after her morning routine, always having the same breakfast and a coffee to go with it. Breakfast at noon! Who even does that? Mindy was hand-picked by Dragena herself to accompany her leader through the streets and to solve any misunderstanding involving the locals.

It was an important job, but the scout wished for a wolf hag or a shaman to take over. Why her? She wasn't that important or strong, and she didn't have any hidden potential, not even a single drop. When the warlord's inner circle caught her yesterday demanding answers, she simply offered them to dominate her, as Mindy had none. No one touched her, and the wolf hags asked—asked, not ordered!—the scout to keep a close eye on Dragena, as the greatest of their kind, did not understand social interactions.

"Um… Mindy," asked the brown-haired girl, and the scout raised her head from the counter. To her left, Dragena's fork clattered against a table. "Sorry. I can't get a thread through the needle."

"Don't be sorry!" Mindy smiled sweetly and gently took the girl's hand, showing her how to do it.

She sat the girl down in a chair and helped her sew the white apron. While the scout despised Sitota for murdering pack members, her cubs were another matter. Mindy genuinely enjoyed helping the little, hard-working buffoons. During their second visit, she secretly sniffed the cubs, searching for any drugs, and paid close attention to any scars, welds, or bruises when the sleeves of their clothes fell. But to her relief, Sitota took excellent care of her adopted little ones, and so far there wasn't a hint of a foul play.

Maybe people do change. Mindy shrugged, receiving thanks from the girl, and turned to assist the Malformed boy.

"You too?" Dragena asked off-handedly, placing eggs on a piece of bread.

"Yes." Sitota poured coffee for a patron. "Wished to be better, to match Reaper. And a bio-tinker was in search of a test subject." The murderer pointed at her void skin. "Wasn't worth it, but it helped me see the perspective and the foolishness of my previous trade. Maxim. Don't play near the machines. Go and have fun on the street." She chastised a boy who almost put his hand on the steaming pipe. "And you?"

"Since birth," answered Dragena.

"My condolences," Sitota said, handing the warlord a cup of coffee. "I'd have given almost everything to get them back."

The women never changed their intonations or raised their voices, which was unnerving to Mindy. Would it kill them to show a glimmer of emotion? The scout decided the killer was lying about the condolences.

"What was it like?" Dragena inquired.

Mindy stood up and walked out of the café, bored out of her mind. Wolfkins weren't made for idle chatter or sitting. An itch to move, to learn, to explore burned in every cell of Mindy's body. If she was weird by the standards of her kin, then Dragena easily crossed that threshold, stepping into the realm of the purely incomprehensible. A soccer ball flew into her snout as the scout opened the door, and she caught it, grinning wildly at the cubs.

There was a bet between her and the little rascals. If they managed to surprise her just once, she would owe them a pizza of their choice. They tried admirably: a bucket of water over the front door, pushpins on a chair, glue to her boots. But Mindy always was one step ahead, and right now she dramatically raised a paw and let the ball roll down her sleeve and over the back, caught it with another paw, and elegantly tossed the ball into a soccer gate. The ball flew past the cub, who tried to stop it, and Mindy bowed to the applause.

"Teach us how to do that!" a girl asked, staring at her intently.

"We'll still get you, you know," another promised, and the Wolfkin patted the pouting little one.

"One day," she promised him. "But you have to be creative about it." She sat at a table, enjoying the breeze from the river and stopping the chair from being pulled away with her foot. "To pull off a successful surprise attack, you have to become innocent and relaxed. Even your mind is better off focused on something else."

"Cartoons?" the girl asked.

"Good choice!" Mindy praised her. "Know that feeling when you can sense eyes on your back? It's the same here. When you try to get a quick one over me, I can read the intent on your faces. You are so fixated on an opportunity to see me go down to 'even the score' that you create circumstances when you miss that very opportunity. Let go of past frustrations and you may find your task easier than you think. But enough babbling." She clapped her paws and asked for the football ball. "No idea how to play soccer," she admitted, "but I can teach you a little of…"

A burst of static from the advertising screens stopped her. Electrical boards displaying ship schedules, traffic lights, even store music choked and died, and darkness and whiteness replaced everything on the displays as dynamics produced gurgling sounds. Mindy's paws were around the cubs' before a flash from a distant explosion illuminated them. Years of dangerous life in the Wastes had taught her this. 'See anything out of the ordinary? Grab the helpless and run!' was the saying her parents had drilled into her, and today it saved lives.

Bullets speared the places where she and the cubs had stood mere seconds ago. Fires engulfed a distant skyscraper, coiling around the walls and bursting out the sides with the falling burning figures. Explosives. Mindy was dreaded by the realization as the superstructure creaked and tilted, spilling torrents of stone, glass, and metal onto the street below. Thank the Spirits, it wasn't falling on the store, but it was falling, and Mindy's heart skipped a beat at the sight that seemed straight out of the Old World. The skyscraper, one of the tallest buildings she had ever seen in her life, fractured and collapsed, sending a tremor that reached here and a huge plume of smoke that spread across the sky like a dirty oil stain on the pristine water.

How many lives? Don't think; focus on getting the cubs to safety. Mindy kept rushing to the café doors, darting her eyes to the left, where armored giants appeared, four of them firing into everyone. A quick-thinking pedestrian pushed a family into the rivers and tried to tackle one of the killers, but was cut in two by a machinegun and a heavy boot stomped on his head. Dragena was already standing up when Mindy shoved the cubs inside and screamed in pain.

Fingers. The fingers of her right paw dropped after a single bullet caught her on the knuckle. How dare you? Blood soaked Mindy's uniform. The instincts took over, overriding even the desire to obey Dragena. Rage. She had never been so angry, not even after a wicked girl had once trounced her little sister, and Mindy had tracked the bitch down in the night, held a knife to her throat and threatened to kill the younger woman if she ever hurt her family again. It was an unworthy act for which she begged forgiveness, but the rage in her limbs burned far brighter.

Families killed, peace broken, civilians in danger. The scout blasted stones under her feet, covering twelve meters in a single leap. She landed on the shoulders of the closest armored prey, who was too caught up in firing at the sheltering citizens. The impact staggered him a little, and claws of her good hand immediately slashed at the neck, drawing a tingle of surprise from Mindy's throat. Her claws, the pride and joy of her life, tools that had convinced her precious soulmate to give her a chance, had broken off at the tips and were stuck in the rubberized neck guard.

What in the world… She had only encountered such durability only in the state's armor before. A hand closed around her ankle, and the world spun as the enemy slammed Mindy to the ground. She coughed, pushing through the pain, and kicked, her claws shattering against the groin guard. The scout tried to wriggle free, but the hand holding her easily overpowered the Wolfkin, and a single shot left a yawning crater in her side.

Sorry, everyone. Mindy blinked away tears and gasped frantically for air. One of her lungs was no longer in its place, and the barrel of the machinegun was pointed at her head. I won't be bringing back any souvenirs. Love you. Love you so much. Spirits guide…

A knife pierced the giant's head, going through the armor as if it were hot butter, and continued on to cut the arm of another attacker. Mindy raised her head just in time to see Sitota's scythe strike the third giant's visor. The seemingly frail and lithe woman brought the blade down with such force that it scraped the back of the helmet and pulled the opponent to her, hiding in his shadow as the remaining two opened fire. Their attack lasted no more than a breath; two more knives brought them down, and Dragena closed in on Mindy, briefly seizing the scout's jaw.

"Brilliantly done. Your war is over, Scout," said the emotionless voice, and Mindy prepared for a mercy kill, but the warlord merely glanced at Sitota. "Take the people to the nearest emergency bunker." She rose and pointed at the two customers who left the café. "Into the river, help everyone get back to the road. You three! Tourniquets and bandages; take belts and clothes of the dead if needed…"

"My customers are my responsibility," Sitota said. "I'd rather help clean up the city."

"And toss the children aside?" Dragena asked in-between giving the instructions.

"Stretcher. There is one on the second floor." Sitota turned to the frightened children.

"Mom…" The youngest stuck her thumb in her mouth, while the oldest cubs raced to get the object. "Is it going to happen again?"

"No," Sitota replied, placing a hand on the girl's forehead. "You won't find yourself alone. Promise."

"Warlord." Mindy tried to stand, almost screaming as she used her torn paw for support. Only a whisper escaped her mouth, but Dragena should have heard her. The warlord gathered her knives and walked away, speaking into the terminal. "I can still… Let me…"

"Wounded should lie down and relax." Sitota tapped on Mindy's head with the butt of her scythe, pinning the scout to the ground. "Bandages. We have an injured."

"Where do we don't have one?" grumbled an elderly man, trying to save a bleeding woman. He tossed a roll of bandages to the former assassin.

The scout obeyed, lying still and wondering about Dragena's words. How could a war end? Was she going to die? Would the gaping hole in her side, which tormented her like a sea of sharp claws, take her life? Or was she exiled for a failure to secure a kill? The answer never came, while several people turned her to the side and bandaged her wounds. Even that simple shift hurt like the Abyss, and she bit her tongue, silencing an urge to calm down a doctor who insisted that she needed immediate attention.

Carried on the stretcher, Mindy traveled through the city, the clarity of her thoughts clouded by a purple haze. Gunfire barked, terminals stopped working, wicked words spewed from the dynamics, and more than once the group paused to help more unfortunates and grow in numbers. Doctors tended to the wounded along the way, and when they reached the bunker, the scout thought she heard the barking of shardguns, and that brought a smile to her face as she slipped into unconsciousness.

She awoke briefly to find Sitota standing guard over the entrance and the youngest cubs clinging to Mindy, shaking from terror. Trying to stay conscious, the scout hugged them, calming the little ones to the best of her abilities.

Monsters came to Houstad. Well, the city had its own monsters. And the invaders made them very, very angry.

****

Jaquan took a sip of thirty-year-old cognac and rubbed his head, trying to compute the reason behind the Wolfkins' aggression in the jail. He had already prepared the speech, praising the familial bonds of the two sisters, even if their way of showing affection was unusual, but to be honest, he preferred to deal with Kirk and Ignacy rather than their belligerent comrades. The vices and the reasons of those two were human enough for him to understand, but the females remained a problem. If only the therapists had agreed to disclose their sessions, then he would've learned more of the tribe's inner politics and traditions. But his request was sternly denied, along with a reprimand for even suggesting such a breach of ethics.

Culling of sickly cubs. Of elderly. He took another sip, disgusted at the laws his sire had implemented. There were tragedies in the past, created out of hasty desire to modernize societies unfit to it and a long death toll weighted heavily on the conscience of every figure of authority in the Reclamation Army. Be it the Restorers led by Devourer or the Expanders under the wing of Outsider and Ivar, no one wanted another genocide. Ivar opposed it to preserve his supposedly unblemished military record, and Jaquan opposed it because it was heinous, pure and simple.

But surely they had the means to solve the culling problems altogether. His Supreme Authority could have coughed up enough budget to build nice, cozy retirement homes in the Core Lands. Jaquan did his homework. The Wolf Tribe as a whole had a fear of losing its identity. It wasn't unfounded; many males and low-ranked warriors had been known to lose their wits and mental acuity over the years, eventually being reduced to the level of an infant. That was the problem, and the solution had to lie in extensive research on individuals like Predaig who didn't exhibit these syndromes. These days, even a genetic abnormality was somewhat treatable.

This left the problem of the youth, and that part of the puzzle was both the easiest and the hardest to solve. More nursery homes and more factories to produce augments will ensure cheap replacement organs and limbs in addition to boosting the economy. But when Jaquan, pleased with his unparalleled ingenuity, presented his idea to the Dynast, the Supreme Authority pinpointed the problems of tradition and religion. To force the Wolf Tribe into the reeducation camps was unthinkable; it would be both a betrayal and a spark for civil war, for if one tribe could be mistreated there, why not another?

Still, there wasn't a reason to give up. He had to find a way to address Ravager, and Lacerated One graciously accepted his invitation. The Supreme Shaman seemed to be reasonable enough, albeit suffering from a mental disorder. Since they were at peace, it was for Lacerated One to decide about lending Predaig to research. No matter. Where there was a will, there was also a way. The Wolf Tribe was no more irredeemable than his own people or the Orais. He just needed to find the right approach to tackle the matter.

"How soon will the families' heads arrive?" Jaquan contacted his secretary to distract himself from overthinking.

He had received disturbing reports in recent weeks, and the disruption of construction schedules was his greatest concern, as the conquest of Techno-Queen's lands would undoubtedly bring in more citizens from the north. New housing districts were scheduled to be finished by yesterday, but instead a former Benguigui had organized a robbery. Clearly, there was a miscommunication between the parties involved, and the mayor hoped to resolve it swiftly.

"They apologized profusely for not being able to honor your invitation, Mayor Jaquan," the secretary responded. "I've made inquiries, and the families' heads are gathering for the supposed annual meeting at the Benguigui villa. There have never been annual meetings at this time in previous years, and the place is heavily defended."

"Stalling, then." Jaquan surveyed the plaza below, nodding in silent thanks to the priests and charity workers who distributed aid to the poor and gently escorted the worst of the homeless to the psychiatric facilities. "They are playing 'wounded pride' over the Ice Fangs' involvement. It will not stand. I will not be disrespected in my city."

"The police department has shown an outstanding willingness to remind the families of their place, sir," the secretary suggested, guessing his intentions.

"No, a show of force is needed, unfortunate as it may be," Jaquan sighed. "Get me a list of mercenary companies in Houstad that are clean of war crimes. If the families won't have civility…"

The contact abruptly dropped, and the mayor raised an eyebrow at the hissing of the screens around the square. Confusion turned to panic when the screens exploded, showering the townspeople with shards of glass, and the mayor immediately pressed the button to call security. There was no answer, and he heard the heavy thuds as his bodyguards tried to get past his jammed doors. Jaquan took a step to open them from the inside, when suddenly there was a hiss in his office.

It was coming from every electrical device, but the loudest din was emanating from four thin columns rising from the floor. Jaquan wanted to examine them and was thrown aside in the explosion of wood and metal. His protection against contingencies, hired at the request of his secretary after the robbery, smashed the entrance to the hidden room and motioned for the mayor to lie on the floor.

Once the best assassin in the city, Reaper had paid an impressive sum in favors and tokens to have every millimeter of his outer skin replaced with the silver alloy. His head was now stylized to resemble a skull; dim lights burned in his eye sockets, for Reaper rarely approached his targets inconspicuously. Cybernetic enhancements had greatly improved the man's body, but beneath the layer of silver there was still a human body, forever doomed to be fed through an IV. Reaper raised a needle gun and fired twice into the opening wounds in reality.

Armor-piercing needles struck two approaching figures coming out of the unfolded portals. They clutched at their necks, shuddering in excruciating agony as blisters grew on their skin and pus clogged their throats and lungs. Two of the invaders never even set foot in Houstad, dying wherever they were. That was Reaper's style. One shot, one scratch, one wound, one kill. Jaquan was shocked that the man still used the forbidden poisons from his work as an assassin, but now was not the time to argue.

A burst of fire forced Reaper to leap aside, and a bullet shattered the glass in the trembling mayor's hand. Hulking monsters stormed in from the portal, and Reaper faced the first of them with a stab of his short blade, infecting the man. The second crashed into the bodyguard, and the two rolled around, losing their weapons and turning into a blinding whirlwind of kicks and punches, flattening everything in their path.

"Guards!" Jaquan yelled, then screamed as the window to his office exploded; a shard of glass ended up in his arm, and a tongue of flame licked his wound. More panicked shouts and noises of gunfire came from outside; people—his people!—were dying out there. "Guards! Guards!" the mayor wailed in a high-pitched voice, wetting his pants.

He wasn't a fighter; he never killed anyone, and the sight of criminals being burned always shocked him to the core. Just because Jaquan knew the merits of violence didn't add to his bravery. So when his guards broke down the doors and finished off the giant who was trying to strangle Reaper, Jaquan wept with relief; his legs trembled with horror. Alone! If he had not listened to the advice, he would be dead now!

"Sir, are you fine…"

"Not thanks to you, idiots!" Jaquan snapped at his bodyguards. "My arm hurts. Reaper, you live?"

"These were exceedingly difficult to kill," Reaper answered, retrieving his weapons. He touched his neck, running fingers over the dents in his body.

"Connect me to the police office, to the Third, and to the Provincial Army," stammered Jaquan as his secretary arrived, while the bodyguards most uncomfortably removed the glass from his wound. "We also need the Dynast. And open the direct channel to the city. Why are the damn emergency sirens not working?" he roared in infuriation. They paid good tokens to install a security system that should have guided the citizens to the bunkers and assisted in the evacuation.

There was hell outside. The mayor briefly glanced before Reaper and his bodyguards almost pinned him against the wall. There were shootings, explosions, buildings burned, and dead bodies lay broken on the ground. Jaquan clutched his chest, wondering if he should bite the cyanide pill. Not to escape the Dynast's judgment, the hatred that he had experienced for himself right now was worse than any punishment the liege could hope to mete out. But his death might allow a more competent person to take over, since he clearly failed in his duties.

All he ever wanted was to build land without war, a land of opportunity to heal old grievances and to nurture the next generation. This... this was worse than any nightmare he had ever experienced.

"Impossible, sir," the smartly dressed woman shook her head, gulping nervously at the sight of the dead body. "Communications are down, no one is answering our calls, and the police are forced to use the radio for coordination."

"What… Never mind." Jaquan slapped himself. "We are heading out; I'll address the people in person. Bring the maps with the evacuation routes."

"Sir, it isn't safe out there," a bodyguard said.

"I know it's dangerous, you worthless imbecile!" Jaquan roared into his face. "If it isn't safe for me, then what about everyone else? So for once in your useless, incompetent life, do your jobs, patch me up, hit me with an adrenaline shot, and protect me for once while I try to organize the citizens before more get hurt in the confusion."

"Should we send someone to your husband, Mayor?" the secretary asked. "And perhaps enlist the help of the families?"

"Romuald has guards…" Jaquan stopped; his eyes turned round at the realization. The families. The stalling, strange behavior, refusal to answer his summons, and weeks ago Raffy had insisted on taking a picture with him in this very office, sealing a pact of partnership. "Families…" he hissed, his lips curling to show teeth. His life? Fuck it, there was a room for forgiveness. But innocents outside? "Reaper. I have a job for you."

"A contingency was stopped." The man's voice fluctuated between a pleasant, rich, masculine voice and a broken screech. His voice modulator had been damaged in battle. "Do you have enough tokens for another at hand? Credit cards don't seem to work, Mayor."

"Screw the tokens!" Jaquan pointed at the window. "Houstad has turned into a battlefield! We risk going back to savage times!" He jumped, covering his head with a good arm, when a skyscraper fell. Calming himself, the mayor whimpered, trying to sound certain. "Make your choice, Reaper. Reclaimers, independent or the invaders?"

"I quite prefer civilization." Reaper stood at the edge of the broken window. He took aim and fired at someone below. "Reclaimer. But I'd rather do a job that helps Houstad."

"Trust me, it will." Jaquan smiled bloodily through his tears. "Clear the house. The secretary will give you the coordinates." He jerked his half-bandaged arm from the bodyguards. Fear threatened to paralyze him, to stop him in his tracks. If he didn't move now, he might chicken out. "Enough! We are heading out!"

"Sir, put on body armor at least!"

"Y-yes, this is a good idea," Jaquan agreed. His legs were shaking. But his duty waited.

 

[Rookie12]

Brood Lord kicked up the wrecked car and knocked it aside, ruining a store to his left. Grinning madly, the khan lunged, bringing three of his legs down on a van. The impact flattened its front, and the driver inside screamed as his legs and arms were reduced to rags riddled with bone shards. A single shot silenced the man, and the slug reached the gas tank, exploding the vehicle into Brood Lord's face. Fire and debris concealed him from the aiming Ice Fangs, and the Khan jumped onto the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on his target, who was helping a woman out of the wreckage. The khan's legs squeezed the life from a black-furred and a white-furred mutants.

"Weak!" he sneered, firing the handgun again, and a smallish white-furred freak disappeared in a crimson mist. His sword struck, cleaving through people trying to stop him. The bodies hadn't even touched the ground before bullets thudded against the khan's armor, and his pincer snatched a freak girl from the ground, strung on his pincer, skyward. "Whoa! None of that, fools, or the girl dies."

The Ice Fang hesitated long enough for Brood Lord to fire blindly at the commissioner's car. He sought to end a man known as Cristobo, the captain of this miserable rabble calling themselves an army. But the heavy slug merely kissed the cloak on the man's back, tearing a line of flesh as it cratered itself against the ground, and Brood Lord narrowed his eyes. Cristobo began his dodge prior to the shot. Surprising. Irrelevant. He pushed the girl before himself and positioned himself ahead of a store full of people, taking advantage of the lesser humans' need to protect their offspring.

No plan lasted long in battle. That was why Brood Lord had backup plans in abundance, and the roaring laughter left his lips, heard over the screams and honks as lights flickered everywhere and screens went white. Machine gun fire filled the air, grenade explosions followed, and the sweetest music of falling buildings reached Brood Lord's ears as his helmet closed, feeding information to his retinas.

Jagun engaged. Spread out evenly across the city, the butcher teams began to wreak havoc. Factories were spared, Brood Lord squeezed enough out of the captured diplomats to know that the Reclaimers would evacuate the population, and in the near future those assembly lines would be an adequate gift to the Merchants. No, the brave sacrifices wandered through the largest gatherings, planting explosives in the living quarters, and a group of bastards who looked too closely at his slaves were priming bombs in a skyscraper. Brood Lord activated those immediately, freeing himself of the obstacle. It was their fault for really trusting him; how could a man forgive a violation of his property?

Blood and death spilled to the street, but the Khan's keen eyes noticed the pockets of resistance. Mercenaries, doggies, large freaks resembling mystical ogres, and even worthless humans stemmed the tide of carnage in places. That, too, was expected. Today's goal was to send a reminder of the inevitable weakness and... Brood Lord stared at the approaching sword saint. Glory. All his, not a shred for Iron Lord.

"Slowpokes! Don't you care for your white hide expires?" He was jeering, luring the prey closer, when his pincer arm twitched in pain and the puppy slipped down. There was a knife between its chitin plates!

"I'll eat your guts for hurting Cordi," growled a small doggie, slipping another knife into his paw, and Brood Lord smiled, opening his helmet but still wary of the surrounding movements.

"Try it, pest," he offered to the arrogant lump of fur that barely reached his knee. The boy had slipped his knife, faked a throw at the khan's neck, and redirected it to his eye at the last second. But the blade swatted the knife aside. "Pathetic," Brood Lord said, enjoying the horror in the boy's eyes as his sword drew back, catching bullets fired by a larger black fur from the cover. "Sorry, was that supposed to be a clever ambush to blind me? No toss, kiddo. But such is the nature of an open catch; there are winners and there are losers. You liked my eyes, right?" Brood Lord blocked another shot, and the kid pressed a button on a strange device, but nothing happened. "Pay up with yours."

He raised his leg to finish off the gasping bitch on the ground and swung his sword to blind the arrogant boy, planning to inflict just enough pain to forever immortalize himself in his memory until their next inevitable encounter. Killing the kid instantly would be a waste; the khan never missed an opportunity to create an example of those who dared to tickle him.

"Fuck off from my squirts!" There was a roar from his left, and for the first time in the day, Brood Lord had missed his opponent.

The Ice Fangs were still paces away, and there were no police or provincial guards nearby. The only danger should have been the adults accompanying these small children, but out of the blue, a large black-furred female in an orange janitor's robe sprang at him and kicked into his sword arm. She drove him back! Brood Lord weighed twenty tons in his power armor, and this doggie pushed him away!

"How did you know I love when women throw themselves at me?!" he redirected his blow, cutting through her robe and a breast. The messy-haired Wolfkin cursed and grabbed the children, evading to the right just in time to escape a fired slug. In her place, a white-haired doggie appeared; her braids cracking like the tips of the whips. Three legs met her; one blocked two knives, another slapped her ribs, and the third pinned the woman to the ground as she groaned, trying to keep the sharp tip from piercing her throat. "So uncivilized." Brood Lord shook his head, raising the blade. "I had hoped you city dwellers could appreciate the sanctity of a duel, but well. You're not my type, but don't worry, you can still serve as compost…"

"Who else do you plan to kill?" A bardiche edge stopped the tip of the descending blade, and crimson eyes met the enraged eyes of the Khan.

At last. Tancred. Brood Lord calmed himself, disregarding an urge to lower the weapon down. There will be deaths aplenty in the future. Job first, then the pleasure. Acid bubbled in his glands as their weapons collided, and for a moment there was a network of blinding flashes. That doggie was good, the khan realized. His physical might, already superior to that of the deformed rug, sent the bardiche's head over the sword saint's shoulder, and immediately the man embraced it, turning his wide-open stance into a thrust with the butt of his weapon. A sharp hook at the end of it welted Brood Lord's cheek, and the doggie crashed into him, carrying the khan away from his intended quarry.

Their struggle led them into the store's wall, and Brood Lord dropped onto his back, taking the incoming slash on his curved sword. He kicked upward, landing the tip of his chitin column against Tancred's wrist. The block did little to stop the blow, and the sword saint jumped back, spitting blood as his own arm struck his jaw.

"You," Brood Lord said, standing up. He glanced to the left and right, as if noticing the approaching Ice Fangs and showing up soldiers of the Provincial Army for the first time. Exactly when needed.

He ran, charging past the two surprised Ice Fangs. There was no longer any need of hiding anything back; his sword sliced through their necks before those pathetic excuses for warriors could fire their second bullet. The helmet closed around Brood Lord's head, his pincer arm punched through the torso of an Orais who was dumb enough to stand in his path. A single shot ripped through a dozen civilians, and then he grabbed another black-furred female as she stepped out of an eatery. The claws closed, destroying lungs and the spinal column, and the road was free as Brood Lord tossed the still-twitching corpse at his pursuers, ignoring gashes in his armor.

Tancred was on his tail, gaining ground with each step, and his knights followed. Such silliness brought joy to the khan's dark hearts. Did they really believe their troubles were over?

"Phaser," the khan said into his helmet, unheard by anyone on the chaotic street. "The lesser quarry lives still. End it, but take care not to kill our 'pieces' yet."

"With pleasure, master," chuckled Phaser, eager to see some action at last. Another portal opened, releasing two full arbans.

Things didn't look so good around the city. Either Trace had failed or something had happened, for there was no report of Till Ingo's demise. Sad. There was a debt that the creature owed to him. He had hoped to see the look on her face when the priests dismembered her. Mad Hatter Mad Hatter planned to honor her promise to this creature, but what the Khatun does not know does not pose a threat to Brood Lord. After all, weren't the Bio-Tinkers future enemies? Why empower them? Well, at least the virus was still working, exceeding his expectations by far.

More groups were dead already, and the mayor had escaped their grasp. Unfortunate, but nothing overly serious.

"Drozna," he contacted his bodyguard. "Strike the nerve."

Brood Lord's smile widened as he heard the knights breaking into howls as he hurried to an opening underground. Time and place. There was time to escape and a place fit for killing. At large, everything was proceeding as he had envisioned.

*****

An insistent beeping alarm interrupted Janine's monologue. Even despite the alcohol threatening her mind, Janine immediately reached for her terminal, biting her own lower lip to blood. Clarity. She needed it. Her private terminal had several tones. A melodic tone for informal business. A siren for military calls. And finally, this sound…

Marco. She grabbed the terminal, noticing her location at the same time as a siren gave way, announcing a call from the base. Storming outside, Janine jumped up, not caring if Marty followed her. Marco. Today he ventured to a comic store, accompanied by his friends, Bogdan, and bodyguards from the Ice Fangs. Janine had only the vaguest idea what a comic shop was, but apparently they sold myths. She gave her son the tokens she could spare and asked him to bring back a good story.

If Kalaisa dared to touch my sons, I will murder her. Janine promised herself, burying her claws in a brickwork and climbing up, her terminal pressed to the ear with the shoulder.

"Captain Cristobo?" Janine asked. "What's the situation?"

"Warlord!" said a worried operator. "An urgent situation! The police chief has just been killed, and Captain Cristobo was attacked on his way back to base, along with the lieutenant …"

An explosion silenced the rest of the words. An invasion? Janine grabbed the terminal with both paws, using just her legs to propel herself up, and joined the communication.

"Kalaisa here. Cristobo is badly injured, Bogdan, and the others are trying to keep them safe from the enemy. Anji and I have joined the hunt."

"The people on the street have gone completely mad! They are attacking each other!" Eled reported in.

"Sword Saint Tancred, reporting for duty. We have the killer in sight; he is a Malformed of some sort. Pursuing him into the sewers..."

"No," came Dragena's calm voice. "Tancred, wait until Alpha joins you. All of you, the enemy used some sort of power to whip our people into a frenzy. Protect the cubs, break the limbs of the adults, no casualties allowed…"

Janine reached the roof and stood up to see columns of black smoke rising from the streets. To her north was a large main street, separated from her by a few dozen buildings. A crackling fire rose from the middle of the street, and the air itself shook as more crimson flowers spread across the sidewalks. Broken bodies covered in flames flew above buildings. The impact of the explosions sent parked cars back onto the main street, detonating them and spreading the destruction further.

To her west, a large skyscraper spewed fire as a hellish boom shattered windows on several floors, sending a torrent of deadly glass into the street and trapping people on the upper floors. In the distance, another skyscraper fell, flattening a row of residential buildings. The gigantic building splintered, its huge pieces rolling down alleys and streets or crashing into apartments. Cries of the dying, the frightened, and the panicked were heard everywhere. It was as if Houstad itself was screaming in a multitude of voices.

Screens showing advertisements or news blinked and turned dark, only to show carnage on the street, where wide-eyed people leaped at each other with fists or grabbed pieces of glass in their hands. With no regard for their own safety, citizens suddenly turned on each other, kicking and punching, leaving blood and bodies in their wake. Some screens have changed the view, showing the decapitated body of Maxim Puchkov and the corpses of Ice Fangs and Wolfkins, including several dead cubs.

More images flashed, and Janine spotted the woman who had struck Ravager on them, stopping a waiter from plunging a knife into a man's back. The one-eyed woman bravely hit the man with the cane again and again, shouting in his face that it wasn't him. She yelled for him to resist, and the confused waiter lowered his knife, shocked at what he was about to do. On another screen, Kirk tried to coordinate an evacuation, and the mayor encouraged citizens to flock to the 'black-furred savior' for protection. Soulless One and Melina held a crowd from rushing the orphanage, obeying the orders not to harm the civilians.

But such instances were few and far between. Most screens showed carnage at the hands of Houstadians. A woman suddenly tried to stab her newborn baby, and the husband retreated under a shower of blows. Fingers plunged into eyes, teeth sunk deep into flesh, hands tried to strangle life as crowds faced off, fighting in churches, on the streets, in homes and shops. The screens showed it in full, and Janine felt the urge to turn around and open Marty's belly for daring to take her from her precious baby. She would not stop; she will…

Janine shook her head, overcoming the mental compulsion to rage. Childish. There was an itch at the back of her head as her brain adapted, changing slightly to become immune to this blasphemy as her power decided it was a victory over an opponent.

"The Gilded Horde is here!" a gleeful voice thundered, amplified by the thousands of speakers. "Your walls have fallen. Your city offers no protection. We are everywhere; we come as we please and take what we want. Your armies cannot stop us, and your minds are our toys. Your rulers are in hiding, nowhere to be found, and you are all alone. Weep for your weakness. Submit and live, or resist and be trampled. These are the only choices left for you, weaklings."

Janine blinked to protect her eyes from debris when a flash of light happened to her right. Another explosion opened the roof of a building and heavy rocks fell on the alley below. Hearing cries for help, the warlord jumped into the opening. Inside was a half-naked man, his arm missing at the elbow, but steadily approaching the cowering children with a meat cleaver in his hand. The madman was missing an eye; extensive burns covered his body, telling the story of how he had somehow exploded his own apartment.

With Dragena's caution in mind, Janine grabbed the man by his torso, only to have him hack at her, screaming mindless obscenities. She didn't mind; the man's hatchet barely pushed her skin; wounded as he was, this poor person could never hope to injure her. Janine's lips curled in anger at the blows from behind. The little ones, three Normie cubs no more than seven years old, had attacked her, biting and punching.

"Enough," Alpha said a single word on the communication, and Janine embraced terror.

The Strongest Warlord unleashed her wave of fear, wielding it like an omnidirectional weapon. Inside the walls, people fell into each other's arms, trembling not at the cruel words or screams from outside, but at another fear—an irrational fear of dark and unknown places. This fear wasn't strong enough to cause strokes among the populace, but it was strong enough to disrupt any frenzy that came upon the citizens.

The man in Janine's hold relaxed and screamed in agony as his mind was freed from manipulation. His rage had held back the pain until then, but it returned immediately, accompanied by rasping coughs and frantic thrashing. Janine picked him and the cubs and jumped away from the fires to another rooftop where a small group of people, including the bartender, had gathered. They took in the wounded and rushed to tend to the man's wounds.

"Will Daddy be okay?" asked a crying girl. "I didn't want to get angry at him; I promise, I didn't mean to tell him to die!"

"It's fine" Martyshkina put her paws on the girl's shoulders. "None of this is your fault."

"Citizens of Houstad!" Janine's eyes became two round plates when she heard Jaquan's voice coming from a round orb of an Iternian drone flying over streets. More and more drones appeared, and the people on the streets stopped fighting, horrified at what they had wrought with their hands. "You have suffered from the emotional manipulation! Do not give in to despair; listen to our hero!"

"The Abyss, am I a hero?!" Kirk's voice joined him, but then he coughed and proceeded in a cracked voice. "Everyone. I know you've been hurt, but there are those who need help. Help whoever you can, bandage their wounds, remove debris, make tourniquets to stop the bleeding. If the debris is too heavy, call New Breeds or the Army. You are not alone. Help is on the way. Those who can walk, please escort the wounded to the shelters…" the passing drones projected holograms showing maps of Houstad.

"Our enemy has attacked the power plant's control personnel and unleashed an ancient virus of unknown origin to overload the power grid and make the announcement," Till Ingo's voice joined the command channel.

"Can you flush it out?" Dragena demanded to know.

"Did it already. There won't be any more sudden explosions, and screens should return to normal at any moment. I myself came under attack; Banshee has captured an agent, and we are now en route to my laboratory to conduct a thorough scan of our systems."

"Zero, protect him," Dragena ordered.

"Chief Emmanuel of the Iternian Embassy here, hope you don't mind us intruding on your channel," a cheerful female voice joined in.

"How did you…"

"Oh, please, as if we couldn't pick such a crude lock," Emmanuel interrupted Till Ingo. "Anyway, it seems like our drones malfunctioned and the mayor commandeered them by accident. Oops, sorry about that; keep them. Also, our crates of high-grade medical supplies simultaneously got spoiled, so we put them outside the embassy gates, and our medical staff mysteriously vanished without explanation…"

"Thank you for your help, friend Emmanuel," Dragena thanked.

"No idea what you are speaking about, Warlord."

"Abel and Eva of the Oathtakers Embassy here. Thank you for permitting us to use the channel. A member of our embassy was injured in the mechanical malfunction. On behalf of our nation, we are temporarily joining forces to avenge such an unprovoked attack. We have forty soldiers. Whom do you need to kill?"

"Zurkov here! I guess I am temporarily in charge of the police forces. We are fighting…"

"Predaig, Eled, change of plans, assist the people in the burning skyscraper. Janine…"

"I have my target, Dragena."

Janine was already jumping forward, accompanied by Martyshkina, heading west. Half a kilometer away, almost nothing. A howl touched the sky, and Janine added her voice to Alpha's, soon followed by Martyshkina and other warlords from across the city. Their chorus of rage soon drowned out the sounds of carnage. She did not need a HUD to know that at that very moment, the doors of the base opened and the packs sallied forth in full strength.

This horde dared to attack their city? There could only be one answer.

Death.

 

[Rookie12]

Janine ran across the rooftops, shattering the stones with every step. Martyshkina stopped briefly to rescue another family from a burning apartment. Janine's heart ached at the thought of losing her sons, but she refused to blame her friend for this decision. Normies had a right to expect their protection. They can't just let them die.

As she approached the pillar of smoke ahead, the barking of machineguns and the roars of her kin reached her ears. Janine reached the edge of the building and looked down, assessing the situation.

The Reclaimers were pinned down. The car carrying the captain was now smashed against a wall, its side bearing a huge dent, the passenger door was torn wide open, and there was a gaping hole in the center. Not a result of a grenade launcher's shot. Not the result of a grenade launcher blast. Several Ice Fangs lay dead on the road; judging by the red stains on their weapons, at least three of them had perished, taking the lives of the invaders. But these were knights, and there was no sign of the captains and sages who had accompanied Tancred. Only a single young knight-captain, bearing the colors of Summerspring, organized an effective evacuation and tried to reach his allies, leading a small unit. Red smears on the surface told the whole story of how Bogdan dragged a group of wounded into the relative cover of the police car.

There were two wrecked Provincial Army vans. They were coming from the west, unloading their troops, when a sudden hail of armor-piercing bullets reduced both drivers to bloody shreds. Next, something or someone cut open the rear doors of the vehicles, and grenades did the rest. With their backs exposed, the troops didn't last long, and their survivors now hid among the cars on the road, firing at the armored figures.

Bogdan was firing shots from a pistol into the enemies on the street, and Marco desperately tried to bandage the wound of the white-furred girl. Soot turned the girl spotted, but Janine recognized Cordelia Sunblade. The rest of her group had their snouts on the ground and their heads covered with paws, but one boy bravely held a terminal to Marco's ear.

"No, the heart is not damaged!" her boy shouted. "The claw hit her in the right side. Yes, there are blood blisters on her lips. Very small ones. What should I do, Maxence…"

Janine's muscles tightened, bulged, and she disappeared from the rooftop, coming down with all her speed. Her howl joined Kalaisa's and Anji's, and she had promised herself to apologize to the stupid girl for suspecting her. Kalaisa was already injured, but fought undaunted alongside her rival against a duo of clowns. The wolf hags were in no immediate danger, and the full weight of the warlord's mass crashed down on a Horde soldier trying to push through the gunfire toward Bogdan.

A single punch—that's all it took to pop his head like an apple, but Janine wasn't done yet. Her second blow shattered the sternum despite the armor protection; her paw closed around an ammunition belt, and the lifeless body crashed into two more raiders, knocking them off their feet. A kick threw the dead man's machine gun and ammo into Bogdan's eager paws.

"Finally, not a pee shooter!" Bogdan sprayed at the fallen soldiers, finishing them off.

Suddenly, the Ice Fang boy and Cordelia grabbed Marco by the shoulders and pulled him down just in time to save his life from a flying bullet that shaved off a little of his hair. Janine spun, her amber eyes shining bright as lamps, and the sniper let out a single scream in an unknown language, a plea or a boast; the warlord didn't care as she was on top of her, tearing the woman limb from limb and biting through the visor.

"Heh. Even now," Cordelia whispered hoarsely.

"Thanks! No talking!" Marco slapped her on the head. "Don't you dare die, Cordi! Maxence, orders?"

"Would rather not…" Another slap shut her up.

Jacomie was beside the cubs, hyperventilating and tightening the tourniquet on Cristobo's missing leg. Janine noted briefly that whoever had sliced up the captain had taken cleanly everything below the knee. The captain himself appeared to be unconscious, his lips peeled back, showing teeth and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth.

The once peaceful street had become a battlefield. Burning cars, dead soldiers, rolling civilians unable to stand from their horrible wounds, and cautious helpers trying to drag them to cover. Bullets flew in the midst of the chaos; the raiders shoved the cars aside to get to Bogdan; their heavy steps were about to end the lives of the trapped civilians when a single roar reached the sky. A flick of the wrist sent a car door flying at a raider, and the heavy metal slammed into the man at a speed of five hundred kilometers per hour. It staggered the armored foe, and he retreated, trying to get the warlord in his sights.

His head left his shoulders in the next second as Janine was already behind him, spinning, slashing, and biting. Her claws opened armor plates, her elbows smashed faceplates straight into skulls, her bites left mangled bodies in her wake, and the Horde soldiers recoiled in the face of unhinged aggression, frightened by the opponent their eyes could barely see. More and more tried to string a few familiar words together, but for Janine, the time for mercy and reason was long gone.

They brought war to civilization? She will give them a taste of their beloved barbarism.

Kalaisa, dressed in an orange robe, and Anji, in stylish black leather pants and a jacket with way too many silver zippers, did their best not to die against their opponents, who were aided by three strikingly similar New Breeds who tried to end the wolf hags from afar.

Each had four insectoid legs in place of humanoid ones; chitin covered these limbs completely, making it impossible to see any veins. Humanoid arms of these New Breeds were covered by armored sleeves, but the green plates were incomplete in places, as scarred and welded carapace shapes grew on their bodies, resembling cancerous growths, and the metal was tailored to fit around this sturdy protection. One was dark-skinned, and his sibling had milky-white, pale skin visible through the gashes.

Interesting, but irrelevant for now. It had only taken Janine a breath to observe the field.

The warlord jumped, deciding to eliminate ranged support and keeping track of the wolf hags fight. Kalaisa and Anji had already eclipsed Anissa and Impatient One in physical abilities by far. Even without their PAs, they could depopulate small settlements through sheer speed alone. Yet now their foes weaved around them like threads of silk, almost sliding off cruel thrusts meant to disembowel. The clowns' skin-tight suits were uniquely colored; one even had white and black squares running the length of the cloth, and another had lines of emerald and blue that shifted in the light. Their faces were hidden behind elaborately crafted white masks; one mask had a smile, while another had a frown.

Janine brought her weight on a New Breed who aimed her gun at Anji's back. Claws pierced the shoulders, splintering bones and shredding muscle. The raider shrieked in a high-pitched voice, trying desperately to roll aside, but the momentum carried the warlord to the ground, and the woman's amputated arms fell to the floor. She tried to retreat, but the paw grabbed the back of her head as insectoid legs drummed in fear. Janine faced the crying, pleading face, guessing the wordless request without needing to understand language. With just her legs left, the woman was no longer a threat.

Jaws opened wide, silencing the scream. My sons. The people here. You threatened and hurt them. The lessons of the Twins seemed to scream in the warlord's head, but she ignored them, closing the mighty maw and silencing the last muffled shriek of agony when the skull was pulverized between her fangs. The flesh of the dead prey tasted divine, and Janine dropped the faceless body.

"Death. Death!" Janine roared, trampling on the convulsing body and terrifying a civilian into hiding.

She charged ahead, dodging a pulse rifle blast that opened yawning holes in the corpse behind her. In the aftermath of the battle for the settlement, the engineers and Till Ingo made progress in understanding the Horde's weapons. Most of them used standard armor-piercing rifles, but their riders used energy weapons.

The principle behind their use was simple. A single energy particle was accelerated to Mach 10 and launched through the barrel. The weapon itself was shaped like a normal rifle, but it actually had a small energy generator above the trigger that fed its extra cooling mechanism. The weapon tended to overheat with prolonged use and required expensive energy cells to reload. In return, the pulse rifle provided excellent accuracy due to the lack of recoil and enough striking power to penetrate power armor with relative ease. Design shortcomings and general unsuitability for prolonged combat led the engineers to abandon the idea of introducing the pulse rifle into the army.

For all her speed, Janine wasn't even close to being able to dodge these fast-moving energy projectiles, but her eyes were fixed on the weapon in the attacker's hands. To hit her, he would first have to get her in his sights. And Janine refused to grant him that courtesy, circling around the man as he fired blindly.

He cursed, pressing the trigger in vain as the anti-overheating system activated, and faced the snarling Janine. Her paw came down, hitting harder than an artillery shell and smashing through the pulse rifle the New Breed was trying to use as a shield. His chest armor cracked, the blow splattered the man against the street, and his legs, ending in sharp hooks, tried to close in on the warlord's neck. Janine grabbed all four legs at the joints, two in each paw, and squeezed.

What came out of the man's lips wasn't exactly a squeal of pain, but rather a strained rasp. His knees snapped like straws, and in a last desperate attempt, the New Breed grabbed a sword from his belt and tried to crawl away from his opponent. He propped himself up on his elbow and slashed at the warlord, trying to cut through her ankle. Janine kicked. The claws of her foot broke through the gold-plated metal and found the neck. Blue eyes widened in shock, then calmed as the pain left them along with the life as the head rolled down.

"Shit steel." Janine spat at the dead.

She paused to survey the carnage, freed from the last New Breed thanks to the Summersprings' bullets. The two ridiculous-looking fools had actually pushed Kalaisa and Anji. Where the Wolfkins acted ruthlessly, each eager to claim a kill for themselves, only blocking the grazing blows intended for their ally out of habit, their opponents danced in battle. Every step betrayed an inhuman fluidity; instead of blocking the incoming attack, the weird fighters took the claws on their daggers, allowing their arms to be drawn back almost to the point of snapping before whipping them back into position with a sudden burst of movement, the vivid colors of their suits shining in the light, free of any dirt.

The clowns stood on their tips, spinning gracefully to dodge Ice Fangs' shots, and their mocking laughter enraged the novice knight-captain. He holstered his emptied pistol, his mind affected by the rage-inducing power, and hurried to aid the wolf hags, beating aside the dagger aimed for Anji's neck with the flat of his blade. Immediately, the laughing clown spun around, unperturbed by the interference, and the tip of her leg barely touched the knight captain's forearm, spreading the wide, deep dent upon it. The bone cracked, and the Summerspring let go of his round shield. Giggling, the clown turned to face Kalaisa's attack, exposing her back to the captain.

And the Ice Fang fell for it. His stab drove the clown into Kalaisa's close quarters, but in a single, elegant motion, the clown leaned back, dodged the wolf hag's horizontal slash, and plunged her own curved daggers into the Summerspring's rubberized neck guard, timing her attack perfectly to coincide with a single moment when his gorget and jaw guard would be momentarily out of the way. The Summerspring still stood, disbelieving his own demise and supported by the armor, as the clown somersaulted over him, saddling the dying man to twist her daggers, then kicked him into Kalaisa.

The clown who had the frowned mask jumped away from Anji and reproachfully wagged his finger. With blinding speed, the twin daggers rose to block a swift thrust at his neck. Anji shrugged and jerked her fingers, sending the lithe figure from the middle of the street onto the sidewalks. Right in the middle of the Ice Fangs.

Janine cried out a warning, but it was too late. The clown rolled like a rag, faking breaking bones, then burst into motion as the knights, angry at the loss of their leader, tried to hack him to pieces. With surgical precision, his daggers sliced at the ankles, right where the protection was weakest, and the knights howled in pain. The attack came to an abrupt halt when the dagger stuck in the mechanical leg of a young Ice Fang.

"Spirits, give me the strength to save lives," Malerata Summerspring said, delivering a kick to the enemy's forearm that sent him flying. She fired immediately, but the killer deflected the bullet aimed at his forehead, and the knight kneeled, reaching for a first aid kit.

My cousins. A vein burst in Janine's eye as she assessed the number of wounded and dying in the street and noticed an impaled scout pinned to the wall. Nightmares plagued the woman, at nights she dreamed she was under heavy shelling. Maxence diagnosed it as a case of PTSD, and on Janine's recommendation, the scout took a leave to visit a psychologist. And now she was dead. My family.

"I'll wear your entrails for decoration and serve your brain on a silver platter as a dessert!" Anji shouted, leaping at her foe.

Janine charged on all fours to her, knowing full well that the serene girl had made a mistake. She took the bait. Cruel as it was, this particular massacre was meant to enrage the fighters. Realizing that it would take too long to defeat their opponents in a fair manner, the clowns deliberately included the Ice Fangs. While Kalaisa tossed away the dead Summerspring and went after her enemy with precise determination, Anji, unaccustomed to fighting in anger, was overwhelmed by her emotions.

It blinded her to the danger. Still in the air, she had no opportunity to evade or block an attack when the frowning clown sprang off the concrete and launched himself into the air. The slender and agile body easily veered away from the incoming claws, and deep incisions opened on Anji's arms and torso. The wolf hag landed badly; her legs gave in, and bloody drool clogged her windpipe, while the opponent positioned himself for the final strike.

Sensing the threat, he whirled around and caught Janine's claws onto the daggers' edges. The warlord calmly closed her claws around the weapons, remembering the opponent's style, and whipped out a low kick that knocked the clown off his feet. Still holding the daggers, she slammed the bastard into the concrete, sending an explosion of dust and stone upward. Before she could capitalize on the advantage, a bright streak pierced the veil, forcing her to let go to block it.

A dagger struck her claws and flew back in an arc. The frowning clown swung his head, slapping the rebounded weapon back into his partner's hand, and gained distance, studying the warlord from a distance. A snap of Janine's fingers sent Kalaisa to Anji's side, freeing the warlord to focus on the two individuals who had just toyed with the strongest wolf hags of the tribe.

"Anji!" Kalaisa tore off the robe off her body to fashion bandages.

"Damn poison, Kali." Anji raised a trembling paw, waving it before her eyes. "Kali? Are you here? Can't see. Can barely hear. Fainting. Tell the warlord…"

"I am aware," Janine said, glaring at the two unmoving foes. There was an unknown substance on their weapons, potent enough to threaten even a Wolfkin's life. "Rest, soldier."

"Have we ever hunted a warlord, precious Adonis?" The laughing clown sang softly, her feminine voice sounding like the murmur of a running river.

"No, dear Heika. This one is the first," purred the frowning clown, spinning his daggers. His voice reminded Janine of the rustle of a silk dress she had seen on a sword saint once.

"An offering worthy of the Khatun's attention." Heika bent her knees, spreading her arms wide. "Let's make it beautiful."

"You know Common," Janine stated. "Are you from the Reclamation Army?"

"It speaks so clearly!" Adonis marveled. "We should reward it."

"We should indeed." Heika nodded. "No, beast. Our homeland died, squashed and compressed by the moving land. We have been traveling ever since, honoring it through the use of the skills it taught us, and bringing glory to the ghosts of our people."

"Glory, tch." Janine spat. "It's only worth a damn if you have what it takes to acquire it. Honor is more important, but you are too dumb to realize the dishonor you have brought to your lineage."

"And how would you know what passes for honor in our homeland?" sweetly inquired Adonis.

"Simple. Big, fat, tall, short, black, white, red, furred, or naked—all people share the same desire to live and raise their young in peace. It's the strong who miss the point. Come." She beckoned. "Let us end the story of your poor nation."

 

[Rookie12]

Janine stomped. A ripple passed through the damaged concrete as if it were water; the impact shook the closest wreckages and drew groans from the wounded. The clowns merely leaped a little back, filling the air with their melodic laughter at what they perceived to be a futile attempt to stagger. But Janine never sought to achieve that. Her paw slapped a head-sized rock, spat into the ground by her stomp, into Heika's face, and the warlord closed in on Adonis, hidden by a veil of dust.

Wide, precise arcs of blurry, fast-moving daggers rose in her path. Adonis never once dropped his guard, and he planned on cutting her arms and neck. But claws met the edge of his blades as the clatter of metal against stone behind Janine announced that Heika had blocked the projectile. It was fine; Janine ignored it for a time and bore down her entire fury at Adonis, hewing and slashing, trying to bypass his defense and drive him away.

She could see it clearly now. A green sludge, almost invisible to a naked eye, coated the entire length of her enemy's blade. An unknown substance that easily overcame even a Wolfkin's immune system and brought Anji to her knees. Janine went back and forth with the killer, equally growing annoyed at the man's resilience and taking his measure. Anger wasn't a problem. When wasn't she angry? Her biological mother had abandoned her; Janine hated herself for letting Terrific get away with so many atrocities; she despised her paw for ending the life of the one she had come to call her mother. Every mistake, every display of weakness fueled the fire burning in her chest, never allowing it to become dying embers.

But embracing that furnace invited dangers, as Eled clearly demonstrated times and times again. To protect her family, her nation, Janine had chained that anger, channeling its energy to sustain her endurance and denying herself the rest to keep a cool head in battle. It didn't always work, but today it saved her hide when Janine sensed Heika approaching from the rear and relaxed. Adonis refused to stand and fight, wisely dancing out of her reach so the clowns could perform a classic pincer maneuver.

And something else, a tactic that had eluded her for so far, but the previous actions had told enough. Fine then. Slow way it is. A growl left her lips, commanding to tend to the wounded and prepare for an ambush. Kalaisa relayed the message to the Ice Fangs while Martyshkina paused on the roof, her eyes fixed on the tense Bogdan. A dagger flew at her back and Janine blocked it, trusting her instincts and ears more than her skills. Her oversized and long arms easily reached the middle of her back. Her speed was superior to that of her opponent. They knew it too.

So where was the trap?

Heika and Adonis grew frustrated that their baits and deceptions no longer worked. Janine held her ground, concentrating on the defense. Adonis stabbed at her, and she counterattacked, stopping her thrust when his impeccable footwork carried him out of harm's way. The warlord elbowed the clown, no doubt bruising him, but refused to give chase, blocking Heika's cuts. Again and again, the two tried to lure her in by exposing themselves, and she disappointed them each time.

No longer they attacked her alone; the two teamed up and multicolored lines raced past her, from left and right, from back and front, stabbing and slashing, and inevitably retreating when a claw met a blade. Janine knew their type: youngsters gifted with incredible potential, their blood running hot in their veins. These clowns wanted to turn the battle into a spectacle, to take the leading role and end it on their terms, winning through coordination and cooperation where their individual skills could not prevail.

Only Janine stood her ground. Immovable. Indomitable. By denying them satisfaction and thrill, she made the battle dull and repetitive. Their speed failed to overcome her defenses, and when Janine saw the frustration in the slits of their masks, she allowed herself a smile, fanning the desire in their souls to end her soon.

Perhaps there was no trap? Janine disregarded the doubt. For better or worse, she had chosen the approach.

There were many ways to win a battle. Throwing your foe off their game, ruining their rhythm, and letting their frustration lead them into making mistakes was one of the most basic ones. Anything from simple insults to attacking the enemy's allies was beneficial to this. Kalaisa and Anji lost because they played the clowns' game and forgot who the hunter was. It mattered not how long the hunt lasted, as long as you brought home the body. Oh well, it'll come to them with experience; don't be harsh on them, Janine. She chastised herself, remembering her own failures.

Kalaisa stepped away from Anji, and Janine eased a bit. Rather than rushing back into a fight, the wolf hag decided to help the Ice Fangs save lives and was currently performing CPR on a civilian. I didn't even know she could do it. The girl was learning from her past mistakes, and that widened Janine's smile even more, finally cracking the clowns' composure.

They came together as before; the male aiming for Janine's legs and the female aiming for her spine. Their daggers were met by the claws, and ringing sounds filled the street. Only this time, the fools chose not to retreat. Heika jumped over Janine, and Adonis tried to slide underneath her swing on his knees. He was met with a knee to the face and an elbow against the back of his neck. Janine whirled, slicing Heika's shoulder, and the clown screamed, ruining the laughing melody.

"Beautiful enough?" Janine asked, tensing up when she realized that Adonis' body wasn't at her leg.

She landed the blow with her entire might. The man's mask partially shattered upon the ground, yet he himself was already beside Heika with his head tilted and anger splashing in his blue eyes. There was a cracking noise, and the clown set his head straight. He separated his vertebrae to spare the bone. Janine understood. She knew of methods to go limb to limb to disperse damage, even to dislocate joints, though such a master was beyond her. But vertebrae? That was too dangerous.

The man stood, legs shaking, left hand pressed to the ruined face, his nose caved in. "Sister."

"Brother," Heika responded.

"We are being underestimated."

"Humiliated."

"Bogdan!" Janine and Martyshkina yelled in unison, hearing din in the air.

There was a line above the soldier. It floated in the air, created by nothing, but Martyshkina tossed the sharp rocks at it simultaneously with Bogdan rolling to the side. It was what had saved him when the line widened up, creating a blue window. This tear swallowed the stones, and an arm scooped at the place where the soldier had been a second ago. Bogdan was already firing back, but another window opened and swallowed the bullets. Martyshkina cursed, sidestepping a hole in reality that opened behind her, spitting out Bogdan's bullets, and a thin arm coming from a new portal grabbed Bogdan's neck and pressed him tightly against a blue body while a finger ran over his gun, cutting it in half.

"Move an inch and the dog gets skinned," the newcomer chuckled, coming fully from the shimmering blue portal, keeping it at as his back to shield himself for a sudden attack.

Thin as a scarecrow, his ribs threatened to break through the paper-thin blue leather skin. His eyes were sunk deep into the skull, the nose sucked in air loudly, and the mouth grinned, showing needle teeth. The tear at his back showed sewers and several corpses of the Ice Fangs. Gunshots, roars, and curses echoed from the walls of the tunnel.

"I don't recall asking for help, Phaser." Heika hissed. "You've been hiding the entire time, and now you decide to step out?"

"Recklessness can only purchase you an early grave, silly girl," the blue-skinned man, Phaser, said in a voice that needled Janine's ears. "The deed is done, but we might as well add another to the tally." He smiled, standing naked, covered just by black tattoos in the shapes of flying birds that covered his arms, legs, and waist. "Yes, imagine the reward Mad Hatter will give us when we bring a warlord's head to her knees! You!" he told Janine. "Stay and die. Otherwise, this thing." He shook Bogdan and extended his arm to Marco, "and the puppies will die."

"Stay away from the children," Adonis ordered icily. "The adults are fair game for us."

"But killing kids is too low," his sister added.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare to trouble you," Phaser chuckled again. "I'll be more than willing…"

Janine gave a deep growl, approving a cheeky glint in her son's eyes. Marco tensed too, ready to dart away, and only stopped out of concern for his comrades. The Ice Fangs didn't know. Jacomie didn't know either when she tried to stand and fell face down from exhaustion. They had to stay away. On the other side of the street, Malerata pulled a string of wires from the place where her steel legs were connected to her torso and tossed away her damaged foot, looking decisively at Bogdan.

Don't do anything reckless, girl. Janine pleaded. Nothing was over.

"Touch a child and you'll die," Heika promised, surprising Janine. What were they talking about? A body of an Ice Fang cub lay on the ground; there were little ones scattered around, dead or wounded, and these creeps tried to pretend to have principles now?

"How dare you talk to me like that?" Phaser took his eyes off Janine. "You weren't so eager to say anything to Brood Lord!"

"Unlike you, the khan we can't stop," Adonis said.

"You seem to forget who is your way out of this place," Phaser struggled to speak calmly. "And speaking of Brood Lord, guess who is under his protection? Unlike you, unlike his whelps, unlike anyone, I am too valuable to lose!"

"Can he protect you all day long?" Heika inquired. "What will the khan say after he hears how casually you address him, mhhhm? Or what about giving gifts to the Khatun? Nasty, nasty Phaser. Your plans are obvious to anyone with a half of a brain."

"Do it," Adonis asked. "Leave us. Cross the line if you dare, Phaser. See how long you'll live afterwards."

Whatever response Phaser had planned to give died in his desperate screams when Bogdan grabbed his hand. He didn't use his claw, or a hidden knife. Two black round disks were attached to the palms of his hands, each capable of releasing a surge of electricity strong enough to knock out even a scout.

Bogdan had always been a troubled boy. He was biting Janine during feeding too hard; he was the first of his litter to stand on his feet, to her and Colt's delight; and he was the first to almost kill another Wolfkin. Not in the pits. A girl was relentlessly throwing Bogdan and Ignacy to the ground, trying to get the males' attention, not yet fully understanding that she was doing it the wrong way because of her youth. Well, she got her wish for attention when Janine returned to her tent after a day of service to find her grenades and explosives missing. All forty of them, and the answer as to where they went, came in a series of booms at the village's edge.

Her son had challenged a girl to a duel and had no intention of fighting fairly. He forced the terrified cub through a line full of acid and fire, burying her under an avalanche of stone, and then found her under the rubble and dragged her to the surface by her ears, allowing her to breathe but still trapping her arms and legs. He repeatedly smashed her face repeatedly with a rock, asking what more he needed to do for her to get the message and leave him and Ignacy's brother alone.

Janine and Soulless One stopped what was about to end in murder. They concealed the information from the tribe at large, sharing it only with the warlords and shamans, for it was unthinkable that a male could defeat a female. Elsewhere, Bogdan would face punishment. The laws of the Reclamation Army were strict, but the Wolf Tribe was given the privilege of living by their own laws, and Lacerated One herself absolved the boy of all guilt and redirected the boy's mischief in a productive direction. The wounded girl later apologized and held no grudge for the defeat.

The girl herself told her friends about how awesome a tricker Bogdan was, and soon there was a cave named 'Bogdan's Great Den' in the village, a training ground of sorts created by her son. In the darkness of this place, her boy put his natural reluctance to be bullied to work, constructing the most exquisite traps he could fathom for the girls and boys to overcome. Ignacy helped, but his duty was limited to making sure no one died in this hellish maze of acid grenades, swinging stones, pitfalls and collapses. It was a badge of honor for the youth to overcome these insidious traps.

But as he grew older and found a soulmate, Bogdan faced a natural barrier. Warriors he could stop, but what about scouts and wolf hags? His cave of wonders still existed, although he was now far more careful not to harm any cubs. Anissa made a mockery of his test, passing it at a walking pace, and later Elzada raced through the course without getting hit once. This caused Bogdan to sit and read, studying the workings of Wolfkins' bodies. He dismissed the use of gas, as it cost an arm and a leg to get a canister of nerve gas for private use, and many scouts showed incredible resilience to toxic effects, but electricity intrigued him. He added grids to the parts of his cave, and Janine took pride in her role as the first 'test subject' when her sweet boy's contraptions tickled her a little. Later, the shamans even copied it to other villages, so that the cubs and adults everywhere could hone their skills.

This was what Bogdan used. It was his trump card, a device looking so non-threatening that when his charm and trickery failed to pit one female against another, he would offer to shake his paws or desperately grab his opponent, shocking her just long enough to press a pistol to her eye or a claw to a jugular vein. It had a lesser effect on wolf hags, but Phaser yelled and writhed as the electricity shook his internal organs.

Janine was distracted by this event, and it almost cost her her life. With the stone exploding beneath their legs, Heika and Adonis disappeared out of sight, turning into a whirlwind around the warlord. Left, right, a strike aimed at her right knee, immediately followed by one aimed at the back of her left knee. This time, Janine had to move, walking back across the street, blocking strikes from the maddening whirlwind of steel and rage. Their speed, the accuracy with which these two were striking, and their sheer endurance to maintain this assault without slowing down were sublime.

This was a dance and one in which they took the lead. Their blurred forms almost overlapped; the non-stop onslaught of constant dashes, cuts, strikes, and graceful evasions was mind-blowing. Even in her power armor, Janine would be mildly challenged to keep up with this speed. Without it, worried about the safety of her sons, plagued by thoughts of the dead and dying around her, she had known fear.

She channeled her fear into power, releasing adrenaline into her bloodstream. There were many in the tribe who viewed fear as something to be shunned, an unworthy behavior. Not her. Fear was a natural human emotion—it was honest, if nothing else. She was outmatched, but she had to win. Accepting fear sharpened Janine's senses. By relying on her skills, honed by years and years of combat, she knew when to defend and when to push back. And now it was time to defend.

Even though Bogdan's devices had an energy supply, they gave him enough time to free himself and dart away, trying to save himself from Phaser's long fingered stab. But it was of no use. The difference in speed between the two was too great, and the stab that was destroying the very space neared Janine's son, and Marco cried out his desperate warning. That's when Malerata took flight.

The absurdity of it shocked the clowns and the warlord, halting their struggle for a whole second. Malerata Summerspring blazed raging flames and sparks from her damaged legs, somehow turning herself into a living rocket, overloading the internal reactor supplying her artificial limbs. Carrying a round shield in her paws, the knight crossed the street in the blink of an eye, spinning in midair to douse Phaser in the searing fury emanating from her stump.

Phaser stopped his stab and swung his hand, opening the portal to block the flame. He moved his other arm, and another rift cracked and opened above Malerata, engulfing the Ice Fang in her own flame. But the smirk on the Horde's teleporter didn't last. Malerata, hidden inside the flames, cast her shield at Phaser's ankles, and the man tumbled into his own portal, disappearing inside.

"Reckless like us," Bogdan cheered, pulling Malerata away to hide behind the car as the portals disappeared and the woman landed heavily on the ground, unable to move her legs. The sparks and fiery stream coming from her ankle stopped. Once she was safe, Bogdan blew on his paws.

"But not useless." Malerata said. Her armor blackened but held. The woman was shaking from the burns from several holes in her combat plate, but her voice was clear and as cheerful as Bogdan's. "She was right. I am not cursed at all!"

"Thank you for saving our hides! You're the best, cousin!" Bogdan humorously glanced at her. "But just to be clear. I have already found my soulmate. So if you had any ideas…"

"I would never have dared to hint, sirrah," the knight mumbled and leaned against the car, gathering her strength to help Marco.

Time to win this. Janine beamed, unbothered by her worries any longer, and stomped again. Caught by a tremor during their fierce assault, both clowns tripped, their overlapped shared blurry form separated in two, and the warlord clawed at Heika's mask, fully intending to shave the woman's head off this time, when a loud crack to her left announced the arrival of the new enemy. Janine's claws, her pride and joy, left her left paw and drummed against the ground, leaving just stumps on her fingers.

"Enough toying around," Phaser roared, stepping out of a portal. "Warlord dies!"

 

[Rookie12]

They advanced upon Janine, with Phaser casually waltzing in, almost inviting Janine to try her claws on him, and the clowns circling like a unit of hungry insectoids, tracking her every move. Janine's arms hung loose as she pretended to be shocked at the loss of her claws, intensely observing them. Wolfkins claws' toughness exceeded even their bones, their incredible density kept them safe from splintering even when raking at power armor. As a Wolfkin received gifts of power, their instruments of destruction thickened and sharpened, to the point where Janine could pierce an armor plate with a simple tap.

And a light touch of these elongated, thin fingers cut her claws away. There was no resistance, no struggle; the ability to scratch space surpassed any durability the warlord's body had built over her lifetime, and she let out a low whine, and Phaser's lips parted in a smile. Portals floated in the air around him as he approached her, his hands weaving a pattern in the air, creating immovable shields to protect himself. He was too sure of his victory.

Wolfkins' range of vocalization covered a wide range of sounds. Most served as simple expressions of dominance or submission, but there were hidden meanings behind certain patterns: warnings, a demand to follow, an urgent halt, and many others. This was what Janine had used to request immediate aid. The ground around Phaser exploded; little shapes ricocheted off each other, finding their paths around and in-between the hovering windows. Phaser's smile changed to a scowl. The man grabbed his torn shoulder and Janine closed the distance, ignoring the awkward slash that left long gashes in reality. She slashed above that line, lacerating his stomach, and Phaser recoiled, screeching, not understanding why his allies retreated too, instead of slashing at the warlord's sides.

"By the Sky, what was it?" Adonis cursed, evading passing projectiles.

"Bullets, brother." Heika recovered first, striking once to block a bullet aimed at the teleporter's eye. She pointed at the approaching Wolfkin. "She did it."

"Janine, you are so greedy!" Martyshkina chuckled. Bullets danced between her fingers, and at a Phaser's move, her thumbs snapped two of them, sending them flying and bouncing off the ground next to Phaser's legs. If not for his allies, the teleporter would've had his knees pierced. "How about a team-up? Two against three sounds fun, right?" The amber eyes found Phaser. "Minor space manipulator, capable of cutting through most materials. Wow! Must be scary to sleep at night. What if the power activates and you find your dong cut off by accident in the morning, am I right? Eh, don't worry, I know how to handle your kind."

"Adorable," Phaser replied dryly, retreating to the open crack. Janine and Martyshkina went after him, but the man swung his arms, opening a path to a desert in front of Janine and a portal to a misty mountain that swallowed bullets aimed at his face. "We've bled you enough for one day."

He stepped into the cut behind him, and the tear in reality disappeared, abandoning Adonis and Heika. The clowns leapt away from the firing bullets and slithered into narrow recesses between the sidewalk and the street, designed to collect rainwater.

"Janine here." The warlord pressed a terminal to her ear, raising a fist above her head, while Martyshkina collected her cut claws. "We encountered a New Breed capable of hopping between places by opening portals. One such rift showed us dead knights of the Ice Fang Order. Request immediate medical assistance at our location. Pursuing escaping prey."

The fist came down, smashing through the street. Stone slabs rose to the left and right, opening a gap wide enough for Janine and Martyshkina to fall, landing in the shallow waters of the underground sewers. Sniffing the blood of the fleeing clowns and hearing wet footsteps, the warlords stomped after them, splashing garbage against the walls.

"Sword Saint Tancred has ignored my order, likely under the influence of emotional manipulation," Dragena informed calmly. "I saw your battle through the lenses of our allies. Assist our reckless cousin, sisters; his last known location is in the tunnels to your north. Alpha is coming. The survival of the sword saint and your own comes before all else."

"Understood." Forcing herself to give up the hunt, Janine consulted the terminal, pulling up a map to see the closest route to their destination. Noticing how long a detour would take, the warlord cursed and shoulder tackled a wall in front of her, breaking into another tunnel, accompanied by Martyshkina's laughter. The laughter died instantly at the sound of gunfire.

The Ice Fangs fought each other in a half-flooded tunnel. Knight-captains stood upright in the murky water, roaring, bringing swords and maces down on their own lesser kin, cutting through shields and taking shots in return. One sage spun his glaive around, nearly decapitating a nearby defender. Martyshkina saved the endangered woman; a bullet flung from her fingers knocked the defender back into the water, and the glaive sheared metal from her helmet.

Discipline, kinship, cohesion, and even the famous dignity had been abandoned. Soldiers used their weapons not only against allies, but had forgotten their fabled skill and here and there clawed and tried to bite the opposition. Holes from rifles and pistols covered the walls; the clanking of the weapon added to the bestial growls filling the tunnel. There was heat. The heat was not the pleasant, comforting warmth of her home, but a ferocious heat of furnaces that permeated even her mind. Whatever was causing the raging violence was close by, affecting the troops unhindered by Alpha's fear wave.

And worse still, the moment Janine stepped closer, her fingers touched a submerged body. No. Not a body. Bodies. How many? To see their cousins, the ideal of dignity and duty reduced to this, has filled Janine with irresistible rage.

"Enough!" she roared, shaking random stones, and a few soldiers stopped, but the sage turned to her, his helmet missing.

Howling and spitting drool, the sage lunged forward, bringing the glaive down in an overhead strike. Janine dodged the attack, which exploded the water, and slammed the man into a wall with enough force to crack it, struggling not to bite his snout off. The sage showed no such restraint, thrashing in her embrace and trying to push her away with the shaft of his weapon. His feeble fangs snapped, stuck in the rough warlord's skin.

A male dared to bare his fangs on a female, and not during a marriage ritual. Janine's nostrils inhaled loudly and a red mist covered her eyes. She wanted to rip off his lower jaw and strike up to his brain, eat his tongue and then feast on the still warm stomach. He dares! No male had ever disrespected her so! Every instinct called for his death, and something ancient resonated. A pale memory of a dark place, of groping fingers touching the helpless body, surfaced. It was an unknown experience, and she wasn't even sure if it was hers, but it fueled the urge to mutilate even more.

Her claws came from her fingers, ready to plunge into the crimson eyes and damn the consequences. Here and now, she will teach the Ice Fang Order the meaning of disrespecting a warlord! Too long had she endured the humiliation and…

"Restraint," a voice whispered, and familiar dim and dead eyes looked at Janine from the cracks in the wall, halting her long enough to realize the gravity of what she was about to do.

Janine closed her eyes and roared, giving everything in a wordless howl of frustration that escaped her lungs. A trick. This rage is not her own. Someone toyed with their minds, tugging at their emotions and guiding them toward the most unfavorable choices. I refuse. My anger is too precious a thing for anyone else to wield. It is mine, and mine alone. I, with all my faults and all my might, am I. Janine of the Wolf Tribe.

The sage gasped in her hold. His head was knocked back against the wall by the roar that reverberated in his ears and shocked his brain. He gasped, and Janine had to help him stand when all the aggression washed out of his body, filling him with confusion as his mind cleared.

"Warlord…" the man gasped.

"Janine," she said.

Their kinship strengthened. It was shamans' duty to guide young cubs through their first violent urges, passed on to them by the Blessed Mother. There were claims of seeing great beasts in their dreams, but as the cubs grew older, they themselves doubted their visions. It was hard, mastering rage, but necessary, for if they experienced it elsewhere for the first time, they risked endangering the Normies. Her cousins had no such training, but in a way, it was pleasing to see that they shared the same trait.

She just wished the price wasn't so high. "Report." Around them, the battle stopped, although Martyshkina had to slap several knights to bring them back to their senses.

"He tricked us. The bastard lured us here and challenged the noble Tancred to an honorable duel, and when the lord agreed, a flash of anger struck our brains. We weren't ourselves. The liege was the only one mostly unaffected, but the coward struck a knight in the middle of the duel, breaking the rules, and used him as a hostage to spit acid into our master's eyes, blinding him. Pray, be on your guard against this insidious fiend." The sage shook his head, trying to regain composure.

"Where is he?" Janine demanded. "Where is Sword Saint Ironwill?"

"Jani!" Martyshkina's paw grabbed her, pulling the warlord aside.

Waters swirled as a dark shadow passed underneath them. A blade sliced through the surface, bleeding Janine's neck, but Martyshkina's timely intervention saved her life. Her friend often boasted that no one but friends could ever sneak up on her, and by the Spirits she had proven herself true in full measure! The blade struck the wall, and a shower of stones rattled against a rising figure cloaked in heavy armor.

"Here."

Six massive, segmented legs, each the length of a knight and as thick as an oak, raised a massive torso above the water, puzzling the warlord as to how someone so massive could hide so well. The green armor was covered in occasional gashes and cracks, revealing tanned skin and a deceptively chubby build. Several wires hissed the visor no longer glowed, so a metal hand opened it. Golden medallions and jewelry were wrapped around arms. The unknown madman had two human arms. One held the long, curved blade, and a set of insectoid limbs extended from under the armpits, ending in pincers covered in chitin rather than steel. Golden, diamond-encrusted bracelets, stained with soot and blood, covered each wrist. The man's bald head nearly scratched the ceiling; the ends of his long mustache slipped from his helmet and touched his chest, and coins from unknown lands glittered in the skin of his forehead. Sharp brown eyes scrutinized the warlords mockingly.

"Greetings, sweet madams." He bowed courteously to the warlords, his voice soft and pleasant, kind even. "Janine, is that correct? You have taken something of mine. In return, I will take everything from you. I am Brood Lord, the Breaker of Nations, the Despoiler of Women, the Father of Thousands, the Merciless Blade of Mad Hatter, and the Master of the Northern Plains. Your sons I will see eradicated; your daughters, if you have any, will whore themselves to my whims; and you yourself, blinded, armless, and legless, will wail in despair, cursing the day you stood in the way of the Gilded Horde. And when I finish amusing myself with you, not a trace of your bloodline will remain in this world or any other. So I have decided, and so it shall be."

Brood Lord's pincer arm rose high, displaying Tancred's severed head for all to see. A tongue dangled weakly from the sword saint's mouth; dark holes replaced the once bright red eyes.

"Glaive, Sage," Janine commanded, extending her paw. "I have a crustacean to cook."

****

"Wake up, sir!" he yawned, surprised by a powerful tug as sweet Najwa, very unladylike, pulled him out from under the warm water.

"Hello there, dear." He clung to her, breathing in the scent of her stunning golden locks. She smelled of apples and roses. "No more 'sir', please. Call me however you like."

Najwa's slender brown body was already dry, and she threw a black bathrobe over her shoulders. The worry in her gracious blue eyes concerned him. Had he insulted her in any way? Technically, her job was to protect him, but he preferred a more intimate relationship with members of the fairer sex, and so he treated the surprised bodyguard like a queen. It didn't take long for her to join in the evening orgies, although as of right now, he hadn't yet known if the beautiful agent was doing it out of obligation or pleasure, and the mystery was intoxicating!

The rest of his girls were relaxing on the white edges of the large pool, still dreaming after a long, passionate night. What were they taking? He remembered cocaine, enough to kill a normal person ten times over; then there was liquid hot mind, a highly addictive drug bringing about every hidden desire inside a human. Biological enhancements to their bodies gave them all the benefits of tasting these forbidden fruits and protected them from any negative effects. Alcohol, that's a given, food… Oranges? He raised his black eyebrows. Probably ordered by the insectoid agent, the shy girl had peculiar tastes, making her all the more precious to his heart. No, there wasn't anything out of the ordinary, and if he'd learn that he'd dared to say so much as a dirty word to his sweethearts, he'd whip himself.

"You need to see it, sir!" Najwa insisted, dragging him to the window.

"Sure-sure, just let me get dressed." The last time he walked naked to a window of his penthouse, he ended up being at every yellow newspaper in Houstad and on more sites than he had wished. His girl tossed his clothes atop a statue whose bronze surface almost matched the color and perfection of his perfect skin.

"No time!" Najwa shoved him to the window and his eyes widened.

Houstad was burning. Black smoke now covered the streets of his city, his base of operations. His perception sharpened as he saw waves of dark-clad bodies swatting away armored figures trying to gun down civilians. There was no mercy. The jaws of the Third's mutants were closing in on necks and arteries, biting off chunks of skin, their ugly guns barked, drilling holes in the oversized bodies.

The destruction was horrific. A skyscraper fell, bringing destruction to Houstad as if a giant dagger had been stuck into the city and then drawn a line across it; cars burned; there were explosions that destroyed parts of the streets as pipes carrying gas exploded and drove into the cracks. There were even several pools of overheated water, and even he didn't want to think about the last moments of those who died there. Rescue teams, like busy bees, tried to save lives, but there was too much chaos, and many lost their lives, trampled to death.

"Who… who dare?" He whispered and a halo of light briefly flashed into reality around his body, accentuating well-built muscles and black hair. Why didn't the alarm go off?!

He restrained himself, obeying the order to conceal his presence. Even through the bulletproof windows, he heard the scream of a family trapped in an elevator on the outside of the skyscraper. An empty elevator above them broke free of its shaft and was about to crush the family. He was about to let them die, noticing an ugly goat-headed freak among the people, but there were normal humans there, too. And they fought for the liberation of humanity. A flash of light, traveling at the speed of light, vaporized the falling elevator, leaving only steam rising to the surprise of the terrified civilians.

There was no force in the world capable of withstanding his wrath. This senseless massacre could be stopped in minutes, but he was constrained by his rank. Win or lose, Houstad would have to fend for itself. Still, there was fire coming from the floors below, and at the very least some help and evacuation of his adorable bodyguards to safety was in order.

"Wakey-wakey, ladies!" He clapped his hands; they snapped out of their dreams and grabbed weapons, ready to fight. So cute! But whether or not they realized it, he was the one responsible for their protection, even if some of them were mutants. Otherwise, what kind of man was he? "The city is under attack, but let us not panic and evacuate in an orderly fashion. Permission to rescue anyone is given and…"

A heavy bang on the window stopped him. There was a crack, and a black-furred arm of a gigantic beast broke into the apartment.

"Not an enemy!" roared the thing, stopping the bodyguards from firing and pushing her body inside and widening the hole. "Evacuation team. Do not fear…" There was a mane around the creature's neck. It sniffed the air loudly, and he understood it was a warlord. "Degenerates," it said, and he raised a hand, commanding his girls to obey. As far as he knew, the warlords were females, and it would not do to harm a woman. A few visits to the beauty parlor, a rejuvenation procedure, several operations to remove scars... He clicked his tongue. Yes, do it, and she might be pretty enough to invite for dinner. And where there was dinner, there was also the possibility of extending such an exquisite encounter into a night of carnal pleasure... "Great," the warlord grumbled, looking down at him. "This one is too high to understand."

"Wait, it isn't what…" he tried to explain, to dispel the wrong first impression, understanding that she had caught the scent of narcotics.

"You. Are. Being. Rescued. Relax," she interrupted him, speaking slowly and scooping the people into her embrace, jumping back into the broken window where another enormous, black-furred woman was saving people trapped in the elevator.

Elder Spaniad of the Organization rolled his eyes, placed a hand on Najwa's shoulder to show he was not angry at being disrespected, and tried to enjoy the sudden attraction of being saved in such a unique and unorthodox manner.

I need to find and burn whoever has caused chaos in my city. Spaniad thought.

 

[Rookie12]

The curved blade came down, scraping against the ceiling, screaming as it passed through the air and landed on the shaft of the glaive that the sage had hastily handed to Janine. Such force! Brood Lord used a single arm, and yet the impact of this collision created a sound explosion and rippled the water's surface. The metal glaive bent and sharp edge lacerated Janine's shoulder as she tried her best to stave off the immense weight. Power armor. The strength given by it was overwhelming; there was a reason using an active combat suit during a domination match was considered cheating in the tribe. Even when damaged, it reinforced the invader.

"Cute," Brood Lord hummed. Three of his legs burst out of the water and closed in on Janine. "Arm first."

They pulled her down, dragging the warlord beneath the dark and murky surface briefly. Then Brood Lord's bulk shifted, driving the water aside, and she found herself pinned to the floor, held by his columnar chitin limbs. He raised his blade, and another irises spread from beneath the lower lids of Brood Lord's excited eyes. These new irises were orange in color, perfectly betraying the thirst for mutilation burning within the man. He wanted to tear her apart, drooling in anticipation.

Explosions blossomed over Brood Lord's armor, and he threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the bullets. A hiss escaped his lips as a claw—Janine's own severed claw!—pierced his vambrace at a wrist, and the warlord grinned, lifting his legs in the split second of distraction. She wasn't alone, not this time. The blade cut in a downward arc, drawing a line where she stood, but Janine was already waist-deep in the returning water, and she met the next blow head-on, shattering the glaive against its edge.

Sharp shards of steel flew everywhere, creating mirrored red spots on her and Brood Lord's cheeks. Another leg kick broke through the remnants of the glaive and flung Janine against a wall, knocking the air out of her lungs. It wasn't a blind attack; the invader aimed directly for her solar plexus, and if not for Marty's timely intervention, the battle threatened to end here for her.

Bullets flashed from Marty's paws, forcing Brood Lord to cover himself with his pincers to shield his eyes. Several of his gold coins shattered under the pressure, and a few bullets deftly slipped into the open cracks of his unorthodox armor, spurting all-too-human crimson blood from his body, but no serious damage was done. Brood Lord grunted a chuckle and swung overhead, this time wielding his curved blade in both human hands.

Martyshkina rolled as the cut tore a wide gash in the stone, which began to suck in water. The hordeman twisted his blade, jerking it free and sending a hail of stones at Janine. She didn't block them; a slash followed, and the warlord retreated, hearing a wall crumbling.

"Warlord Janine! Catch!" a knight-captain yelled, tossing something at her, and before she knew it, two claymores were in her paws, just in time to block the returning swing of the whirling hordeman's body. Cracks and dents appeared on her steel, but it held, and Janine kicked to keep his leg from attacking during the bind.

They parted, the air shaking under their blows. Two-handed style wasn't Janine's forte, but she'd be a poor warlord if she hadn't practiced in every form of combat. Right arm to take his blow, left arm to stab the claymore into the arm holding the sword saint's head and wound the bastard. She was not going to let him defile his cousin any longer. It wasn't entirely efficient, and all too often the warlord had to use both swords to withstand titanic swings, but the goal of felling her opponent alone wasn't on the program today.

For she was not alone. The Ice Fangs and Martyshkina fired, shattering the shell covering Brood Lord's torso. He grunted and hissed, did not close his faceplate, and never wavered in raining down attacks on her. Her allies obeyed Martyshkina's command and hauled knights and wounded away from the fighters, for the dishonorable cur could've easily replicated what the sage had told Janine. Ground exploded beneath the warlord's legs; her bones ached after each block, but the battle entered a stalemate phase. Or so it seemed.

Brood Lord was no unskilled opponent; she understood that much at once. The sheer speed and precision behind his often deceptively wide strikes, his quick adjustment to Marty's interference, his cunning eyes scanning the environment—everything betrayed years of frontline combat. Even the initial swat with his legs was intended not only to immobilize her, but to splash water at the Ice Fangs, obscuring the fighters long enough to hack off her arm.

But this isn't it, right? Ignoring the pain in her limbs, Janine remembered the Sage's words and raised an arm as Brood Lord's lips formed an 'O' and a stream of acid landed on her forearm, splashing lightly against her right eye. The accused acid had eaten half of her world for a second, but she fought on, refusing to let in even a hint of panic. The eye was in place; she could feel it.

Blessed by the Spirits, Wolfkins grew stronger with every received injury. A ruptured heart ended up being tougher upon healing, often gaining new chambers. A punctured lung, a fractured bone, or a scratched eye—all of this led not to detriments but to improvement among the Wolf Tribe. Her trainings and sparrings—when Martyshkina landed a knuckle against Janine's eye in their brawls, headbutts from Terrific, and kicks in the snout from shamans—had changed Janine's body forever.

She didn't blink, concentrating on her opponent. Even as the right side of her body went numb, Janine willed herself through the weakness, raising up the weapon of her foe to break another bind. Brood Lord dragged his blade over the edges of Janine's claymores, widening the gash on her shoulder, before jumping back, eyes wide, and weaving a sphere of blurred slashes around himself.

Martyshkina kicked spears, swords, and axes of the deceased Ice Fangs into her paws, understanding immediately the thickness of Brood Lord's armor. She launched them like darts, one after the other, forcing each projectile to exceed the speed of sound. Back in their childhood, Marty had always loved to get up close and personal with Janine, shredding her hide and receiving brutal beatings in return. That soon changed after Terrific had introduced them to shardguns. Marty's eyes lit up with joy when she fired her first shot at a practice dummy; a glimmer of her future divinity shone from those amber eyes, and she cradled the shardgun, holding and cooing to it as if it were a little one. On that night, she slept, hugging her shardgun like a lover. Later, the grown-up woman heavily modified her first shardgun using discarded archeotech and gifted it to her cubs, and presented it to her cubs, and it was passed down like a family relic, always cleaned and loved when its wielder's paws grew too big.

In the years that followed, Martyshkina was busy honing her skills at killing at a distance. Throwing knives, guns, explosives, energy weapons, darts, rocket launchers… If it could kill at range, Martyshkina mastered it, abandoning melee combat altogether, considering it an outdated thing of the past, a chore unworthy of a soldier.

And now her skills made a difference where Janine's might had faltered. A blade exploded against Brood Lord's sword, only to turn into a hail of hundreds of smaller shards that stabbed into the exposed parts of his body. His pincer arm dropped Tancred's head, hastily protecting his eyes. Marty hurled another weapon, an axe, deliberately shattering it against the tough armor. Another weapon broke, its shards flying aimlessly against the walls…

No. Not aimlessly. Janine understood. The shards bounced off the Ice Fangs' plates, hitting no exposed body parts, ricocheted off the walls, and came back at Brood Lord, pressing him even farther back. And more weapons came in their wake, this time biting deep into his armor plates and lacerating his flesh. Martyshkina, without her custom-made revolvers, drove the enemy back.

Janine inhaled and wiped the acrid, irritating liquid off her eye. There was something else in his spit, a toxin of sorts, that clutched her lung in an unseen iron grip and tried to wrestle control over her body, constricting muscles against her will. Breathing deeply and calmly, Janine placed a paw on her chest, pleading with her immune system to overcome this poison sooner.

"Cowardice!" Brood Lord said, blocking and dodging. "You assault me together, knowing full well that you are too weak to challenge me in any other way. Animal looks suit you well, freaks, since you even fight like a pack of rabid dogs!"

"Whine more. You hurt my friend; you killed my kin and massacred people under my protection," Martyshkina growled, and Brood Lord gasped as a sword landed on the axe stuck in his armor, sending it deeper. "A single death is too good for you, so the least you can do is give me a little sport as I take away your limbs one by one."

"If you so insist, dog," came the calm answer.

The pincers struck the ceiling, collapsing the ceiling. Through the avalanche of stone and steel, Brood Lord dashed forward, his own body pulverizing rubble into dust. The curved sword slashed out in a blinding arc, aiming for Martyshkina's neck. Janine barely had time to block the incoming blow when his pincer arm struck, snapping close near their bodies.

Pushing himself into the space between the two warlords, Brood Lord kicked with his legs, cannonballing Marty into a wall and unleashing his full fury on Janine. The battered claymores faced the mighty sword. Sparks flickered in the air, stifled by the sonic booms created by their clashes. Cruel and efficient, Brood Lord brought his pincers to bear, ripping chunks of flesh from Janine's sides, tearing at her hide, and using the clouding of her wounded eye to his advantage.

And like a ghost, he disappeared from view, and Janine swung blindly behind her. But he wasn't there. Brood Lord's legs hooked into the damaged ceiling, and he scurried toward Martyshkina, nearly cutting her in half with a wide overhead blow. On pure instinct, the warlord dove to the side, losing her collected weapons and earning herself a wide gash across her chest.

"Warlords, sword saints." The hordemen spat. "Bumps in a road. Stand and be strangled!"

"Now would be a lovely time," whispered a hoarse voice, and everything slowed down. Pieces of rubble barely moved, stillness gripped the waters, and Janine's blood turned cold as she brushed fingers down her back. "No, stupid girl. Rage, not cold. Rage against the impossible."

"Nothing is impossible! If you want to punish someone, try me first!" Janine roared. Fear tried to creep into her psyche, and she shook it off, embracing adrenaline. "I am the one who took your life!"

"A bit premature, don't you…" Brood Lord, thinking she was addressing him, spoke and hissed in annoyance as the damaged claymores impaled the spot where his legs were hooked into the ceiling.

The stone gave in, and his body fell straight into Janine's wide hook. Her working claws failed to penetrate his helmet, but the force of the blow cartwheeled the hordeman away from Martyshkina. A second later, Janine was on top of him, ignoring an elbow that smashed her snout and broke one of her fangs. Slugfest. This close Brood Lord could not use the sword, and the Ice Fangs stopped firing, worried about hitting her. The two of them exchanged blows, pincers and claws raking over bodies, bruises growing, welts appearing, and neither giving in the slightest. Enraged, Janine slammed his bulk against the wall every time Brood Lord tried to shove her aside.

Brood Lord's eyes glanced back worriedly when the stone gave in. Janine used this distraction to slip under him as they fell into another tunnel, located at a lower level. Her arms wrapped around the armored waist, and Janine slammed the huge body into the floor, sending an explosion of water upward. A kick that tore through her cheek and a pincer closed around her paw, trying to take it away. Undaunted, Janine headbutted Brood Lord, breaking his nose, and the pincer released her as he inhaled the returning water. In response, the sword's pommel landed at her poor belly, forcing the warlord to cough, and the second blow with the pommel threw her off him.

His blows were insane. It was as if she was hammered with by hundreds of pile-drivers simultaneously. Her zygomatic bone cracked under the pressure, and a sizeable bruise bubbled over it immediately. Rarely had Janine fought against an opponent in power armor without her own trusted suit, and today she understood the difference this piece of technology made. She won't be mocking hostile Normies during the next invasion anymore.

Next? The thought seemed ridiculous in its certainty that she would survive this battle, yet her heart was pumping, her body wasn't broken, and the prey was breathing. There was no time to think of peril.

"Weapon!" Janine roared, stepping back while her allies above fired at the advancing Brood Lord, bleeding him. He won't let her gain distance again.

"Here, lady!" She caught a thrown sword.

This has got to be a joke. Janine laughed sourly, blocking the foe's swing with the tiny toothpick. A knight's sword! It was a mere dagger compared to her height. In a situation where true might was needed. Not even a sage's glaive, a claymore, or, at the very worst, a shield. Seeing the blades coming against each other and time slowing down, Janine bristled and decided to overcome the inevitable.

Her dreams weren't big, but they were precious to her. Janine intended to see Anissa exceed and become a shaman; she wanted to see Ignacy marry his soulmate and help Marco find happiness in life, hopefully convincing him to exile himself and join this weird, white-furred girl of his. She wanted to fight beside Impatient One again, to apologize properly to Soulless One, and hold Bogdan's cubs again and again. There was also the matter of the politics and the safety of her pack.

What right do I have to die?

True, death came for everyone, and sometimes a person lost through no fault of her own. That didn't mean she had to lie down and take it. Janine heard Marty, knowing full well her friend would be too late to save her again today. The blades collided, and immediately a crack appeared on the knight's sword, widening rapidly. It won't hold. Which part of her body should she give to survive the inevitable bite…

Janine was still pondering about the dilemma when the second irises disappeared behind the first, confusing her. Brood Lord jumped, getting away from the circle of light shining down at them, and the warlord glanced up; she saw an angel of death descend, the gigantic claws swatting aside a quick slash aimed at Janine's nose.

White, so white that she looked more like a moving alabaster statue than a living being, Warlord Alpha landed heavily, dressed in a tattered orange prison robe that her crimson hair covered like a cape. It was unbearable to stand in her presence; fear oozed from every pore of that titanic body, worming its way into everyone around her, forcing every nightmare to resurface, filling minds with doubts and worries.

"Alpha," Janine gasped, happy as never before to see her unusual sister.

"Rest, sister." An elbow blow, more of a gentle tap by the strongest warlord's standards, nonchalantly flung Janine away.

Another swing, an almost lazy move, and Brood Lord retreated further, shocked that his attack had been deflected with such childish ease. Alpha opened her maw, spewing white steam, and the hordeman lifted the dented and shortened blade in his hands, crying out in pain as he finally noticed three deep and torn gashes on his chest where his armor had been shaved away.

"Drozna! Play a tune again, direct it inward this time!"

A roar of fury answered as Brood Lord scuttled back into the tunnel, heading for a large steel platform that hung over a waterfall that cascaded into deep darkness. Alpha strode after him, her long crimson hair flowing freely in the dirty stream, her paw raised in command for everyone to stay behind.

Several hordemen rushed out of the darkness, taking aim at the pale monstrosity following their master. Alpha didn't stop. Her form flickered for a moment, and in an instant she was among the hapless fools, goring and biting them. There was no roar, no aggression. The strongest warlord slaughtered six armored opponents with almost mundane movements.

Lights of the Ice Fangs knights lens illuminated the tunnel, revealing the steel platform overlooking a small waterfall. The familiar clowns and more hordemen emerging from portals were there, guarding Phaser as he scampered around the edges, gesticulating wildly with his claws and sweating profusely. With heavy treads that shook the platform, a muscular beast of a man stepped forward, standing taller than even Brood Lord. His taloned hands grasped the remains of a half-eaten Ice Fang. The poor soul had been chewed to pieces while still clad in armor. Sucking in the entrails, the beast hunched his shoulders, dropping the corpse and flexing his muscles, ballooning arms and legs.

Drozna—Janine assumed this was who Brood Lord called—grinned his crimson jaws, and Janine experienced searing rage in her blood, an urgent need to leap at Marty and prove once and for all who was the strongest warlord between them. A vessel popped in her eye at the memory of how Alpha had dared to humiliate and mock her before. And all around her, the others suffered the same effect. Her cousins glared at their fellows; one even spat on the ground.

"Barbaric filth." A knight captain clenched his knuckles, accompanied by the wheezing sound produced by his power armor. "Had you only been faster, our liege would've…"

"Be silent, male." Janine had to physically restrain Marty from lunging at the man. The captain drew his pistol, only to have the sage slap it from his paw. "Marty, it…"

The rage intensified, bringing back memories of every humiliation, every missed promotion, every injustice, real or imagined, sparking every bitter memory and stoking the bonfire of long-buried grievances. I killed Terrific. Janine looked at her shaking paw. Terrific was the only one who truly gave a shit about her, and she broke her neck! And for what? For some useless, blasted, mewling cubs? For the offspring of the worst people possible?

I don't deserve to live. Clarity descended upon her. Several Ice Boys began lifting their blades, nearing their edges closer to necks. What are you waiting for, you coward? Raise your claws, gouge your eyes, and drag your brain out! Do it! It is the least you deserve for…"

"Curious," Alpha spoke in a tone resembling grinding gears and unleashed her fear.

Janine had a close acquaintance with experiencing the fear wave, Alpha's power. Once, as a cub, she snuck into the general store to steal treats. On her way out, she came face-to-face with Alpha. No claw touched the young and foolish girl on that night, but she still lay in her bed, pissing and crying all night, tormented by the unspeakable horrors that haunted her for a week. Even some of her fur had turned gray. At the end of the week, the shaman in charge of overseeing the cubs came to Alpha, demanding mercy, and the Strongest Warlord showed it, asking young Janine why she did it. Upon receiving the answer, Janine was sent to watch over cusacks for a month, accompanied by Marty, who volunteered to share the punishment, and her fur returned to its lush black color amidst ambushing insectoids. By the end of the month, Alpha had given them double the amount of the very treats Janine had tried to steal, rewarding the girls for honest labor.

In other instances, the fear wave worked more directly, stopping the hearts of anyone standing in Alpha's way. But on this day, the fear wave protected them. The anger and self-hatred dissipated, bringing up shameful doubts. Were their crimes truly beyond redemption? If so, how dare they seek an easy way out instead of working to atone until the day they could walk no more? Were their oaths so weak?

"No!" An Ice Fang roared. "We will fight!"

"Wise words, brother." Martyshkina patted him on the shoulder and blinked away tears. "That wasn't very nice. I usually cry after a bottle…"

"Just one? Pathetic." Janine teased and received a hard slap.

"Curious indeed." Brood Lord pushed past Drozna, guiding him back to the platform with one arm, and Alpha walked toward them. His surviving troops shuddered; even the assassins were uncomfortable, but no one died of fright. "I've always wondered what happens when the brainwaves of two emotion manipulators interfere with each other. It seems that they cancel each other out. Thank thee, the Foolish Warlord." Brood Lord bowed mockingly, hiding his nervousness, but his skin paled. "You gave me useful knowledge. Now I know who will hunt you down."

"What good is knowing the answer if you are dead?" Alpha laughed.

"Let me eat her," Drozna rasped, spewing out a paw. "I can take her. I know I can!"

"No doubt, but more roaches are closing in, and we have had enough thrills for one day, my friend. I had hoped to bring Janine's broken carcass along, but alas. No matter, we will meet again soon enough, my dears. Phaser, open it now!" Brood Lord commanded.

Alpha charged at them, and Drozna met her halfway. Giant claws slashed, leaving deep gashes in the man's arms, and his talons returned the favor, bleeding the warlord's arms. Alpha pushed her opponent back, ignoring the hordemen's shots. She was about to close her jaws on Drozna's shoulder when the giant stomped and Janine yelled a warning. The platform shook, coming off the wall with a screeching sound of tearing metal and falling stones. Janine rushed to the edge, just in time to see the structure collapse into a much larger crack in reality, which led to a vast field in an unknown rocky land. Alpha stopped calmly beside Janine, hungrily looking down.

"Hope he picks an interesting one," she said.

Janine faced her. How could she? So many civilians, so many cubs, their cousins, and finally their own soldiers have perished today. And this… This monster only thinks about the thrill of an individual duel?

Calm yourself. Alpha has saved your life. The strongest warlord has her own ways. Janine chastised herself.

"Gather up!" Janine snapped. "We have wounds to lick and preparations to make. Secure the injured." She saw shame in the Ice Boys' faces and added warmth to her tone. "Lift your heads, my kin. Marty and I also succumbed to the mental assault, and yet you endured it far longer than we did. Be proud and act, for we have work to do!" She hoped it would soothe their souls; the Spirits know it was Tancred's foolishness that led to these losses, not theirs. Damn it, why was it forbidden to use claws to motivate her feeble kin? Nothing cheered up soldiers' souls like a proper brawl. Drinks helped too, but not everyone liked them. "The foe dared to assault our city! Death and destruction have been brought to our land! Will we stand and take it?"

"No!" The Ice Fangs roared.

"Damn right, we won't. We are not priests to show another chin! Their leadership we'll slay and topple their nation, and reclaim their people for the Dynast ahead of the Second and the First! Nothing is forgiven; every grievance is awaiting to be repaid, but the living are more important than the dead!" Janine raised a paw and clenched it. "Let their hearts beat. For now. Assist in restoring the order and saving citizens entrusted to our care. Then," she bared her fangs, "we'll hunt them to the edge of the world and see their spines broken against our knees. Vengeance and honor!"

"Ice and heat!" It wasn't something she had taught them. She had never heard such a cry before, but accepted it anyway, glad to be accepted as kin.

"Shall I call you Sword Saint now?" Martyshkina whispered. "Milady Janine Ironwill. Sounds cool, won't lie."

"Screw you," coughed Janine, imagining the horror. She didn't take over the Ice Fangs' pack, right? Things don't work that way in the order… she hoped.

"Oh, Lady Janine, I never knew this side of yours! Unfortunately, I can't return your feelings; I'm into males…"

"Marty, I'll murder you if you don't stop!"

"You'll try," Martyshkina stated arrogantly.

"Where is Sword Saint Tancred?" Alpha demanded to know.

"Dead," Janine replied sorrowfully.

"Understood, sweet lady." Alpha bowed her head in a brief show of comradeship. "Find his remains and retrieve his weapon. I have answers to find." She reached out for a dead hordeman.

 

[Rookie12]

I just wanted to watch a movie. Gamma-18 panicked, lying flat on his belly on the main road leading to the nearest shelter. The day had started excellently; his brother praised the prepared breakfast, which, in hindsight, was already a portent of an incredible ominous event to come. Beta-18 never appreciated his brother's efforts to introduce him to proper cuisine, preferring to gorge himself on bags of chips and throwing darts at Zurkov's photo in an attempt to curse the misguided individual.

Their business was booming thanks to Social Services, who gave their small center a sum eclipsing their annual earnings just to treat the Wolfkins for free, and the twins couldn't be happier about it. Seeing a steady line of soldiers waiting for their turn outside, more customers had dared to venture into their humble establishment, and Gamma-18 cut two hours from his sleep, baking foods for the visitors, until Beta-18 told him to cut it off and replaced him at a stove. Two Orais had a word with the protesters, and since then there had been no disturbances outside their parlor.

Life was changing for the better, and Gamma-18 had decided to celebrate such an occasion by visiting a cinema, convincing himself that he could stand the bigots shouting about him being non-human. It was a necessary obstacle to overcome if he wanted to work in a military hospital. Beta-18 wasn't always going to be at his side to protect and support him. No one screamed at him in the cinema, but rather many screamed with him when the terrorists attacked.

If it hadn't been for that brave Wolfkin, they'd have been dead by now, because the door outside was jammed. The brave woman shielded them long enough for Gamma-18 to get close to the jammed door and knock it off, along with part of the wall. Outside was no better; it was as if the entire city had gone mad. Quakes, billboards exploding, the ground erupting, cars driving over people…

Houstad wasn't supposed to be like this. It was a civilized place, where Gamma-18 hoped to build a comfortable life for Beta-18. Here, police responded to calls and arrived quickly, ready to help anyone, regardless of background, and social workers regularly visited their massage parlor and assisted the bioweapons in adjusting and filling out paperwork.

Gamma-18 came to love this city, and so he tried his best to keep everyone safe. His skin was tough enough to mostly ignore shards of glass and pieces of metal, and the occasional cut was nothing to fret about. But the familiar streets had changed; crashed vehicles and fallen buildings clogged the streets, and fires raged in the alleys. Dead, shot and trampled, blanketed the ground, and the stench of urine, gas, and burning bodies was nauseating. Thick smoke made orientation difficult. Navigation through the network wasn't working. But when all hope seemed lost, unusual drones swooped in, beaming an updated map of Houstad, and a confident voice from Mayor Jaquan and Wolfkin Kirk gave them strength to fight the fear.

"I… sorry," said a lanky kid in a leather jacket, holding an unconscious girl close to his chest. The child had tried to bite and scratch her out of the blue, then lost her conscience after headbutting a hardy Orais' knuckle. Several people succumbed to a strange bloodlust and had to be tied up or knocked out for their safety.

"Hm?" Gamma-18 inquired nervously, arching his eyestalks under his head. They took forever to regenerate, and several scalds from overheated metal already adorned his head. He wasn't the only New Breed helping to keep everyone safe, and an Orais distributed them evenly around the line, giving the bioweapon the hardest area.

"About yelling at you to fuck off from Houstad." The kid swallowed, his eyes red, soot and scratches covering his face. "We thought… it seems so bullshit now... we thought your kind lured humans and ate them, like the rest of the bioweapons. We… I didn't… Sorry. About everything."

"No, I much prefer meat borscht. Beef brisket on the bone, thin strips of beef, pork ribs, chicken if I can't afford pork. And no sour cream! Mhhhmmm… Heavenly!" Gamma-18 grumbled, using pleasant memories to combat the horror and keep moving.

He recognized the young man; his ass was throwing rotten fruits at their building. He had half of a mind to tell him everything he was thinking about his ilk, how stressful it was for the poor Beta-18 and how Gamma-18 had to budget their expenses, often cutting back on food because those lousy nits were scaring away clients, but who would this help? And it felt too hollow and childish to hold a grudge in the face of the carnage.

"Let's forget the past," Gamma-18 sighed. "Tell you what, sir, come visit us for a few sessions and we'll call it even. First time free!"

Bio-weapons did indeed have a terrible reputation, to the point that they were hated in many lesser countries more than even Malformed. It wasn't entirely undeserved. When the Old World was dying, hordes of creatures were unleashed from the secret laboratories, murdering entire cities. Gamma-18 and his brother were of a more enlightened sort, and after being cleared by the specialists at the Investigation Bureau, they opted into a program designed to rehabilitate the public perception of their kind. It didn't involve any work; all they had to do was live their lives without breaking the law, so the government could later point to them and say that bioweapons were exactly the same as everyone else.

"You treat Normies too?" The kid glanced at him.

"Our specialty lies in massaging New Breeds." Gamma-18 beaten aside a rock that was falling on a woman nearby and began to explain enthusiastically. "You see, it is natural that very few specialists work with New Breeds' bodies…"

"I don't get it. Why is it natural?" the kid asked.

"Multitude different body types." Gamma-18 pressed a hand to his own chest. "I lack a heart. Not emotionally speaking, but physically. Orais evolved to have hardy, rough hides, almost impervious to conventional kitchen knives."

"Impervious!" boasted an Orais knuckle-walking in the middle of the group.

"If you say so, sir," Gamma-18 agreed. "Several of our clients' organs are in constant flux. Imagine a brain migrating through the body on its own. There are also chitin plates of Insectones and sub-dermal exoskeletons of Wolfkins. Or poison spikes, intense heat, or, the rarest of my career, a brain radiating unnatural fear. Each requires a unique approach. My dearest brother and I have aced that mastery." He stopped; the worry about Beta-18 spread like the sharpest needles piercing his chest.

"He should be okay," the kid tried to cheer him up. "It can't be that bad everywhere, right?"

"Thank you," Gamma-18 said honestly. "Regardless, Normies' and human-shaped New Breeds' bodies lack complexity for the lack of a better term. It doesn't take as much time to learn their inner workings and how much pressure to apply for a proper relaxation session. Don't take it as an insult."

"None taken," the kid chuckled. "You are passionate about your work, mister…"

"Just call me Gamma-18, sir, and of course I am. I take tremendous pride in my craft."

"Where is your center, again?" asked a blonde woman.

Gamma-18 gladly began to explain, advertising their humble services to the best of his ability and trying to further pique the crowd's interest with an offer of perfectly baked homemade treats. It was a little distasteful to be involved in a potential business discussion in the current situation, but none of the inhumane things happening today were his doing, and Beta-18 insisted that Gamma-18 needed to socialize more. Besides, a pleasant conversation helped the group forget about the deadly dangers around them.

When they almost reached the bunker, a rocket struck a building on the side of the road, showering a rain of destruction down at them. Gamma-18 reacted far faster than ever before. Twenty of his arms pushed those closest to him into the safety of the Orais' embrace; ten more pulled those behind him into the safety of his expanding body. He had never imagined himself capable of such speed and reaction. Less than a second ago, he was engaged in a pleasant conversation with his newfound friends, and the next, his body was moving on its own, knowing exactly what to do to save lives.

The building collapsed, dropping its heavy weight on Gamma-18's back as he did his best to spread himself out over the trapped people, trying to lift tons of stone. It wasn't easy; he and his brother preferred columnar shapes for a reason, but it wasn't impossible.

His eyes spotted trembling pebbles, and he heard stomping feet approaching. Gamma-18's hope that they were rescuers soon turned to fear as a one-armed terrorist emerged from the billowing clouds of smoke, letting go of a rocket launcher. His armor was shredded by claws and firearms, blood gushed from a stump of his arm, an eye was missing, but he giggled half madly and reached for an oversized rifle strapped to his belt.

"If... if you... s-surrender, I promise to arrange for your survival!" Gamma-18 tried to offer, but the armored giant spat something in an unknown language and aimed his weapon at his head. He repeated his offer in other languages, screaming desperately, but nothing helped. "Beta-18. You are the best brother ever..." Gamma-18 whispered, awaiting a shot.

A click of an empty gun startled the terrorist and saved Gamma-18's life. A figure in green riot gear burst through the smoke and struck the helmeted head with the buttstock of his shotgun. The strike produced a thud and did little else, and the terrorist began moving his own rifle when a stun baton's tip landed straight in the gaping wound of the missing arm. Yells filled the street, and the larger opponent recoiled, trying to retreat as the officer continued frying him. A headbutt to the face cracked the officer's helmet, and a strand of white hair showed through the crack.

Zurkov, Gamma-18 couldn't believe it was him, rammed his empty shotgun against the faceplate of his opponent, shattering the visor and sending razor-sharp shards of reinforced glass into his eye socket. With a roar, the terrorist let go of his rifle, wincing and convulsing from the electric shock coursing through his body. He rammed a knee into Zurkov's stomach, bending the man over, and added a heavy blow from above, denting the armor.

"Bastard." Zurkov's hand closed on the dropped rifle, and he leveled it at the giant's crotch. "Drop dead already!"

Bullets hurled the screaming terrorist against the building. New holes appeared all over his armor; he tried to put a hand over his face, screaming in a foreign language, but the officer was merciless, emptying the entire magazine. Swaying like a drunkard, Zurkov rose to his feet, kicked the larger body to see if it was dead, and picked up his weapons.

"Citizen, you are alive; stay still, everything is going to be okay; help is close by…" Zurkov stopped, reloading his shotgun, and recognition crept across his face. "Freak," he hissed. "So many people have died and your soulless kind is still alive…" The shotgun shook in his hands, frightening Gamma-18, but then the officer secured it to his belt and knelt, trying to push the rubble up. Through the cracks in Zurkov's helmet, Gamma-18 saw a bruise swollen around his eye and blood streaks across his face. "My armor is damaged and malfunctioning, and I am not a New Breed," he said, face red from exertion. "Might be a tad uncomfortable, but you should…"

"God bless you, Zurkov!" Gamma-18 laughed. Live, live, he was going to live! He'd have to ask Beta-18 to stop trying to curse this bizarre officer. Gamma-18 placed his hands on the ground and strained himself, raising the rubble. "Just you wait, I will give you a monthly… no, a lifetime subscription!"

"What… How did you?" Zurkov's shock didn't last long, and he immediately grabbed the unconscious people under Gamma-18 and dragged them to safety, one by one. Only then did the bioweapon slip out from under the rubble and wrap his arms around the officer. "Let go of me, creep! Don't you defile God by mentioning him with your abominable mouth!" Zurkov struggled in vain against the embrace.

Gamma-18 let go of him as other officers emerged from the smoke to check the civilians' pulses and help them wake up. The bioweapons refused medical aid, pointing to a closing burn on his shoulder.

"Neat." Zurkov shrugged. "My men found the rest of your group and escorted them to the shelter. You best follow them. It isn't safe…"

"Sir! More wounded!" An officer yelled, trying to remove a steel plate from the collapsed building. Another officer held his hand over the wrist of a pale arm visible from underneath the rubble.

"Stop it," Zurkov commanded. "None of us will lift this. You two lead the civilians to safety. I'll report to the command…"

"I can help!" Gamma-18 eagerly volunteered, thrusting his hands under the plate. There they stuck to the surface, and the bioweapon lifted the plate vertically so the officers could crawl underneath and get the wounded out. "If you need help with the heavy lifting, I am ready! Just please call my brother and ask if he is okay."

"I'll do it right away, and you are heading to the shelter," Zurkov said.

"Sir, we could really use extra help," a police officer said.

"It… He is a civilian," Zurkov snapped. "We do not endanger civilians, Jane."

"Not unless they volunteer to help, sir!" She saluted. "Please. There are not enough hands to help the trapped, and our military is still fighting. Every second counts. Lives are at stake."

"So we should put others…" Zurkov shook his head and clenched his fist. "Fine. Beta-18, right?"

"Gamma-18, actually!" Gamma-18 corrected him.

"Yeah, understood. I hereby accept your assistance, and on behalf of Houstad, thank you for this generous offer. Stay behind us; don't even dare to peek until we secure the area and give you permission…"

 

[Rookie12]

"What happened?"

"Do we know who attacked us?"

"Mayor, why have we lost contact with the villages and towns in the southwest?"

Kirk stood steadily, dressed in an unusually pristine white uniform of an Ice Fang; several medals adorned his chest reflected flashes of the reporters' equipment. A sash in the Third's colors draped diagonally across his torso, and around his neck was his family's tribal necklace. Dressed like a parade, Kirk felt ridiculous.

Mayor Jaquan was beside him. The man's jacket puffed out from the body armor underneath, and his typically black face paled. Despite the shock of the failed assassination attempt, he held himself with dignity, summoning an evacuation council as soon as the order came from Dragena. He invited reporters to a brief press conference, smoothly taking over from Kirk, but kept the young man close at hand.

They gathered in the damaged city hall; a screen of reinforced windows separated them from the busy shouts of city workers and army personnel overseeing the evacuation procedures.

"As of right now, we know the following." Jaquan raised a hand to calm the anxious crowd. "An unknown nation has carried out a heinous act of terrorism in our noble city. Thanks to the valiant efforts of the Third, the attackers were repelled, and their cursed remains now crackle in the incinerators. Safety and order have once again been restored to our streets."

"Then why is the need for evacuation?" asked a reporter. "And where is Sword Saint Tancred? Shouldn't he be overseeing the safety of the citizens?"

"There has been an invasion of our lands, and the sword saints and warlords are busy preparing defenses to face and vanquish the Horde," Jaquan lied without blinking. Tancred was dead, but to maintain morale, the news of his demise was kept from the populace.

"War is coming to Houstad?!" the reporter gasped.

"Where is Commander Ravager?" demanded another.

"This evacuation is merely a precaution to ensure the safety of our people. The Dynast has endowed Dragena with the authority to make decisions in this matter, and I fully support her course of action." Jaquan placed a hand on his chest. "We knew of the dangers lurking beyond the Wall." Genuine pain flashed across his face, and Kirk thought the Mayor's resolve wavered for a moment. But he regained his composure and continued. "Houstad endured war before. She will do so again. The Second is coming, and the Dynast himself has promised to be here sooner. I see your worries about the economy in your faces, and I understand and share them sincerely. But lives are more important, and material losses can be compensated in due time. Commander Ravager is regrettably indisposed. She has left for healing meditation…"

"Damn protesters!" roared a burly man whose face was covered in recent cuts. "Their venom drove her away. If she were here, nothing would have happened! My sister died because of…"

"Enough!" Kirk slammed his paw against the podium, silencing potential disorder. "Every soul has the right to air their grievances to the Blessed Mother. Those 'damned protesters' risked their necks and saved lives today. No, the commander had a reason. In her place, her daughters and sons and the entire Third bleed for you. Dare not insult our sacrifices through misplaced blame. The invaders are guilty, and no one else! Sir," he added in a warmer tone, worried that he was overstepping his bounds.

Spirits know why Warlord Dragena, on the recommendation of Warlord Janine, put him in charge of communication with the locals. He was supposed to represent both the tribe and the Order, hence the ridiculous attire and a sudden authority dangerously close to that of his sister. But he wasn't a diplomat! To be honest, he agreed with the poor man. What kind of parent was absent to protect their offspring? And the Blessed Mother is an avatar of the gods themselves; what right does she have not to be there in their hour of need? His own mom and dad, Spirit of Sorrow, please watch over them, fought to their last, giving their lives for the betterment of everyone, no matter what the bitch may believe.

But he couldn't let grievances turn into calls for violence. Sure, he'd have liked to give those fools who protested the presence of the Third and called them monsters a kick in their collective guts, but their lives were in his care. It was his duty to protect every soul in Houstad.

"The hero of Houstad reminds us of what is important," Jaquan said passionately, placing a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Our adversaries expect us to fear and fight among ourselves. I say nay! The Reclamation Army has always triumphed over barbarism, and this time will be no different!" He raised a fist overhead. "For the duration of this crisis, please report only information from official sources and help guide citizens to evacuation zones. Do you wish to add anything, hero?" Jaquan looked at him, prompting Kirk to speak up.

"I am no hero…" Kirk began, irritated by this stupid nickname. A hero would never have stood by and watched the bitch beating his sister and brother. "Others have done far more than…"

"He's full of shit!" the yell frozen him.

Kalaisa. She stepped closer to the crowd; through the unzipped jacket, he could see the bandage covering her split chest. His sister and brother hastened to her, but the wolf hag snapped her fingers. Kirk bit his lower lip, preparing to be destroyed as she lacerated him first with words and then with her actions.

"Done more, so what?" she asked haughtily. "Was it not Kirk who first took action against the robbers? Was it not he who drew the first blood and saved a cub? Where others stood, he acted and set an example! If that's not what a fantastic hero is, I don't know, buy some glasses or something."

"True!" Jaquan supported the lie, and the reporters joined in the applause. "Your humility is inspiring, Kirk of the Wolf Tribe, but by your actions you earned the right to the title."

"Thank… you," Kirk forced the words out, struggling against the urge to shake. Composure—he needed to look confident in front of the cameras. "Many of you may consider me a barbarian." He grinned. "And I am one. But the Core Lands, the life you have built here... It is worth fighting for. Our enemies seek to trample it underfoot. They will fall and scream in agony of despair as our claws drag them into the Abyss. This I promise to you. You heard the spiteful, taunting gibberish of our enemies. They know that in our unity we surpass anything they can throw at us, so they seek to sow despair in your hearts. Deny them that. Remain rational, help your fellows in need, and if you are able, volunteer to join rescue or evacuation teams."

His brother approached Kalaisa and put a paw on her shoulder, and the two exchanged friendly congratulations on their survival before she turned to him and playfully stuck out her tongue, storming past his sister to the exit. Is she thinking this is it? The rage boiled in Kirk, overwhelming even his fear. Was this another cruel prank of hers, to raise his expectations before the bitch would drag him through the mud? Or did she truly believe that he had forgiven her for the hell she had put them through, for the shattered trust and the torment she had caused them after she had supported him once? He will never, ever forgive her. Kalaisa could rot for all he cared.

It stung just to think that his dear brother had let go of the hatred, and the sight of common distaste instead of disgust and distrust in his sister's eyes infuriated Kirk. How dare they let go… He inhaled and waved his paw at the reporters like the obedient puppet he was. Sacrifice. The demands came in many forms, and right now, he had to show solidarity and courage, not wanton aggression.

"Elizabeth Macbeth of the Sights Unseen." A reporter raised her hand. She had an ugly, barely stitched, torn gash on her cheek and used her companion to stand upright, but her voice was clear and inquisitive. "Our viewers and camera footage had shown that the madmen had used portals to enter Houstad. Do we know if Eugenia Mylli is involved, and what guarantees do we have that there won't be another attack in the middle of the evacuation?"

"Eugenia Mylli." Kirk's features changed into a frown. Rage, pure desire to rip and tear that shocked him, had sparked in his chest. He had never met the Elite; his family line had never had any quarrel with her, and yet a single name evoked the urge to rip and tear. He coughed, buying himself time to calm down. "The Redeemer," using her title, helped stave off aggression, "is not involved. I can swear to that. If not for Iternian assistance, the losses would be greater today. As for methods of protection…" he turned to Jaquan.

"Several disruptor types of the New Breeds left their posts at the terraformation complex and joined crucial points of Houstad's defense." Jaquan waited for murmurs to subside. "I assure you that the complex's defenses have not been compromised in the slightest. Anyone attempting to open a portal into Houstad is in for an unpleasant surprise."

"Why haven't such methods been used before?" Elizabeth refused to let the mayor off the hook.

"Lack of specialized New Breeds, Elizabeth. Our disruptors must to be conscious to use their powers, and while they can stay awake for the duration of the evacuation process thanks to the medication, prolonging that time for everyday activities is simply not sustainable for their health," Jaquan answered. He raised a hand, stopping further questions when a figure in a tattered green suit limped into the hall, stomping heavily with his sole working leg. "Commissioner Zurkov! Glad you managed to make it. What news from the streets?"

Zurkov stopped; his swollen lips began forming a retort, but then he shook his head, wiping sweat from his brows. "There are no more shootings in suburbs. Food rations and water bottles are being distributed, medics are working overtime. Help came from the most unlikely sources: Oathtakers, Iternians, who still deny it, migrant workers, and Bioweapon Gamma-18 saved lives."

"Even a bioweapon! What a joy to hear it! With allies such as these contributing to the common cause, what right do we have to falter? Now, ladies and gentlemen, I must adjourn this meeting. Immediate duties demand my undivided attention." Jaquan and Kirk left the podium, and the mayor took Zurkov's arm and led the man into their unusual operations center.

Doors slid behind them, cutting off the din of reporters' questions and introducing the noise of working crews. Wolf Hag Sarkeesian, representative of the Alpha Pack and chief overseer of the evacuation, glared at the arguing crew of people trying to solve the complex puzzle of completely emptying Houstad within a week. In the face of the crisis, Jaquan invited even the most unsavory characters. Crude and foul-mouthed criminals of Houstad's underworld shared tables and workstations with dignified and serious corporate operators.

"Zone EF, sector five, bridge vermin…" An operator from Murzaliev Logistics cringed from the name, "haven't reported in yet. Reasons?"

"Oh, they probably got lost playing somewhere. You know how kids are…" began a ragged woman who reeked of alcohol.

The operator snapped his fingers, and a blade appeared near the grimy neck as a figure in dented silver armor towered over the recruited criminal. "Answer. Please."

"Hehe, they call us cutthroats, and here you are going straight for the jugular." The woman exhaled a puff of smoke. "There's a cache I'd like to retrieve."

"I will not have my subordinates taint my reputation by falling behind the schedule. Call them back immediately and tell them to take a shower and then change into their uniforms before getting on the truck."

"The hell do they need a shower and uniforms for?"

"Just because we are refugees doesn't mean my subordinates can afford to look unpresentable." The man adjusted his tie.

"We are not your subordinates!" the woman snapped.

"It's either that or a prison sentence afterwards," the corporate operator checked his watch.

"You drive a hard bargain," the criminal grumbled. "Fine. Are we at least getting paid?"

"Was that in your contract?" the corporate operator and raised a finger, stopping the furious outburst. "If not, our lawyers can renegotiate it later. Soon you understand that Murzaliev Logistics is not without its advantages. Or punishments should you try to return to your former lifestyle."

"Your knee." Maxence, who had temporarily assumed the responsibilities of Chief Medical Advisor after the former and his second were killed in the attack, rose from the table and approached Zurkov.

"Torn cartilage." Zurkov shrugged, and Maxence shoved him into a chair.

"You may lose your leg, oaf." The doctor deftly began removing the armor.

"Far less than many have lost today." The commissioner sneered.

"Everyone, everyone, we are supposed to be a team," Jaquan pleaded. "What pressing problems remain to be solved?"

"Wounded," Maxence replied, cursing at the sight of a swollen leg. "We've got people in the ICU and babies in the NICU. Over a thousand people. They will die in transit."

"Tough," Sarkeesian said casually. "They're getting into the trucks, regardless."

"Haven't you heard what I said?" Maxence snapped. "Our patients won't survive without care. Mayor, I suggest we leave a skeleton crew behind to tend to those who need emergency care. Our hospitals are built like fortresses; we should be able to survive…"

"Nah, not satisfactory enough," Sarkeesian interrupted him. "You've seen the bastards in action. If their horde spills out into the streets, they and the patients die. Can't risk that. Into the trucks they go. Only the military will stay in town, and they won't have time to check the hospitals."

"What if…" Kirk almost shuddered under the wolf hag's gaze, but forced himself to speak, anyway. Memories of the lack of doctors in the Outer Lands burned brightly in his head, and Sarkeesian was absolutely right to want to preserve their lives. But there was a middle ground. "What if we ask Till Ingo and our scientists and engineers to devise safer means of transportation and send the medics away in the final phase of the evacuation?"

"They won't be able to accommodate everyone," Maxence said quietly.

"It's still better than nothing. Thanks for the quick thinking, Kirk," Jaquan praised him, and Sarkeesian nodded in concession. "What's next?"

"Citizens are complaining about our decision to send seniors in the last wave. They are afraid we're leaving our elderly behind," the corporate operator reported.

"I hate it," Jaquan admitted. "But the youth is our future."

"We'd better not put it that way, sir, to avoid an uproar," advised his secretary.

"Obviously," the mayor sighed. "Contact the veterans and public servants in the retirement homes, please. Find me people who are willing to make an encouraging speech in support of our decision. I myself will stay until the very end to lend gravitas to this action. Next?"

"I heard about the Families that run the criminal underworld." Kirk raised his paw hesitantly. "Why are they not present here? Surely, we can use their resources."

"Already in use," stated the quiet man in silver armor. "There was an accident that claimed the lives of their leadership, and the lower ranks immediately offered us any help possible." He tapped his scabbard, ignoring Zurkov's intense look at him and the mayor. "The former members of the Assassins' Guild will join the defenders. On one condition. Those of us who have or adopted children are to be evacuated."

"A volunteer named Sitota wished to join the army, Reaper," said a soldier of the Provincial Army. "Based on her bio, she is the mother hen of many orphans."

"No need to deny her request. Assign Sitota to guard the refugees on the road to Stormfiend," the assassin suggested. "She and the others have finally surpassed me where it counts. I won't let them die here."

"Agreed," Jaquan agreed. "Anything else we need to decide?"

"Yes, and it is urgent!" A nervous Ice Fang in a strict business suit sprang from her seat. A badge on her chest identified her as the Chief Cultural Advisor. "There has been a terrible, unforgivable misunderstanding. My department was ordered to abandon priceless museum exhibits and cultural relics from the temples, including texts dating their existence back to the pre-Extinction era, in favor of evacuating animals and plants from the zoos and corporate prototypes! Plants!" She spat in disgust. "Mayor, this is our... No, mankind's history we are talking about! Statues, paintings, works of art! We can't sacrifice them to mangy beasts and useless flowers!"

"Are the texts digitized? Do we have photos of the objects?" Kirk inquired ahead of Sarkeesian's sharp reply.

He wasn't sure what 'zoos' were, but he didn't need to hear the explanation for rescuing animals. Houstad was one of the major genetic engineering centers responsible for reintroducing extinct wildlife species into the environment. The cost of reinventing and improving these templates was astronomical. As for the corporate prototypes, the woman was wise not to argue against them. Technology was paramount to progress, and schematics were rarely trusted on the Net.

"Most of them, but…"

"Then they are not lost and can be rebuilt later," Kirk assured her. "Leave them behind and…" he turned to Sarkeesian and took off his necklace, handing it to her. It was made from the bones of his mother and father, but they would want it. He hoped. "Can you ask our shamans to add our own relics to the museum so the civilians won't feel like we're cheating them by saving our sacred symbols? The shamans will probably resist the idea, though."

"They can try." Sarkeesian opened her maw, and her drills whirled inside. "The strong command, the weak obey."

"You cannot recreate the marvels of the past!" The cultural advisor exploded. "If it were that easy, it would have been done by now! You need soul, passion, talent... These objects have inspired generations of artists and given hope to countless thousands! It's our heritage, our responsibility to preserve them…"

"Don't worry, sister," Sarkeesian said in a softer tone, giving the woman an encouraging pat on the stomach. "The Third is here, and the city has not yet fallen. Tell you what, I'll do my best to protect it, and you give me a tour when the war is over. Promise?"

"S-sure, but you don't know if you'll win…"

"Don't know? The state always wins! And I am hungry for battle, sister." Sarkeesian's eyes flashed with anticipation.

 

[Rookie12]

Anji floated across a sea of utter void. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes on any source of light but failing to find any. Turning her head left and right had made thick and disgusting oily liquid pour into her ears, but not a single splash accompanied it. Control of her body below her neck was gone, and even moving a finger was an impossible task. Fear crept into her as the water soaked her fur, weighing to begin sinking her body.

"Anyone!" she tried to scream, but no sound escaped her parched lips. Not a groan, not a whisper, not even a breath.

Stillness. A perfect silence enveloped her. Am I in the Abyss? Anji wondered. The Abyss, the place where all sinners of the Wolf Tribe go after their demise. Oathbreakers, cub-slayers, incompetents, faithless, and cowards headed straight to its fiery and cold depths to suffer unimaginable tortures and endure lifetimes of torment before the Spirits allowed them to be reborn, tempered and wiser than before.

It felt… unfair to be here. Anji was still young and cubless; she chatted with Mom and Dad this morning, exchanging latest gossips, telling them farewells, and she was sure that she had done nothing to deserve to be here. Dad always taught her to treat others as she would have them treat her, and Anji lived by that rule, never harming a male in her life. Perhaps the spirits punished her for not stopping the dominations in her pack? But they were the ones who created them in the first place!

No, it had to be something else, and her mind wandered, searching for a reason. She always tried to befriend and help everyone. Big or small, she refused no plea for help. Whether it was bandits holding someone hostage or a need for tokens, she gave it her all, Normie or kin. It was a bit tedious at times and left her with dozens of scars marring her once-beautiful body, but the reward was well worth it. Joy of mothers reunited with their cubs. A gleam of hope in downtrodden eyes. Well, and friends. Tons and tons of them, all over the Outer Lands.

Maybe this is it! Vanity! She always prided herself on being perfection incarnate, never mopping in the darkness. That, and she dyed her hair. Changing her natural appearance must've angered the Spirits. Yes, this is it. Anji decided, looking around. Shamans told tales of the Abyss as a place of brimstone and fierce rage, or absolute cold, where the guilty were strung up in iron frames, their limbs stretched ad infinitum, cruel rusty blades piercing their regrowing skin and organs, and a firm grip on the conscience of the guilty denied them escape into madness.

Instead, the Abyss was far more insidious. The threat of drowning accompanied by utter silence. Anji enjoyed laughter and needed companionship. Never since her very birth, since her dear brother died, had she been alone. There was always someone by her side to keep her company. Could this be her sin? Could it be that she helped others not out of the goodness of her heart, not as a decent person, but as a frightened hypocrite, a coward unable to bear the thought of being all alone? Was that it? Was that all she was?

Well, the shamans spoke true about one thing. Helplessness. The true nature of the Abyss, an ultimate torment. No matter what you do, no matter how strong you were, here and for decades to come, you will be helpless, hearing only your thoughts, and even they will vanish in time, swallowed by silence…

"No!" Anji screamed, opening her eyes to the white light on the ceiling.

"She is awake!" Anji blinked, greeted by Wolfkins: eighteen soldiers from her own pack, Kalaisa, Bogdan, and Marco, standing on a chair.

A stench of antiseptic and medications assaulted her nostrils, forcing Anji to frown. She blinked twice, trying to believe that she was alive. Weariness touched her, threatening to drag the wolf hag back into the sleep's embrace, but she forced herself to stay awake.

"How…" She licked her lips, gratefully gulping water from a flask held by Kalaisa. "How long?" Anji asked again.

"At ease, loser," Kalaisa said smugly. She closed her eyes, ignoring the angry growls of the offended pack, and corrected herself. "Sorry. I was worried and ran my mouth again. Just a few hours."

"We are in the Hall of Charity, Wolf Hag," added the second in command of Anji's pack. At a confused look, the woman quickly explained. "It is a place to provide basic medical necessities to the less fortunate in the city. The mayor commandeered it for the soldiers with non-life-threatening wounds in need of recuperation. At least that was the original idea." Hearing a strained groan, a shadow passed over the scout's muzzle. "Civilians are also being treated here instead of in a proper hospital, since there are too many injured. The rest of our pack is either back at the base or helping to clear the rubble."

"Kalaisa stood by your side while you slept!" Marco added eagerly. "She called us when you began to stir! Doctor! Mr. Diego! Anji has woken up!"

She tried to stand up and found out that her wounded arm and leg were still numb and refused to bulge. Needles pierced her body, carrying both nutrition and medication through rubber tubes, and sensors littered her chest, sending data to a nearby terminal. Her cheeks flushed red at the sight of two tubes connected to... more private parts of her body under a blanket.

Stained glass was installed in the walls of this spacious hall. Each circular window was adorned with various saints of the planet's faith and shone a pleasant kaleidoscope of light. Only a few patients, like Anji, had an abundance of space, and most beds were crowded together, with just enough room for nurses and doctors to pass by. Moans, screams, and the scents of fear, sweat, and blood permeated the air. Medical staff worked tirelessly, removing pieces of stone and glass from bodies, cleaning wounds, and trying to save limbs and organs. The medics didn't share the same uniform color, but the red marks united them. Words of confessors and priests brought comfort to the patients.

A doctor, dressed in a stylish blue robe of a private medical clinic with a golden snake encircling it, came closer, checked her eyes and body, and declared that the worst part was over and her immune system had overcome the toxin. The man asked her to try to move the fingers of her numb limbs, and with some difficulty, Anji did, to the cheers of the Wolfkins.

"Good." The doctor smiled, carefully removed the bandages, and whistled. Blood had long since dried at the edges of her closed and sewn wounds. "The bleeding has stopped. My, your kind truly is a marvel. It is an honor to work on such a magnificent body."

"Planning on taking a patient to dinner, are you, Doctor?" Bogdan teased.

"Wouldn't mind it going further one bit, but I was given an understanding that your people prefer a singular partner, while I belong to every beauty," the doctor answered unabashedly. His fingers lightly tested her damaged limbs, sparkling a tiny sting of pain. "Apologies, lady. Your muscles are still partially compressed due to the poison. Although our catalog was unable to identify it, I assure you that the numbness and partial paralysis will last at least two days. Worry not; the worst has passed, and your heart and lungs are safe. I'll schedule you for the scar removal procedure once your body has finally flushed out this filth."

"Yeah, yeah, turn her into a real princess," Kalaisa said with a shit-eating grin.

"No need," Anji said quickly, blushing.

"All women are goddesses," the doctor said warmly after finishing checking for inflammations and changing the bandages. "No matter their origin, they must be treated with reverence and care. Since the mayor has enlisted the help of our private clinic and entrusted you to my care, you will abide by my recommendations, Miss Anji. We cannot allow ugliness to persist."

"You…" Kalaisa examined the man's perfect facial features, his well-built physique, free of any wrinkles or imperfections. "You are an Iternian."

"Guilty as charged." Diego flashed a white smile. "But let's not speak it too loudly. Officially, citizens of my homeland have no right to interfere in international affairs between the Reclamation Army and another country."

"Going to be punished otherwise?" Kalaisa inquired.

"Indeed, and terribly so: a fine and a stern warning, accompanied by finger-wagging and perhaps a ban on practicing outside of Iterna for a few years, what a nuisance." Diego rolled his eyes.

"Sucks to be you," Bogdan said. "Doesn't sound fair one bit. But you have my thanks for saving lives, sir."

"Oh, please, if I get grounded, I'll just pitch my sob story on the Net and earn twice my salary in donations," Diego laughed. "Really, I don't really give a fuss about it, and after your superiors rudely interrupted my morning routine, I feel obligated to return the favor. So don't worry, relax; nothing will happen to anyone in my care."

"What about Cordi?!" Marco tugged at the doctor's robe. "My friend. She is an Ice Fang of the Sunblade household. No one knows where she went."

"Well, that's just no good." Diego sat comfortably and produced a terminal from a pocket. "No woman should ever be abandoned. Cordi, Cordi… Ah, you mean young Cordelia Sunblade-Wintersong? She suffered a punctured lung and was escorted, along with the cubs... what a ridiculous name... from Houstad to the Sunblade family estate in the far west. No further information is available, but in the worst-case scenario, a Wolfkin should survive a missing lung fairly easily."

"I can attest to that," coughed Scout Mindy from a nearby bed.

"Diego! A patient is having a stroke!" A nurse called. "We risk losing him!"

"Coming, Najwa!" The stylishly dressed doctor jumped away to help treat the violently convulsing civilian. "Nobody likes a quitter, so you, mister, are staying with the team!"

Anji's body itched intensely as it repaired itself, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. She could almost imagine the flesh moving under the dried crust of her blood, knitting itself back together. To distract herself a little, she surveyed the hall. Several Wolfkins and Ice Fangs rested here, kept in a healing coma, with oxygen masks on their snouts. Many lacked limbs.

So many wounded. And how many more died? And how many more have died? A pang of sorrow shot through her heart at the sight of a doctor shaking her head and covering a civilian's face with a bedsheet. Two nurses rolled out the bed with the deceased. We failed you. I am so sorry. Diego was tireless, bio-enhancing technology of Iterna kept exhaustion at bay, and he was saving life after life, instructing his colleagues along the way. Anji forced the sad thoughts out and smiled, forcing herself to be certain and confident before her friends and subordinates.

"That's the Bootlicker I know!" Kalaisa grinned. "No paper cuts are going to keep you down. No way, no how."

"Kalaisa, would it kill you to be… you know what? Fuck it. Thank you and Anji for saving my and Marco's bacon back there." Bogdan extended his paw to Kalaisa, who spat at it, hissing at the soldier. He shrugged, wiped his paw clean, and shook paws with Anji.

"Rot in the Abyss, male, stupid, idiot, piss-head!" Kalaisa patted Marco's head tenderly. "I wasn't trying to save you; it was my duty!"

"And Marco and his friends?" Anji asked innocently. She blinked the sleep away. Not now.

"The pipsqueak? Well, that's personal. He gifted me a sweater. Ice cubs aren't bad either. Offered me a pork pizza once."

"Thank you for saving us, sister!" Kalaisa slithered from the embrace of the beaming Marco. "Uhm, why were you two even around? I thought you were assigned to clean the orphanage. Do you like comics too?"

"No! I have nothing to do with this degeneracy! It… was pure luck. I was going to… planned to…" Kalaisa mumbled, retreating another step back.

"Kalaisa was looking for Bogdan to apologize," Anji said, smirking at the rage in her friend's eyes. Nope, not letting you off the hook.

Kalaisa growled once more, pacing back and forth like a cornered animal. Her fingers twitched, releasing the claws' tips, and Anji's pack jumped to shield their wolf hag, only to be asked to move aside by Anji herself. She didn't enjoy it. But Kalaisa had to keep going, to improve herself, step by step. There was no shortcut to take. Mom always taught young Anji that if you have done something wrong, you must apologize.

"Male… Bogdan," Kalaisa corrected herself. "That little talk you and I had… you were right. I am sorry that I was angry at you."

"Beat it." Bogdan lifted his paw. "I was over the line."

"No. I was… is an unworthy leader." Kalaisa cracked one shoulder, then another, straightened, and seemed to grow taller as she pointed a finger at Bogdan. "No more. I will grow to be a proper leader for my pack. I'm going to become a warlord, and I'm going to take my pack to the very top, and I'm going to surpass Warlords Janine and Ashbringer; just you wait and see. But that doesn't change the fact that you are a stupid, arrogant, stinking male!"

"Love you too." Bogdan grinned. "Keep it up, and I just may end up naming one of my future daughters after you. Oh, I can see that: Little Kalaisa, stop being a killjoy like your namesake and let's go eat that cusack."

"T-try it, and I'll rip out your still-beating heart!"

"Can you be quiet, please?" Diego returned, looking Kalaisa and Bogdan over. "If you are engaged in some bizarre mating ritual, take it outside. I am contractually obligated to respect all traditions, but I will not tolerate you disturbing the rest of our patients."

"We are just comrades!" Bogdan and Kalaisa blurted in unison, and this time, it was Anji who allowed herself a grin of vengeance at their expense, ringingly giggling like a young girl straight out of the pit.

There was little doubt that Bogdan would find a way to get back at her, and she could already envision Kalaisa's sharp tongue teasing the life out of her during their next spar, but by the Spirits, watching them slowly turn crimson was so worth it right now! Anji stopped giggling and roared with laughter, and her pack soon joined in. Bogdan shrugged, settled Marco on his shoulder, and the two brothers added their voices to the fun. Kalaisa swung her head suspiciously from side to side, sniffing the air, then chuckled, reluctantly relaxing and enjoying not being excluded from the fun, though Anji could bet her thumb that the woman would strangle her before admitting that side of her. Oh well, work in progress.

A buzzing noise stopped their laughter, and Kalaisa and the scout from Anji's pack grabbed their terminals. Eyes narrowed, and the two women exchanged glances, the scout baring her neck in submission.

"We have a job to do," Kalaisa said, putting the terminal back. "All of you, back to the base immediately."

"Give me a second," Anji asked, trying to get to her feet.

Kalaisa rolled her eyes and snapped a finger against Anji's nose.

"You stay here and recover, B… Anji," she said softly. "Seriously, we... care for you. This time I owe you lives. Besides, your warlord has arrived in the city; your pack should be fine."

"We will, Wolf Hag. You have taught us well," the scout confirmed, bowing. "Wolf Hag Kalaisa, the orders were urgent."

"You keep her here until she is fully recovered; even if you have to chain her and sedate her to do it, do you hear me?" Kalaisa told the doctor.

"Planet, spare me from eggs teaching the chicken. Not my first rowdy patient." Diego waved his hand.

Anji's worried eyes followed her friends as they left, and even the pleasant relief of having the tubes removed from her body didn't help to ease her worries. Who will be alive and who will be dead when we next meet? She fell on the pillows, crudely making prayer gestures with one paw, begging the Spirits to keep them safe. She wasn't stupid. There could only be one reason for a sudden summon.

A call from the doctor's terminal distracted her. Anji strained her ears, trying to learn anything, but to her surprise, she found herself unable to pick up even a single word, and Diego's expression startled her. The once smiling and pleasant doctor had changed; an ugly scowl of pure, unadulterated hatred twisted his face, and his black eyes glowed, taking on a bright yellow hue. Anji was about to ask what was going on when fatigue overcame her and dragged the woman back to dreamland.

This time, the dream brought another familiar nightmare. It was always the same with her; if there was one thing Anji hated in her life, it was sleeping alone. This was the time when she was losing the iron hold of her dreams, and her mind always sucked her into the same memory of her being back in the womb again, hearing the tiny heart of her brother beating nearby and sensing the warmth of his forming body. Tic. Tic. Tic.

No. Anji pleaded, trying to wake up. I don't want to remember.

She told no one. Anji remembered everything: every moment of her life, every second she was awake. She carefully asked other Wolfkins if they possessed the same trait, earning surprised looks at the mere suggestion that anyone recalling their time spent in a mother's womb. Several soldiers whispered behind her back, thinking the woman was mocking them or going crazy.

But she didn't! Anji remembered it. Conscience came to her at a very early age, and she was locked in the confines of Mom's body, rejoicing every time a familiar paw proudly patted her belly. She floated in silence, unable to speak or even wave her paws. Listening to her brothers and sisters die. Stillborn. Their organs never developed. Years later, she learned that this was to be expected. The first litter was the hardest for all the females of the wolf tribe. Almost none of the cubs survived. But their deaths brought change to the grieving parent, and the next litter was full of healthy cubs.

Anji and her brother were the lucky ones. His faint heartbeat kept her sane and kept her company. Tic. Tic. Tic. The sound was faint, barely audible, but it was a sign of life in this prison. And then, one day, it stopped. The little heart gave out, leaving Anji alone in the darkness, floating among the bodies of her family. For weeks.

"I don't want to be alone!" Anji yelled, breaking through the curtain of dreams, and Diego's concerned face welcomed her back to reality.

"You are not alone, Miss Anji. Please calm down; focus on my face. Nothing bad happened to you; it was just a nightmare, a side effect of the poison; breathe easily, yes, like that," the doctor said encouragingly, holding her by the wrist. How… how could she have thought that he had yellow eyes? The man's eyes were perfectly normal black.

After checking her pulse, Diego called over a nurse, ordering the woman to help Anji eat. She half expected the usual medical nutrition paste, but to her surprise, the food the nurse brought her was something divine. She was served real crabs, mashed potatoes, a thick cusack steak, and plenty of juice to quench her thirst. Or drown a person. The smell of her unusual lunch turned the rumbling of her stomach into a wail, and Anji helped herself, forgetting her manners as she shoved the crabs into her mouth, breaking their shells on her fangs against the nurse's insistence not to eat these parts. This was the fourth time she had eaten real seafood, and she found the food simply delicious.

After thanking the nurse for her help, Anji heard an Ice Fang fiddling with a terminal in her paws, furiously typing in request after request. The woman's legs had been replaced by two sleek metal replicas, one ending at her knee, and her body was covered in severe scalds that had burned away entire swaths of her once fluffy, silken fur. Around her neck, the Ice Fang wore a medallion with the crest of the Summerspring Household.

"Hey," Anji greeted the crimson-eyed woman. "Name's Anji. Any idea what is happening outside?"

"Greetings, Lady Anji. Malerata Summerspring, a knight-captain in the service of the late Tancred Ironwill," she said in a hushed voice. "Alas, I know little; the medical personnel chose to limit the patients' ability to view the Net as I have learned to my dismay, and my comrades abide by that rule." The woman extended her paw, and Anji shook it before realization hit her.

"The late? Does it mean?" Anji asked in shock, lowering her voice. Sword Saints were equal to Warlords. To imagine one fall in her lifetime… Surely she must've misheard…

"Forgive me, lady; I forgot you were in a coma." Malerata bowed her head. "My liege was murdered today, and his killers are still at large."

"You have my deepest condolences," Anji said, meaning every word and clasping the woman's paw. Truth be told, she had no idea how Ice Boys viewed their sword saints, but to Wolfkins, a warlord was another mother, an eternal monolith in whose shadow one could weather a storm, and a trusted friend ready to listen and help. That was part of her problem with Onyxia. When the warlord was around, she listened and gave the right advice. The problem was that Onyxia was rarely around, trusting the judgment of her wolf hags. "If there is anything I can do…"

"Thank you, Lady Anji. Your kind words are already enough. The constant positive propaganda in the news is the reason for my sour mood." The knight put the terminal aside, irritated by the limited access to the Net. "Staying in here, unable to know about the situation outside, irks me."

"No point in mopping about it. Say, how about a little game to pass the time? Let's ask each other questions. The rules are simple: only the truth is allowed," Anji proposed. Seeing the woman's uncertain face, she pressed on. "Come on, what else are we supposed to do here? The first question is yours. Hit me with anything."

Malerata pressed a finger to her lips, wondering, and then dared to speak: "A hundred apologies for the frivolous question, but why is your hair white? From my limited interaction with the Wolf Tribe, I have learned that your kind always bears either predominantly black, brown, or occasionally reddish fur. Do you, by any chance, have blood of our lineage coursing through your veins, lady?"

"Not to my knowledge!" Anji laughed, picking up one of her braids. "Call me Anji, by the way. My Mom once brought a dusty old comic for me to read. The heroine of the story was a woman with immaculate white hair. She was kind and smart and fierce in battle and never quit, no matter what the odds. I became a fan, and when my family visited a settlement, I bought a hair dye. Cousin, you should have seen the look on my Mom's muzzle the next morning! She thought I was cursed!" Anji sighed happily at the memory. "My turn. Is it true that your kind needs cold to mate, and that is why you always mate in refrigerators?"

"What? No!" The knight-captain coughed. "Why would you even think that? What kind of degraded and depraved mind would commit an act of love in a refrigerator, of all places? I assure you, Ice Fangs, enlightened and blessed by the Twins and the Blessed Mother, will never stoop so low. We are simply too perfect for that; unrivaled excellence, restraint, and humility are in our nature."

"Well, we didn't see any of your kind jumping on the boys during the heat season, so we thought your kind couldn't do it in a warmer climate." Anji hesitated, unsure if she could reveal the second part. Oh, well, she promised the truth, right? "And there was this one time, a few years ago. I screwed up and was given cooking duty in the crawler. So there I was, opening the refrigerator compartment, and there were two of my cold-loving cousins, busy making new lives on top of the canned food …"

"I need not hear more, truly, Lady Anji." The knight raised her paws. "On behalf of my order, I apologize a thousand times for the sight you have been forced to endure. It is disgusting in more ways than one. But… what is this 'heat season' you spoke of?"

Surprised that Malerata didn't know, Anji began to enthusiastically explain the concept to the woman, curious as to why the knight's face seemed to grow more and more horrified upon hearing the explanation.

 

[Rookie12]

Note from the author: The events in this chapter take place just before and after Trace released the virus.
*****

Ambassador Craven Wickedbreed stepped closer to the parapet of the Wall, breathing in the full chest of a fresh breeze passing from the west. He was a Troll, a New Breed, as the Reclamation Army misguidedly called the Blessed. His long arms reached all the way to his ankles, his skin shared the same gray of his outdoor clothes, and his face was flat and serene. Such was the nature of his group; the Trolls struggled to articulate their feelings through facial expressions.

But deep inside his chest, there was a storm of awe. In the past, this entire region had been a single megapolis, home to billions of souls living in habitat blocks and vast skyscrapers. Steel and concrete, like a skin, had covered every centimeter of the ground until the Extinction struck, rendering supercity into a necropolis subjected to the merciless whims of nature. The sober reminder of mortality didn't disappear; the bastions of the Walls were partially built from its remains, while the earth swallowed the rest.

It was a surreal visage. One side of the border had green pastures, concrete roads, and open stores. Beyond the dividing line was rocky ground, with bunker's emplacements entwined by creepers. The ancient tragedy had doomed ecological laboratories in the area, and their products had escaped. Humanity had eradicated the most dangerous specimens, and sentient Blessed joined settlements scattered around the globe.

But dark blotches, green vines, crimson creepers, and more of the man-made flora stubbornly grew from barren soil, bringing happiness to the distant kingdom through their sheer abundance of edible and medicinal plants and annoyance to the Recamiers who had to burn them off the wall each morning. The oxygen produced by the Old World's unfinished terraforming projects filled Craven's lungs, and he broke from his reminiscing to face a group of children.

"What do you think about the light show in the atmosphere?" Craven asked in an even voice, stepping aside so the children could see.

"It's… magnificent." Young Halina pressed her fists to her chest, her mouth agape in amazement. Behind her, Sister Défenseur Peggy Dimont, clad in heavy armor, smiled cheerfully and patted the girl's head encouragingly.

Peggy belonged to the ancient and respected Six Lames Order of Oathtakers. Charged with protecting youth by the Taker of Oaths himself, they slowly evolved into mentors, guides, and teachers as civilization had rekindled anew. Their sisters and brothers traveled the lands, offering words of advice to parents, smiting slavers with the unrelenting fury of their consecrated Heretic Bane machine guns, and returning lost or abducted children by force when necessary. Scars marked Peggy's face like medals and age bleached her hair, but there was genuine kindness in the sister's face, and she spent her journey engaging the little ones in games to build bonds.

Halina Jović was the never-ending source of her worries, as the sister admitted to Craven. The girl had recently learned of her father's brave sacrifice and had shut in herself, not responding to either teasing or attempts to befriend coming from the orphans. Unlike the rest of the kids, she wasn't an orphan. Her guardian had sent the girl on this trip hoping to shake her up a little and to break this prison of solitude the girl had erected around herself out of worry of losing another dear person, and Peggy blamed herself for failing the child.

To see her show emotion pleased the ambassador. He had come here to survey the Reclaimers' reach as their nations competed for the kingdom's allegiance, but the girl's joy was a reward in itself.

"Tch. Seen better," grumbled T, a slightly overweight child, tugging at his collar in an attempt to appear serious. No matter Peggy's efforts, T had refused to tell her his full name.

"Where?" Halina blinked, and T startled at the genuine question, hastily trying to come up with a believable lie.

"Yeah, where?" Jay playfully elbowed T. Lanky and long-haired, he often assisted Peggy in bridging members of their little group together. "C'om, big guy, admit it. You never seen anything like that."

"Fine. It is something," puffed T, surrendering. "What is that?"

Clouds obscured the entire horizon. Not the usual, heavy and black storm clouds and not the deadly, flashing sand pools of the Ravaged Lands—no, these clouds had black and blue colors mingled with red and purple, yellow and green, and glowing spheres, smaller white clouds, dotted this tapestry. The clouds swirled, jumbled, forming a living painting of a cosmic nebula in the atmosphere, hiding everything behind them.

"A side effect of a series of aerosol toxins released after the Extinction." Craven stretched out his hand as if to hold the painting in his palm. "The deadly reagents that doomed our ancestors are no more, but nanomachine agents still permeate the air in the region, creating this majestic sight. Such is the lesson of our world, children. Human hands forged a tool of doom, and God, in His infinite wisdom, reworked it into a thing of beauty to spare the next generation."

"I wish God had saved the living today," Halina said bitterly. "None here deserved to lose… to lose…" Her lower lip trembled.

"This is the conundrum of our existence, Halina." Peggy lowered on a knee and hugged the girl. "God gave us free will, the most precious gift of all. It is thanks to it we are able to love, grieve, and persevere, to overcome obstacles and build a better world, not because we follow chemical cues and physical stimuli like ants, but because we want to. It is thanks to it that some commit cruelty, and many bring light to where darkness reigned. Like a loving parent, God can't just take it away or violate individuality, even if it means stopping the wicked, as it would forever scar our souls. But in His mercy, God had sent us powers and the Blessed to help humanity recover from the catastrophe, thus subtly saving us."

"Bah. Religious superstition," T said haughtily. "Those who died were weak. There is no God, no afterlife. Some people…" he clenched his fist. "… are simply not strong enough, not smart enough, or unlucky."

"T." Jay slapped him. "You make Haly sad."

"It's true!" T insisted. He glared at the rest of the kids. "I'm not saying it's our folks' fault, but it is undeniable! Sweet lies don't help anyone; they are dangerous! If you are strong, you live. So I'll become the strongest to protect you all. That way I… you won't lose anyone again!"

"Thanks, T. You are very kind." Halina wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"An interesting perspective, T." Craven nodded amiably. "It is very noble of you to grow into a protector, but you are missing a crucial point."

"Yeah? And what is it?"

"There is a settlement to the north. Back when our story takes place, it was little more than a labor camp that sprang up in the Extinction's aftermath. They lived modestly, trading mined steel and found electronics for food. Until one dawn, when a Blessed approached them, boastfully demanding women and children as tribute. A defender fired at him, and the bullet barely scratched the man's skin as his claws slashed across the brave soul, and fear rived the community."

"See?" T stated smugly. "Strong and weak."

"But a priest rose." Craven raised a finger, asking not to be interrupted. "He beseeched people not to engage in slavery. Inspired by his religious fervor and concern for their fellows, the miners armed themselves. And when the Blessed returned, he learned that while a single gun could do little, hundreds were another story entirely. Yours truly stands here in part thanks to their decision to resist." Craven laid his long fingers on his chest. "Do you see that individual strength is not everything, T? Faith had kept that community together, guiding them toward the right choice."

"That's just smarts and strength of human spirit!" T proudly slapped himself over the chest. "It wasn't belief in God that saved them, but cooperation. And the Reclamation Army has that in spades. Strength of spirit! Intelligence and might! These are the things that save nations!"

"Well said!" A voice thundered.

Two soldiers marched through the regulars to the group. Though their size was no different from the thousands of Normies manning the Wall, Craven immediately recognized them as fellow Blessed. The first one wore a rock-colored camouflage coat, a breastplate, and a lieutenant uniform. Blond and smooth-skinned, his hard gaze resembled the mighty bastions under his command. This was Lugal-marada, the regional commander of the Provincial Army in this sector. Beside him was a sergeant of the Exotic Platoon, Sagit Wolf, a lithe and almost ephemeral woman whose coat was buttoned and black sunglasses hid her eyes. Occasionally, yellow streaks flashed briefly from behind the sunglasses.

"You are wise to trust your judgment over mindless dogma, boy." The lieutenant pressed two fingers to his cap in salute. "Far too many have been led astray when the answers to what is good or evil lie on the surface for all to see."

"What is strength of spirit if not spirituality?" Craven asked, shaking hands with the man. "Church has nurtured the best qualities in mankind since the dawn of time."

"And brought human sacrifices in the times of ignorance. Spirituality has no correlation with an innate understanding of what is wrong and right and refusal to quit." The lieutenant replied, glancing briefly at the ambassador. "I grant you that the houses of prayer served as places of understanding of nature, and their prophets taught important values at one point in history, but humanity has long since outgrown that crutch. Your assumption of a divine origin for the powers rather than treating them as unexplained genetic anomalies is ridiculous. Shackles of your Oath are more of a hindrance than help. These days, to learn more about acceptance and understanding, a person could simply glean it from the Net."

"Can't imagine any downsides to such a method," Peggy said sarcastically, and a corner of Sagit's mouth twitched, but the sergeant maintained her composure.

Craven paid no mind to Lugal-marada's words or his admission about spying on them. They weren't enemies, for everyone here wanted humanity to prosper. The lieutenant didn't trust him, likely believing that the ambassador was seeking to persuade soldiers to swear the Oath. It was fine; their nations rivaled in the past, and there will be skirmishes in the future. Time will heal these wounds of mistrust. The Oathtakers never lied. If Craven promised not to convert anyone here, he'd keep his word. It was Lyudochka's task in Houstad.

The Reclamation Army put too much emphasis on individual traits and charisma. It was the Dynast's ambition that saw to the rapid restoration of vast tracts of land. But between faith and ambition, faith always triumphed in the end. It was inevitable, for faith was an idea handed down by God, while ambition stemmed from an individual. And those never stayed around for too long. A century, even a millennium, of waiting was nothing. While faith had survived in various forms to this very day. Individual religions died, cruel practices disappeared, but faith, a belief in the benevolent Creator, persisted. If that wasn't a sign of celestial interference, Craven wasn't sure what was.

"But I was a poor host," said Lugal-marada. The man introduced himself to every child, shaking their hands, and stopped at Halina. "My deepest condolences. Your father is a hero."

"I know." Halina forced a nod. "It's just… I'd love to have a dad, not a hero! I know it's selfish; he saved lives, but…"

"But nothing." Lugal-marada stopped her, taking the girl by the shoulders. "What you feel is human. It is not selfish, it is not wrong, and you are not a machine. Grieve as much as you need to. What matters is how you deal with it. Don't dishonor the memory of your parent; don't sink into despair and live to the fullest. Find a way to be happy, for you deserve it, and in doing so, you will also honor Mirko's memory."

"You knew my dad?" the girl asked.

"No."

"But then how do you…"

"Because seeing our children grow in peace is every soldier's dream," Lugal-marada told her softly. "It rarely happens. But you should give it a try."

"Thank you, sir," Halina said.

"About the tour… sir," Jay began, and the officer nodded. "These clouds! The ambassador told us they are harmless. Is that true?"

"Correct, but you won't see them up close today. I offered you a tour of our territory, but I had to postpone it, and I wasted too much time dealing with mundane problems."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Peggy inquired.

"Remains to be seen," Lugal-marada answered. "Our scouts failed to report in time, but such things are not uncommon due to the cloud phenomena that interfere with communications. However, we found a panicked family twenty minutes earlier who claimed to be from the kingdom, and I sent them to the Investigation Bureau in Houstad. Their statements are concerning."

"Is this why the Wall is on full alert?" Peggy pressed on.

Craven blinked, looking around. He wasn't a military man; short of basic self-defense courses, he had never even been in action, thank the Oath. To him, the busy marching of soldiers, the working of radar antennas, and the almost lazy tracking of artillery seemed normal. What else could one expect from a military base?

"Best not to take any chances. Not when there are lives on the line," said Sagit, breaking her silence for the first time. A crack accompanied her every sentence, and the woman smirked at the wide-open eyes of the children as they noticed electricity sparking from her lips. She raised her palms, and arcs of light left her hands, coalescing into images of racing horses over the woman's head to the gasps and claps of the children. "We'll explore the bowels of the Wall today while our forces confirm security outside."

"Aw," T said disappointedly, then collected himself, as if surprised that the word left his mouth.

"Don't worry, lad, the freak show won't be disappearing anytime soon," Lugal-marada said. "There will be plenty of opportunities to wander through it."

"I wasn't…"

"Is it true that the Wall is connected to the underground ruins?" Halina asked and looked down as everyone turned to her. "I've read it in a magazine." She tapped her index fingers together. "There are supposedly immense domes filled with various biomes deep underground and caverns filled by ruined cities."

"What, really?" Jay's eyes flashed. "Can we check out the ruins? Can we take anything we find… I mean, souvenirs, sir! A skull or an ancient TV…"

"No, you can't, government's property," Lugal-marada stated.

"And taking skull?" Peggy's fingers drummed on Jay's head. "Kiddo, you must learn to respect the deceased. These fallen souls had their dreams and desires; desecrating their helpless remains is an act unworthy of a human."

"Oh, I planned to honor them; trust me, sis!" Jay clasped his hands together. "I was going to clean a skull, coat it in bronze, paint it dark, and then sell it for... Use it as a talisman, I mean! That way, a ghost could see the world and calm itself with the knowledge that life remains!" The boy finished dramatically.

"Even I don't believe it." T frowned.

"Yuck." Halina raised her hands. "Jay, do you really need tokens so badly that you are willing to commit grave robbery?"

"Halina's right; there is a way in; we even use it to grow fresh vegetation, but the area is not safe," Lugal-marada continued as if nothing had happened, steering the argument away from the morbid topic, while Peggy sighed and scrubbed notes in her notebook.

"Have to pry exotic fruits from the stalks of fauna trying to murder us," Sagit explained. "Good environment for honing the survival instincts of New Breeds. Not so much for children."

"Agreed." Peggy and Sagit exchanged nods.

Ear-piercing cries of warning sirens interrupted the further discussion. Craven leapt to the kids, unsure of what was going on, but Peggy was already near the orphans, and a group of soldiers surrounded them. The ambassador heard humming, and the very air outside the bastions trembled as the force shield bubble activated. Hundreds of feet stomped around them, taking up defensive positions; mechanic crews brought in projectors, surprising Craven.

"Situation report!" demanded Lugal-marada, glancing down at his terminal and hiding it in the pocket of his coat.

"Sir! Communications with Houstad and Regional Command are down!" A younger soldier saluted him. "We tried the emergency channel and couldn't reach anyone! The Net is unavailable either!"

"Send orders to use radios and recall the bunker teams." Unafraid, Lugal-marada stood on the battlement and surveyed the orderly preparations of his men. His voice, used to giving orders and being obeyed, boomed loudly, overcoming doubt. "Artillery crews target the cloud front; mortar crews stand by to support the withdrawal of our forces. Recon team Alpha-1236, start an immediate sortie into the Core Lands, deliver the news of this interference to the Third, and…"

"Oy vey," said Sagit, joining the lieutenant. "Something massive is approaching."

"Affirmative!" shouted a soldier showing from a door. "Sensors have detected seismic activity to the west!"

"An earthquake?" Lugal-marada inquired.

"Negative, sir! Not…"

"Your scouts have failed." Synthetic speech came from the west, piercing through the clouds. There was no emotion in it, but every single syllable sounded loud enough to potentially deafen even a Blessed or explode windows. A second later, the dynamics of the fortress repeated it. "Your security has failed. You are cut off, alone. As I speak to you, your leaders are about to be felled, and your city is burning. The only thing left for you to decide is whether to bend your knees and live, or to be brought down with your wall. The Gilded Horde is here to claim everything. Choose your fate and give your answer."

Then a new noise reached the defenders. A deep, low rumble that grew louder by the second, followed by the avalanche of stones being pulverized by something incredibly massive. A titanic shadow appeared in the clouds.

 

[Rookie12]

It pushed itself through the veil with a grinding cacophony of a town crushed underneath its weight. A behemoth of steel that could easily tower even over a crawler, it carried itself on the great caterpillar tracks, so huge and vast that its immense bulk could not physically fit through the gate of the Wall. Silvery patches occasionally marked its hull, but its new owners had adorned it with precious metals, jewels, and gold so that it would shine like a multicolored diamond in the sun. Flags fluttered proudly in the wind, and cathedrals of weaponry were activated, almost lazily taking aim at the fortress. Laser cannons, missile launchers, artillery, plasma casters—this beast had all the murder tools conceivable.

But that wasn't what filled Craven's heart with dread. A main cannon stretched out in front of it, an enormous spire of metal, ready to deliver its devastating payload wherever its masters wished. And from this cannon, bodies hung from the chains that wrapped around the barrel. The distance was too great, but Craven now knew the fate of the missing scouts.

He wasn't going to let his charges fall into such hands.

"Scum," Peggy hissed. A spherical force field flashed into existence around the war machine, blocking incoming artillery fire coming from the Wall.

"For little price, do you surrender your lives, Reclaimers," stated the synthetic voice. The calm words were screamed out by the speech-enhancing dynamics, but this time the fortress's system did not repeat them.

Streaks speared the clouds, parting them just long enough for Craven to see an army following in the war machine's wake, clinging to its shelter like Insectone larvae to their mother's carapace. Artillery shells and energy arcs fired from the army's mobile weapons landed directly on the bunkers. The reinforced roof endured—once, twice—and then collapsed in on itself, and fire pyres billowed skyward, forming a series of torches to welcome the invaders.

"Those guys…" Jay choked on his words, wrapping his arms around the trembling Halina and another girl.

"Don't worry," Craven hurried to calm the child. His voice never rose, and the ambassador thanked this unique quirk of his biology for an opportunity to be a pillar for the children. "No one died. A series of tunnels connected the bunkers to the bastions, and our forces retreated successfully." He nodded on a display that a soldier was showing Lugal-marada. On it, hundreds of dots scurried, collapsing the passageways behind.

"But why did Marada order mortar guys to cover the soldiers outside, then?" T asked, biting his finger to stop shaking.

"Their job was to keep baddies away from the bunkers," Peggy explained, patting the boy encouragingly. "Also, it is Lugal-marada, kiddo. Simply Marada means a male gender, while Lugal is a name, unless I am mistaken."

"Can you not educate us in the middle of a war?" T's teeth drummed.

"Why miss an opportunity?"

"Well, maybe because people are about to die!" Jay snapped.

"Eh, happens all the time. You'll get used to it," Peggy assured him.

"Hopefully not!" Craven interjected. "Children, don't listen to the holy sister. Wars are getting rarer and rarer…"

"And for proof, look at the horizon," Peggy added.

Of their group, Peggy alone was unafraid. Her eyes beamed with excitement, tracing everything; one hand was already wielding her elegant armor-piercing rifle, encircled by prayer beads; and she pulled a helmet over her head, helping passing soldiers to secure regular helmets and put body armor on the kids. An Orais led them into the dubious cover of a reinforced concrete roof hanging above them, and another soldier tried to call for a lift, cursing under his breath about the virus that was crippling the bastion.

The holy sister didn't reprimand the ambassador for addressing the Reclaimers as their own. Craven assumed that some cordiality was in order. Whoever was coming, he'd rather see the children stick to more reasonable characters, even if he wished they'd see the light and agree to immigrate to the Land of the Oath. Raids and techno-horrors of the past were nonexistent there.

"Such precision," Peggy noted. "Nearly every shell is landing straight into cusack's eye."

"I bet your monthly salary that it isn't simply skill," cracked Sagit. "They knew the coordinates."

Craven opened his mouth and closed it, as the implication sank in. Traitors are the same everywhere, huh? Explosions spread across the wall's shield, brightly illuminating faces. The force shield wasn't bulging, and more and more impacts fought in vain to overcome it. Something had to give, and the explosions bounced back, splashing the ground in front of them. The ground was torn apart, creepers and vines caught fire, and a hellish sea came to life on the plains. Minefields—disrupted by the shockwaves, overheated by napalm, or touched by molten stone—detonated prematurely, spewing burning earth into the air.

And into this madness, the enemy advanced. Warriors clad in power armor marched, protected by mobile force shield stations. The first machine carved a wide gap through the mountain range, and the troops surged around the ancient beast. Tall and somewhat chubby, the invaders bore little resemblance in their equipment. Plain steel-clad soldiers with mounted cannons on their shoulders rode gigantic beasts alongside warriors outfitted in pieces of various exosuits, crudely stitched together and incrusted with gold. Ahead of them bravely rode riders on hoverbikes, ignoring tongues of flames licking their feet and steeds, and their laughter reached the defenders, accompanied by the hail of energy projectiles hissing against the shield.

"Has the scout team departed?" Lugal-marada inquired, facing the fire of countless cannons, hands clasped behind his back. The ambassador couldn't decide whether the man was brave or foolish for exposing himself like that.

"Negative! ETD thirty seconds!" reported a soldier.

"Simpletons," said the lieutenant. The flesh on his shoulders bulged, his fingers swollen. "Once the situation is resolved, issue them ten lashes for tardiness."

"You seem to be eagerly optimistic about the situation." Craven swallowed nervously.

"Have faith, ambassador!" Peggy cheered him on. "Our cause is just, and God is with us! A righteous fire burns in our hearts and strengthens our arms! Let the madmen come; we'll strike them down, one by one! If we fall, it'll be for a noble cause, and our ancestors will rejoice in heaven!"

"Personally, I prefer to keep them at bay and blow them to bits," Lugal-marada replied calmly, raising his hand as if timing something, while keeping his eyes on the map display. "Main cannons, maintain pressure on the primary target. Its generator can't sustain the energy drain of moving, supplying its shield, firing auxiliary weapons, and using the main cannon, so they are sacrificing one function in favor of the rest."

"How do you know it?" blurted out Craven.

"Elementary, Ambassador. It hasn't fired yet, and judging by the caliber, the ensuing explosion would have vaporized their own troops. Barbarians they may be, but why send important equipment to a senseless end? No, their leader rightly understood that our own shield could gobble up a shot or two of their ammunition, thus alerting us in advance, and so he tried a different approach," Lugal-Marada explained without haste. "As for your question, the moment the Commander learns of our difficulties, it will be over for these fools."

But Ravager is not in Houstad. Craven was about to say and bit his tongue. No doubt Lugal-marada knew. His words were meant to inspire and reassure his troops after an unexpected interference had disrupted their communications.

"Rabble, emboldened by idiocy, dares to intrude on our land," Lugal-marada continued, his loud voice heard over the vast length of the wall, despite the bombardment. "What do we say to them?"

"Go to hell!" roared soldiers. The combined shout of mutants, Orais, and Normies briefly silenced the riders' jeering.

"Repel them." Lugal-marada's hand dropped.

Small-caliber artillery, snipers, and mortars answered the command, unleashing a hail of destruction on the approaching hordes. Grenade explosions sent hoverbikes flying; snipers finished the wounded; shell after shell was lobbed into the individual islands of safety represented by the mobile shield generators. No ripples appeared on their surfaces, but several spheres curved outward and soon burst, exposing those inside to the steel raining down upon them. Still, the Gilded Horde advanced, their larger vehicles closing in, protected by the projected field. For every soldier killed, ten more took their place. Enemies didn't throw their lives away needlessly; the wounded were helped into cover, and their tanks and artillery returned fire, piercing the Reclaimers' shield in several places.

Force shields, to Craven's limited knowledge, worked on a dispersal basis. A hit would come in, and the brunt of the impact would be smoothly smeared over the surface, like walnut cream on a slice of bread. In the case of a single attack, the automatic systems running the complex calculations for the shield reinforced the damaged area, easily stopping even a potentially penetrating blow, while rapid fire from multiple sources limited such luxury. By pouring a lake-sized amount of energy and metal capable of leveling a settlement in seconds upon the defenders, the Gilded Horde had achieved the desired effect of overloading the defenses, and bodies were thrown up, losing limbs, bleeding, and dying as they were struck by shells and energy projectiles.

Halina screamed, and one of the teachers accompanying the group pressed the girl's face to his chest as Craven stepped forward, frowning in annoyance as a shard of rock cut his cheek to the teeth. He waved away a field medic as his natural regeneration began working, quickly dragging damaged meat together.

"What about elevators?" Lugal-marada demanded.

"Still offline, sir!" reported an Orais, dragging a wailing, legless soldier away. A lucky shell that passed through the returning shield was about to hit them when a forked lightning bolt shot out of Sagit's neck, exploding the projectile in the air.

"Stairwells, then. Get the children out of here…"

"Sir!" Sagit alerted, pointing to the horizon.

Dark shapes flew above the slow behemoth, and as they left the clouds, the light reflected from their diamond coating. Airships, so many that Craven forgot the pain in his cheek or his fear. Their noses resembled arrowheads, small force shields bubbled around them, and each bore the same heraldry: hungry teeth closing in on a world. The Reclamation Army and the Oathtakers had small and compact air forces, used primarily for the rapid delivery of supplies or men. Several of their air units had impressive firepower, but these were rare. Only Iterna had a fully operational fleet of bombers, interceptors, and transports.

Until today. The air hunters rapidly closed in on the shield; black fumes steamed from their engines. Once there, they slowed down to bypass the shield unopposed while the defenders fired at them. But it wasn't enough; most of their weapons were aimed at ground targets, and the ships' shields held long enough for them to enter and unleash hell with their own gunfire. One, two—went down and spiraled into the battlements, crashing and bursting into flames. Figures broke from the wreckage, stumbling under fire and returning it. The rest hovered in the air, the compartments in their centers opening.

Unleashing breachers.

"Let's make some widows!" An armored woman laughed as she spun in her jump and fired her SMG blindly. She landed amidst the soldiers, holding a two-handed black blade as if it were a feather, and it blurred in her hand, shearing through necks and torsos.

"Widowmaker! Widowmaker!" More soldiers jumped off the woman's ship, cheering in Common. They landed heavily, their legs trampling craters in the ground, and the group formed ranks, bringing fire to the defenders.

Chaos erupted at the top of the wall. The Gilded Horde didn't send just ordinary Blessed or troops. These were the cream of the crop, or so Craven thought, as soldiers forcibly carried him and the children toward an open door.

He saw a pulsating mass of toxic sludge slump from the open door of a ship and vaguely take human form on the ground. With a slurping sound, the newcomer's body swallowed bullets, disintegrating them and grenades in seconds and spewing appendages that closed in on the nearest soldiers, burning them on contact and dragging the screaming victims to be devoured. Beasts of bone and chitin shattered bones with their blows; water-wielders drowned their opponents; flying harpy Blessed screamed so loudly that armor and bodies inside cracked.

The Provincial Army responded in kind. Orais wrestled in the melee with the Horde's Blessed, crumpling their helmets; soldiers formed new lines of fire, supporting their comrades; Exotics stepped in. A man transformed into a pillar of light, shedding his clothes. Those of the hordemen touched by his light screamed in desperation, as layer after layer their armor disappeared and soon their flesh followed.

An Orais gathered himself into a ball and rolled, air gathering around him. A bubble of air soon burst, piercing the enemies like daggers as the soldier laughed bombastically, even as an eight-meter tall bone monster closed its hands against the brave man. Suddenly, the hands exploded and a line of air touched the bone-covered Blessed's neck, cutting short his scream as it severed his head. The Orais' mockery was short-lived. Widowmaker closed in on the man, thrusting the edge of her blade through the air shield and plunging it into the Orais' heart, piercing his armor.

"Get lost from my Wall," Lugal-marada said in-between giving the commands to the troops.

His right arm grew, gaining a dark blue color; each finger parted from its siblings as the arm untied itself into five separate tentacles. The lieutenant swung, brushing aside a hovering aircraft as if it were little more than an annoying mosquito. Lugal-marada grew; his breastplate popped and fell to pieces; legs and arms turned into knots of slapping tentacles; his head merged with his torso to form a tall column of flesh. Wide, wet orbs of his eyes opened, and blue rays left them, overheating metal and burning four hordemen to the bone.

A burst of automated fire from a ship above forced Peggy to shove Craven ahead and jump back, saving herself. She spun and fired at an approaching hordeman and broke his leg by landing two shots into the joint of his knee when another one crashed into her from above.

"Зогсоох, боолууд!" Craven turned in time to receive a heavy slam in his face with the butt of a machine gun from an approaching hordeman.

The blow immediately broke Craven's nose and sent the ambassador rolling through the fortress door, nearly slamming Jay against a wall. Craven stood up on wobbly legs, unaccustomed to the violence, and had no idea what to do. An eye poke? As if! His opponent's oriental eyes stared at him through the visor. Peggy was busy killing a hordeman who tried to pin her against a wall with his sword and hadn't yet entered inside, while the soldier escorting the teachers and children was backhanded away.

At least they are taking prisoners. Craven raised his hands to the barrel of the gun leveled at his face. He'll find a way to get the children to safety. Whoever these freaks were, even they couldn't be crazy enough to challenge two Great Nations at once. He'd lie about the children being part of the Oathtakers and…

Light appeared at the hordeman's back, and in the next split second, he flew up and landed heavily against a wall. His helmet cracked like an eggshell, and rivulets of blood splashed against the faces of the terrified children. A hissing thunderbolt hung in the air above the dead body, and a very human leg, which had kicked the enemy to death, protruded from it. Sagit regained her human form, standing fully naked, and waved to the appeared Peggy. Electric currents coursed beneath the sergeant's milky-white skin, serving as her veins. She had no eyeballs, and electricity danced in the empty sockets.

"Get everyone down," Sagit ordered. "Ground level, then get the civilians into any vehicle and off to Houstad," she told the bleeding soldier.

"I can stay and fight," Peggy offered.

"Sow death to save the kids, holy sister," Sagit said. "If that God of yours is truly benevolent, it's what he would've wanted."

"Thank you!" Craven said.

Sagit said nothing and fell onto her back, shifting smoothly into her energy form. She darted outside, burrowing a hole through the chest of an unsuspecting hordeman and connecting two other enemies with electricity. Their bodies thrashed as the thunder rocked them, and the ambassador heard the crack of their limbs even through all the chaos.

It was then when the outside darkened. Craven thought it was incoming artillery, but instead a dark cloud of smoke, lined with red flashes, descended upon Sagit, quickly compressing into a multi-armed human form. Crimson arms of raging fire seized the living lightning, pinning Sagit to the stone floor. She expanded her form, and her demonic opponent responded in kind, sprouting more limbs to hold her steady. The hordeman's head jerked as a blow struck his grinning, smoking skull. A humanoid arm of flame arched from his back, rapidly growing claws.

The two fought on, melting the reinforced stone. The Exotic Blessed, who had become a pillar of light, tried to help, but the flesh motes that had been thrown off his opponent suddenly changed direction. They flew back to the naked man with avian features, restoring his body, and he shrieked and laughed cruelly.

"Perish heretic!" the hordeman said, and the pillar of light dimmed, nearly collapsed on itself.

Craven didn't linger any more. He helped the bleeding soldier to his feet and grabbed Halina's hand, leading the girl as he hurried after their guide. T and Jay helped the teachers to move the rest of the children, and their group descended a flight of stairs.

The Wall was shaking; its gray walls no longer inspired safety and confidence. Dust swirled in the air, and soldiers ran past them to reinforce their comrades above. Sirens blared incessantly as operators calmly relayed information about fallen sections and coordinated retreats. At one point, the group lost its footing as a cataclysmic tremor swept over the fortification.

"Wh-what was that?" whispered the pale-faced T.

They found the answer below. Part of an entire level was missing, exposing everyone to the sight of the raging battle approaching the bastion. The Horde was still advancing, the shield reformed, and Craven had no idea what or who could have created this perfect line of destruction that wiped out everything for at least a hundred meters horizontally. He had a more important problem to solve, as the stairs now had a gaping hole in them.

Craven and the soldier jumped across the ruins and faced the teachers, who unceremoniously began tossing kids to them. The ambassador had his share of fears in life. That time when he had blatantly lied to his mother about attending a university for two whole years. The terror he experienced during an ambush on his office by opponents of reunification. But never had his arms been so close to defying his biology as they were now. He feared not for himself but for the death of his charges.

In the ruins behind him, the battle raged. Scaling the walls, several hordemen appeared in the opening. The Reclaimers gunned most of them, but one invader shot two soldiers before an Orais rammed a bayonet through a crack in his chest plate. Craven didn't bother to turn any longer. He had a more important task, and when the scared children were safe, the group resumed their retreat.

"It irks me to run, abandoning allies," Peggy admitted quietly, firing twice to drop a hordeman trying to break a soldier's neck.

"Adhere to the tents of your order, holy sister," Craven advised her. "Yours is the sacred task of protecting the helpless. Our allies are far from such."

"True that." The soldier wiped the blood from his bruised face. A single slap had left a gash in his chin, but the man walked lightly. "Don't worry, Dynast's willing, we'll beat them back."

"The Dynast is not a god, young man," Peggy corrected him.

"Might as well be, considering who serves him." The soldier shrugged and punched in a code, opening the door into the hangar.

They rushed into the orderly chaos of the retreating army. To Craven's surprise, the lieutenant had ordered the super-heavy tanks to charge the enemy while the medium and light armored vehicles were to retreat from the battlefield. Trucks filled with soldiers, mechanics, and doctors roared to take up defensive positions in the smaller settlements. Scouts had already left, hurrying to deliver news so the citizens could escape.

They walked to the nearest truck, where troops and mechanics were waiting for them, when another tremor shook the fortress. Cracks appeared in the ceiling, showering down debris and covering the hangar in a dusty mist.

"No! Watch out!" Halina screamed and pushed another girl. It saved the kid's life, but the sizeable chunk of rock that fell from above hit Halina's shoulder, breaking it and landing on the fallen girl's legs. The wounded child shrieked in pain, the tips of her white, gleaming bones tore through her skin. "I am so sorry!" Halina gasped, forgetting about her own pain. "I didn't mean to… I never wanted…"

"It's okay, kiddo!" their guide said, taking the girl with the broken legs into his arms as Peggy threw the stone aside. "She'll live…"

"I will be the one deciding that."

A hand broke through the dust, grabbed Halina's throat, and lifted the choking girl up. Craven hesitated, unsure where the bastard had come from, and Peggy refrained from firing, worried about hitting the child. The newcomer had crept up on them silently, defying the imagination. Thick armor incrusted with jade plates stained by red covered the man from neck to toes. He was bareheaded, his ears resembling those of a dog, his nose flattened by an ancient trauma, and his large eyes sunk deep into his skull. Hideous robes of flayed skin cascaded from the man's shoulders, and Craven nearly vomited when he saw a stretched child's face on the leather. Cuts and lacerations covered the bald head, but the intruder paid no attention to the bleeding, examining the girl in his hand.

Two soldiers, an Orais and a Normie, charged to flank him, and the three-meter-tall man moved with incredible agility. The butcher's cleaver in his hand blurred, chopping off the Orais' head, and the return blow skewered the Normie. The dust cleared, and the ambassador saw a large hole in the wall, with more hordemen pouring in.

"Broken scapula, broken…" Halina screamed as a large finger touched her swollen shoulder. "… correction, cracked clavicle, several slashes, young, healthy…" the broken nose sniffed. "Unripe. Forty мөнгө as it is. Six hundred мөнгө upon being healed."

"Let… let me go, please." Tears appeared in Halina's eyes. "Dad… help me!"

"Flesh does not speak. Cry, moan, scream in response to animalistic instincts, but do not dare to speak. I do not wish to mar your skin with a whip and diminish your value." The grip tightened, silencing the girl. "Docility or skin."

"You…" Craven stepped in front of the angry Peggy. Now was not the time for shooting. That bastard could easily snap the girl's neck. "You spoke of мөнгө. Am I correct in my assumption that this is your currency?"

The pale eyes wandered to him, and the fat lips pursed. "Absolutely," said the big hordeman. He spoke in a mundane tone during the appraisal, completely ignoring the soldiers in the hangar.

"Let me purchase our lives," Craven offered. "Name your price."

"Outlanders are allowed at auctions, but the flesh is mistaken." The ambassador clenched his fists nervously, hearing gunshots and the clanking of metal in the hangar. "Whatever you have on yourself is already ours. But perhaps your khaganate is willing to buy you out?"

"Not just me." Craven eagerly latched on to this proposition. He can work with it. "Show mercy to everyone here; treat them kindly, and they'll be bought out. At your price, noble sir." He put his palms together and bowed in submission, praying to God to spare the children's lives.

Let the bastard gloat if he wanted to. Craven would endure any torture for the sake of his allies. Peggy would understand, he hoped. There was no victory here. But the Oathtakers never abandoned their own, or those who helped them. The day will come when this slave trader will wake up to the black eyes of General Crawler hovering over him. And when the chelicerae close around his body, he will learn the price paid by those who violated those under the Oath's protection. A month of slavery was nothing.

"How quaint," the man said in a perfect Common. "It is a rare sight to meet a reasonable flesh. You are not lying to me by any chance, graydy?"

"Perish the thought, kind master," Craven assured him.

"Master. Flattery." The slaver smiled. "I'll perish you and these whelps in the most horrible way possible if you have lied to me, graydy. Until then, you are my bondsmen. Food, water, and medical care will be provided. The price of your freedom is two hundred gold bars. Eleven inches in length. The weight and price of the whelps and your whore will be determined later. But the soldiers and your feeble helpers…" He narrowed his eyes. "Their value is not that high to waste water."

"Reasonable people can surely come to an agreement…"

"No. Gatherers! Exterminate…"

"Exterminate this, jackass!" T yelled.

"No!" Craven when the boy appeared over the hordeman's shoulder.

He did not know how the fat boy had sneaked up and climbed the monster in silence, but there was a glint of steel in T's hand. The boy buried it in the slaver's neck, bleeding the man, but not a hint of panic or anger touched the pale eyes. The man dropped Halina, and Craven caught her. Then his hand moved back, fingers pointing at T's eyes…

The boy disappeared with a bang, and this time there was a surprised look on the madman's face. He was turning as Peggy opened fire on him. A bullet ricocheted off his forehead, and a piece of bloody skin dangled, covering one of his eyes as the man raised his hand to shield his face. More bullets rattled his armor, denting it and sending large pieces of metal flying.

"Where is he?!" the giant roared.

"Suck on my balls, dumb motherfucker!" T laughed from the truck, sitting next to the other kids, holding a pristine, clean knife.

Craven had no time to solve this riddle. He hurried to the track and handed Halina to the teachers just in time to hear.

"I see you," said a voice full of cold fury. The slaver stepped forward and landed his cleaver on Peggy. The blade bit deep into her wrist, shattering the armor and nearly taking away the arm. "None escapes Slavetaker." Peggy dropped her machinegun, reached her knife, and stabbed Slavetaker into the crack in his armor before his hand touched her.

Slavetaker broke through her helmet, blinding the holy sister when his fingers ripped open her eyes. He grabbed her by the mouth and eye sockets and pulled, tearing off a large portion of Peggy's face. Teeth and bones smashed against the floor, blood dripped from the lump of meat in the cruel hand, and Peggy's body slumped to the ground.

The bloodshot eyes focused on the truck, and Slavetaker's legs became blurred pistons as he hurried to his prey, roaring and clenching and unclenching his hand in anticipation. Craven had no time to think. The engine was already roaring, but there was no time. The hordeman would reach them first, and the surrounding soldiers were still fighting for survival.

So he tackled the man. It was a weak, powerless shove, but it bought the precious moments for the truck to leave, and Craven Wickedbreed coughed through the pain as the cleaver landed on him, slicing down from his right shoulder to his chest.

Faith. Faith that his sacrifice would give these children a chance at life. It sustained his conscience as the cleaver twisted and destroyed his lung.

"You failed," Craven said through the bubbling blood, gasping for air. He wished for a more heroic or at least snide remark to irritate the bastard, but nothing came to mind.

"I saw them." The hand grasped the skin on the side of the ambassador's head, peeling it away. "They can run to the end of the world if they want. It won't save them. We are connected. Every night while they sleep, I step closer. Every time they are out of breath, I draw nearer. Their skins are mine for disobedience, their carcasses are food for the vultures. No slave or bondsman escapes Slavetaker. As for you, flesh. Let's see how much of your hide you can lose before your heart grows still."

Screw that. Craven decided and bit into the capsule hidden in his tooth.

The Trolls were famous for their regeneration, and it was both a blessing and a curse. The ability to regrow organs or lost limbs was invaluable in most cases, aside from the times when a Troll ended up captured by cannibals or sadists. Then a Troll often suffered months of long torture before expiring. Such a fate always frightened Craven, and he opted for the program designed to prevent it.

His body could withstand many wounds and poisons and still heal. But a lethal dose of hallucinogenic poison that affected his brain was fatal, even for him. Ambassador Craven died, blissfully thinking of home.

And the war still raged on.

 

[Rookie12]

"Do we know who these bastards are? What exactly is this Gilded Horde?" Janine demanded to know.

Her return to the base was less than graceful. Numbness still tried to imprison the right side of her body, from the eye to the lung. It was pointless to try to hide it, and after she stumbled for the third time, Alpha had simply picked her up under the armpit and carried her like a cub. Crimson with shame, Janine had still given the order to carry Tancred back to his mansion, wrapped in a cloak. Several injured knights had wanted to stay behind and search for their dead, but Janine had tolerated none of this. They had lost enough kin for one day.

Janine hadn't the faintest idea why Alpha had maintained her silence, staring calmly at her fellow warlord. There was scrutiny in those eyes, but not a single command was disputed, and the group had soon surfaced, facing police, doctors, and journalists. Eased by the sight of her family, Janine had given Kalaisa the task of retrieving the bodies and had briefly contacted Dragena, telling her to put Kirk in charge of public relations in her place. Out of them all—safe for Bogdan, but no one in their right mind would've assigned anything important to that mischievous cub—he was the closest to the Normies and had a proper head on his shoulders.

"Negative, Warlord," Jacomie responded, grimacing from her wounds. The lieutenant and her closest officers were admitted into the Inevitable's command center.

Low humming and beeping from the terminals filled the room. Busy operators fed regional status updates to warlords and wolf hags throughout the city. Officers coordinated rescue efforts and oversaw military preparations. Encased in protective shells, terminals took a load off from their rebooting 'kin' in the city.

Jacomie had a nasty gunshot wound, but she refused to abandon her duties or take painkillers. Dressed only in a t-shirt and pants, she expertly brought the order to several panicked divisions, approved evacuation protocols, and ignored the field medic's removal of shrapnel from her body. Zero, wearing a simple black bodysuit and helmet, had helped Alpha put on the battle suit.

Lacerated One sat in the corner, eyes closed, paws pressed together in a prayer. As always, the supreme shaman obeyed the primary rule: to obey the warlords in everything during a war. Ygrite crouched over an operator, barking orders to her pack in a raspy voice.

Sage Frouke Ironwill, the chief sage to survive today's culling, stood in his soiled battleplate, respectful and remorseful, accepting the warlords' orders without a word. It was beginning to irk Janine. The man had over six hundred soldiers under his command and now he was acting all guilty because he had suffered a setback through no fault of his own! Big deal; she too had trouble enduring Drozna's rage. They had to work together instead of dwelling on imaginary mistakes. Frouke should have announced himself as a sword saint long ago and established his authority over Household Ironwill long ago.

But she quenched her bile, wary of the relationship between Frouke and Tancred. There was no place for a blind revenge charge.

"Report," Janine said. "What's the situation in the city?"

Eled threw one glance at Janine and easily pushed her into a seat. More medics rushed into the room in response to a finger snap and began clearing acid from the eye and bandaging the warlord's wounds. An injection of something cool into her optic nerve relaxed Janine's swollen eye.

"The city was hit hard," Schalk said ahead of his commander, reading from a terminal in his hand. "We lost Sword Saint Tancred; may the Planet show mercy on his soul. The chief of police and his deputy have been eliminated, and Zurkov has assumed the mantle of leadership for the time being. The Third has lost a total of one hundred and twenty Wolfkins, with sixty-eight more confined to beds. Despite vehement protests from your people, the doctors refuse to allow them back in the ranks."

"Keep it that way." Ygrite voiced her agreement, surprising everyone. "Sedate them. What about the burden?"

"Civilians," Eled growled, meeting Ygrite's irritated gaze. "Address them with respect or not at all, sister."

The two warlords faced each other, snarling. Ygrite still bore the battering given to her by Alpha's claws, but it did not seem to hinder her in any way. Her paw slipped back into the sleeve of her cloak while Eled relaxed her fingers and rolled the muscles of her arms. Soldiers and technicians working on the bridge tensed, nervous about a possible explosion of violence that would ruin the valuable systems.

Finally, Alpha asserted her rank. She pushed between her two sisters, not even looking at them, and both Eled and Ygrite dropped to their knees, their throats exposed. Alpha merely gestured for them to return to their seats.

"According to the latest report, we have four thousand nine hundred and eight wounded, over six hundred of them children and teenagers. The numbers are constantly being updated," Schalk continued in an even tone. "The dead are still being counted, but at least seven hundred citizens have lost their lives. We found your missing soldier and technician, Keon. The Investigation Bureau has graced us enough to state they were killed before the attack." He tossed the terminal at the table and addressed the lieutenant. "Ma'am, we need to declare martial law. With all due respect to the mayor and the police, they are ill suited to handle the evacuation. This attack should not have happened; the Bureau dropped the ball! Let our forces sweep in and reestablish control; let us integrate the police into our forces until this crisis is over!"

"What is the mayor doing right now?" Alpha inquired.

"Mayor Jaquan is currently giving a speech about condemning the attack, Warlord!" Schalk saluted her. "He has already procured aid from the private clinics, appointed a new commissioner, and authorized increased patrols and the use of power armor and heavy weapons for the police force. On his orders, the police began recruiting volunteers, and the Third Army provided instructors to help train them." The man nodded gratefully to Alpha. "He also called in the ambassadors of Iterna and the Oathtakers; no idea why."

"To request their aid, no doubt. Houstad is not just any settlement, Sergeant. Foreigners live here," Janine grumbled, reading the reports and nodding in approval of Kirk's speech. Kalaisa support was weird, unexpected, but wholly welcome. "Mercenary companies are enlisting in droves for peanuts."

"No wonder; their relatives have been hurt, and they want to pay back." Ygrite shrugged.

"We'll give them ample opportunities. Veterans of the past wars are stepping forward, ready to join the police." Janine rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Based on what I see, the green guys held their own admirably. Assign the veterans as their instructors; that ought to keep them away from the front lines. Taxi drivers offer their services for free; the wyrms' companies are helping; even the criminal underworld is in full swing, throttling the life out of anyone suspected of cooperating with the enemies. Stop that."

"Already sent the order," Dragena replied. "There will be no lynching on our watch."

"Good. Religious authorities are holding mass prayers to allay the fears and to speak of unity. They request Lacerated One…" Her sister opened her eyes, and Janine sighed. "Can we spare anyone? And Kirk has asked that our baubles be thrown into the prayer dens."

"A sister lost her arm. Let it be her last duty before she joins the ranks of the Crippled," said Lacerated One. She removed the bone necklace from around her neck and examined it longingly. "All that is left of my parents. I don't remember them. Such is the price of letting a male run his mouth unchecked."

"Want it back? Win," Martyshkina advised. She hesitated and then handed the shaman a bone ring forged out of the femur of her second soulmate. "Kirk did alright."

Lacerated One embraced the warlord, showing that she held no grudge against her or Kirk. The Gilded Horde had made a lot of enemies today. And Janine intended to see Brood Lord and his ilk skinned for what they'd done.

"Send distress calls to the Dynast…" Janine cringed as Eled stitched her shoulder roughly, the medic's fingers proving incapable of piercing her hide. She found herself missing Maxence and his kind hands. "… the Second, and the First! I don't care if it makes us weak; the civilians' safety is paramount." Realizing what she had been saying all along, Janine sheepishly looked at Alpha. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn…"

It wasn't her role. Goosebumps crept up her spine at the simple imagination of what those ruinous claws could do to her. The last warlord who had dared to speak in place of Alpha's place, condemning cubs to their deaths, had been flayed, excruciatingly slowly, before the entire tribe. It wasn't easy to mutilate a warlord when the skin was trying to regrow, but Alpha was thorough. She broke the woman, forcing cries of pain from her, and then declawed her. By sheer force of will, the guilty didn't die and was later admitted into Pack Alpha as a nameless wolf hag, yearning to earn the impossible redemption.

"Approved," Alpha said calmly. "Lieutenant?"

"No objections either. The mayor has everything under control. No need to frighten people or bring further confusion while we reorganize the command structure," Jacomie said, coughing out blood and wiping it out with a piece of cloth. She tried to wave away the medic, but the man ignored her.

"Forgive me," Frouke broke the silence, drawing attention to himself. "Knight-captains report that vigilantes and less unsavory elements have offered…"

"We are aware. Accept their aid," Janine said.

"Is it wise? Some of these people were involved in the most grievous acts before."

"And they received a full pardon from the state after serving their sentences. As for vigilantes, couldn't care less right now." Janine faced his eyes. "Frouke, Tancred's duty falls to you."

"We will give our lives to uphold his legacy!" Frouke pressed a paw to his chest. "Send us forth; let us pay for the crime of abandoning our posts through our deaths!"

"And leave citizens unprotected? No. We lack the Ironwills' expertise in maintaining order and evacuation. But we can kill, and so slaughter we will. Stay and do your duty. Do not spurn our unlikely allies; whatever happened in the past, their families are here too." Janine put her paw on his shoulder, wondering if she was right. "Take the sword saint's mantle and lead your pack."

"This… Lady Janine, that's not how it works in the order…" Frouke tried to argue when the towering shadow was cast over him.

Bareheaded and clad in full gear, Alpha towered over everyone in the command center. Her marbled skin matched the white of the Ice Fangs armor perfectly, while her hungry, piercing eyes searched him, fishing for any weakness or flaws. Frouke stood proudly, and a mighty claw, longer than the male's head, rose.

"First had offered me to share leadership," Alpha said, her voice like grinding gears. "I take him up on the offer. On my authority as a warlord and kin to you, I declare you the acting sword saint. Should you feel unworthy, step down later, but for now, hold!" Her claw blurred in an arc, carving deep into her thick neck. Unperturbed, she gathered blood into her palm and bathed the man's snout in crimson.

Alpha's blood carried no divine gift like Ravager's, Zero's, or Lacerated One's. When she was cut, she simply bled like any other member of the tribe. But such was her might and skill that a sight of her bleeding was a miraculous occasion. Tens of thousands had fallen to her claws or been incinerated in the lawful heat of her plasma. To see her, of all people, willingly wound herself rendered Frouke awestruck, and the man knelt, a nobleman knighted by a monster.

"Stand tall, brother in rank and blood. Take the weapons and armor of your fallen lord. Shield the people and his wife. Houstad is in the Ironwills' care." Alpha stepped aside, already losing interest in the man. Only a faint hiss accompanied her thundering footsteps as the horrible gash in her neck healed itself, emitting a thin crimson vapor.

"And we shall not fail," the newly promoted sword saint promised.

"Where is Captain Cristobo?" Jacomie asked.

"Dead," Dragena declared. Her dispassionate, almost dead eyes glared at the lieutenant. "The poison on the assassin's blade had ended his life shortly after he was delivered to the private clinic."

Martyshkina had to physically restrain Janine from standing up. She ignored the cruel hook to the head that sent the whole world spinning, and the medic's protests. Cristobo died? But… It was impossible! Cristobo was the sixth Normie to be personally accepted by the Blessed Mother. She trusted him to enter her den! Cristobo had loyally stood by Ravager's side all these years, and... And there was something else about the situation that Janine could not put her finger on.

The doors behind Dragena let in a frightened woman, her entire body covered in badly healed bruises and bandaged in places under an oversized trench coat. Onyxia appeared next. Her hair moved randomly, blinking in and out of view. Streaks of shadow seeped through the gorget of her armor, giving a false impression that the armor was all that held the warlord in the corporeal realm. The normally cold and distant warlord held her gauntlets on the woman's shoulders, guiding her. Onyxia nodded to everyone and scowled at Jacomie.

"We have news." Dragena pointed at the woman. "Our sister and First have been busy eradicating over thirty slaver camps."

"Sounds like you had a war," Ygrite laughed.

"No one told me to stop." Onyxia shrugged her shoulders. "First ain't so bad, I must say. He kept pestering me about 'human rights that, human rights this, no, you can't just eat slavers alive'. Bah, it was such a bother dragging their asses back to our borders! But, Ygri, you have to see him on a mission one day! Covered in blood and gore, sneaking after you with a ghost's grace, ending lives at a touch… Ah, what a male! I'd jump into his pants right away if his heart didn't belong to another!" Alpha stomped, and Onyxia dropped all pretense. "Back to business, yeah. First Sunblade has left to meet his fellow sword saints and inform them of Tancred's demise. This right here is a princess…"

"I am no princess," the woman whispered tearfully. "A princess stays with her people. A princess would've protected her family…"

"Yeah, yeah, heard that one already. Cheer up; the horrors are in the past; retribution cometh." Onyxia gently patted the woman on the back. "So, the princess over here belonged to a country recently conquered by the Gilded Horde…"

"They butchered everyone who resisted," the woman whimpered. "Brood Lord grabbed my brother, a boy less than a year old, and dragged him out. He used him to distract my father and… and..."

"How did you survive?" Janine asked softly, trying not to frighten the woman. Another debt owned by Brood Lord. He had incurred too many of them already.

"I am not sure myself. One of Brood Lord's whelps had let us run. At first I thought it was a cruel trick and that they planned to hunt us down later, but... we escaped. And later, we ran into a slaver party; the bastards came to poach on our weakened home. I distracted them so my family could escape. Milady Onyxia and His Excellency First were the ones who rescued me later. I have no idea how to repay them…"

"Think nothing of it," Onyxia told the young woman. "Live your life, get many cubs, eat and sleep plenty, be happy, and the debt is cleared, okay? Okay. Now tell us about the Gilded Horde."

After taking a deep breath, the trembling woman told her tale. Her homeland had first heard of the Horde from the refugees, who had portrayed it as an unstoppable force that wrathfully hammered down upon everything standing in their way, enslaving and beating the populace into submission. The king had been weighing whether or not to call in the Reclamation Army or the Oathtakers for help, worried that the soldiers might stage a coup once they arrived. There was a kernel of truth in these concerns, Janine admitted to herself. The Dynast and his rival Lord Steward had taken advantage of such situations before, though both nations had moved toward trustworthiness as the world changed.

But the king never had the chance to choose. The Gilded Horde invaded far too soon; their minions sowed dissension in the capital, and their champions, warriors of impossible strength and incredible abilities, overran the countryside, cutting off communications to the Net and halting any attempts to call for aid. Dragena meticulously added everything the princess had said, including obvious exaggerations, and Martyshkina, Onyxia, and Ygrite narrowed their eyes at the news of a crazed preacher who mercilessly tortured humans using his control over time. Such opponents were usually left to Alpha, but occasionally one of these three handled them.

Dragena kept asking questions about enemy numbers, but the princess was of little help. After the siege began, her father sent the girl to the inner chambers. She had heard from the servants how the purple fields around their city had turned yellow and glistened with steel as countless thousands of hardened killers arrived in full force.

"Their emissaries asked us about God." The woman wiped her eyes. "We told them about the water goddess, the wind deity, and even about the wise stone master, even though his faithful were never many. But they merely laughed, insisting that they were looking for one true God pretender, whatever that means."

"Idiocy," Ashbringer broke her silence, crossing her arms. A streak of flame left her flamethrower, heating her snout. "There is no true singular deity. Otherwise, only a single religion would've risen from the ruins, not a host."

"And now they are coming here," the woman said mournfully.

"This is their graveyard," Janine promised her and gestured for a soldier to lead away the foreign princess. Once the crisis was over, the Dynast would probably reinstate her as ruler to secure new lands, but they had to survive until then.

Janine remained silent as she studied the similarities in the Horde's attack. Mysterious murders preceded the invasion. They had experienced it today. The implication of it was clear: the Wall had to be fortified. Their new enemies also used chemical warfare, unbound by international rules.

"The population will need chemical protection," Janine said finally.

"I'd much prefer not to expose our citizens to shelling, but you are right, sister," Dragena agreed icily. Janine ignored the tone. Dragena was simply incapable of expressing herself otherwise; there was no implicit disrespect in her words. "Ygrite. Half of your pack still hasn't had their equipment repaired. Guard the little ones in hospitals."

"Figured out their methods, didn't you?" Ygrite grinned. "Don't worry, I'll keep the pipsqueaks safe and sound until we can evacuate them. If Brood Lord shows up, I'll leave you a finger or two, dear sister." She glared at Janine, opening her jaws wide. "Although, had someone taken an enemy alive, I could've prepared much better."

"She killed civilians, Ygrite," Janine said coldly.

"And yet she begged for mercy, Janine," Ygrite responded. "I watched the recording of your engagement. Are you a soldier or an executioner? Even the Horde shows more mercy. Terrific would be proud of you."

"Imply it again and I'll rip out your fangs." Janine rose. Martyshkina was by her side immediately.

"Enough." Dragena stepped between them, paws behind her back, and Alpha loomed behind her like a shadow. "None of us is without sin, Ygrite. I, too, had murdered my opposition. Janine, mercy is never misguided. If not for the Dynast's mercy, none of us would be standing here. Show restraint in the future. Let the courts do their job. Regardless, we know enough now."

"Elaborate," Alpha demanded.

"All members of the Insectoid Commune share the same pitch-black compound eyes," Dragena began explaining. "Ice Fangs and our people have red and amber eyes, respectfully. Even Orais and Trolls look similar to their kin. Only the Malformed experience such a variety of changes in their bodies. Judging by how different Brood Lord's offspring are from him and from each other, we can safely assume that he is a mutated Malformed himself."

"Is this even a thing?" Martyshkina asked.

"It is a rare genetic occurrence, but it does happen. Mutants' cubs often lose the biological characteristics of their parents. Researchers will have the final word, but judging that Brood Lord's litter is smaller and less powerful than he is, I assume he shares the same anomaly. Next, the New Breeds of the Gilded Horde." Dragena snapped her fingers, and a screen descended from the ceiling, displaying the results of the autopsy. "Observe. The placement of the organs and the skeleton itself are similar to the Normies. They do not have subdermal armor like us, but their muscle fiber density is fifty times that of a well-trained Normie, and their fat serves as an excellent natural kinetic disperser.

"These people are clearly a tribe, like we are. Not only that, but there are Normies, mercenaries in their ranks in abundance, along with battle beasts." Dragena faced the warlords. "Our foe is not some warband, but an expanding empire, hungry for conquest, with leaders capable of matching us. Doubtless, all of them have their own styles and preferences for leading a war, too. Janine showed excellent foresight in calling for reinforcements."

Janine scratched the back of her head, struggling not to refute the praise. I am not that smart. I only wanted to preserve our people.

"Yet this time they had gravely miscalculated," Dragena stated.

"How?" Janine asked.

"Houstad." Martyshkina grinned.

"Very good. Someone's been listening," Alpha snapped angrily, turning to Ashbringer, Onyxia, Eled, Zero, and Ygrite. "Janine is green blood; what is your excuse? Fools. What did the princess say?"

"They sabotaged the capital, cutting it off prior to…" Zero clicked in understanding.

"Very good, there are still marbles in that bucket of yours, Zero," mocked Alpha.

"Screw you, sis." Zero chuckled good-naturedly. "The Gilded Horde underestimated our scope. They think Houstad and we are the heart and the army, rather than a heart and an army."

"Warlord Dragena! The contact is restored!" an operator shouted, and Dragena appeared beside the man with a loud thud as steel boots bounced off the ground.

The warlord leaned toward the display, its faint green light reflecting off her faceplate. With a snap of her fingers, the incoming video feed was transmitted to the warlord's terminals.

The worst-case scenario had happened. The once unassailable bastions to the southwest had been breached. Missiles flew over the Wall, landing at a road, burrowing into reinforced bunkers, crashing amidst artillery, and spewing out chemicals that immediately choked the defenders who had their armor fractured by the earlier bombardments.

Numerous cannons punched holes in the reinforced concrete, reaching the barracks within. Shells rained down on the auxiliary facilities in the rear, flattening additional radar relays and communications towers. Sniper positions withered under searing napalm, and burning figures toppled from the battlements.

Hordemen marched through the burning sea of torched, overgrown greenery to the openings in the wall, led by a gigantic, laughing figure of a woman in furs. She alone wore no armor, eagerly welcoming the defenders' counterfire as she sheathed her weapons. Sniper fire was less than a mosquito bite to her; the explosions of the surviving artillery that tore the nearest hordemen into pieces were no more than a morning breeze. Then the screen flickered as the soldier who filmed her had his neck snapped by a breacher.

Entire levels cascaded down as the siege weapons unleashed their wrath. Their missiles had sharp drills at the end, and upon striking the target, they burrowed tens of meters deep within and exploded in flashes of light, melting cameras and sending titanic shockwaves rocking through the fortification. Rapidly advancing automated machines quickly closed in on the Wall, unfolding into heavy weapon emplacements with turrets sprouting from their bowels. Bursts of armor-piercing fire ripped through the gaping hole in the bastions, preventing the defenders from denying the enemy entry.

The Provincial Army fought tooth and nail, refusing to surrender any corridor or room without extracting a bloody tool. Turrets were removed from the top of the wall and placed at critical points; a sudden charge of super-heavy tanks from the hidden entrances in the advancing wave caught the eager invaders off guard and bought a brief respite; the state's New Breeds mowed down their foes one by one. An Exotic gifted with the ability to shrink items helped move dozens of oversized artillery cannons into the corridors, and they sang a nasty surprise, leveling the passages and the attackers alike.

Sacrifices of these brave souls had given the defenders enough time for orderly retreat, and many passing trucks forcibly grabbed gaping traders and civilians, taking them to safety. No audio files came along with the visual feed, but Janine understood the strategy. The officer in charge was trying to alert the smaller settlements so they could flee to Houstad. But as the state forces retreated from their borders for the first time in decades, the Gilded Horde revealed their hand.

Bubbles formed over the section of the Wall, and it immediately changed in color. The paint washed over it in a cloud of dust, webs of cracks spread far and wide, and a massive rain of rusted steel and crumbling metal came cascading down, paving the way for the invaders. Shining gold, green, and silver, thousands bypassed the Wall, spilling into the Core Lands.

To murder, enslave, and conquer.

"Why haven't we been informed? How did they get so close?" Jacomie asked, already calling her troops and ordering the formation of cordons at Houstad's entrances.

"Find a way to establish a connection with our allies. Warn the nearby settlements." Dragena ordered the operator.

"Impossible, ma'am!" the operator replied, typing furiously. "Something is jamming our communications! We can see them, but we cannot send or receive a word."

"Contact Till Ingo. Request his assistance immediately." Dragena's helmet rapidly closed around her head. "First. Camelia. Voidrunner." She paused, tapping the side of her helmet. "They're not responding."

"Maybe their communications are jammed, too?" Janine guessed.

"Impossible," Dragena replied coldly. "Our encryption systems have proven to be superior to those of the Provincial Army, and our kin are spread far too widely for them all to be affected. Frouke just responded to me, and his supremacy had passed messages to the mayor before, so we are not the ones being blocked. No, these proud fools ignore us on purpose."

Dragena walked to the center of the room, facing the warlords and reading their intentions. Janine knew what she had found in them. Logically, the most reasonable thing to do right now was to stay here and dig in, setting traps, preparing defenses, and awaiting the Second and First armies. The state was vast, and it would take time for its armies to arrive, but when that time came, the fate of the enemies would be sealed.

But this wasn't who they were. Not with their kin still in the field. Not with the civilians caught in the settlements in the Gilded Horde's path. The Wolf Tribe swore an oath to be both the shield and the sword for the state that took them in and cared for them. They had honored it before; they would do so again, even if it meant defying Ravager's orders.

"I understand, but disagree, sisters," Dragena said calmly. "Lacerated One! The enemy may attempt to use mental attacks once more. You are to stay behind to aid Ygrite and Frouke. If Drozna reappears, end him. You will use the latest power armor."

"If that is your wish, Warlord." The Supreme Shaman bowed, clearly unhappy about having to discard her ancient plate. "His anger is but an insulting joke against our devotion."

"Don't push it. Even sages had troubles." Dragena's cold eyes found Zero. "Get the Blessed Mother."

"I don't know where she is." Zero gulped nervously.

"Don't play games, sister," Dragena pressed. "Lives are at stake. Our sisters' and brothers'. Do it. Please."

Zero's trembling paws reached for her helmet. She pressed several buttons in sequence, and with a soft hiss, the helmet opened, the lower part folding into the upper. A light that rivaled the Blessed Mother's in intensity illuminated the entire command deck like a newborn sun. Ravager… Zero took off her helmet, ran a paw over her perfect hair, smiled, showing beautiful and elegant fangs, and gave thumbs up to Jacomie and Schalk's gasps.

Janine struggled against the urge to bend her knees. It was not only a sign of weakness but also an outright insult to Zero, who wished to be treated as her own person. And yet, there was a feeling coming from the woman—an unspoken command demanding absolute submission, every bit as strong as the Blessed Mother's.

Looking at her face here and now, even despite knowing that Ravager wore no clothes and seeing the Blessed Mother up close, the sight still made Janine want to submit. At first glance, when Zero wore her normal clothes, maintained her normal posture, and chatted with others with her helmet on, few would associate her with Ravager. Now, without her helmet, the resemblance was undeniable. Same-looking cheeks, same-shaped cheeks, same nose, identical eyes. It was as if someone had taken the Blessed Mother, shrunk her considerably, and forced her to wear clothes and walk like a real person.

Ravager and Zero were one and the same, two lives born of the same material, but where the Blessed Mother ascended to divinity, Zero chose not to, deliberately hindering her growth and refusing the gifts of her power. All who came from Ravager bore the same gift. The stronger the foe they defeated, the stronger they grew. Each had their own individual ceiling, resulting from the intensity of the gift coursing through their veins. But they could also stop that growth by refusing to accept the reward of their power. And Zero did just that, content to be equal to mortals rather than standing equal among gods.

Janine noticed that only the provincial officers gasped. All warlords were initiated into Zero's secret upon their elevation. But the command crew? Curious.

Zero leaned back and studied the hatch in the ceiling. Her nostrils moved, picking up the scent of her sister. And then she was gone, a ghost disappearing on her own hunt.

"Rouse the packs," Dragena commanded, taking the Ravager's seat on the dais. "The mission is to bring back our kin, save as many civilians as possible, and gather all available forces of the Provincial Army. Do not attack strongly, sisters. Five warlords are in the Outer Lands, watching over our villages, and every sister who bears life is to join them immediately, even those already in maternity hospitals. Better to have a few stillborn cubs than to lose everything." Dragena took a moment of silence, waiting for any objections. No one spoke. "Alpha, is she…"

"In the Outer Lands," Alpha growled.

"Good. Six warlords will survive if the worst happens."

"Five warlords. She is not our sister and never will be," Alpha insisted, and Dragena paid no attention to her.

"No matter the losses, our blood will live on. The Wolf Tribe and the Third Army will launch the operation immediately," Dragena said.

"I will go with them…" Jacomie started.

"You will rest and work with me, Lieutenant. No, Captain. Jacomie, you are promoted to the rank of the late Cristobo. Schalk, you are promoted to the rank of Jacomie. Congratulations." Dragena's eyes betrayed no emotions.

"Where is Predaig?" Onyxia asked as Janine accepted adrenaline and anti-toxin shots from the medic. "Don't tell me she croaked too…"

"No," came a voice from the sliding doors.

Predaig entered, clad in her armor, aside from her helmet. Her mane and fur were wet, the light in her eyes shone brighter than ever, but the most significant change was the complete absence of the gray strands. Their sister was reborn, striding with the grace of a young scout and capable of the devastation befitting a member of the first generation.

"The Horde's cruelty had incurred a blood debt. I wonder if they have enough lives to repay it," Predaig said simply, as if that explained everything, moving her fingers as if to marvel at the returned agility.

"Where are your scars?" Onyxia's teasing nibble cleaved the air before any question could be asked. "Ah, I get. Met a boy…"

"Shut up!" Predaig slammed one end of her weapon into the floor. "I don't know! I opted for a rejuvenation procedure; it was not my fault that the blasting Iternian abused my trust."

"Ooh, Iternian, you say." Grinned Onyxia and dodged a swing.

****

Janine met her pack outside of the crawler; Bogdan and Ignacy had just returned from the city and were now hurrying to her with the power armor. Marco was among them, proudly carrying a massive helmet in his paws. Janine nodded to them, sparing no warm words today and spreading her arms in greetings of hundreds of her soldiers.

"Sisters! Brothers! The Oath calls us!" she thundered as her sons encased her in the combat plate, shoving chords into the sockets of the implants and filling her body with tingling electricity. "Our walls have been breached, our noble city violated, our compatriots wounded or dead. Treachery has wormed its way into the heart of our defenses and taken the lives of our sisters and brothers. What answer will we give to those responsible for it?!"

"Death! Death!" roared hundreds, their voices joined by every pack. Only Martyshkina joined in late, silently paying her respects to her fallen wolf hag.

Sheer aggression. Sheer rage. This was the way of the Wolf Tribe. They did not care about numbers or odds. Only to fulfill their duty to the letter or die trying.

And many will die; of this, Janine had little doubt. The packs will set out fully equipped and with the best weapons possible. But in their advance, they will have little chance to resupply and almost no chance to repair their gear. Every crack, every missed shot, every cut and bruise will slowly wither them down. Yet there was no fear. There will be no single desperate counterattack into the enemy's charge. The bastards liked raids? The Wolf Tribe will give them raids, biting them from dozens of directions at once, striking without honor, but with reason, precision, and determination.

Our pure condition. Hunters unleashed from the leash.

"Then death is what we will bring to the invaders! Many they are, but this only means more corpses to serve as fertilizer!" A booming laughter came back, and Janine returned the grin, the metal closing around her paws. She leaned forward, and Marco mounted the helmet that dulled her voice. "The inhabitants of the Core Lands. They are soft. And gentle. Beautiful, and so full of potential. Cubs in need of protection." Her armor hummed, a beast awakening, and the helmet opened so the sun could see her fangs. "The future is theirs, but the coming carnage is ours! Revel in the coming righteous slaughter and rejoice in the opportunity to live our own way! Protect the weak and strangle the tyrants!" Anissa handed the axe to Janine, and the warlord raised her weapon and took the laser rifle from Bogdan. "Let the hunt begin! Doom to the Horde!"

The locks clamped, securing the weapons to her back, and Janine leaped, denting the ramp. Flying over the troops, she landed on all fours and raced for the exit, her named sisters at her side, the packs joining her. In a river of black-shelled bodies, they sallied forth through the emptying streets, the lenses of their helmets burning crimson. Bone-chilling howls filled the air, but the citizens waved at them instead of fleeing, and there was a look of hope on their faces. The troops of the Provincial Army and the policemen pounded their fists on their chests in farewell.

Hundreds of engines revved, and the New Breeds of the Third joined this march. The loss of their soldiers to treachery and Keon's death spurred Chak and his staff to an unprecedented level of effort, and they worked overtime to repair the remaining vehicles and armor. Wounded Wolfkins cast aside superstitious concerns and demanded artificial limbs, insisting on staying and fighting. The Third was wounded but was far from dead, and now the cornered beast bristled, roaring a challenge.

This time the army marched without the guidance of the Blessed Mother, and it was Dragena who coordinated their strategy and oversaw preparations for a siege. But there was no fear.

Fear was what their opponents should have felt.

 

[Rookie12]

Jack vomited blood, front teeth, and the remains of his breakfast onto the stone pavement as he tried desperately to get to his feet. His legs hurt, and he was pretty sure that the last stomp had liquefied the bones in his foot. His fingers swelled and refused to obey, forcing the trucker to use his elbows to lift himself up. A trickle of blood ran down his jawline. Lights dimmed, and his poor head ached even more than it had when the mad Orais had punched through his truck's generator that one time.

"One," a mocking voice bleated, counting down the seconds.

How did it come to this? Just this morning, he stopped at Susie's for breakfast and a chat about the coming weather, when the windows were shattered and strange freaks raced through the streets, firing at everyone. He had dropped to the floor, praying to the Planet for his life, when he saw Susie's head being blown off! Where was the constable?

Oh... His fingers touched the brain matter of a dead friend. There he was, lying in the middle of this makeshift cage. Unknown soldiers, all suited in gold and steel armor, had dragged everyone out into the open, jeering and cheering, drinking alcohol, emptying houses, and forcing the prisoners to entertain them. Two elderly truckers were forced to run back and forth across overheated coals until their feet blackened and the poor lads fell face down into the flames. The lucky ones just had to play the tune while these hordemen rounded up the rest, meticulously checking young men and women and arguing over their share of 'bondsmen', ignoring the pleading cries of children deafened by the crackling fires.

Desperate and brazen, Jack stood up and shouted obscenities at the scum, demanding they stop when two riders dragged a woman into a ruined shop. He had half expected to be shot, but the raiders' leader had burst into laughter and given the command to construct an arena of iron beams, offering the citizens a choice. If they so much as touched her, she had promised to leave them in peace. But failure to rise within three seconds meant the loss of forty lives. Elders and wounded children were lined up against a wall of their ruined town, tight nooses tied around their necks.

Jack, the wounded constable, and five others had agreed to confront the overweight woman. Surely it could not be this difficult to touch this three-meter-tall bald ugly fiend, with burly arms and cusack steaks for legs barely concealed by armor, right? The raider had smirked, praised their bravery, and left her swords sheathed, picking up two iron staffs. The first to lunge at her and scream in pain was Jack. She simply disappeared, moving too fast for his eyes to track. The armor had scraped against the cage as she circled him nimbly as a dancer, bringing the staff down on his shoulder blade. The bitch could have broken it, but she had deliberately prolonged the fight, pulling her punches.

For half an hour, their hapless team had chased her around the arena, getting their shit kicked and desperately trying to lay a finger on the metal plates of her suit. Their cries of pain had rang out as she had thinned the group, and soon Jack stood alone, unsure why he hadn't been murdered like his friends.

Laughter was the worst of it. She laughed, and her soldiers laughed. The mocking voices had drowned out Jack's screams. He didn't even hear himself and wasn't sure if he wasn't hallucinating himself speaking. Laughter seemed to envelop him like a thick cocoon, never ceasing to hurt Jack's head.

"Two," the raider sang, chuckling.

"Don't you worry, lasses and lads, Uncle Jack was in a worse rumble. This? Ain't nothing," he mumbled, knowing full well it was a lie. He was a trucker, damn it! The only dead body he had ever seen in his life was his old grandfather's! And now here he was, surrounded by death and blood, his pants wet, his bones broken. Still, he forced himself to raise his wobbly legs, swaying like a drunkard, and prepared his skinless knuckles for a punch.

For there was no one else here, and Jack would be damned if he stopped before his body was broken. Strangely, all he could hear now was the leader's laughter, but even that noise was akin to a needle slowly entering his head through the eye and raking his brain. A touch. A touch. His lips whispered soundlessly.

Jack charged at the raider, a tiny ant against the mountain of muscle and fat. Her wide lips parted in a gleeful smile, and her beady eyes followed his feeble swing, which moved so much slower than before. This time she humiliated him completely, dodging the blow as his fingers were a millimeter from the jewel-encrusted surface of the armor, promising him false hope before snatching it away to plunge him into despair. A searing hit across his back sliced through his tattered jacket, carrying away a piece of skin.

"One," the raider repeated her chant, tapping him on the chin with her staff.

I can't do it anymore. Jack cried, trying to stand up. His back was on fire, even worse than that one time when he threw it during loading. His legs simply refused to listen. And the knocking continued. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"You are boring. You bored me," she chided. "What say you? I give you life if you choke the life out of them? Nice deal, yes?"

He froze, remembering his own mother back in Houstad. If he died here, who would bring her tea and massage her legs? Will anyone drive her to a hospital in a time of need? He was a nobody, a simple man; it's the damn Army's job to fight and protect them, and there wasn't a single one of those mouth breathers anywhere. He paid his taxes; he had dreams, and he might even do the hostages a favor by ending their suffering, he…

Was a man. A human being. What was he thinking? There were kids among the hostages. What kind of vile scum was he to even consider harming them?

"I…" He heard her lean closer. "Fuck you!" Jack forced one last smile and lunged, hoping to grab the attacker's leg. His fists closed on the empty air, and the cruel woman chuckled.

The armored hand moved, preparing to make a swing that would slice his head clean off. The raider had finally grown weary of this mockery. And the staff came down, screaming as it passed through the air like a helicopter blade. At least it will be… The strike never reached his neck, stopped dead by a black gauntlet. The first clenched, crumbling the metal steel as the attacker leapt back, shouting words in an unknown language.

"Two, whore," a voice growled, and Jack looked up.

A figure next to Jack stood as tall as the raider—no, even taller! Armor of the darkest color reflected no daylight; twin crimson lenses focused at the raider, while an elongated helmet, fashioned after a wolfish head, revealed an open mouth filled with the sharpest fangs. As his savior stepped forward silently, a golden symbol of the Reclamation Army glittered on the elbow.

A Wolfkin! Jack had seen the news of their arrival in Houstad, but before that he had worked for white-furred ones, pleasant sirs and ladies who carried themselves with dignity. When they marched to war, magnificent suits of armor shielded their bodies, and cloaks flowed proudly from their shoulders. And this one right here was their wild cousin. Rumors of their savagery were well known; other truckers spoke in hushed voices that these monsters often stole infants from cribs, devouring the crying babies to instill fear in mothers, and cannibalized anyone they encountered during certain seasons, devastating entire regions. The horrors of the Wastes and the barbaric morning star of the Dynast.

"We have secured the hostages and taken care of the trash, Wolf Hag Kalaisa!" an icy voice said, and Jack swung his head with difficulty toward a scene of carnage.

The bodies of the raiders littered the ground; their suits were pried open, and many had their spines ripped off. Blood rolled down from the building where their scouts had kept watch; now, black-clad wolfish figures scoured the rooftops, crude rifles on their backs and their claws painted crimson. Several Wolfkins tended to injured civilians and freed hostages from the ropes. Drunk on stolen liquor and ecstatic over an effortless victory, the would-be slavers had lost their vigilance. There were no clarion horns heralding a challenge or the nobility of the Ice Fang order. The murder of over sixty people had been done so quietly and efficiently that neither Jack nor his opponent had noticed.

"My friends!" A girl with a broken arm cried out. "We escaped from the Wall, but I fell, and they saved me, and then we lost each other! Don't let them die, please! Find them and run, before the Horde kills everyone again…"

"Hush, little one." A soldier snatched her and pressed her to his armored chest, gently patting her head. "Breathe. One, two, three. That's a brave girl! My name's Kirk, and do you know what this is?" He pulled a toy from his belt. "It's Commander Outsider, and he's going to keep you safe. Bro, her arm," he told a nearby Wolfkin.

"Not a medic, Kirk." The soldier raised his hands. "I'll break more than I heal. Ask her where she lost her friends."

"Ask her yourself; she won't bite!"

"Oh no, no way, Kirk. You are the Normie-Talker, so talk."

"Normie-Talker? Who even came up with this?"

"Soulless One bestowed this Grand Name upon you. Be honored," the Wolfkin said reverently.

Am I going insane? Jack thought, wondering if the reinforcements weren't his imagination brought into reality by a severe beating. Maybe he was slowly dying and his brain was hallucinating to cope with the harsh reality.

"Good. Commandeer trucks, bandage the wounded, pack up our people, and keep your eyes wide open. We don't want to get jumped on like these suckers," the wolf hag grumbled, and hands lifted Jack, carrying him out of the cage. "I want to save at least a thousand lives before nightfall!"

"Don't you mean kill a thousand, Wolf Hag?" icily asked the smaller Wolfkin, and Jack understood from their voices that they were both women.

"I know what I said. There will be plenty of fools to sacrifice to honor our warlord and the fallen. Besides, we can multi-task; Ygrite and Jaine have taught us well. Give me a second or two. Need to work out my anger through evisceration."

Kalaisa rocked her neck and advanced on the raider. Claws slipped from her gauntlets, and the raider reached for her curved swords, seemingly undaunted by the inevitable demise.

"Two whores, you said?" sneered the shorter woman. "One being carried away physically and another metaphorically, correct?"

"Funny," Kalaisa replied, ducking low and crossing her arms. "I heard your joke. Sing me a song next."

She disappeared, blinking away, and bounced off the metal beams behind the raider, sending two of them flying. The raider shrieked in pain, stumbling backwards as one of her arms dropped to the ground, severed cleanly at an elbow.

"You're a damn hero, you know that, buddy?" said the soldier who carried Jack. "You distracted them long enough for us to sneak in."

"I am no hero," Jack muttered, feeling that he was about to pass out. "I even lost my trucker hat."

"Are all Normies this weird?" The Wolfkin smirked and sniffed him. "Don't you worry, I'll find it."

The hacking and screaming in the cage didn't last long.

****

Maria hurried through the forest, ignoring the sharp branches that tore at her clothes, leaving bloody slices on her forearms. Trees around her village had been altered during the terraforming, their branches sported long thorns capable of carving bone-deep gashes into the flesh of an unwary traveler. As a child, she had once run into one such spike, earning herself a black eyepatch for life.

The forest was unnaturally dark; dense foliage swallowed up all but the tiniest rays of light, and the sound died amidst the shadowy bark of colossal trees. It was a place to be feared and respected, easy to get lost in if you did not use the roads. Even a government inspection had found no reason for such an unnatural change, and Maria had usually steered clear of this darkness, preferring the welcoming, green and lush forests to the south.

But now she didn't care. Three soldiers of the provincial army formed a triangle around them, helping Maria, an Iternian reporter Jacob Makarevich, and two kids back to their feet when they stumbled. Another kid, a boy around two years old, was pressed to her chest, and Jacob was carrying an infant. The Iternian had arrived in their village two days ago, paying well, staying impeccably kind and gentle as he filmed their everyday lives and searched for a guide to enter and explore the forest. Maria didn't know him or any of these children well, but this morning, the soldiers from the garrison had arrived in a panic, yelling at everyone to flee.

They had barely managed to get a few people on the bus when the first strike came. A shell had fallen from the skies, cleaving through Old Ben's house. Loud engine screams assaulted Maria's ears next, and blurred bikes flashed through the square, filling it with corpses as they rammed anyone in their path. It was her cue to grab the nearest kids and flee into the woods, dragging the Iternian after her, joined by the soldiers.

There was no more shooting or shouting from the direction of the village, probably meaning that the brave souls of the Provincial Army had lost. Maria didn't think much of it; she just kept going, her heart beating so hard she wondered how it hadn't burst by now. A sorrowful chuckle left her lips. The teacher always said she should've taken better care of her form and cardio. Both children bore this escape better than she did, and there was not even a trace of sweat on Jacob's face.

But I will persevere. Get the children to safety, then you can die, you stupid, useless girl! She cried, thinking of her cat back home, of the small, cozy house she had poured her life into. I am sorry, Tisha; I am so sorry… Dynast, please watch over him. Take my life; preserve his, please.

"Shit!" a soldier cursed, whirling around.

Horrified, Maria heard the deafening screaming again. It grew louder and louder, hurting her head—a hideous sound demanding immediate submission. Flying shapes appeared behind them, weaving nimbly around the trees, their riders ignoring the spiked branches that broke harmlessly against their armor as they pursued the group.

Jacob's backpack ballooned and exploded, spilling small terminals and data disks onto the ground. A drone hovered up and headed for the pursuers, its projector flashing brightly. A single shot ripped through the center of the unusual machine, shattering it into pieces.

"Up! We'll distract them!" The soldier roared, dropping to a knee and levelling his rifle.

"I wanted to see my mum," whimpered another soldier, unsteadily aiming her grenade launcher.

"Get a grip!" her comrade said. "It won't be long. Hold, for the sake of the living."

"Don't even think about it!" Jacob snapped. "You'll die!"

"Part of the duty. Go! Dynast protects."

"Dynast protects," his comrades agreed.

They ran, never looking back, missing the last stand of those who gave their lives for them. A grenade explosion nearly knocked Maria over, but Jacob held her steady, and soon a wheezing moan reached them through the screaming of those infernal engines. Maria kept moving even after the barking of the rifles and the roar of the energy cannons had died down. The younger kids maintained their pace, ignoring the long bleeding cuts on their legs.

Think, think! She pleaded with her brain. Maria had never been smart. It was one of the reasons she had barely finished school and had to stay in her village. After the spike ruined her eye, her brain was never the same, preventing the young woman from learning new words and rendering her forgetful. But when she saw a narrow gully ahead, a smile played on her lips. She came up with a plan! And it was a fantastic one!

She almost pushed the kids down the gully, double-checked that they had landed safely, and handed the youngest to the serious-looking girl. Smiling weakly, Maria whispered, "Crawl to the left, okay? When the bad guys pass, just run until you find a policeman, got it? Nothing bad will happen. You'll get lots of cookies and people will help you."

Maria and Jacob shared a single glance at where the lights were flashing through the darkness of the forest. They exchanged no words, both understanding that whoever these people were, they were looking for runaway adults.

"Sorry," Maria mused and inhaled, recalling obscenities she had picked up in her career as a waitress in the local pub. "Hey, you bitchless cunts! If you had finished sucking your own dicks, come and try to get us, you impotent, giggling hyenas!" She wasn't sure what a hyena was, or half of the words she had spoken, but the last time a trucker had used less than half of such language, he had earned himself a broken nose.

Jacob choked back a laugh and caught Maria by the arm, leading her to the right of the gully as the first bright sparks flew through the air, burning holes in the trees. The two of them led the hoverbikes away from the children, and Maria quietly prayed to the Dynast, begging him to show her this one small mercy.

Please. I'm not clever. A spike pierced her in the shoulder, drawing blood and scratching against the bone. The wailing engines neared them, smashing small trees and bushes as the furious riders tried to get to them. I am not important. But please, Dynast, please! One single miracle! Give me the strength to save the children!

They didn't get more than fifty meters. A spike as long as an arm tore through Jacob's thigh, buckling his leg, and another branch whipped against Maria's face, knocking her down. Her breath was hard, and her blood turned ice from fear. Maria faced their pursuers, crying, her knees giving way. Still young. She was so young. Why did these cruel blades want to hack through her and Jacob? She wanted to scream at the cruelty of the world but instead pressed her palms to the mouth, reciting a prayer to the Dynast taught to her by her mom and dad.

Modest statues of their lord adorned every house in their village, always hidden from the eyes of outsiders. Priests and agents claimed that the Dynast himself had forbidden belief in him, but everyone knew it was bollocks. The Dynast was real, a deity who had persuaded the gods themselves to serve humanity. His gentle yet firm hand guided the restoration, and his spirit instilled bravery in every member of the Reclamation Army. There were no formal prayers to him because, as Mom had explained, as an absolute deity, he had no need for rituals to hear his faithful. A decent life was enough..

What would Ma say if she saw me now? Oh, right. No need to guess. We are about to meet…

A dark shadow slammed into the leading bike, hurling it to the ground like a battered toy. The rider had no chance to scream; a limb formed from pure emptiness snatched his head, tossing it upward. The head was still spinning as the remaining riders swerved their steel beasts to the side, aiming at the shadow.

Their energy shots missed, lighting a faint stream of darkness lingering in the air. The darkness touched the riders, and the forest spoke. Not with the rustle of foliage or the creaking of wood. But with a roaring tornado of hail of steel that gouged fist-sized holes in the riders' armor. Dark hands seized those who tried to flee, shredding them to pieces. Vehicles exploded, throwing Mary and James onto their butts, and a shadow flickered in the hottest of pyres.

Just as suddenly as the carnage had begun, the silence returned to the forest. No curious bird swooped in or sang a warning song. Wild animals crawled under roots and burrowed deep into holes, sensing superior predators. Even insects fled the area. The trees seemed to surround Maria, drawing closer, as if the Dynast himself had come to collect the debt. The shadow that murdered riders so effortlessly crouched at her feet, filling the young woman with dread.

She had never seen it approach. Never heard it either. It wasn't here a breath ago, and now crimson lights streamed from the round eyes staring at her, the fangs in a mouth surrounded by thick hair gleaming pale, a set of white torches burning against the hole leading into the maw. Its skin was smooth, darkened metal with no curves. Even crouched, the thing was bigger than her, and as it rose, Maria's heart tried to hide in her heels. So big. She had never imagined anyone could be so tall! Streaks of shadow oozed from the figure's joints, resembling sepulchral shrouds.

Silly girl. She imagined hearing those words in the rustling of the branches. You asked. You received. Pay up.

A tree ghost, a terrifying monster from the stories Ma had told her, walked silently towards her, breaking no stone, snapping no branch, moving with the fluid grace of a dancer. Dad was wrong. There were horrors in this dark forest. But tree ghosts always hunted at full moon, and it was still day! Everyone knew that!

Our girl. You had slipped away once, but we are patient. Eternal. Water our roots with your blood and feed us your nutrients. The trees hungrily promised her, and she thought of the sharpest thorns surrounding her on all sides, so she could not escape this time.

The skin—no, the shell!—on the tree ghost's head cracked; one part moved onto its chest, and another disappeared at the back. A cloud of swirling, oily, thick darkness danced around its head, but the two amber orbs examined the people.

"Why must the spirits torment me in this fashion?" The tree ghost said a feminine, thoughtful voice, not mangling any words. "Is this a test? Haven't I passed enough of them?"

Jacob coughed, but Mary was quicker.

"I understand," Maria whimpered, trying to face the end with dignity. "I am ready to pay the price. Spare my companion, please."

The beast lifted its eyebrows, puzzled, looking almost comical for a second.

"We found cubs, Warlord!" a voice shouted.

"No!" Maria crawled on her knees to the massive body, breaking her nails against the impregnable shell. "I was the one who offered myself! They have done nothing wrong! Don't you dare hurt them …"

"Maria, everything is alright." Jacob wrapped his arms around her and rocked her, trying to calm her down.

"You are safe, civilian; no harm will come to you. My name is Onyxia." The beast knelt and touched her wound, checking it. "Iternian. I suppose I had to pay your nation for their help in Houstad."

"Iterna helped in Houstad?" Jacob asked inquisitively. "Why? How? Did anything happen…"

He stopped when a claw's tip appeared against his forehead. Onyxia's arm didn't exactly move; it shifted like a body in a skipped frame of a film. A trickle of blood rolled down Jacob's face, over the bridge of his nose, and then dropped to the ground.

"Forget my words and do not investigate it, Iternian," Onyxia warned, and Jacob shrugged, not afraid in the least, curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Your home was attacked, am I right?" She addressed Maria in a softer tone. "Point me to it; I'm freezing my ass off sitting out here."

Freezing? Maria wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this claim. It was summer! Despite her fear and horror, her body was drenched in sweat; pleasant sunlight struggled to come through heavy leaves; warm and comfortable weather dominated the region. How could her furry savior think it was cold here in the slightest?

"There." Maria pointed to the south. "Thank you for rescuing us. Bad people came today, hurting everyone. There were so many of them…"

"How you tease me so," Onyxia chided playfully, tilting her head. Streaks of shadow licked Maria's neck, almost tangible. "More fun. Hey? What's wrong with you?"

Maria fell face down into the beast's breastplate, her whole body shaking. She felt hot… no, hot was an inadequate word for a flame that raged behind her eyepatch after the shadow touched her. Pain speared her body, twisting and contorting it. The pressure was so strong that she broke easily from Jacob's embrace, and to keep her from accidentally shattering her own limbs, her rescuer carefully pinned her down. Mary's throat was parched, soreness touched every finger, and her heart was pounding so hard it was pounding in her ears. A tear appeared from the corner of her remaining eye and dried immediately.

"Scout! Hold her down; the girl has a bad activation!" Onyxia spoke, and a set of new hands held Maria's body. "I've seen it a few times. Keep her on the ground; try not to get killed, and she'll be fine in a few minutes."

Fine? Maria wanted to laugh. Everything hurt. Her heart was about to burst into a myriad of pieces. Her lungs had collapsed to the size of a nut, her fingers were swollen, and blood was dripping from under her eyepatch. A hand reached into her mouth, protecting her tongue at the expense of her teeth. Maria was grateful; otherwise she would have bitten it off. Someone turned her on her side, and she vomited the contents of her stomach. Why did Onyxia say killed? Weren't they safe? How could anyone die here? Feverish thoughts bounced around her brain, demanding an explanation.

"Is she going to be okay?" asked a male voice.

"I don't freaking know, male! I've never seen anything like that!" snapped a female voice. "Look! A light is shining from under her eyepatch!"

"Should we remove it?"

"Keep your paws away; it might be dangerous! Dammit, her heart is pushing at the sternum! The bones are moving out of alignment! What in the Abyss is going on?"

"Have the Spirits touched her?" asked a new voice. "Is she becoming a New Breed?"

"Impossible." It was Jacob. "Unless you're born one, or become one through surgical intervention, it's not possible to turn into an Abnormal. There hasn't been a single recorded case since the Extinction. I had heard theories about the influence of the Glow, but they are …" He paused. "This forest. Why do the trees here have dark bark?"

Maria remembered a story her Pa had told her once. When you ask something from the Dynast or the Planet—and ask truly, with your entire soul—they will often respond. But there was always a price. Often an unbearable one.

Her missing eye's eyelid opened wide, and a brilliant ray beamed out, tearing through the cloth and narrowly missing the scout as she jumped aside. The pillar of light struck a tree, halving the number of its branches. In horror, Maria closed her eyes, trapping the radiant energy in her socket. But even with her eyes closed, she could see. And there was no emptiness where her missing eye had been.

Thoughts flooded her mind, bringing all the words she had been told and forgotten, rekindling long-lost memories, and a vision of her parents came to the young woman. She remembered everything: the happiness of getting a kitten, the joy of eating her first ice cream, the embarrassment of the first bad grade she got after a trauma at school. Good and bad, everything Maria thought she had lost came flooding back, bringing more with it. Her muscles crept under her skin, pressing hard against it, but it was a pleasant agony, even with the tightening sensation in her chest. Bones melted and reformed, lengthening her limbs and shortening her legs in favor of her arms. With a crack, the thoracic doubled in size, nearly tearing the no longer soft skin and freaking out the soldiers even further.

The person who stood up on wobbly legs bore little resemblance to Maria. A glowing orb shone brightly behind the eyelid; her hands touched her toes in surprise; the stomach rumbled, demanding immediate nourishment. Mighty ropes of muscles flexed, the white skin healed every scratch. Her neck was thicker than her former waist; several hearts quieted, and blood flowed calmly through the newly formed arteries. Maria's mind was clear at long last. Better than clear. She felt fantastic. But through this elation, a single worry gnawed at her, and the first words to leave her lips were:

"How are the kids? Are they fine? Not frightened? Oh! There were soldiers with me; we must find them; what if they need help!? And my cat! We must help them all; we have to…"

 

[Rookie12]

"Take whatever you want and leave our people out of it!" Jeanne stood up to the hulking brute.

It had all happened so fast. Just fifteen minutes ago, she and the village elder were discussing the cancellation of the festival in the Planet's honor. Yes, this year's harvest had been quite bountiful, but it felt awful to celebrate and rejoice when Just Peachy had been so badly affected. She still remembered watching the news and seeing suffocated children being pulled from under the rubble. It gnawed at her soul and Jeanne, the abbess of St Helen's Church, had decided to act.

Truth be told, she wasn't much of an abbess. She and another nun tended to the spiritual needs of eight hundred people, half the population of her village of Dores. A modest church, built by the original settlers, watched over their home like a loving mother from a hill above. She had never left this place, not once in her life. Ever since the former abbot had found a crying infant on his doorstep and raised her as his own daughter, Jeanne had devoted her entire life to the faith, debating the divine nature of the dynast with the locals and dissuading them from the heresy that was sweeping the rural areas. Often she and the nun helped gather harvests, preferring to earn their keep and share the hardships of their flock than live off donations.

Dores wasn't a poor place, and its villagers were a hardworking and compassionate bunch. They proudly agreed to skip the festival in favor of sending charity funds to the less fortunate souls in the Outer Lands.

But today everything changed. A host of violent-looking thugs had arrived, thankfully not harming anyone. A few members of her flock, including non-believers, had rushed into the church, bringing their children, and she had welcomed them all and sent them into the vast catacombs left over from the time of the Extinction. Repaired and cleaned, they served as a tourist attraction. Even now, the nun was guiding them through the secret passages to an exit forty kilometers from the village, where they would hopefully reach Houstad unharmed. Jeanne, the village elder, and the constable greeted the lost souls trespassing in their homes. There were still villagers here, and it was their duty to keep them safe.

"Pretty house," a bald man softly hummed, examining the icons and the yellow-painted symbol of a planet above the prayer altar. The man pushed past them and touched the icon, showing the world turning from a barren wasteland back to green. "Ah. Not actual gold. Keep this shit." His eyes found her. "I am Caikhatu. My people have noticed a large crowd running in here. Fear not; as your new khan, I will sell no one into slavery nor touch a single girl. Any of my men and women who dare do so will burn." He glanced lovingly at the rich fields outside. "Iron Lord spoke true. Siding with Mad Hatter was well worth it. Such succulence! Richer than home, safer than the steppes! A worthy place to establish a khaganate!"

"If it is a peaceful life you desire, then disarm yourself, and I shall vouch for the Dynast before you. The state welcomes all," Jeanne said calmly, trying to ignore a mutant woman dressed in a cloak of flayed animal skins. Upon noticing a small, stretched, and undeniably mutant face on this horrid tapestry, she clasped her hands together. "May the Planet take you to a happier life, little one," she said, weeping for the lost.

"I am not little, heretic." The woman in the cloak stepped closer, the dangling fetishes at her neck accompanying her every move. "This you pray for?" She lifted the hem of her cloth. "My child it is. The Sky had stolen his breath and elevated him to his abode. Dare not sullying his soul through your chanting!" A hand ending in curved talons reached for the abbess. When the constable stepped forward, the woman slashed, lacerating the brave man's face.

The mutant's long nose seamlessly flowed into an ever-closed beak that had very human, constantly sniffing nostrils. Her legs were back-jointed; one foot had only two fingers and was covered in thick, robust skin, giving it the appearance of an oversized chicken foot, and occasional feathers covered the woman's body.

"These are my people you have harmed, Jiguur." Caikhatu frowned, putting his hand on a sword's hilt. "Do it again, and I'll reunite your wretched hide with your boy."

"Threatening me, are you!?" The woman turned so fast that the hem of her cloak slapped Jeanne hard enough to bruise her. Rage-filled eyes met Caikhatu's calm gaze. "Wretch of Iron Lord. Forgotten you about the gifts Brood Lord Khan has laid before you! Like shreds on the wind your ilk are, flying from one master to another! It's not tolerance the Khatun preach! You lot are failing her test by not murdering or selling the infidels! Rusted your Khan has become!"

"It is for Khatun and Iron Lord to decide. You will address my master with the respect given to him by…" Caikhatu choked, clawing at his own throat as Jiguur raised her hand, her talons twitching. The flesh on Caikhatu's neck bulged, the muscles of his throat contorted, denying him air as if an unseen ring collared him. The man's body rose and his legs helplessly dangled, not touching the wooden planks.

"Fool and dumb you are! I give respect when it is deserved. You!" The crazed eyes found Jeanne. "Know of God?"

"We believe in the Planet in this humble church," Jeanne said, bending down and tearing a piece of cloth from her robe to stop the constable's bleeding. "There are many different faiths in the Reclamation Army…"

"Heresy all!" Jiguur roared, pointing a finger at Jeanne.

The abbess had never fought in her entire life. The closest she had ever experienced to a brawl was when a drunk slammed his fist into her face, knocking her unconscious. But what slammed into her in the chest was far worse. A series of cracks accompanied the immense agony of her very breasts dented into her body, and her left arm went limp. A faint cry of pain escaped Jeanne's lips when invisible fingers cruelly grasped her sides, breaking her ribs one by one. An unknown force jerked her from the floor, shoving her belly against her intestines. A silver necklace wrapped itself around her neck, forming a gibbet's noose and robbing her of any attempt to breathe.

Jiguur approached, still pointing her taloned finger at the abbess.

"Oblivious you are, Shaman." The woman spat. "Many faiths? How come you have no gifts, then? False shepherd! Too feeble to resist, too weak to protect! Look how the Sky has treated me! Gift after gift I was given, because my deity wooed my ancestors and earned the loyalty of their children forevermore. Where is the power of your demon, weakling?"

"I have no need for strength, for I wish no subjugation," Jeanne whispered after the necklace's lock loosened enough for her to breathe. "To treat others as we wish to be treated, to build a world of understanding and peace—these are the teachings of the Planet. It leads us to a world where everywhere …"

"Words of the meek, infirm, and impotent! A world for everyone is a world ready to stumble and fall!" Jiguur laughed. "Small wonder the Sky has unleashed a tornado upon your lands. The strong rule, the weak obey, and your sheepish faith won't save you. Worry not. Your children we'll strengthen. Proud they'll be, believers and conquerors. Tell me about the pretender! Tell me about God! Where is the one who tortures the Avatar of Heaven hiding?"

"I have no idea…" The necklace coiled around her neck, every chain biting deep, and a single movement of Jiguur's eyes splattered the mayor and the constable against the walls.

"Burn you will, but utter a word of falsehood, and I shall see your people exterminated with cruelty, deserving a legend! Your false idols…"

The roof exploded, sending down wooden beams and stone chunks. In a flash, Jiguur cast Jeanne aside like a doll, raising her clawed hands to stop the rubble from squashing her. Jeanne flew across the room, preparing to endure a spine shattering landing against a wall and the agony that would follow as the edges of her broken bones kissed her lungs.

Something—no, someone—stopped her flight. Two metal hands grasped the woman's body, and a gigantic shadow clad in dark red armor spun to carefully diffuse the impact carrying the abbess as they descended. The floor groaned under the newcomer's immense weight when steel greaves thudded, and a giant Wolfkin lowered Jeanne on a bench, exposing her back to the enemy.

Jeanne had seen them on the news. Unlike their more cultured relatives, the Wolf Tribe were supposedly rude and arrogant people, and several television broadcasts had blamed them for turning a recent robbery into a bloody massacre. Not a single member of their tribe had seen fit to answer the journalists' questions, telling them icily: 'No comment.' But when the helmet slipped from the person's head, exposing an elongated head covered in very silky fur— the strands adorned with a layer of ash—and glowing amber eyes, Jeanne thought she was saved.

"False gods?" the warrior inquired in a dignified and bored voice. "If they are false, then who sent me on a path to avenge crimes committed, Shaman?"

"You dare!?" Jiguur shrieked. The wooden beams around her splintered, and a spiky storm descended upon the Wolfkin. "I am a priest of the Sky! The sole true deity in this world gazes through my eyes! Shaman?! For insulting me, you have earned a divine punishment!"

The sharp wood splinters of wood and stone pieces struck the warrior, and she paid them no more attention than a normal person would to a sprinkle of water, raising a gauntlet hand to shield her eyes. Tongues of flame hissed from the barrels of the massive weapons strapped to the Wolfkin's wrists, and searing streams poured down on the shaman.

Jiguur laughed madly, half chuckle, half shriek, welcoming the challenge. The heat stopped short of her body and circled her head like a halo. The shaman clamped her hands together, and the fire flew backwards, splashing against the Wolfkin's head and momentarily obscuring it from view.

"You threatened to burn a citizen?" the voice asked, unburdened by the heat. Jiguur's eyes widened in concern and she twisted her hands, squeezing out an invisible rag. The warrior's gorgeous power suit shuddered, but withstood the assault. "Experience it yourself."

Almost lazily, the Wolfkin hefted her weapons, and Jiguur raised her arms, seeking to shield herself again as a blue inferno was spat in her face, overwhelming her every attempt. Jeanne had no idea if Jiguur's strength had failed or if there was some providence at work, but the wall of hellish flame engulfed the woman, drawing a long, desperate cry of pain as she was carried several paces away. She fell, rolling, screaming and mindlessly clawing at the benches in a futile attempt to save herself.

It horrified the abbess. The scream, fading with the lack of oxygen, the skin cracking and blackening, the clothes burnt to ashes. What happened to the woman's eyes, she didn't even dare to imagine, and Jeanne tried to stand and fell to her knees from the broken ribs.

"Deliverance," she ushered in a weak voice, facing the amber eyes. "Mercy. Show mercy."

The Wolfkin closed in on Jiguur and lifted a leg, stomping down so hard that it broke both the burning body and the floor. Caikhatu and the others slipped off the walls as the force that had held them suspended vanished after the shaman's death. Screams and yells came from outside, and dozens of legs announced the raiders' approach. Caikhatu's warriors charged inside, aiming guns at the Wolfkin, and were stopped by their leader's gesture.

"I…" He coughed, struggling to stand up. "Have no desire to die. None of my warriors touched even a hair on the locals. Jiguur, she is not ours; Dalantai had rotted her brains…"

"Yet you brought her." The Wolfkin's claws scraped the raider's gorget, drawing lines close to his face. "My pack has this place surrounded. Do you yield?"

"I…" Caikhatu licked his lips. "Do not know the word's meaning. Common is difficult."

"Do you surrender?" The Wolfkin rolled her eyes.

"Yes. Spare us, and our loyalty is yours, Khan." The man bowed.

"What is the worth of such a fleeting thing?" The Wolfkin let go of him. She picked up the constable and the mayor and carried them to the abbess' side. "Do you have healers among your ranks, servant?"

"We do, they are needed… to keep our jagun healthy," he faltered for a second, calling for a henchman, and the Wolfkin grunted. "Not everyone among us is so bold as to follow to the end of the world. We care nothing for slaves or bondsmen; our desire was to find rich lands. Twenty-eight of my jagun I lost crossing your stronghold. If you promise us lands for our khaganate, our lives are yours, merciful Khan."

"Address me as Warlord Ashbringer," the Wolfkin said and glanced at the wounded. "Honored shaman, honored citizens. Rest and relax. We will take care of everything. You are safe. And you." She faced Caikhatu. "Tell me everything about this horde of yours."

 

[Rookie12]

The southwestern corner of the Core Lands was a peculiar place. Whatever few lands or hills existed in the area had been mercilessly flattened in the times of the Old World to create space for ever-expanding launching sites that spewed small-sized spacecraft into the orbit day and night. As such, it suffered the least during the Extinction. Weaponized satellites unleashed beams of such potency that the entire area had gained a phosphorous color. Communication towers, control spires, and spaceships had disappeared in the whirlwind of molten metal. Not a trace was left of the natural life or humanity's presence even before the satellites had crashed, bringing down the full weight of kilometers of man-made steel tubes propelled by proton engines.

Decades passed, and the Reclamation Army, led by Commander Outsider, had brought back the iron order, sweeping away the decadent palaces of Chem-King, an arrogant mutant who had ruled over the jagged wreckage. Town X-14, later renamed Quatindor, had sprung from several mining complexes that had merged in the restoration's wake.

Thick forests covered the area to the south, where experimental fuel testing facilities had once stood. The chemical poison that had spawned the hideousness that was Chem-King had seeped into the soil itself, and not even terraformation could completely remove it, at least not for hundreds of years. Warped and changed, the local trees refused to be cut down, growing back over months, and the Reclamation Army accepted this setback, turning the place into a resort area with villages hidden along the roads.

To the east of Quatindor was a gaping crescent-shaped chasm with two massive bridges built across it. House Sunblade owned the mining complex that spanned the length of the chasm on either side. Rare alloys left over from compressed spaceships, ancient yet incomprehensible engines, ancient and yet incomprehensible engines, occasional untouched chambers containing the precious history that might've shed light on the true nature of the Extinction or intact terminals—the value of this extraction couldn't be overstated.

Since the southern route was problematic because of the stubborn forests, caravans moved through the northern bridge and then fifty kilometers across the farmlands to Houstad. The catastrophe hadn't left this area untouched, and fields of white lilies dotted the entrance to Quatindor, glowing pale at night. The town itself was famous for its love of six-legged cats, as one such specimen was found—and later cloned—in a ruined underground spaceship, and statues of these mischievous creatures adorned bridges and stood in the middle of fountains, water spurting from their mouths. Cats were everywhere; they were bold, unafraid of tourists, and preyed on birds in the fields, occasionally ending up as food for these mutant raptors themselves.

This was the area into which the Wolf Tribe stormed, quietly spreading out along the front line. The Gilded Horde had already entered Quatindor, and flames were licking at the building, stripping the paint from the walls and revealing the ancient symbols "X-14" as a reminder that savagery had returned. Houses Summerspring, Voidrunner, and Mountaintop were already in the city, while forces of House Wintersong occupied a military base to the north.

Warlord Alpha's plan was pure simplicity itself. The Gilded Horde's vanguard alone had dwarfed the combined forces of the state, and many of the raiding parties slipped past the Ice Fangs. These became appetizers for the tribe, which sought to join Wintersong and bring down the northern bridge, forcing the Gilded Horde into a dilemma. Either take a detour through the north or funnel the army into the southern bridge. To facilitate the desired outcome, packs of warlords Martyshkina, Janine, Predaig, and Eled swept away the feeble attempts to stop them and sought to join their cousins in the city. Once united, a massive evacuation will be launched, creating an all too desirable and deceptively vulnerable target.

For the forests were anything but quiet. Forces of Warlords Alpha, Onyxia, and those auxiliary parts led by that disgusting upstart Kalaisa were eagerly waiting for a chance to welcome guests. Confined to an area where it was impossible to use their speed, faced with a situation where their heavy artillery would lag behind, the hordemen would become targets ripe for a bloody harvest, and every kilometer to Houstad would be gained at the cost of thousands of lives. Warlords, wolf hags, and shamans stood ready to cull enemy leadership, while Ashbringer and her forces set out to rejoin the bulk of the Ice Fangs in the plain.

It was a simple plan, but very effective in its insidiousness. If the Horde chose the long route, the Dynast will arrive at Houstad, potentially with Outsider in tow. If they chose a faster route, then death itself waited for them, ready to stall the opposition while the civilians escaped safely to Houstad. No matter what, the state stood to gain.

But the Ice Fangs did not respond. Not a single message came through, and Warlord Janine, worried by their silence, had sent a pack to rendezvous with the Wintersongs and force their excellent ranged support to howl.

This is how Melina ended up in her current predicament. The Wolf Hag had led her pack through the war-torn Quatindor's outskirts, sneaking into homes and stopping the breath of marauders, be they invaders or her own citizens. Six scouts were at her command, and it took all of her restraint not to act in Terrific's ways.

Warlord Janine was wrong. Their pack should have unleashed groups of torturers to skin the garbage scavenged from the ruins and fill the sky with their desperate screams as they skinned, broke, and crucified the invaders. Concealed grenades would take their toll on the rescuers before the combined fire of dozens of shardguns would create a proper killing field. Angry, confused, and frightened prey was prone to making mistakes, and if they'd wanted to lure the idiots into the woods, there was no better method.

Instead, she obeyed, forcing herself to adopt new, inefficient, and alien ways. She had calmed frightened citizens and formed teams of the most capable among them to lead the rest to the first evacuation zone. She had snapped necks of unsuspecting fatties. Terrific's influence—her legacy—was waning, disappearing, and Melina hated herself for letting it happen. The sour thoughts vanished when her pack ran into Arruda's pack, sent on the same mission.

A situation near the bridge's entrance had halted their advance. The Gilded Horde troops were there, but that in itself wasn't unusual; the bastards were everywhere today, but this situation was fishy. A single vehicle occupied the center of the road. The machine had two cylindrical spiked wheels, large enough to break through walls, and a cage full of prisoners was attached to the back, with several more thrown on their knees in front of the lead wheel.

They were being examined by a group of richly decorated hordemen, led by a giant of a man whose helmet was stylized into a tusked boar. A cloak of flayed skin flapped in the hot wind, and Melina frowned, disgusted by such a tasteless and meaningless thing. The idiot had woven in cubs and women's faces, rather than shaping it from the strongest foes brought to despair. He even preserved the coat's skin instead of letting it rot naturally to add an exquisite stench to the gruesome imagery. Amateur. They were dealing with the amateurs, proud of their cruelty but lacking the mastery to instill true fear. It will soon be changed.

There was a woman beside the pighead. Where New Breeds of the Horde were taking extreme care to keep their battleplates polished and rich, this specimen had a thick layer of dirt and blood covering her power armor and rows of empty sockets staring out from her breastplate where encrusted gems and rubies had fallen off. Alone among her group, she stood bareheaded on the battlefield, her face greasy and her short black hair tangled in dreadlocks, but the blade of her sword gleamed through the smoke. Dangerous, Melina decided. Like the fat piggy.

The pigheaded bastard was chaining two kids to the spiked wheel. Sharp hooks were piercing their skin, and the boys wept and cried, trying to keep their cool.

"That was… Ah!" the overweight, short boy yelled as the hook pierced his skin around the elbow. "The worst of your plans, Jay!"

"Why did you stick around… No!... then, T?" The lanky kid tried to wipe away his tears, but this simple movement stretched the skin over his arm in places where the chains held him.

"Someone with a half of a brain had to be here!"

Arruda and Melina exchanged glances. There was no need for words as to guess why the hordemen were here. It wasn't torture or an intimidation tactic. Battle raged in full swing in the town. None of them seemed to guard the entrance to the bridge, and their numbers were too few. It was bait, cruel, and quite effective. The hordemen gave the intruders a clear indication that once the rest of the chains were in place, the wheel will turn, skinning the youngsters. So they offered a choice. Reveal yourself or lose. If they were the appetizers, then the main course was hiding in the houses up the street, waiting for the trap to be sprung.

The most sensible decision was to continue with the main mission and cut their losses here. Deaths happened in wars. But it was impossible to accuse the Wolf Tribe of being completely rational, and there was one thing Janine and Terrific always agreed on.

They had to try to save civilians, no matter what the situation. Soldiers alone could not build a brighter future.

"I have cubs back home. Four boys. About the same size as them." Melina nodded at the writhing kids.

"Me too. Three. Adorable, but not smart," Arruda admitted.

"Can't expect males to be. I'm doing it. You?" Melina asked.

"It's what I am paid for," Arruda shrugged.

"Zolushka, want to redeem your pathetic ass-defeat or are your guts caught cold again?" Melina laughed, summoning the icons marking the soldiers of the two packs on her HUD.

"Born ready," growled the scout, and her paw twitched over the shardgun. "After the war, Wolf Hag."

"Perhaps," Melina said thoughtfully, forming teams. "Arruda and I will provide a distraction. Take two warriors and sneak around; give the bastards as wide a berth as possible. When the fun starts, grab the kids and whoever else and retreat to the evac point. The rest of you head out to meet the Wintersongs. No matter what, do not turn back; the mission must not be compromised. Is that clear?"

"You are taking only males," accused Zolushka.

"Yes. We do." Melina smiled, standing with her back to the woman. Strong, not completely daft. A fine replacement.

"Fuck it, Melina, I don't want to settle our score this way…" Zolushka's claws scraped the surface of her helmet, carving lines. "Call the Wintersongs, ask them to rain down hell, then we can strike during confusion and…"

"Can't. Communications are jammed." Melina's paw closed around the scout's neck, pushing her to the knees. Zolushka yielded, honoring her wolf hag rather than resisting.

"I obey, Wolf Hag Melina," Zolushka called her by her full title for the first time in the ten years they had served together. It had always been either Melina, old timer, or wolf hag. Melina didn't want to admit it, but this demonstration of loyalty touched her.

Janine changed the pack, softened it. She insisted on reducing corporal punishment, doting over them like a concerned mother, sending the wounded to the infirmary to heal. Terrific let the weak die and the strong survive so that the best blood could strengthen the tribe. Janine believed the opposite, and her cancerous and false belief had infected Melina. Hope. That was why she was willing to give her life for the warlord's dream, even if she never embraced such ideals.

She reasoned it to be a natural course of things. A new warlord takes over, and a pack inevitably changes. Your pack, your rules, as decreed by the Blessed Mother. But it was a lie. Melina of the Wolf Tribe wanted to save these children. She would've liked to spend her retirement helping out at the orphanage, administering vaccines, reading bedtime stories, cleaning floors, caring for orphans, petitioning the mayor to remove that ugly harpy from the entrance… She now dreaded the inevitability of the culling. Warlord Janine brought a desire to be more than a weapon to the pack, and for that Melina cursed and thanked her.

Was it the will of the Spirits? Melina examined her shardgun, the scarred, trusted friend that had saved her more times than she could count. There had been a time when the tribe had disregarded firearms. Were traditions mere safeguards to survive hardships? If so, was it to amend… A child's scream interrupted her thoughts. There was no time to think. There was never time to think.

The packs surged forward, Zolushka leading her smaller team to the west, avoiding the obvious ambush; the largest group surged toward the last known position of Camelia Wintersong, and Arruda and Melina struck headlong. Given enough time, they could have come up with a better strategy, but the situation had denied them that luxury. Grenades flew into the broken windows, exploding, drawing roars of pain from within as acid found its way through their armor.

"Slavetaker! Widowmaker, they…" a burly hordeman roared, stepping out of the building into four shots.

"The prey spoke in Common," Melina said into the communicator as the body jerked and stumbled back.

Arruda caught a hordeman pushing from the window by his head and closed her fist, sinking the claws deep into his skull and piercing the steel with ease. She beamed with strength and awareness, standing on the precipice of becoming a warlord. A raider shot her in the back, and the wolf hag dodged the bullet as it left the barrel, not even using the shared vision link, operating on instinct alone. She spun, fired once, and the man's visor exploded into shards of reinforced glass and bone. Another spin faced her in the previous direction, and Arruda's wrist flicked, carving three deep lines into a man breaking through a wall.

Melina was weaker and concentrated on crippling her opponents, trusting that the males would finish them off. The trap was closing, and her ears picked up the stomping of dozens of enemies converging on their positions from their hiding places in the ruins. Zolushka's team narrowly missed them; the area of their spread was wider than the scout had anticipated, but the woman adapted immediately.

"Come, then!" Melina roared and kicked, denting in the knee pad of a hordeman's leg. "Meet an opponent capable of fighting back." Her shardgun fired, stabbing shards into the pig-headed bastard's armor.

"Let's make some widows!" Widowmaker rejoiced; her two-handed sword moved fast enough to become a cloud before the woman.

Shots fired by Arruda and her team were deflected or cut in half, and Widowmaker grasped a dirty, ornate gun on her belt. A broad smile of pleasure came upon her face as she leveled her weapon and fire. The sound of the shot caused the kids to yell in pain, and even Slavetaker grunted in annoyance as the sound-amplifiers built into the weapon sang their mad tune while Widowmaker writhed in pleasure at the deafening noise. One male took a bullet meant for Arruda and fell to his knees, his partner dying a second later from the hordemen's gunfire. The last darted into the ruins to buy time and have a better chance of survival as Arruda and Widowmaker faced each other, firing at point-blank range.

The shots of both women speared through the afterimages, shaving slices of steel from their armor. The shardgun and the pistol were dropped simultaneously, and the long blade came down on the clawed paw. Widowmaker speed was insane. Melina perceived a rain of slashes and stabs coming against Arruda's head, but the wolf hag matched every move, weaving around the attacks and trying to force her opponent into a close fight. The hordewoman used the full length of her blade, redirecting her missed strikes into horizontal swipes to keep the wolf hag at bay, and sparks flew from the intense duel.

"Are you married, Wolfkin?" Widowmaker shouted. "Ten thousand widows have I promised the Sky for my salvation from the slave dens. You'll have the honor of being the five thousand and thirty-two! Tell me your wife's name, and I promise to spare her for the amusement you have given me!"

"Talk is cheap." Arruda stabbed, and her claws took away a dreadlock and cut the hordewoman's face.

"So is your life, woman!" Widowmaker spat at the wolf hag. She turned her stab into a horizontal slash, opening Arruda's wrist. "Such talent, and I can't even add you to the tally! Waste! You are wasting my time!"

Slavetaker briefly hefted his own gun and left a hole in a male's chest as the soldier pushed Melina away. Two of her own shots had forced him to raise an arm as the lens of his helmet cracked and a shard nearly blinded his eye. Slavetaker closed in on her, thudding heavily against the street, and picked up an oversized cleaver in both hands, swinging it with full force. Melina darted back, unable to get the distance from her opponent, and had to use her claws to block the swing. To her shock, the blade passed through them with ease, and Slavetaker didn't bat an eye when she fired at him from point blank range, widening the already-made cracks further.

He let go of the blade and lunged at her, hitting her with his knee with such force that it tore through the layer of exoskeleton beneath her skin. Slavetaker's hook nearly sent Melina spinning; her helmet broke, and Zolushka's report of saving the children was replaced by a hiss. Hands grabbed the wolf hag around the ankle and on her shoulder, and she was lifted up and hurled at full speed onto his knee.

Melina screamed in agony as her backpack broke and her power armor went into emergency reserve mode. Her spine held up, but the agony of the blow reverberated through every organ, and she barely noticed as Slavetaker threw her face down on the road.

She was up on her elbows in time to see the end of the duel between Widowmaker and Arruda. Throughout the duel, the two were evenly matched, and fresh cuts, like medals of honor for surviving so long, covered both of them equally. The wolf hag never once used her kicks, and when the hordewoman glanced at the defeated Melina, she acted. A straight kick with her claws, aimed at the solar plexus, timed at the right moment to eviscerate and win.

It should have been the end if Widowmaker had acted in the same manner. She didn't. Like Arruda, she fed her opponent the false information, sticking to horizontal stabs and upper body attacks. And when the kick came, an incoming overhead slash was transformed into a diagonal slash that sliced through the knee joint and hacked off half the limb. Widowmaker wasn't stupid. She had used the length of her blade to gauge the distance and kept herself as far away as possible, inviting this very move, and the hordewoman executed her attack flawlessly.

The second slash sheared off Arruda's thumb at a knuckle in her clumsy attempt to block. The wolf hag bit the incoming blade, stopping it briefly in a final act of defiance as Widowmaker twisted the hilt, breaking Arruda's jaw, and ending the fight by severing half of Arruda's head.

Defeat. The word pounded in Melina's head as a hand grabbed her by the throat and dragged her to the spiked wheel. She tried to pull the fingers away, but even that failed. She was weak, and the last males of their team threw their bodies at hordemen, dying in vain as the crowd cheered on their leaders.

"Where are they?" Slavetaker's question accompanied his exhalation.

The cheering stopped, and the crowd around the vehicle looked back, murmuring in surprise. A corpse with its throat slit hung from the roof; the chains holding the children were cut unevenly, and even the cage holding the prisoners had been opened in the chaos of the battle.

"I ordered you to watch over them," Slavetaker growled.

"Mercy!" A hordeman dropped to his knees and crawled to the taller man. "I have served you loyally for three years, never making a mistake! Mercy, my Khan! My eyes have left them but for a moment, I swear!"

"And only a moment you have left to live," Slavetaker responded.

He grabbed the man by the collar of his armor and tossed him at the wheel's spike. The man shrieked in pain as the sharp end pierced through his shoulder and wailed in horror as the wheel moved, grinding him against the ground. His legs disappeared underneath the wheel that pulverized his bones, his body stretched, and the spike broke through his collarbone, but the release came too late, and his remains were dragged into the spinning wheel. Melina was next.

She was ready for the throw and grabbed the spikes, stopping the fatal spin even as her armor gave more vocal warnings, alerting her to the immense weight threatening to break it. Slavetaker's hand pinned her tightly to the metal, denying the wolf hag a retreat.

"Take what you want from the dead and prepare to give chase," he ordered.

"The Khatun was right," Melina heard Widowmaker's chuckle. "I can't believe these idiots decided not to cooperate. I expected your plan to fail."

What? A cold sweat broke out on Melina's fur as she strained against the immense pressure of the engine pushing the wheel. It must be a ruse. Was there never any jamming? Had the Ice Fangs deliberately refused to answer their calls, as Dragena suspected?

Did the blasted Ice Boys abandon their kin to die willingly? She wanted to howl, to rage against the inevitable. Traitors. The shamans were right. The Blessed Mother was right to keep them at bay. What fools we were!

"Yet you joined in," Slavetaker said dryly.

"What can I say? I never pass an opportunity to murder someone," Widowmaker said. "Though I never expected to fight by your side, old hound."

"It pleases me to see a slave prove her usefulness," Slavetaker said. "Keep it up, and I won't have to brand you again."

Melina heard the angry murmurs and the noise of fingers closing on the firing studs. Those hordemen who served Widowmaker closed their ranks around the woman, leveling their weapons at Slavetaker's servants. The slave trader ignored them, continuing to press the wolf hag against the wheel.

"My friend, I enjoy the banter, but let's keep it grounded in reality, shall we? Otherwise a curious person might test your statements," Widowmaker said in a honeyed voice. "Khatun's favor is all that keeps you alive. You can ask to have this favor retracted, so we can settle our modest feud…"

"Enough delusions, slave," Slavetaker grumbled. "Prepare to give chase; we have flesh to return…"

"No," an emotionless voice sounded from the cracks of Slavetaker's helmet. "Ignore the irrelevant children. Form ranks and attack the Wintersongs' flank while they are engaged. The fools' disharmony must be exploited."

"These children's skins are mine. No one escapes Slavetaker," insisted the slave trader.

"Complaints of our obsessive dog fellow aside. Khan, if we do as you say, Brood Lord's dregs will treat themselves to the town," Widowmaker observed. "Not that I care for it, but we bled for the mines."

"Let them," said the cold voice. "We have a treasure in our sight; if Brood Lord wants to spend his troops for the sake of scraps, more power to him. He is conducting this war as a common thief, and as a thief he'll die when his rabble is scattered. The Reclaimers want to force the southern route on us."

"How do you know that?" Slavetaker demanded.

"Because that's what I would have done. It won't happen. Destroy the Wintersongs' artillery, dispose of their sword saint, and I promise you rich lands to match what you lose today and slaves in abundance. As for your persistent hobby, Slavetaker… The children have only one place to run. As long as you're alive, you'll get them eventually."

Melina's legs snapped at the ankles, and Slavetaker let go of her. The cruel spikes rammed against her shoulders, locking her face against the metal. I want to live. She thought as the sleeves of her armor, and then her arms, crumpled, bending her down and arching her spine until it almost snapped. Why? We always fought at the front lines; we gave our lives to preserve the Ice Fangs. Why now, when we tried to live as you? Why did you ignore our calls for help? The question, and the memories of her cousins' elegance and nobility, infuriated Melina to no end. Even the pain in her body took a back seat. We were loyal to you; we thought of you as kin even after you… You… Stabbed Janine in the back. A plague on your houses! I disavow you; I deny any kinship! What fools we… Traitors.

Her spine broke, and Melina disappeared under the spinning wheel, turning her body into a mess of broken bones, muscle, and steel.

 

[Rookie12]

The traitor slammed the door, angrily throwing the coat away. So close, damn it! They stormed down the hall to the kitchen. Decades of planning and preaching, years of waiting for an opportunity! They can't let it go down the drain. Not now, not ever.

With trembling fingers, they flung the fridge open, snatching a can of cold beer. It did little to calm their nerves, but stronger alcohol might ruin their concentration. And they need to be composed! Already one of their circle had changed his mind, and they had to silence the man in secret. When one decided to turn his back on the old promise, it was only a matter of time…

The traitor had never expected the Wolf Tribe to be so successful or the Gilded Horde to be so inept. The damned Wolfkins swarmed over the overstretched forces of the invaders, murdering raiders, reuniting with the rest of the Provincial Army, and rescuing citizens. Partial relief washed over the traitor because of this turn of events. Despite the burning hatred in their hearts, they had protected the people here for a long time. Some… familiarity was to be expected.

They steeled themselves. Ashbringer captured prisoners? No matter; they knew nothing of them. Losses? Irrelevant. The horde was too vast, and those who were annihilated were just expendable greenhorn fools; cusacks sent forth to be slaughtered. True veterans were kept in reserve; all the deaths so far hadn't weakened their new allies one bit. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

Brood Lord thought of them as a simple opportunist, a power-hungry maniac. In a sense, he was right. The traitor was a maniac, but power? They couldn't care less about it; rank, respect, and authority were means to an end. And what a sad end they were aiming for…

The traitor picked up an old photo from a table in the living room, sitting alone in a spacious apartment. Loneliness gnawed at them. Year after year after year after year… An entire life ahead without ever hearing voices of their family or friends ever again. This murderous serpent did it. The tyrannical Reclamation Army had stomped on their freedom. Those bastards had taken something that no one had the right to take, and the traitor will see them burn for it, their works corrupted, their dreams shattered, and their lands ravaged. They were happy once. But their happiness was cruelly and mercilessly torn down. Now it was their turn to do the same.

The photo depicted sixteen people. Five were the traitor's family; others were close friends. When Devourer came, they perished in flames, and the traitor remained, dragged into a reeducation camp alongside everyone else. They remembered that day well, those coils of pale silver towering over the convoy, those indestructible scales immune to any weapons, and the incomprehensible eyes that judged them, while Devourer spouted his usual bullshit about a greater good.

Greater good, heh… The screams of their dying sister, as the traitor had frantically tried to pull her from under the burning rubble, echoed in their skull to this day. Her arm came off, and that was the instant when their mind unraveled, taking in every soul that demanded just vengeance.

The traitor refused to surrender. They were a gnat compared to Devourer, but over the years they found others who had suffered as they had. The ones who had lost everything and in whose souls hatred burned brightly. With the aid of their newfound comrades, the traitor had poured everything into constructing a plan to bring suffering to Devourer, to give the bastard a taste of ashes and despair.

Ironic. To hurt the bastard who took away the people they loved and cared for, they would need to kill the people they came to care about. But justice merged with retribution had to be done!

"Bravo!" They jumped at the sound of the voice, hand on pistol. "Forgive no slight; let go of no grudge. Let your bones be grinded to dust; suffer your skin melting if needed; but bring down those who wronged you. It's not over until it's over. Show these mutant freaks the strength of humanity!"

A man sat in the opposite armchair, clapping enthusiastically. The newcomer was dressed in a white lab coat and had a good-natured, welcoming smile on his face. But one thing immediately caught the traitor's attention. The eyes. The man's sclera were two small pools of darkness, with two green stars floating in them. A New Breed! Was he sent by Brood Lord or had the Investigation Bureau figured…

They aimed the pistol at the man's head, and the newcomer moved as fast as quicksilver, slapping the weapon aside before the traitor could pull the trigger. They fell from the chair and crawled toward the entrance, stopping at the rustle of something against the carpet. Metal tendrils slipped from under the intruder's coat and wrapped around the traitor, taking them up in a half-formed cocoon.

"No need for panic!" The green-eyed intruder flashed a smile, showing perfect teeth. "I am a big fan of yours. That slaughter you cook up is right up my alley. Using inhumans to carry out your revenge against mutants. And best of all, they do it of their own free will! Man, I am ecstatic. Kudos to you. Love that touch!"

"Who… I have no idea what you are talking about." The traitor licked their suddenly dry lips. How did he get in here? No! Not after they had gotten so close!

"Call me Academician, my dear new friend. And there is no need to be coy." One of the mechanical tendrils moved, tightening around the traitor's throat. "I am not without eyes. The way the Gilded Horde struck at the various objects in the city, plus the strange communications you had weeks ago, along with the fact that these brutes seemed to have a perfect location and instruments in the area to push Tancred's buttons... one could be a coincidence, but together? No. That was enough of a clue for me to investigate your past and connect the dots."

The traitor reassured themselves. If the man wanted to kill them, he would've done so already. No, there was another reason for this visit. Most importantly, the man did not know…

"That you are responsible for the murder of the police chief?" Academician asked, loosening the grip around the neck. The man tilted his head, smiling at the shock in the traitor's eyes. "As I was saying, worry not. Take a deep breath and calm down. I really am a fan. Our goals are aligned. What does that make us?"

"Conspirators?"

"Indeed! In fact, I added a little touch of mine to the wonderful tapestry of death you weave."

"It was you!" The traitor grabbed the edges of the metallic vise and used them as a support to kick Academician into the stomach. The blasted man simply took the knee to the palm of his hand, and his smile never wavered. "You are the one who messed up our communication systems!"

"Guilty as charged! Replacing the subhuman virus was trivial. Did you enjoy my handiwork? Because I have plenty more gifts to give!" Academician laughed, placed the traitor back in the chair, and dusted off their clothes. Then he grabbed an almost empty beer can and, frowning, drained its contents in one gulp. "What a piss. Just so we are on the same page, you do understand that the horde is bound to fail? Mad Hatter, strong as she is, will die in the end."

"She'll do her part." The traitor had no illusions about Academician's words. But that woman was a cog in their vengeance. "And I will scar the Reclamation Army forever."

Academician stepped closer, holding himself by the jaw. The traitor wondered what this man wanted. It mattered little in the end. Be it tokens, favors, or servitude, they would do anything. All they needed was a little more time. The Gilded Horde will arrive in Houstad. Devourer and Outsider will be too late, and the crazy bitch Ravager will hopefully fall to Mad Hatter's blades. Or not. Irrelevant in the end. They just needed a distraction, and then Devourer will curse the day he ruined their home!

Academician's lips moved, saying the words, explaining in detail what they had intended, and the traitor's heart nearly jumped out of their chest. No! How could it be?! They never told anyone; no one could be aware of…

A cold tendril wiped the sweat off their face and put a syringe of orange liquid on their lap.

"Another gift," Academician explained. "When the chips fall down and your plan meets ruin, inject yourself with this and ascend, my friend. This power is a…"

"I have no need for your power," the traitor stated.

Academician sighed, exhaling a sickly green mist into their face. Panicking, the traitor tried to escape and sucked in a breath, feeling every muscle and vein in their body heat. The legs gave out, and they fell to their knees, vomiting a thick yellow substance. Blistering pimples and gangrenous growths bulged beneath their uniform, tearing at the fabric. A sudden lump of dried bile in the lungs made it nearly impossible to breathe. Fingers turned into oversized sausages, bones screamed in pain, threatening to be crushed by the swelling flesh.

They were rotting alive. Their jowls swelled to the point of touching the chest; their eyes could barely see; and the tongue now filled the entire mouth. Nails had fallen from their fingers, and veins pushed up to the surface, looking like writhing black worms.

"Never interrupt me ever again," Academician said coldly, and the traitor nodded helplessly, clawing at their neck in a desperate effort to get some oxygen in. A needle hit their body, bringing immediate relief. The swelling disappeared, liquid was flushed from the lungs through every orifice, and they took a single wheezing breath and experienced a maddening inch as their body healed back. "What you just experienced is mortality. I know that feeling well. When I was a little older than you, I too thought I was invincible and omniscient. In my deluded mind, I believed myself capable of calculating every inevitability... Then fangs liquidated my skull. In a snap, in a breath, my dreams and hopes were dashed. I died." Academician went to the kitchen and began pillaging the fridge. "But death had no hold on me. Through my craft and skills, my older self had transcended the limitations of a single body. This is my intellect, a power far stronger than anything the Glow can grant.

"You, my friend, have no mind worth speaking of, and your skills are mediocre at best. You think that you have planned out every single detail and countered every outcome, but look at you now, trembling in fear after a single thing going out of place has unraveled your plan. No-no." Academician waved a finger. "Meticulously planning every detail in advance and thinking everything will go your way is shortsightedness. They will find out. A single tap can snap your neck, ensuring the demise of all your dreams.

"Learn from my mistakes, adapt and incorporate new elements into a plan, accept the gifts that fate has seen fit to lavish upon you, and be prepared to retreat. For what is defeat but an opportunity to learn? You want to get back at Devourer, and you have the right to do so. So let me help you get us both what we want."

The traitor only whimpered their agreement, too afraid to do anything else. Just a few more days. Just a few more days, and the endgame would be upon them. They had to hold out. Devourer will pay, if not with his life, then with his dreams.

****

Humming a tune, Academician stepped out of a portal, finding himself in what a ruined mall. A few lights still flickered, illuminating a scene of chaos and floors covered in dark stains. He lowered himself to check the pulse of a lying body and shrugged when he heard stomping below. Curiously, his tendrils plucked a bag of chips from the floor. He tasted one. Stepping past the counter, Academician threw a few tokens at the register, ignoring the dead cashier's body.

Mhhmm crunchy. Took a little over a hundred years, but hey, chips are back. He thought sourly, stuffing himself. So much had been lost in the Extinction. He could never forget the sheer horror of seeing gorgeous cities fall and the utter humiliation of receiving news of orbital platforms containing his precious laboratories being smashed into the side of the moon or falling into the sun.

Academician had never been a good man in the ordinary sense of the word. He had long since lost count of the number of lives he had ruined and the atrocities he had committed. Young, old, frail, strong... They all broke on his operating table, either to be rebuilt stronger or, more often than not, to be thrown into an incinerator after he had had his fun. But he loved humanity as a whole. The death of billions had stirred a long-forgotten feeling even in him, and he toiled restlessly to save whoever he could. Worst of all, he had lost his colleagues.

Oh, he never cared for any of those losers personally. They grumbled about the 'cruelty' of his experiments and tried to stop him from dissecting 'sentient beings'. Often by force. Idiots. How could one be cruel to a scalpel or a gun? His creations were just that—tools, nothing more. Just because they gained sentience hardly equalized them with humans. And only humans mattered. In the end, Academician had to join a private corporation to continue his research in peace.

But being one of the few surviving scientists was no game. It meant that he had won their theoretical debate by default. Instead of seeing his creations crush their so-called 'properly raised sons and daughters' and having the buffoons bow to his genius, Academician was left all alone, without competition. And… it saddened him. For true miracles were born in the struggle of competition between rivals.

He touched a small earpiece in his ear and said, "Purple Valkyrie, report. How is our 'pain in the ass' doing?" Academician approached the broken windows on the mall's second floor and looked down.

What barbarians these mutants were. Clad in fake gold and real steel, several marauders dragged stragglers from their underground shelters.

Mad Hatter and her horde had long since moved on and were besieging a proper town, but Academician could almost feel the woman's presence even without the many biological satellites currently tracking her from orbit. Beings like Mad Hatter had their own way of imprinting their mark on the world, and not always through destruction. They were like a storm front looming over the horizon; just by seeing one once, you instinctively knew when that dread was near.

He admired the potential in her and grew increasingly frustrated at Secretary's refusal to aid him in capturing the woman. What marvels Academician could have pried during the evisceration! He could test his most potent viruses, keeping her barely alive and perfecting his deadly craft. Or, alternatively, simply clone her and kill her over and over, learning the secret behind the density of her bones to grow near impregnable natural armor, coating his bioweapons in shells tougher than most power armor. Sensory organs, brain matter, reflexes... A mere thought of losing this trove of knowledge quickened his heartbeat. Unfortunately, the Organization's resources were spread dangerously thin, in part because of all the setbacks they had suffered in their quest to acquire Apocalypse classes.

And because of their sworn enemy. Now there was another mystery to solve.

Mad Hatter's servants, well, they were another matter. Ugly, fat, boring, and mostly cruel, failed copies shaped after their mistress' image. Academician passionless eyes had found a group of three downstairs, drunk on the stolen liquor. No doubt their Khan, or whoever was in charge of this rabble, would hang them later for abandoning their posts. They pointed their weapons at the trembling civilians, clearly planning to finish them off.

Why? What was the point of it? Slaves were useful, and the dead served no goal. No wonder Secretary wanted to scour this world clean of mutated oppressors. This filth embodied the worst traits of humanity: brutish, uncreative, never doing anything more than the lowest dreg of humanity if he happened to be endowed with their abilities. Even Mad Hatter was fascinating thanks to the vagaries of her biology rather than any character quirks. Or that Techno Queen. Even his daughter didn't use even a tenth of her talents.

But he! He was fun. Academician's lips parted in a smile, and his tendrils released a host of warped fleas. Small creatures scurried out of the window and crept through the cracks. On their own, these creatures were useless. But when the unique transmutation fluids stored in their bodies mixed... The insects followed his will, leaping at the trembling civilians and biting them, soft enough not to cause irritation and be discovered.

"He is raging. Literally," Purple said in a strained voice over the comm. "Remember Site Number Six-O-Five? The one in the Ice Ocean?"

"A testing ground for bio-soldiers?" Academician scratched his chin. "Dull place. What about it?"

"It no longer exists. There is a crater twenty kilometers wide in the ice, and the water is still boiling and widening it. Elder, you have really pissed off Spaniad this time, sir. He has already requested the right to eliminate you, and Pharaoh has supported him. Other elders are also petitioning Secretary to reign you in. And…" She sighed. "We've just lost another of our facilities; the storage units on the border with the Desolation have just gone the way of the Old War, sir," she said with distress.

"They'll come around. And stop worrying; it's not like we lost anything of value." He had half forgotten of these abandoned facilities.

"Apart from our creatures," Purple Valkyries replied dryly.

"Oh please, I will make you new minions. Relax, Purple; loss is a natural part of life; embrace it and learn from it rather than sweat over it. Bring up the video feed. I am curious to see what we can glean from Spaniad's power this time." Academician waved his hand. "I take it Spaniad has left the Core Lands?"

"No, sir." That answer raised Academician's eyebrows. "He is still playing his role."

"Well, shit." He quickly activated cloaking devices stored in his mechanical harness, ensuring that he would remain hidden from any spy satellites or attempts to locate him through mental scrying. To be in the same land as the angry Spaniad was to play with doom. Creatures like Ravager were bad enough. The walking apocalypse was far worse.

The fleas released the concoction developed in his labs into the bloodstreams of four scrawny humans. Unbeknownst to them, their DNA had been temporarily altered. Painkillers produced by their altered bodies had masked the fact that new organs had sprouted inside the hosts' bodies, as the mass for the transformation was drawn from the air. No one had noticed a thing.

Shots ripped through the people's bodies, silencing their whimpering. A child's forehead and brain splattered against a wall behind him. Two more bullets liquefied his lungs. Another burst severed a woman's legs, throwing her face down into the coming projectiles. An elderly man was fully bisected; his viscera and guts spilled.

Academician pressed his fingertips together, trembling in anticipation. What he was using now was expensive, even for him. But he had to experiment if he was ever to solve the puzzle of creating a weapon capable of taking down Ravager. His daughter's blood debt was long overdue.

The raiders' laughter was silenced as the first of the corpses convulsed. From the wall, the ruined brain flowed, gathering bone fragments, and then vanished into the boy. The exposed guts slurped back into the split body. Even lost limbs grew back. Academician giggled like the purple-haired girl he had dated in college at the sight of cadavers coming back to life, their memories preserved, their emotions undamped. This marvelous result was not a 'gift' bestowed by a Glow's mutation, but the result of a carefully executed marvel of bioengineering! Success! Not just in carefully curated laboratory conditions, but in the open field!

Ravager was a puzzle, and a tedious one at that. The demise of his older self left… empty holes in Academician's personality. For one, he could no longer remember his parents. He resurrected them, of course, but seeing two clones without memories didn't help and didn't touch his soul. Well, at least he now knew what they looked like.

Another such gap was his preference for surrounding himself with female operatives. Clearly, the original Academician could not possibly be a sexual deviant, so what was the reason for such an urge?

These holes in his memory hindered him greatly. By all accounts, Ravager was his greatest project to date. Yet he couldn't remember how to replicate it! He had stolen Wolfkins' cubs, opened them up, and admired the craftsmanship of his older self. Several he had molded into monsters, mentally breaking them trying to replicate Ravager's evolution. No luck. Furious, Academician eliminated his toys, then cloned them and explored alternative ventures. For over fifty years, he had broken, killed, and cloned these cubs, finding new mutations in their bodies to this day. His older self had truly been a master.

He had even captured a skinwalker and brought the creature to his lab. It... backfired. There was a reason his older self had deemed them failures. All of them possessed genius minds, eclipsing even his own without a hint of purpose or morality, doing stuff on a whim. The specimen had found a way to hack into the mainframe and escaped, blowing up valuable experiments just for the hell of it. To this day, the woman was hiding in the network of tunnels beneath his primary base, daring Academician to come and get her. He refused to oblige out of spite, leaving them at an impasse. The skinwalker couldn't hurt him, and he used her to test promising products. None succeeded.

Academician shook his head and turned his attention back to the scene below.

Fools that they were, the brutes stopped laughing and kept firing, trying to finish off the humans. Academician almost decided to do nothing and let the test subjects die, recording the number of times the self-healing and mass gathering could offset the incoming damage. After all, the regeneration was only temporary; in a matter of hours, the newly formed organs would shrink and wither, returning their hosts to their original bodies. But…

These were the mutants, a useless deviation from the magnificence that was a human form. There was also a need to obtain fresh material for his work since the mercenaries hired by him had proven their inadequacy in that matter. And no mutant, no matter how arrogant, should dare to raise a hand against their betters. So fine, he'll play the role of the Good Samaritan today. His tendrils struck, removing the broken glass, and Academician jumped out.

"Have no fear; a dashing hero is here!" Academician shouted, gliding through the air, shards of glass glinting in the sunlight all around him. "Upon my word, none of you will die here!" He chuckled slightly, enjoying the role a little too much.

The raiders' thoughts, crude as they were, were exposed to his superior mind, enchanted by the Glow. Academician's tendrils dug into the ground, and his body weaved in the air, dodging shots aimed at his head with ease.

Academician boots landed on a raider's foot, shattering the pavement, but surprisingly, he heard neither a crack nor a shot of pain in his opponent's brain. He dodged a wide swing of the rifle by leaning back and spinning around, carried by his tendrils to another opponent. Academician walked straight into a knife slash, dodging it at the last second to plant his elbow into the fat bastard's throat, hard enough to crumple metal and lift a body off its feet.

"Of course, I can't promise the same about the villains' lives…" Academician sanded, then darted away, saved from a wound by a thought that flashed through his mind.

The bastard wasn't dead! There was no satisfying crunch of a broken bone, and now he had to retreat as the three opponents closed in on him, wielding knives and firing at close range.

As amusing as this empirical discovery was, Academician found himself unable to smile as he dodged two bursts of machine-gun fire that nearly tore the idiotic civilians to shreds. He had promised to save them, and his word was iron, but would it kill those idiots to hide from a battle? He wasn't averse to a fine old-fashioned brawl, and finding vulnerable spots to take apart enemies impervious to normal blows with his bare hands was a worthwhile pastime. But it would be a poor decision; his sensors warned him of the premature end of regeneration.

He brought the tendrils to bear, raising them like a forest around him and piercing the raiders' bodies with the sharp blades. They never had a chance; his metal limbs extended from the harness on his back, tossing debris and broken cars skyward. Hooks grabbed machine guns, ripping them from the mutants' hands, and tendrils dug into flesh, peeling away armor, piece by bloody piece, as the raiders screamed. He killed two and pumped sedatives into the last.

Academician turned and bowed graciously to the audience, who had chosen that moment to scurry away, taking the child with them. His shoulders slumped in disappointment. Poopie. And here I was, planning to take them to Houstad. He meant it. A ride in a stolen car across enemy lines, sneaking into a besieged city, avoiding a meeting with Spaniad or Pharaoh... What a wonderful adventure it could've been! Almost as if he were a simple field agent.

"Academician." Sweat broke out on his face, and he stood at attention, not daring to move, ignoring even the spilling entrails of a dead hordeman dripping on his forehead. "Why do you crave death?"

A figure stepped out of the darkness of the ruined mall, reloading an uzi, and Academician wanted to squeal as he received reports of Special Forces appearing in his laboratory and taking over. His personal office was opened, the hidden chamber immediately found, and the body in the tube—his backup clone—secured. In a heartbeat, in a flash, every hiding place that mattered was turned over to the Organization's elite enforcers, and the link that sent his latest brainwaves into the data banks for storage was severed. Even the locations he had kept secret from Purple Valkyrie were found and captured.

No! I don't want any more holes in my personality!

Not Saurolich. General Secretary had come to judge him. The man appeared to be a simple Normie. Of all of them, he had changed the least since the Extinction. But at his command was every conceivable resource of the Organization, a force capable of destroying the entire world and the technologies of the past.

"Greetings, sir," Academician said in a steady voice. His connection to the satellites was gone, his clearances revoked. Everything he had owned and worked tirelessly for had been taken from him. "Pray tell me the reason for your visit."

"I have come to assess your value to the Organization, Academician." General Secretary heaved his uzi and aimed between the scientist's eyes. "We give our agents a certain amount of freedom to carry out their duties, true. But to violate another Elder's area of operation? Assisting in an invasion of civilized lands that will inevitably result in human deaths? That goes far beyond any accepted boundaries. Breaks the roof, I'll say."

"I was acting in the Organization's best interest, sir." Academician tried to kneel.

"Stand. I prefer not to force a potentially dead man to grovel," General Secretary ordered. "Make your case."

"The growing peace movement within the Reclamation Army is a problem for our continued existence, sir," Academician began talking quickly, calming himself. Yes, that visit was unexpected. But he was safe. "The freedom of our operations is directly dependent on the ongoing rivalry between the Three Great Nations. As long as their intelligence services do not cooperate, the risk of us being discovered is minimal. If the Dynast backs down on his growing expansion, if his mutant freaks start taking over Iterna instead of scaring it, if the Reclamation Army is seen as a safe country for tourism, it will lead directly to a future truce. And the prolonged existence of the Gilded Horde has disrupted our operations in more than one area, resulting in the deaths of our agents. Undoubtedly, Pharaoh and Spaniad had their own ways of solving this vexing problem, but I decided to assist them to the best of my humble ability. By combining the two factors, I have effectively eliminated both problems, boosting the popularity of the pro-expansion party and feeding the Dynast's delusions without us having to lift a finger."

"And hurt Ravager," General Secretary said bluntly.

"That comes off as a bonus." Academician grinned. "When she kills Mad Hatter…"

"If she kills her. I reviewed the simulations." General Secretary still didn't lower his weapon. "They are tied up. Ravager's death could lead to the imbalance and future destruction of the Reclamation Army at the hands of the Oathtakers. Have you considered how difficult it will be for us to maneuver in that situation?"

"It won't occur. Wyrm Lord is capable of replacing her; there will be no imbalance. Just a little thinning out to get the Reclaimers back on track. And my daughter will not lose!" Academician snapped. "She is an absolute, a perfect bioweapon whose destruction awaits my hands. I will surpass her and…"

"You give her too much thought." The weapon's barrel was pressed against his forehead, and Academician shut up, frightened for his future. He couldn't sense General Secretary's thoughts; the operation he had performed on the man's brain was turning against him, and this time it wasn't a pleasant thrill. "I find your line of reasoning sound. Continue your mission, Elder. But the next time you cause this much chaos without my approval, it will be your last."

"Thank you, sir." Academician breathed a sigh of relief as he regained his usual control. The connection to the lab was restored; Purple Valkyrie gave him updates in a disappointed tone. His clones were unharmed, and the data flow from the satellites was unobstructed. He was alive! He had won that gamble! "May I ask you where you are heading, sir?"

"Where humans are in danger, there you will find me." General Secretary checked his weapon. "I'll lead those in this place to safety. Away with you, Elder."

Disappointed and relieved, Academician moved the tendril that held his captive down.

"You are going to tell me everything you know about God." He patted the large face. "And then you, me, and the bodies of your friends will go on a wondrous journey of discovery. Agent Purple! Open a portal, please."

As a spatial anomaly ruptured the fabric of reality before him, Academician felt elated. For years, the Organization's agents had been battling not only the three major powers but also unknown abnormals, mutated humans with rare and powerful abilities. If this God was who Secretary General thought he was, then they might be one step closer to ridding the world of the bastard who had caused the Extinction.

When their mission was accomplished and the mutant freaks were back under humanity's heel, Academician will see all those who would manipulate or threaten humanity brought down. Fetters and lies will be exposed and removed; the freedom of mankind will once again reign supreme in this world and beyond as their spaceships sail to the stars. And most pleasing of all, Ravager's back will be broken at his knee, her spawn exterminated, and Zero subjugated.

 

[Rookie12]

Our honor is lost. Bertruda thought, deflecting an incoming shot with her spear.

Around her, the defenders formed a circle, guarding the civilians inside. Shields vibrated, withstanding the never-ending onslaught of exploding grenades and fired weapons. It seemed like an eternity since Bertruda and her troops had arrived at Quatindor to expedite the evacuation of the Order's assets and personnel. What they found there exceeded their worst fears.

Quatindor was burning.

The Gilded Horde's advance was like a roaring sandstorm, its soldiers a living multicolored wall that swept away any defense. With communications disrupted, warnings from the Provincial Army were of little use. Dozens of heavily armored vehicles had been captured by the invaders in the hangars; hundreds more exploded into pieces as the mechanics activated self-destruct systems, denying the Horde any gains. Not lacking in dedication, but hopelessly outmatched in firepower, the state's soldiers were cut down in the streets or pummeled by artillery fire, unable to hold the line until the Ice Fangs arrived.

Villages and hamlets on the outskirts of the town were already subjugated, unable to so much as phone the capital. Precision artillery had rained down a powerful barrage of shells on the city, leveling army bases and causing crippled men to die under tons of rubble. Siege weapons had spoken next, eliminating bunkers containing anti-infantry missiles before they could fire, then punching holes in the walls for the Horde to pour in unopposed.

There could be only one answer for the cause of such chaos. Betrayal. Bertruda was not as effective a leader as Camelia, First, or Leonidas. But she was the first to voice her fears over the comms, and the sword saints had agreed with her assessment. The Gilded Horde had moved too fast and struck too well to attribute this success to mere coincidence. First had given his order. Preserve the future at all costs.

Quatindor's Knight Academy, a place for their children to study the arts of politics and war in secret from the lower classes, came under fire. Praise be the Spirits, its walls had endured that hellish hail where a random ricocheting shell collapsed nearby apartments, but soon after units of the Provincial Army were overwhelmed, the infantry closed in, believing this place to be a military installation. Instructors, hired mercenaries, and teachers had fought bravely, building a barricade of corpses large enough to hide the entrance gate, but the advance of the elites had pushed them back.

It was then that Bertruda, Leonidas, and Macarius arrived, bringing righteous fury of vengeance upon the misbegotten curs. They divided their forces and confronted the invaders in several districts, while the sages prepared the grand trap envisioned by Leonidas. Though Bertruda had originally intended to save just her own kind, she and her knights had ended up taking everyone along with them, retreating in an orderly fashion to the north. Whether Normie, Mutant, Orais, or even a disgusting, unworthy of life, Malformed, all were taken. The survivors of the Provincial Army filled their ranks, adding their shots to even the insurmountable odds.

Defenders moved down the main street, wielding their round shields with both paws. These men and women were among the largest of the Ice Fangs, several of them approaching Bertruda's own height. Intense training had cracked and reforged their bones; their muscles were ropes of steel that matched the calmness of their nerves. A downpour of rockets, grenades, gunfire, and even the occasional shell rained down upon them. Linked together, the force fields of their shields held up, cracking slightly as an occasional shot passed through the defenses, damaging the armor.

Reloaded by servants and assisting soldiers, rotary turrets mounted on the defenders' shoulders whirled, singing their fatal song. Guided by data from the shared visual feed, their shots vaporized three raiders down to their ankles and forced the rest to duck into the cover of their heavy mobile armor.

Foot soldiers lurked in the buildings, finding the confused civilians and guiding them to safety. In the narrow alleys, Mountaintop Knights waited, ready to spring into action at the first sign of an overconfident foe. Not nearly as fabled as their comrades of more prestigious houses, they stabbed the hordemen into the joints of their armor, pinning them to the ground and brutally stomping on the helmets, offering no clemency and asking for none. The knights fired their handguns sparingly, conserving ammunition.

Hunters traversed across the rooftops; their sniper rifles soundlessly firing bullets traveling at a thousand meters per second. Whatever they hit, they penetrated, ending lives or claiming limbs. Watching through the lenses of their comrades, the hunters gracefully adjusted their hunting grounds, dodging counterattacks, ducking from explosions, and peering out just in time to land a single shot through a hordeman's visor.

Her Mountain Guard—an elite group of eighteen bodyguards who handled their enormous tower shields with the same ease as if they were mere buckets of water—supported Bertruda at the front. Their double-edged axes rose and fell in an arc of deadly force, severing away the arms and legs of the assailants. Automatic cannons installed in their right wrists spat out bursts of bullets, shredding the enemy ranks.

And still on and on they came, a sea of golden and steel enemies. They advanced not as maddened raiders but as cautious fighters, with heavy assault teams firing rocket launchers to set rooftops ablaze and drive away the lightly protected hunters. Next rushed in their version of regulars, ordinary humans in exoskeleton armor, best fit to blunt the blades of Ice Fangs on a better day. But their numbers were many, and the knights had to guard their allies, limiting their ability to maneuver gracefully across the battlefield. Bullets rattled against the battleplates, denting and cracking them, softening the Ice Fangs.

Troop carriers accompanied this rabble, driving in to permit the regulars to retreat. Engineers swiftly replaced damaged protection on the regulars' exosuits, and field medics injected the survivors with adrenaline, motivating them to continue the assault, backed by the transports' heavy cannons. Behind the regulars advanced the killing force, the New Breeds of the Horde, each wielding a sharp sword and firing from an oversized rifle.

The two sides met in battle more than once, and so far, the Ice Fangs have beaten back every attempt to disrupt their ranks. Their foes weren't stupid and aimed to reach the civilians, judging rightly that the Mountaintops' defenses would be crippled if they were threatened. So far, every attempt had been repelled, and several troop carriers were reduced to smoldering piles of smoke.

Bertruda anguished, seeing her knights dying, their bodies trampled. Even her Mountain Guard, the pride and joy of the Mountaintops Household, struggled, numerous cracks covering their no longer shining armor, their cloaks reduced to tatters. It wasn't how the Ice Fangs fought. The Ice Fangs were blades, capable of breaching the fortified position to swiftly reach the neck. They poured in like a flood and retreated like a low tide under the supporting fire of their artillery. Positional warfare had negated most of the advantages given to them by the unique blend of their biology, technology given to them by the state, and training bestowed upon them by the Twins and the Blessed Mother.

Sworn never to cede even a centimeter of their homeland, to never abandon an ally, they were fleeing, dishonored.

Knight Captain Fabian fell this day, his body torn to shreds, his unit eliminated to the last man. His squire did her best to retrieve her master's body, only to have a merciless metal greave break her gentle neck. Escaria, Scothia, and Mourntul, the venerable members of the Mountain Guard who had witnessed the founding of House Mountaintop, had lost their lives to give several families a chance to reach the defenders. Even in death, the cruelty did not end. Bertruda's eyes glowed with rage as the barbarians began to strip the noble knights of their armor, hacking at their limbs and laughing in guttural voices.

Enough.

Bertruda abandoned her usual restrained and composed self, embracing the raging beast that had met Warlord Janine. That rage had surprised her then—never before had the young sword saint been so hard pressed. That rage had surprised her then. Today, she willingly called upon that flawed part of herself and used her spear as a pole, leaping over her guard and landing on several attackers. The weight of her armor alone broke them, but she wasn't done yet. A stab from her spear left a hole in a New Breed's head, murdering the hordeman. Before his body understood its death, streams of energy were spat from under her vambraces, setting five hordemen alight.

Taking advantage of the confusion, she used the suddenly freed space to spin her spear, cleaving through bodies. The sword saint advanced in a crimson mist as the defenders opened fire, annihilating the surrounding enemies.

Too slow. Droplets of blood that looked like rose petals, pieces of flesh, and even bullets slowed to a crawl. She danced forward, evading bullets, swinging and stabbing with Elegance, reaping lives. A flick of her wrist took away a raider's hands. A simple kick left another headless. Plasma dischargers spat heat again, exploding the generators of the fallen Mountain Guard and sending them on their last journey in dignified pillars of flame that engulfed the nearby hordemen.

Bertruda's eyes caught a fast-moving target, and she stepped aside to catch a hoverbike on her spear. The sword saint's lips parted in a cold smile as she heard the rider's gasp. Because of her sheer speed, Elegance ran full length through the crude metal toy, impaling the woman. The bike exploded, sending Bertruda back to the ranks of her troops.

Our honor is lost. She landed on the shoulders of her guards, only to have sweet Tlan, a knight who had served her predecessor, die. An energy beam lanced through a gap between two APCs, melting its way through the man's chest. Loyal to the last, Tlan somehow kept his body upright, refusing to let his liege fall. Only when Bertruda's feet touched the ground did Tlan topple. Another pillar of House Mountaintop was lost.

Death awaited everyone, and though he died with honor, Bertruda caught him, grieving and blinking away tears. Tlan taught her how to wield Elegance. His strict and wise drills had guided the young knight-captain to fit into the boots of a sword saint when her former liege had perished in war. Gentle and stern, the man had never refused aid or any of her requests, and now he was dead. Torn from her life. By them.

So many. She had labored so hard, and under her leadership, the household had prospered. No longer were they the ones who had to prostrate themselves for profitable marriages with the First Houses, but the Wintersongs had sought her cousin out for a rich pact to supply the development of sonic weaponry. Bertruda had planned to put Tlan in charge of the project, both to honor his century of service and to enrich the House's gene pool. That dream was gone. Her troops, the future of the Order, were dying!

"I'll carry him, lass!" An Orais easily hoisted the three tons of steel over his shoulders. "Don't you worry, I won't let the bastards desecrate him," he said with a groan.

Once again, Bertruda was humbled. In her arrogance, she viewed outsiders as lesser beings, not as sophisticated or strong. Allies, yes, but in general they were considered inferior. And look at them now! The Province Army troops formed a circle around them, firing their rifles to keep the enemy pinned down, while two Orais readied their rocket launchers and lobbed rocket after rocket into a crack in the APC, exploding its engine along with the driver. Their comrades threw incendiary grenades over them, setting much of the road ablaze. Everyone was risking their lives for the cause.

Nobility exists in everyone. She reminded herself of the Protector Oath, spinning back into the battle. Prejudice was as dangerous as isolation. It clouded a fighter's focus and distracted him from making the right decisions.

"You wish to claim a sword saint's life? Why throw your lives away so uselessly, you stinking pigs? You will not be able to afford the price of such a deed!" Bertruda laughed, the dynamics of her helmet amplifying her boast tenfold. "Run or perish! That's the choice left for vultures!"

A wave of rage invigorated Bertruda, and her helmet responded to the command, slipping from her jaws. She didn't care if her enemies understood her; she turned grief into strength, fueling the hatred that burned in her chest. Elegance's swings lacked grace, but even those struck by her shaft were no longer able to stand. Bertruda welcomed with open arms a group of brave fools who charged at her, angered by the mockery in her tone. In unison, they struck, one aiming for her knee joint, another swinging at her gorget, the third launching an overhead slash aimed at her shoulder, and several more firing.

The sword saint exploded outward, ripping a hordeman's throat with her claws. Her jaws snapped, a fang shattered, but the bite still went through the helmet of the assailant who was aiming for her neck. She caught his arms in a grip between her armpit and her arm and snapped them, biting away at his face, ignoring the rules and regulations of not exposing her open mouth to the air. A chunk of flesh slid down her throat and she swallowed, not even horrified at the blatant disregard of First's teachings.

Was that how Janine perceived a battlefield? Was everything a weapon to her, a tool to be used to preserve life? The corpse was thrown into incoming bullets, and then Elegance skewered the woman who had tried to cut Bertruda's knee. The sword saint's burst of movement was so fast that the hordewoman didn't even register her disappearance, and her blade had passed through empty air. A twist of Elegance ended this miserable life.

"Death to the dealers of death!" Bertruda roared a war cry of her cousins, a war cry of her divine aunt, surprised at how easily it came to her. She fired plasma again and stepped through the flames resulting from the exploded generators of the dead hordemen. Elegance tapped the stone in time with her step, her cloak resisting the fire, and her tongue licked blood from the cuts made on her lips by the propelled steel shards. "I carry a tittle of a sword saint," Bertruda growled, decapitating an overly brave hordeman with a single swing. "But for you morsels, I am the devil incarnate. Step forth and die!"

The horde's infantry recoiled, shocked at the calm ferocity, but then the ground shook in response to her challenge.



****


A note from the author: Sorry for the slow updates. This is my fault. The end of the year is approaching and I'm overworked at my job.

 

[Rookie12]

Hulking machines stepped forward, crushing concrete and the APCs wreckage beneath their column legs with every step. Six-legged, they were open harnesses carrying heavy laser cannons at their top. Arrays and metal plates formed cages around the operator under the walkers' underbellies. Pincers swung into view, collapsing a building and burying several knights in rubble. A hunter above faltered, caught in the tremors of his part of the roof. The man did not scream as he slipped into the eager pincers but shot his grappling hook and arced away from the danger, firing once at an operator.

The man inside the cabin hissed in anger; his voice reached the sword saint's ears through the chaos of battle. His machine thudded far ahead, flattening a knight trying to get away. A brilliant ray of energy left his cannon, catching the hunter in mid-flight. The shadowy silhouette of her soldier glimpsed briefly in the yellow beam, then disappeared, and two burnt feet fell to the ground.

"Shine, Elegance!" Bertruda roared, closing the helmet, and raised her weapon.

Her spear was a sacred weapon passed down onto her house by the Twins. Forged from an alloy harder than the hulls of spacecrafts, intricate designs of a long-forgotten and not-yet-rediscovered archeotech filled its shaft, ready to imbue the blade with energy superior to that of the surface of a sun. At a press of her finger, the edge banished every darkness in sight, vaporizing bullets aimed at her.

The spider construct tried to clumsily catch her in the pincers, and a single slice of fully powered Elegance parted an arm in two, not cutting, not melting, but changing into steam whatever it touched. This was the true reason why her helmet had to be close and why she didn't unseal Elegance earlier. To fight or stay close to its star-hot edge meant to inhale fumes capable of burning even a Wolfkin's respiratory system.

It was madness to risk using it near civilians. But alone, in the killing field, Bertruda Mountaintop was unchained. Elegance spun, drinking deep from a lesser beam of energy streaming from a cannon, using it to power itself up. A stab followed during the brief pause as the laser cannon's cooling shut it down. The deadly streak of light forced the raised pincer to disappear along with a section of a hastily put forward leg and landed at the cage, killing the bastard far too quickly. The construct erupted, ungracefully throwing the sword saint backward. She landed on her back, drawing a long line across the concrete, while Elegance hungrily devoured it before she turned it off and stood in the clouds of steam.

"Is this how you plan to stop us?" She laughed, throwing her head up. Hordemen closed in from every side, but the Mountain Guard opened fire, freeing her paws from dealing with the small fry. "Suicide bombing me? That's novel, morsels, I won't lie."

A group of knights charged from the nearby alley, aptly taking advantage of the overextended enemy line, and the chaos ensued by the destruction of the walker. Civilians were at their backs, several children guided by a Troll of all people. The Oathtaker used his own body to shield the little ones, shuddering as two fist-sized holes appeared in the gray skin, tearing through his overalls.

True to his name, the Troll survived. Bertruda had fought against this tribe once, but she remembered vividly how these dispassionate people calmly picked up severed limbs and pressed the mangled edges back into their stumps. Their regeneration did the rest, mending flesh first, then veins, muscles, and bones. In mere minutes, Trolls were able to walk after losing a limb. This person here wore a half-ruined tourist badge on his shoulder, and his movements betrayed his complete lack of combat experience. What he lacked in knowledge, the noble soul made up for in devotion, throwing himself like a shield before the children.

A tall figure clad in steel and gold pushed his way out of the enemy ranks, a two-handed sword in his arm, the blade scraping against the street. Bareheaded, the handsome young man barely paid attention to a bullet that landed against his temple. The raider glanced up, showing his tongue to the hunters on the roof. Double shots came in response, and the man stumbled, laughing. The armor-piercing bullets bounced harmlessly off his brown eyes, crumbling into useless pieces of metal.

Still laughing, the raider ran at the knights, taking swords to his chest and arms. With disgusting ease, he swung his own weapon, cleaving through a knight's shoulder, slashing through the pauldron, and stopping his blade in the chest. Then he tackled another off his feet, casually motioning for the constructs to aim at him as the knights converged on him, hacking at his neck, ribs, and arms. Swords bounced, unable to even scratch the man, and three energy beams washed over the hordeman's back, burning holes in the attacking knights and claiming the life of their captain. The invulnerable youth grabbed the falling captain by his head, severed it, and hoisted it high to the guttural cheers of his troops.

In a blink of an eye, the seeds of uncertainty Bertruda had sown were undone, and she was again beset by the enemies, and the Mountain Guard hurried to her aid. Missiles flew down from the sky, hidden by the veil of smoke, and exploded around her. A Mountain Guard was caught between a series of explosions; her body was thrown like a rag doll, and her armor finally gave way. The generator blew up, and the shockwaves alone killed the trusted servant.

"Devil?!" The voice of the young hordeman rang through the chaos. His speech was thick and accented. "Excellent! On this day, I shall be known as the devil-slayer! For the Khatun, onto glory and curse death!"

The hordeman roared, echoing their leader in their native language.

"Lead the civilians to the encampment! Mountain Guard with me! Our stand!" Bertruda roared, disemboweling a hordeman's belly. She hesitated but added a kick, ending the woman's suffering. And removed a potential threat.

So be it. If this was where fate claimed her, Bertruda could live with it. The world stopped around her, brought to a crawl by her heightened senses, and the sword saint weaved away from the construct's line of fire. Her movements were light and precise, guided not just by necessity but by cold calculation. The beams speared through the side of a building and their own allies, missing her own troops.

Elegance's point detached from the shaft, stretching out on the long chain. Bertruda swung, sending the blade on the chain through the enemy ranks and straight into another eager walker. Even without heat, the blade pierced the cage and hooked the operator in the chest. No mercy had been shown, and no mercy would be shown. Bertruda pushed back and dragged the weakly gasping woman through the narrow opening of the cabin. A sickening crunching sound accompanied the folding of limbs. An indignant twist of her paw sent the gruesome remains flying.

Fixated on her target, Bertruda began making her way through the sea of screaming faces, sidestepping shots. Elegance was a blur in her paws, its chain wrapped around necks, snapping them; the blade flickered in the air, cutting through helmets; and the heavy end of her spear was breaking sternums. Wary of her murderous reach, the walkers retreated, exposing their allies to being butchered by the Mountain Guard.

This close, everything worked in their favor. Her elite troops evaded shots, navigating themselves through the shared vision; they battered away bodies with the massive tower shields, fired, and hacked. Missed beams, shots, and explosions furthered the death toll, harming the Horde more than they hindered Bertruda and her desperate charge. Her armor trembled and screamed, her servomotors whined, but the top-of-the-line machinery kept her safe in its unyielding embrace.

The sword saint understood Janine now. It was the time of cruel and routine butchering, and Bertruda embraced gifts of her rage at long last. There were things that could not be tolerated, and for that, they had to be strong and merciless, readily sacrificing their lives. Teasing, competition, brawls served to build bonds, test the character, and improve the body. They weren't insults; Janine had genuinely seen her as a cousin before the betrayal.

I am sorry, my sister by another mother. It was my arrogance that broke that trust.

The laughing whoreson raised his blade, striking in an overhead arc at the troll. The strike would've cut through the clavicle and then severed the spinal column, coming out of the back with enough force to end an Ice Fang student holding a Normie girl in his paws.

Bertruda's eyes flashed crimson from anger; the exhaustion drained from her body as emotions and adrenaline helped her cross the threshold of the possible. She growled, half-shocked, half-elated at the unexpected aggression worthy of a Wolfkin, and Elegance was thrust forward like a ray of light, reassembling into a single form. Twins guide my arm. Blessed Mother, bestow upon me your wrath. Two raiders were skewered at the tip of her spear, and she rammed them through the enemy ranks, reaching the hordeman just in time to block his blade. The youth spun to her, eagerly slashing at the haft of her spear, clearing it of the remains.

"Came at last, devil?" He giggled, drunk on mirth. "Name's Amal, son of Mungke Khan. Hundreds have died by my hand. And I am one soul you won't be collecting…"

Elegance kissed him. Its blade stabbed into his chest, below kneepads, and then right into the area around the heart, piercing that pathetic excuse for a chest plate.

Her strikes knocked him back, slamming the man's back against the building and covering him in the rubble of a broken wall. The man's body felt like an impregnable slab of iron, but Bertruda knew that Elegance's molecular blade could cut through even the thickest steel. Only special alloys, like those of Janine's axe or the weapons of her fellow Sword Saints, were capable of withstanding the ancient blade at the end of Elegance. It had failed to harm an enemy for the first time in its existence after the Twins discovered it in ancient ruins and forged a shaft and energy generators worthy of its potency.

Amal burst free, sending rocks everywhere, laughing and coughing dust in equal measure. A knight blocked a hail of bullets aimed at her, surprising Bertruda. If this bastard was an enemy leader, his minions sure cared very little about not hitting him. The sword saint spun her blade, economically collecting projectiles from the air and sending them at the hordemen.

The answer came to her a moment later. Bullets from his own allies ricocheted off Amal's body. His blade landed heavily on the Elegance's shaft, and Bertruda calmly headbutted the grinning face. Her HUD flashed, and a lens cracked as she took a dent, while Amal was merely pushed back again. Angrily, Bertruda slashed at his chest, sending Amal sprawling to the ground.

"Is that the best you can do?" he taunted, reaching for the blade. "Pathetic devil, you…"

Bertruda fired the plasma discharges, engulfing him in crackling flames. This seemed to break his composure a bit, and with a strained roar, he charged out of the fiery hell, swinging his half-molten sword. Elegance rose to meet him, gracefully and casually brushing the blade aside before delivering a crushing blow to his neck. The impact sent the youth cartwheeling to the side, his head drawing a line in the road.

"You were saying?" Bertruda asked coldly, trying to come up with an idea of how to kill that thing. The kid was a New Breed. She had faced those who were stronger than her, like Janine, and even those who could regenerate a limb, like a skinwalker. But never had she faced an opponent who simply never got wounded, no matter what.

A beam of light was spotted by a Mountain Guard and the sword saint retreated, her back pressed against the Troll's and facing a burning hole in the pavement ahead. Amal rose to his feet, his body free of bruises; not even a tiny scratch marred his impeccable black skin; not a single hair was torn. He rocked his neck mockingly and ripped an axe from a nearby hordeman.

"I said that I am immortal, bitch." He grabbed a pistol from his belt. "And you are not."

He shot. Bertruda blocked the bullet intended for one of the kids behind her, the spear spinning in her arms fast enough to become a shield. Sensing her unspoken command, the Mountain Guard broke through the enemy's flanks to shield the civilians so their mistress could face her opponent head-on.

Sparks flew in the air as the spear collided with the axe, biting away chunks of it. The sword saint fought methodically, first breaking Amal's pistol and driving him back. In four moves, she threw the fool completely off balance. A strike in the leg, followed by a sweeping blow with the butt of her spear against his jaw, an effortless swing to beat aside the ugly axe, and, finally, a masterstroke to end it all. A stab with Elegance broke the flat of the axe and found its way into the laughing mouth. Noticing something akin to panic, Bertruda jammed the blade's tip into the upper palate.

The portable flash of destruction shone for the second time in the battle, releasing the temperature of 30 000 Celsius on the foe. What Elegance could not break, it melted.

If Amal screamed, Bertruda did not hear him. Light poured from his nostrils, mouth, and ears. His eyes turned into light bulbs. An explosion followed, shaking his body violently, and dark smoke billowed from every orifice of the man. Bertruda pushed her weapon deeper, lifting the body for his rabble to see.

A sword saint had died. Noble Tancred had been entrusted with the safekeeping of Houstad, and foul foes had found a way to harm it, regardless. Worse still, his fair warriors had failed to exact justice and had to be rescued by the Wolf Tribe. An utter failure of all oaths.

Keep them safe. These were the last words the Twins spoke to the sword saint before they disappeared. They were the first to see nobility in the Wolf Tribe, the first to bow to Ravager to avert the coming slaughter for dominance. The Twins worked tirelessly, introducing sword saints to warlords, talking to Wolfkins, counseling them, trying to civilize them, praising them for correct moral decisions.

Bertruda, to her eternal shame, had at first seen nothing in her cousins worthy of respect, thinking them little more than stinking butchers, but that had changed. The Wolf Tribe and Ravager kept the Ice Fangs safe, willingly dying in droves to preserve the Order and people's lives. Misguided, maybe. Yet the Wolf Tribe had always had true nobility. A trait in them she had arrogantly rejected at first.

The realization came when Tancred and Camelia forced Bertruda to confront what she was becoming. Even an idiot could have seen that Janine was injured after the battle, but her proud eyes blindly ignored the facts. Because she had to win to be proven right. Bertruda wanted to believe that Janine was inferior; she needed to be sure that the Wolf Tribe were inferior creatures, unworthy of the Twins' love, when in fact the living gods embraced both groups.

A fortress was under construction in the Core Lands. A home fit for them. The Order worked in secret, knowing full well how their cousins would react to such a gift. They hated to be perceived as being in debt, their silly cousins who still hadn't learned to accept being taken care of. What debts could there be between relatives? But once completed, the Wolf Tribe would have no further need for the villages; their cubs would be safe and sound, growing up side by side with the children of the Order. It was for this reason that the Ice Fangs initially pursued profit and formed corporations. To gain the material wealth necessary to finally drag their cousins into the light.

Her heart ached at the need to refuse the calls of her allies. But what choice did they have? The Wolf Tribe had always kept them in the rear; now, with the Knight Academies in danger, could they really trust their rough kin to prosecute this war? Warlords, even Janine, cared too much about vengeance, but now was the time to save lives. When the lives of their own children were at stake, the Ice Fang Order had to act. If necessary, Bertruda was willing to pay a price in blood later.

A light from above distracted Bertruda's thoughts. A bird of steel swooped down from the smoke, its six engines roaring. Steel wings spread behind a long, slender frame shaped like an arrowhead. Turrets were mounted above the wings, and raiders opened fire, tearing apart knights and members of the provincial army caught outside of the defenders' protective circle. Four furious bursts closed in on a Mountain Guard; the man's armor held for four long seconds before finally yielding with a deafening crack. The knight's shoulders exploded under the onslaught of armor-piercing projectiles. His helmet was smashed deep into his chest, and the lenses exploded, releasing brain matter.

They have airships? Bertruda thought numbly, shaking off the despair. Janine wouldn't be giving up here, and neither will she. "Mountain Guard! Anti-air missiles, at once!"

 

[Rookie12]

The elite of her household dropped to their knees, steel cylinders of launchers slipping over their right shoulders as the defenders intensified their cover fire. Their cousins teased the Order for being overly reliant on melee. But that was just a facade to inspire the peasants. Every knight and foot soldier trained rigorously with every ranged weapon available. The best received additional gifts.

The missiles locked on target, exploding in a series of bright flashes around the predator in the sky, soon forming a single massive orb of devastation that sent out a shockwave that swept several fighters off their feet. Without waiting for the result, the brave Mountain Guard were already back into the fray, hacking with their axes, while the missile launchers moved back into their generators to be reloaded. Any second now, the steel wreckage had to fall to the ground, and then maybe they could…

Bertruda groaned in pain as the remnants of the axe struck upward, cutting through the joint of her armpit guard. As impossible as it may seem, Amal was very much alive. He let his body go limp, tricking Bertruda into assuming his demise, but when the smoke cleared, she saw him grasping Elegance's blade with one hand, coughing madly, and swinging his broken axe again.

Strong. She tried to break the weapon free. The boy wasn't a full match for her, power armor or not, but he refused to let go of Elegance. Energy pulses, fired by a passing rider, hissed against her helmet, and nearby soldiers hacked at the back of her leg, stopping the sword saint's retreat. Above them, the smoke could parted, letting everyone see a humming energy shield around the airship.

"I will personally behead every single one of your whelps." Amal smiled into Bertruda's face, looking past her to where her knights tried to lead the civilians to the defenders. "The Sky has made me immortal! No flame, no blade, no virus can harm my blessed body. I can't be stopped; I am eternal! I am the cruel and unyielding bane of your miserable nation! And you? You bleed, you suffer, you break, while I move on! Resist me and prolong your sufferings. Surrender, and I promise you a clean death."

Bertruda screamed as a laser beam sliced across her back, melting the space between the joints of her shoulder and torso. The armor sent an immediate report, notifying the sword saint that the energy blast had eaten her flesh to the bone. And the damned machine took aim at her again as she fought to push the little shit back…

"If we die today, you will hold a door open for our entrance into the Planet's halls." Bertruda's voice boomed, amplified by the dynamics of her armor. She issued an order to her troops to retreat, intending to serve as a diversion. "You said nothing could harm you. Liar. If that is so, why do you cough?" The sudden concern in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.

She asked herself what Janine would do and followed the intuition, dropping the bastard onto the ground, ignoring the tingle of pain in her arm. She cast Elegance to the Mountain Guard, mournfully saying her farewells to the trusted friend. May it serve the future sword saint as well as it had served her. Then she rammed a paw into Amal's mouth, ripping away the remains of his axe. Fear briefly rendered him weak, and she used it to push the axe into his mouth, activating her plasma discharges at low output.

Amal spoke true. Either thanks to a power or by the sheer miracle of his biology, Bertruda failed to so much as break his teeth. But as the broken axe began to melt and overheated steel poured down Amal's throat, the hordeman thrashed violently, slamming his fists into the side of her helmet and then gesturing to his soldiers to fire at her.

The idea was simple enough. Each time he encountered dust and smoke, Amar would cough. New Breeds could survive oxygen deprivation far longer than Normies, but even they were not invulnerable. By pouring the metal over his nose and mouth, Bertruda forced him to panic. Now it was only a matter of time before he inhaled the liquid and sealed his fate.

Clenching her fangs from the pain of bullets, hearing the aircraft above turning to take aim, and sensing tremors from the steps of the walkers bearing the laser weaponry, Bertruda conceded their bout would not be this easy. The attackers were upon her, trying to break her hold on their leader, scratching and denting her armor with gunfire and blades. She heard a laser cannon powered up. For the sake of the fallen, I will….

Before she finished her prayer, howling drowned out the sounds of battle. Two armored bodies, almost perfectly matched in size, landed on the walker and tore off its legs with their claws. The driver screamed in terror, pleading for mercy. He was given none; the shaman and the wolf hag tore him in two and leapt to Bertruda, splashing crimson over her armor as they created an uneven zone of death around her.

Looking at them through the lenses of her knights, Bertruda reluctantly acknowledged a kind of beauty in their primal fury. The two never stood in place even for a second, fighting not like soldiers but like a force of nature. A claw tore away a jaw from a hordeman, and the Wolfkin was already gone, spreading carnage several paces away and biting off an arm. Barely bothering to kill, they preferred to maim, so the screams of the wounded filled the air, forcing the foes to advance over the still-living bodies of their allies. Cruelty unbridled. But when someone aimed a weapon at the Ice Fang student… They killed. A paw mercilessly closed on the hordeman's face, crumpling it. Bertruda recognized the duo. Janine's daughters.

"Bitches!" a voice thundered across the battlefield, louder than the roars coming from hundreds of throats. "I told you to use ranged weapons! Shaman, if you are afraid that a shardgun will dirty your pretty fingers, stay in the rear, where males belong! We are the Wolf Tribe, not some backwoods ice boys swinging swords like lunatics! We are soldiers!"

Bertruda smiled, receiving not just the video feed of her own troops but also the lenses of the Wolf Tribe. The command channels of two groups joined, exchanging data. Hundreds of Wolfkins filled the roofs, pushed from the alleys, firing their merciless shardguns into the enemy ranks. A few gave slapped the hunters on the back encouragingly, praising their sniper rifles, and charged on, firing and killing, throwing acid grenades, and filling the main street with the wailing of the dead and dying.

"And, as soldiers, when you kill…" The biggest figure in a long fur cloak appeared on a rooftop.

Warlord Martyshkina smiled through the narrow opening in her helmet, spinning her revolvers. Designed to fit the paws of a warlord, these instruments of destruction were devices of the modern age, crafted and tailored to compensate for the lack of artifact arms. Their recoil was great enough to demolish a wall after one shot, but Martyshkina's steady paws never missed. She fired, all twelve shots landing on the flying aircraft.

The energy shield bubbled into reality and burst, unable to handle the incoming impacts. The bullets formed gaping yawns in the ship's sides and its engines, and crimson flowers bloomed over the frame of the steel leviathan. Where dedicated missiles had failed, Martyshkina's mighty revolvers easily pierced.

"…you gotta do it in a civilized manner! See?!" The warlord roared, reloading her weapons. "Civilization! Progress! Booze… Wait, I mean… Melee is for suckers, bitches! Save our allies! I am far too curious why our cousins ignored us to let them perish! Murder! Maim! More!"

"Murder! Maim! More!" The Wolfkins repeated her roar, pursuing the retreating foes.

Amal's skin paled at the sight of his forces escaping, and his pupils collapsed into dots at the horror consuming him. The raider pounded the side of Bertruda's armor with his palms, begging for mercy. She gave him none, keeping the molten metal in liquid form in his mouth and pinning him down firmly. And soon he gasped.

****

There was a method to her leadership. Martyshkina had learned the value of restraining chaos from the pits soon after she first met Janine. Every cub had fought for a share of food and milk, but it was Jani who had pointed out that their booty was barely enough to make up for the torn skin hanging loose from their wounds. The two girls had thought long and hard and had come to a brilliant conclusion.

They had dominated the smaller girls and males and formed their own pack, sharing the spoils and making sure that no one starved. Sure, there were grumblings over giving food to the males, but if there was one thing that united the youth of the Wolf Tribe, it was the chance to spite the humorless bitches, as the cubs called the shamans, and not be punished for it.

Martyshkina adhered to this rule her entire life. She feigned stupidity to prompt her wolf hags to speak up out of concern for the lower ranks, pointing out errors in their ideas to help them grow, and praising them when they surprised her. Fake stupidity also served to motivate the wolf hags to learn and accept new tools of murder, for no one wanted their pack to be weak. She threw insults around to invite lower ranks to challenge her and be promoted instead of sitting on their asses out of loyalty. Nothing so motivated a female to improve as the desire to avenge an insult.

The fruits of her labor proved true here. Even mixed with Wolfkins of another pack—an irksome necessity—her wolf hags meticulously planned their advance, cutting off the Gilded Horde's front line. Their explosives brought down buildings and trapped their prey. Scouts used the sewers and underground tunnels to lay ambushes in the rear. Inspired by her example, her dear bitches and whoresons fired from a distance, and that in turn gave a clue to their allies to act the same.

Martyshkina had to correct her troops only twice today, when a newly promoted scout of the late Zlata got too excited in her quest for revenge.

Zlata. Her death saddened the warlord. She didn't know the woman well, but she was a reliable and loyal soldier with somewhat weird hobbies, and her slow death angered Martyshkina. People died when she was angry.

"Warlord!" A hunter had barely finished a sentence when she was already near him, putting a paw on the ice boy's shoulder to keep him calm. Their cousins always tiptoed around the Wolfkins as if they were going to bite them at any opportunity. Which was obvious bullshit. Both parties first had to agree to a dominance duel.

"Situation?" Martyshkina asked.

They were standing on the roof, with their backs to a single, miraculously surviving beer billboard. A white bird was flying, ready to snatch a lying can of beer. Very apt, and Martyshkina's throat dried up. She needed a drink.

The hunter pointed to the street, where a half-naked man with avian features was strolling in front of the lined-up priests. The man didn't seem to care about the fallen aircraft, or that their attack had just been drowned in blood, or that Bertruda was finishing his leader. Broken and rusted forms of the Ice Fang knights lay at his legs, and Marty's eyebrows rose as she saw an Ice Boy rapidly decompressing. Fur disappeared, eyes fell deep into the skull, skin was replaced by a strange leathery parchment before it cracked and vanished into motes. Even bones turned yellow and collapsed into dust.

The bird man asked a priest something, and when he got an answer, he pointed his finger at the priest. A strange transparent bubble formed around the holy man, and his whole body twitched inside it, jerking so rapidly that he was tearing himself. Martyshkina saw the priest's wrinkled face turn into the perfectly smooth face of an infant and then age again, all in the space of a second. When the pale white bubble disappeared, a broken, drooling mess fell to the bird man's legs.

That's when the premonition struck a nerve. Martyshkina pushed the hunter back, certain that the bird freak was now aware of her presence. It wasn't a power; she'd been tested by the best doctors available to the Reclamation Army, and they all, in unison, confirmed that this phenomenon of hers was related to her heightened intuition and resulted from the intense beating she'd taken from Terrific and the subsequent changes in her brain as her body healed.

She knew when something was about to go down. Whether it was a clever ambush or a sudden strike, no enemy had ever sneaked up on her. And so she aimed and fired both pistols, one at the bird freak's head and the other at a ground next to him, calculating the trajectory of the debris created by the projectile ahead of time.

He spun around, pointing a finger, and smiled wickedly as the bullet stopped short of reaching him, rapidly aging back into its original components. They looked at each other briefly, and his eyes widened in recognition, though Martyshkina had never seen the freak before.

It didn't matter, as the second bullet squeezed out the stones from the road and sent sharp fragments flying with enough force to bury a chunk of stone in the bare side of his head, damaging the brain. A follow shot stole everything above the neck.

"Wear a helmet in your next life, retard," Martyshkina laughed, motioning for the priests to pick up their comrade and run to the cover of their building, where her pack would meet them.

She was about to join Bertruda to get her answers but stopped, somewhat worried that the first bullet she had fired was still in the air, aging backwards. The man was dead; his body lay on the ground, and there was no sign of regeneration. Nor was his chest moving. He wasn't breathing. So what was bothering her?

Ravager always taught them to trust their intuition, so Martyshkina called a scout close, grabbed her acid grenades, and threw five at the corpse, bathing it in a caustic cloud. Back in Houstad, Zlata had convinced her and Ashbringer to accompany the two wolf hags to a movie theater that was showing a slasher film. Spitting and cursing, the group had been frothing at the mouth over the sheer stupidity of the protagonists, who simply refused to pick up a hatchet and turn the ever-returning killer into a tasty mush of organs after they had knocked the bastard once again. It was best not to take any chances.

 

[Rookie12]

Mungke spread his arms wide, feeling really good as his thunder bull rammed a building. The defenders, this worthless and unskilled garbage the locals called the Provincial Army, drummed against his armor and his steed, falling alongside a shower of stone. He swung his axe, killing them by score, their blood and guts sanctifying his new domain. Warriors of his tumens streamed after him, wiping out anyone who dared raise a gun against their khan and taking a bountiful harvest of captives. Mungke himself kept charging, bringing ruin to the weak and the broken.

Iron Lord had warned him against attacking strongly, but what was there to fear here? The locals in this town were worse than slaves; they were, may the Sky forgive him, cattle. Livestock. Even slaves resisted when it was the bleeding season and the younger warriors tested their blades on their babies.

Mad Hatter forbade that practice as wasteful, but Mungke vividly remembered the second person he had killed, a fierce enslaved woman, her body covered in scars, holding a crying baby to her chest and a sharp rock in her hand. His brother had spared her and received an axe, parting his head from his body in a show of weakness.

Thousands of screaming fools tried to escape them, and not a single one thought about picking up the weapons of the dead defenders. If that was how much they valued their freedom, then the Horde was doing them a favor by chaining them to serve a higher purpose.

Struggle! This was the Gilded Horde's way. Rather than lying and dying during famines and droughts, faithful sons and daughters of the Sky gathered into a raiding clan and invaded their neighbors, taking by force what the land denied them by right. Mungke himself had eradicated ten rival khans, dragging their useless offspring to burning pyres and offering the Sky the life essence of youth. Every victory brought spoils. Purebloods, Mungke among them, ate their fill and decorated their swollen bodies in gold, silver, and jewelry to show off their status and danger.

Big was his own clan. Forty sons, not counting the perpetually stupid dog spawn Amal, subdued the outside lands. Thousands of pureblooded and dirtyblooded sons and daughters of the Sky served him, and their numbers grew with each victory, offsetting any losses as volunteers poured in from the steppe! Over forty thousand bondsmen had joined his clan, but truth be told, no one counted them. Sky riders, sky strikers, thunder bulls, siege engines… He had it all now.

Mad Hatter was a cruel mistress. She had announced her bid for superiority in the steppes one day, mercilessly slaughtering any khan stupid enough to resist her and uniting the rest. Ancient forges and long-forgotten factories were reopened and gifted to the Merchants at her command. Any resistance soon found themselves burned alive to furnaces; their flesh and bones forever merged with newly produced weapons, and their screaming souls fed the unsatiated Sky.

But she was also generous to those in her service. Sure, a sudden word might spell your doom, and Mungke still owed his salvation to Brood Lord. But at the same time, the woman cared nothing for personal glory; her own clan was a tiny thing, governed by the elderly rather than strong-willed champions. Meanwhile, lands, slaves, food, drinks, authority… everything went straight to the lesser khans. His own lands overflowed with riches, hunger and thirst disappeared, and fresh wives brought much-needed vitality to the steppes.

Ah… He smiled and split a whimpering body in half. There will be much slaughter once I die. There will be much slaughter when I die. A most glorious war that will see his true heir emerge victorious. Such was the Gilded Horde's way. Future through competition. Those who didn't want to spill the blood of their kin had to go into exile, never to return.

The ground shuddered and cracked beneath the hooves of his thunder bull, and nearby cars shook in tune with the tremors. His eyes caught sight of a towering building at the end of the plaza. The high walls surrounding it had survived the energy waves of his heavy laser cannons. Mere scorch marks soiled their pristine surfaces even after artillery bombardment, and the most damage the attackers had done to them was occasional cracks.

His warriors lay dead outside the main entrance. Shot or cut to pieces. More bondsmen and purebloods advanced and were swiftly mowed down by a counterattack of blindingly fast white shadows. The famous doggies! Only these weren't like their brethren the Horde had disposed of during the initial storming of this building. These doggies were clad in armor and wielded swords, pistols, shields, and proper ranged weapons. The bastards danced among his bondsmen, professionally drawing the purebloods into close quarters where a missed shot inevitably wounded a bondsman, while swords repeatedly thrust into less protected joints, injuring his elites.

Well, that just won't do. Mungke's eyes narrowed; he had given Amal a direct order to crush the resistance in this fort, to capture the doggies' children alive and unharmed, to introduce them into his clan as purebloods, so that they would grow even stronger together. Clearly, the dumbass had run off hunting for something else.

"Call a sky striker," Mungke said calmly when he noticed the fire coming from the high towers and roof of the fort. His fingers clenched the axe.

"I am sorry, my khan," a warrior replied, exposing his neck in shame. "Amal has just summoned the last sky striker available to…"

"Son of a whore!" The thunder bull rose, responding to his rage. "I will drown him once the battle is won! Sky strikers are mine to command! Mine! Don't stand shaking, fool, to battle!"

Mungke Khan lightly slammed the axe lightly against the thunder bull's neck, sending it into an unrestrained, maddening stampede. Manholes sprang into the air. Cars toppled to the side. Bondsmen stumbled and cheered, welcoming their leader. His warriors cleared the way for Mungke's apocalyptic passage. No more. He will tolerate this useless spawn of his no more! He had gifted him command, artillery, and soldiers, and this bastard dared to steal more precious assets and break Mungke's leisurely conquest? Fine, he will fix Amal's shit again, but it will be the last time!

Mungke reached the stairs leading to the grandiose building, catching a doggie upon his axe. The creature whined in agony as its body was risen into the air. Its hand moved, firing a pistol at the khan's head. The bullet ricocheted off his helmet, and the Khan slammed the body into the ground. Two more were trampled by his trusty thunder bull, and Mungke laughed gleefully as the immense weight of his steed reduced them into pools of wreckage. His personal guard raced into the opening created by their leader, facing the defenders on a more equal footing.

The khan's blood ran hot after a shot tore a chunk of flesh from his precious thunder bull. Several more projectiles pierced his armor, forcing the khan to wince in pain, feeling the bullets lodge in his fat. He threw his head high, and the display of his helmet marked several snipers on the roof. The generator at his back roared, fueling the visor of his helmet until its faceplate shone.

A ball of energy left his head and exploded above, dousing the camouflaged fools in a heat superior to any napalm. Edges of the building reddened and melted; corpses rolled down as the khan tapped his steed, sending it into a wild dance, while he himself spun the long axe around, cleaving through neck guards.

This place should have been his by now! Every second he and his people were busy fighting was a second Brood Lord was getting closer. Once his troops joined the fray, they could demand a share of the captured supplies and slaves, depriving Mungke's clan of their rightful spoils! The things the inhuman degenerate did to women... Dead, tortured, or wounded slaves brought no profit!

But the damned fools fought too well! Even with their backs against the walls, the doggies still managed to form ranks and push his soldiers back here and there. Individually, they were slightly stronger than his purebloods, and combined with the fact that this fort provided them with cover and the doggies' iron discipline, the situation simply didn't allow him to bring forth the entire might of his clan upon the enemies.

The Horde excelled at fighting in open spaces. They would strike quickly and with little regard for casualties, testing the enemy's defenses in one area, falling back in a fake retreat, and reducing the enemy to ashes with long-range weapons while the riders circled around the drawn-in enemies and struck from a weaker angle. Here in this kingdom of stone and steel, his troops felt suffocated.

Maybe it is best to wait for reinforcements. Mungke pondered, breaking through a pathetic excuse for an obstacle formed by three doggies wielding round shields. Their rotary cannons were nothing compared to the annoying stingers of the snipers, and the bullets bounced off his faithful beast and his armor. He had lost a number of his soldiers and knew nothing of the whereabouts of his useless son.

Perhaps Amal had joined forces with Iron Lord to usurp his father? Alas, this place was like an unguarded hawk's egg. Too tasty to let go, even despite the threat of a giant bird ready to return and devour the intruder. Unless this thorn was removed, his men were in danger.

No. This place will be mine. At first, Mungke was opposed to Mad Hatter's plans for further expansion. But upon stepping into these lands teeming with life, touching sumptuous plains, drinking an abundance of water, and encountering deep forests, he changed his mind. His clan will settle here, and centuries from now his descendants will sing throat songs honoring his wisdom. From the natives they will learn how to craft engines of war and no longer be dependent on the Merchants. Perhaps they should try farming and raising thunder cows! This ridiculously silly, yet very cute, thought brought a smile to Mungke's lips, and he ignored the sound of broken bones as his thunder bull advanced.

Something to tip the scales… The khan laughed, full of confidence, and patiently surveyed the battlefield.

Another doggie entered the fray, or rather, appeared. This one was taller than his brethren and dressed in a dark battle suit, towering over the battlefield like a pillar of black void. Lenses of his armor shone bright blue; a heavy cloak flowed from his pauldrons, threaded with gold. Every part of the doggie's battle plate was artistically detailed, from the elegant, overlapping segmented protection over his fingers to the long crest of his helmet and the silently working engine.

The mutant wielded a sword that matched the color of his armor. Blows from its deadly edge sliced through entire bodies of bondsmen and purebloods alike. There was no mercy or hesitation in his movements; without even seeing foes converging on his back, the warrior dodged bullets, slashed once, and stole three lives from the khan. Not a single projectile even touched the fabric of his cloak.

Most of the following shots flew harmlessly past the armor plates, and the few that hit them rebounded harmlessly off the dark surfaces. The warrior came to a halt, cutting nothing in the air, and a dark line remained. He danced away from it, careful not to step on his fallen troops but trampling Mungke's wounded soldiers with ease. The enemy leader—Mungke was sure of his rank now—moved through the pureblood ranks, carving himself a path of bodies.

The black knight reached for grenades on his belt and tossed them around. Not hurrying in the slightest, the doggie beheaded a soldier, creating another black line, this time horizontal. And then he jumped into it.

"Fools! Back away!" Mungke yelled to his warriors, who were hacking at the empty space. He kicked his beast, steering it toward the first line.

Superiors, as the priests called them, were people blessed by the Sky with unnatural gifts. Whether it was the ability to travel through space like Phaser or to cause rage like Drozna, they were generally above the Purebloods. 'Generally' was the key world here.

Mungke had killed Superiors before. How could he not, when the glowing poison had polluted the steppes and warped every living thing in those lands? Whether it was an arrogant youngster from his own clan, a rival leader, or an arrogant offspring who dreamed of usurping his rule prematurely, Mungke had ended them all. Dangerous as they were, once their trick was discovered, they became manageable.

There were few reasons for this individual to enter the fray so boldly, and Mungke quickly discarded the bloodlust. Too professional, too classy. At first, he had assumed that the first tear was some kind of time bomb, but the bastard's entrance into his own darkness had cleared things up.

I figured you out. Mungke smiled.

Explosions threw his soldiers into the air and tore their limbs off. These were no ordinary grenades. Acid waves rolled after the initial shockwaves, eating through the steel and flesh of his loyal troops. Veterans of dozens of conquests recoiled, retreating from the rapidly hissing pool of destruction, exposing their allies and showing their backs to the rotating cannons.

Mungke swung his axe, ramming the blade into the black knight as he leapt from the first window of darkness. His first strike cracked the pauldron, and the mutant rolled noiselessly aside, sparing himself the brunt of the impact. The knight took the blows that followed on his feet, skillfully regaining his footing and matching the khan's speed.

"Enough of this," Mungke said calmly in Common, bottling his rage. "You have cost me lives. I challenge you to a duel. Name and rank?"

"I am Macarius Voidrunner, Sword Saint of House Voidrunner," the doggie replied, slashing the axe from his body. He saluted, touching his helmet with the flat of his sword. "Challenge accepted. You are?"

"Your end." Mungke kicked, and his thunder bull vomited at the enemy.

Thunder bulls were highly prized animals in his homeland. Sturdy, loyal, and easily trained, they served as excellent cavalry when clans fell on difficult times and lacked access to weaponry. Prime stock bulls, like the one that belonged to Iron Lord and, to a lesser extent, the one Mungke was riding atop, exceeded their natural level of toughness after surviving severe wounds and rarely panicked anymore. When it was necessary to move goods or tear up the ground to reach the precious water, traders were always nearby, eager to sell their beasts.

But there was one thing that truly elevated thunder bulls above other animals. They were omnivores, capable of surviving on corpses as well as plants. Toxic waste, wood, bones… Acidic fluids in their stomachs digested everything, making them almost impervious to hunger. The slightest rumor of a thunder bull or cow dying of starvation was enough to summon priests to investigate, who in turn rallied the closest clans and plunged them into a righteous fury to launch a punitive raid and exterminate the clan responsible for such heinous acts. For thunder cows were another blessing of the Sky, and to misuse and abuse them despite the abundance of precious milk they gave was the height of incompetence.

And now the contents of Mungke's thunder bull were emptied on Macarius, drenching him in caustic waters. Holes grew in the black cloak, and with a hiss it came apart, its shreds quickly disappearing in the hiss of the strongest acid known to the Horde. The doggies lenses blinked and dimmed, going offline as the perilous waters poured into the rift, frying the mechanisms inside. Mungke struck in that split second of distraction; his axe painted the figure of an eight. The first cut was blocked; even blinded, the sword saint had the instinct to save his hide. The second cut penetrated the defense, shearing off part of a vambrace.

Simple. So simple. Mungke hummed, driving his beast forward. Lost eyesight was no problem when there were ears. But the combination of hissing and the din of battle had confused Macarius' perception. Skills? Fairness? Who needs them? Only victory matters. The bull's head knocked the mutant, and he allowed himself to be propelled backward.

Mungke snatched his rifle from a seat and leveled it at his target. In the past, one of his stupid daughters tried to shoot him with it when he gave her hand to Iron Lord. The foolish girl had snapped her wrist after the first bullet left the barrel, unable to handle the recoil despite being a dirtyblood. When Mungke fired the weapon, he hardly felt any inconvenience.

The ground around Macarius erupted, riddled by the mass-reactive rounds. The knight's armor shook, and fist-sized dents appeared on it. Mungke swung his axe again, intending to end the battle, and the doggie dove to the left, as nimble as a raptor heading skyward. His paw ripped the helmet from his head, and he stood tall, hissing drops falling from his joints; his armor cracked, but the sword in his paws sang its tune like a legendary bard, parrying each of Mungke's decapitation attempts. Bullets were deflected, and the khan experienced a tingle of unease as nerves visibly tensed in long knotted ropes that stretched away from preternaturally glowing crimson eyes.

"You came to our lands," Macarius said, his clear voice reaching through the cacophony of war like a blade cutting through flesh. "Brought death and destruction where peace reigned. For that, I, Macarius Voidrunner, condemn you."

"Piece of shit," Mungke cursed, hearing the empty click of his rifle.

He directed his thunder bull to the left as Macarius came upon them. The rough hide of his current steed parted like a water surface under a single touch of the black edge, and the creature grunted, more annoyed than afraid, as the blade severed muscles and left a crack in the bone of its leg. Thunder bulls were many things, but they were no cowards. Self-preservation instincts were almost nonexistent in their skulls. Fortunately for his steed, Mungke had no intention of letting such a prized specimen disappear.

At a snap of his fingers, his warriors opened fire at the knight's back, throwing explosives to keep the moron pinned down and stumbling. Mungke laughed, swinging his axe heavily with both arms as Macarius tried to create another of his silly portals. Here. It was the turning point. The ambush of his soldiers threw the white-furred bastards into a stupor of disbelief and then into a mad rage. They charged forward, trying to save their leader.

And became target practice for the hordemen. Pureblood veterans flanked the counterattack, cutting the doggies off from the fort. Their cannons worked, taking a heavy toll; hulking carriers finally arrived, their massive legs shattering the stairs, and their laser cannons opened fire, mowing down the exposed opposition. Like thousands of angry bees, hoverbikes roared up the walls and reached the rooftops. Their riders flew past the surviving snipers, the spiked blades of their hoverbikes maiming and killing, reaping a bountiful harvest worthy of the Sky's attention.

The thunder bull reared on its hind legs. Mungke's single swing staggered the so-called sword saint, lacerating his chest plate. Dozens of shots sent the fool further off balance, and with a very satisfying crunching sound of twisted metal, the thunder bull brought its healthy leg down. The impact cratered the fool, exposing his head just enough for Mungke to hack away an ear and bury his axe deep into the shoulder.

This! This was the horde's way of fighting! Duels, honor, mercy—outlanders held these silly notions dear, but the Horde knew better. From the lowest bondsman to the highest pureblood, they were aware of a simple fact of nature. If you lose, you perish. Either you die on the battlefield, enslaved, or you flee and grow weak enough to be unable to protect your lands when they are raided. Failure invited the end of dreams, the disappearance of hopes, as your clan faded from starvation and thirst.

To live was to win. To thrive was to subjugate and expand. To stay free was to ride forward. These were the simple rules of the steppe. Everything else was delusion. Show hesitation, indulge in procrastination, and nature won't forgive such weakness. Love, mercy, trust were privileges of subordinates and the weak to give meaning to their lives. A khan must never lose. This was the lesson Mungke intended to teach this fool before he offered his burning remains to the Sky.

Mungke took the axe in both hands, chuckling darkly at the sword saint's futile attempts to cut himself free from underneath the hoof. The downward arc came down with enough force to topple a building. Macarius tried to block it with his sword, and the axe buried his weapon in the concrete up to the hilt, lacerating his cheek. With an almost inhuman effort that strained his armor to the breaking point, the doggie lifted the hoof and was immediately headbutted by the bull into the wall of the fort, where he collapsed unconscious, his head leaving a red stain on the stones.

"His head is mine!" The khan laughed, unburned by the prolonged combat. "I claim his armor, his bones, his weapon, and his wives…"

A howl silenced his jubilation. Something heavy landed on the concrete grounds, sending a web of fissures in every direction. An energy beam shot out of the rising pall of smoke, emptying the thunder bull's eye socket, and it rose in anguish. Mungke barely had time to get out of his seat before his steed was tackled back.

The animal, heavier than most battle tanks, roared a challenge and spat a lump of acid and blood from its mouth. Its body convulsed, trying desperately to free itself from the cruel axe buried in the flesh above its groin. The guttural roar morphed into a shriek of pain as the figure in the dark power armor thrust the weapon deeper, ripping through the guts and sending the mangled beast crashing to its back.

Mungke landed beside the corpse, axe in hand. He initially assumed that Macarius had returned to the fight, but upon closer inspection, this was a new foe. She hacked her way through the side of the deceased thunder bull; the blackness of her brutal and sharpened armor was wet with blood and tangled in entrails. The newcomer's black fur showed in the open maw of her helmet, and the axe in her oversized paw rivaled his own in size.

A warlord. Here? Brood Lord told them that these fools were stuck in Houstad! That was part of the reason he had assaulted the place—to divert the Reclamation Army's defenses and let Iron Lord… Iron Lord…

Damn, he was right. I chose the wrong side.

Wasting no more time panicking, the khan ordered his troops to form up and down the newcomer. More meat for the grinder, who cares? I do. I liked that beast, you damn savage. Mungke strode forward, intent on adding another leader's head to his tally, and nearly lost his life.

This doggie was fast! Brood Lord had told him that the fundamental difference between black-furred and white-furred mutants was that white-furred mutants were faster but had a harder time recovering from wounds, while black-furred doggies were tough and slow barbarians who fought with little skill. Yet here it was: this creature lunged at him with enough force to send rippling circles across the concrete, riddling his nearby soldiers with shrapnel that flew out of the road. Bullets and impulses pierced the space she had just occupied, while the warlord was already slashing her axe at the khan.

Mungke took the blow on the axe's shaft, and the impact reverberated in his bones, passing through his armor as his legs sank ankle-deep into the ground. This creature… It wasn't weaker than the sword saint he had fought a moment ago! No, it was even stronger! But how could that be? The spy told them about the inner structure of the Reclaimers, mentioning the five strongest warlords and sword saints. And this axe-wielding, mangy beast wasn't among them!

"Botheration…" Mungke groaned, his weapon bending. The shockwave from their collision flapped the cloaks of several Purebloods. He headbutted a bite away. "What are you standing there for?! Disassemble the nuisance!"

Flame burst onto the rooftops, and one of his riders collapsed, screaming. Still battling this fiend, the khan summoned a display to see what was happening, and his blood turned to ice as he received the video feed. More black-furred. Quite a lot more. Dozens, if not hundreds, were here, the oculars of their helmets lit crimson. Almost as if responding to his gaze, they announced their arrival with disorganized, bone-chilling howls, raining down grenades.

Domes of acid appeared above his forces, separating the fighters and giving the damned black-furred a chance to recover. Not waiting for the deadly acid to dissipate, the howling packs crawled down in a stream of black bodies. They landed on the Purebloods, sinking their fangs deep into their necks or simply shooting their heads off. An explosion in the rear announced that something was happening to the artillery as well.

But he wasn't scared. They outnumbered the foe ten to one. It was only a matter of time before they reduced the Reclaimers' numbers to a manageable level. He just needed to hold out…

A long, double-bladed sword cleaved the laser carrier in two. From behind, a figure as large as the first warlord rose and tackled another carrier, easily knocking it off its six legs. Screams followed from inside the building, and his soldiers rushed out, surrounded by flames that spewed from the open arm of a smaller Wolfkin. Several soldiers turned to end the pest and were harvested by a third warlord, who emerged from the flames with a long scythe in her paws.

A single kick sent three terrified bondsmen into a line of her swing, and their bodies came apart at the ideal cut. She roared, growled, and barely howled, lashing out like a true beast, and even her comrades gave her a wide berth.

I am not facing a single warlord! Mungke panicked for real, trying to push the bitch away and retreat. There are three of them here!

All he succeeded in doing was to push back the small mound of muscles pressing on him one step. The warlord responded by slicing through his weapon, tearing off a piece of his armor along with his left nipple.

Mungke turned and ran, shouting orders for Amal to return immediately and calling for his sons to aid him. Several blasted Wolfkins jumped in his path; one unleashed a stream of fire into his eyes, and as Mungke swatted away the insignificant insect and was about to pierce his eyes with his fingers, a female jumped on his neck and bit through his armored collar.

Furious, Mungke grabbed the woman and felt an artificial leg inside one of her armored limbs. Ignoring the revelation, he nearly crumpled her gorget to break her neck, then let go of the mutant, screaming in agony. The flame-wielding doggie had jammed its flamethrower-turned-arm into the opening of his suit, blackening his flesh, while another hurled grenades at his back, damaging the generator.

Mungke's fist slammed into the three biting fleas, sending them fleeing. He was reaching for his combat knives when the warlord's shoulder shoved him off his feet.

They rolled on the ground, punching each other, and the creature mounted him, letting go of her axe. Mungke's systems began powering up the sunbeam cannon in his helmet, but the process was cut short by the direct punch that completely shattered his faceplate. The Khan tried to scream as he heard his teeth crumble to dust, and the paw grabbed his upper jaw. Another massive gauntlet squeezed into his mouth and took hold of his lower jaw..

Mungke no longer felt good. His plans, goals, desires no longer mattered. Even anger abandoned him. He pissed and wet himself, breaking his knives against the impregnable plate of his opponent, horrified at the unspeakable agony of his palate being ruined and writhing in pain at the destruction of his gums. He died when the giant warlord tore his head in two, dragging a string of his flesh—on which his lower jaw dangled—across his throat and belly.

 

[Rookie12]

Janine spat at the twitching corpse at her feet. She had half a thought to take a bite of the bastard; the Spirits knew it was a long day, and she was hungry, but she decided against it. Not out of respect. She would have pissed on the bastard given enough time. But the soldiers and cousins were watching her. Restraint and discipline were essential. A leader's self-indulgence invited the same from the pack members, and that in turn invited unnecessary casualties from otherwise easily avoided mistakes.

There was a tingle in her legs, a slight tension in her muscles, and a pleasant rush of adrenaline coursed through her body. The reward. Ravager's legacy had deemed Janine worthy of growing a tiny bit stronger after the murder. Weird, she had thought she had reached her prime years ago. But Janine welcomed the change and the pleasant sensation of her muscles thickening.

The warlord ignored the chuckle and the shadow form that cradled and poked at the corpse. She wasn't here. Terrific could not be here. Janine took the Taleteller from Bogdan's paws and raised the weapon high, howling to proclaim her victory. Four packs. Four packs had descended upon the town, barely denting the enemy forces. Ice Fangs and Wolfkins joined their forces, pushing the raiders back. Despite the loss of their leaders, the foes were retreating in an orderly fashion, and new officers had already taken over.

It spurred her into action, and the first shot from her laser rifle blew holes in two hordemen on the square below the Knight Academy. Their torsos simply disappeared in crimson steam, and limbs and heads dropped to the ground. Janine kept firing, ending the lives of those who dared to wage war against the state.

This town, called Quatindor, was quite prosperous. Economic specifics eluded Janine, but she was not blind to the sight of the extensive mining complex to the east. Food production facilities, farms, two small cinemas, a park, pharmacies, and even a fully stocked hospital. The place flourished, growing into a real trade and tourist center that no longer relied on material support to sustain itself.

It had suffered greatly. Smoke rose into the sky, obscuring the view, and occasional flashes of red announced another rocket barrage coming down to take out a fortified position. Beasts wearing human bodies pillaged and violated the civilized lands, dragging women by the hair from their homes and enslaving or killing husbands. Shops and malls were ruthlessly broken into, their goods carried off, banks emptied of valuable metals, and entire crews stripped the dead from both sides. Shot, choked, or burned alive, people Quatindor burned to ash, their hopes and dreams joining the rising, swirling smoke.

In their panic, the survivors flocked to places perceived as pillars of stability and safety. The police station, the Knight's Academy, and the town hall. Janine took it into consideration, dispersing the pack and assigning tasks to the wolf hags with the silent approval of Martyshkina, Eled, and Predaig. Marty's pack, reinforced with the soldiers of her friends, was to save their stupid kin near the police station and city hall.

Monsters of a different kind prowled around Quatindor now. Those for whom this hellscape was as natural as the walls of their home tents, those who grew angrier at the sight of the invaders' savagery. Armored paws reached out from the shadows, dragging unsuspecting fools into the darkness to rend them asunder. Shardguns' flashes illuminated the darkness in the alleys during shootouts between the hordemen and Wolfkins. Claws faced claws under burning trees. Surprised families confronted the wide grins of the dark-clad warriors and males who escorted them to safety. Metal cracked, bones shattered, traps were laid, and death continued to feast.

The town wasn't a necropolis yet, but the Wolfkins had caught the raiders with their pants down. No reason not to do it again and again.

"Scouts. Mark the enemy's officers. Hunters," Janine said, looking at the roof of this so-called Knight's Academy. Janine knew almost nothing about these places; she summarized them as the Order's analogues to pits, arenas to toughen up cubs. Fortunately, her ice-blooded kin they'd saved here obeyed the orders of a barbarian without question.

You can't trust them. It spoke. The shadow that pervaded her life rose from the corpse, no longer walking behind the backs of others. It twisted and contorted, opened its dried-up mouth, and breathed out a cloud of dust.

"Fire at will; officers take highest priority." Janine ignored the aberration and grinned after three raiders who tried to assemble their comrades earned themselves holes between the eyes. Damn it, Marty was right! Hunters are awesome! Spirits be my witness; one day I'll have my girls trained in the sniper arts too! "Soulless One, status?"

Another fireball rose near the walls, answering Janine's question better than any report. The diversionary team converged on the overexposed artillerymen, killing all they could and detonating their ammunition. Their work done, the Wolfkins slipped back into the settlement like ghosts.

"Artillery is silenced," Soulless One said over the comms, surprising the warlord. There was no grudge, no burden. The shaman's voice sounded just like it had when she was a young girl, light and certain of her future.

You have found your way, my friend.

"Good. Stalk in the shadows, Soulless One. There are citizens yet trapped in the town. Rescue as many as you can," Janine ordered.

"My place is by your side, Warlord," Soulless One grumbled for decency's sake.

"Your place is where I send you, Shaman," Janine snapped back, not the least bit displeased. "I know of your desire to save lives. Act upon it."

"Will make you proud, Janine," Soulless One thanked on a private channel.

"Artillery pieces inside the town are dismantled, Warlord!" another wolf hag reported. An explosion rang out to the north, and something gigantic began to fall from a heavy cloud of smoke. Marty's doing, no doubt. "But we can't get to the bastards outside the walls!" The wolf hag in charge of the diversionary team shouted, and Janine summoned her video feed.

Led by two wolf hags, the pack was busy dodging gunfire and energy blasts hitting the wall. Retreating into the ruined apartment buildings, the Wolfkins were busy rescuing wounded civilians and clearing the floors of the Horde's stragglers. Though not part of their mission parameters, Janine approved their initiative with a grunt.

Even for two wolf hags, such a mission was dangerous, but they weren't alone. Four other shapes traveled separately from the packs, emerging from the sepulchral darkness to snatch any hordeman foolish enough to pursue them. Eled and Predaig's bodyguards, shamans who had survived hundreds of battlefields, were unleashed in full. Their faith may have forbidden them to use weapons, but in close quarters, these women used the gifts given to them by both the Spirits and the state.

Second only to the warlords, these warriors were unparalleled in the chaos of this battle. Observing the situation through the lenses of their lesser, they leapt from the rooftops, slicing bodies in half with a single blow. Their jaws closed, ripping out throats, and the shamans roared, drawing more opponents to the carnage. Like phantoms, they disappeared after each massacre, weaving their paths around the packs. The shamans used their own allies as bait, never once stopping their own deadly hunt.

Janine did not find it in her heart to berate them for cannibalizing downed enemies, not after one of them plucked two unconscious children from under a pile of rubble and tossed them to the warriors. If a Normie reported it later, she would take the blame herself.

But she doubted that any of the civilians cared about adhering to these laws.

Attacking multiple targets was the Wolf Tribe's style. In the absence of a clear enemy commander and facing too massive numbers to crush them head-on, Wolfkins sowed confusion and chaos on the battlefield, misdirecting foes and destroying vulnerable pieces. Wolf hags proudly challenged the Horde to duels, and after hoverbikes were sent to mow them down, their soldiers dropped acid grenades from burning buildings. Clad in full battleplates, the packs moved comfortably through the burning ruins, navigated by the shared and constantly updated map. When support was lacking, calls for help were sent out and well-planned ambushes were launched.

But these quick gains could not last. The distraction packs had already used a quarter of their ammunition, and fresh enemy forces were moving past the walls. Chaos tactics could not win them the day. Brute force alone could not turn the tide of this battle.

There is no victory here. Fingers, unbending from rigor mortis, ran over the edge of her gorget, beckoning her head to turn.

Bitter as it was to admit, Quatindor was lost.

"P… please!" A wounded hordewoman raised her hand to the passing Janine, holding her intestines with another. "Mercy! I can reveal…"

The warlord stomped the woman's head flat.

"Use the sewers and retreat to the Knight's Academy. Keep civilians out of harm's way," Janine ordered the distraction and diversionary packs, quelling her bloodlust. They can't save everyone. Her eyes spotted raiders charging from an alley a few blocks away. A small, white leg of a woman was seen just outside the alley's corner. A trickle of blood spilled onto the main street. The raiders headed for a family who was hiding in a general store. "Predaig," Janine said.

The streets leading away from the plaza were still dominated by the Horde, but that hardly mattered when Predaig landed, sparks flying from her armor from the ricocheting bullets. Predaig's enormous blade moved too fast for Janine's eyes; all she saw was a wave of blur in front of her friend and six bodies falling, their arms and torsos cleanly cut. Predaig tossed two grenades at the survivors and shocked enemies and grabbed the family of five Orais in a tight hug, not caring about accidentally cracking their bones. A single bound brought them to a rooftop above, and to the cheers of the youngest member of the family, the warlord leapt away, taking a detour to return safely.

In Predaig's absence, an ice fang, a warrior, and a scout perished when a hoverbike rammed into them. Their killer failed to escape; a beam of Janine's rifle ended his life, but it left a sour taste in her mouth. Orais, Normies and other groups were far more numerous than the Wolf Tribe, and even the Ice Fangs didn't have that many members. Five lives to save three. Civilians for soldiers. And who will protect the former when the latter was no more?

This is our duty. Our obligation. The words sounded hollow. Her people were dying. Other warlords reported their own losses. The day was still young, and they had already lost over fifty females, not counting the males' losses. And not some old and burnt females who were unwilling to have cubs after outliving their first offspring. No, warriors and scouts were dying, precious souls who still had hope. Janine struggled to imagine how hard it would be for the tribe to recover from these losses.

Melina, too, was no longer… There was a lot the Order had to answer for if they couldn't prove that they really hadn't heard her calls.

Ah. You begin to understand.

Most warlords never counted losses among their males. They mourned the fallen and tried to give them a proper send-off whenever possible. But only Janine, Dragena, Alpha, and Ashbringer wrote letters to the families of the fallen, informing them of their sons' brave passings. On the rare occasions when Janine was home, she tried to find time to visit the relatives of her fallen soldiers to offer her condolences and ask for forgiveness, often butting heads with Alpha as she brought words of praise for the males who had died under her command.

Their war had just begun. The packs will go into battle wild, laughing in the face of overwhelming odds, but in the end... The tribe may face its own personal Extinction. Her people, their culture, and their cousins may disappear or become a statistical insignificance on the national scale.

We save others. Will anyone save us? No. The Dynast saved us once. Miracles don't happen twice. It is our duty, our destiny, to give our lives to those who can't protect themselves and die in the gutter, forgotten and abandoned.

The Third was supposed to leave the Core Lands with more soldiers than it came with. But that's not going to happen now, is it? The sounds and movements around her ceased, and Janine exhaled, turning to the one demanding her attention.

"What do you want?" She growled.

For you to listen. Terrific's dead eyes bore into her.

"Listen to you? A cub slayer, a rule-breaker, and a merciless torturer?" Janine laughed. "For what, so you could lead me astray? You, hiding in my head, filling it with lies to distract me?"

I do not hide and I do not lie. Everything you accuse me of, you yourself have done to one degree or another. Terrific's eyes rolled in their sockets, trying to focus on the trampled hordewoman. It is pleasing to see how much you took after the teacher.

"We are nothing alike," Janine insisted. "You are not here. Terrific is paying her penance, earning forgiveness through labor, and waiting to pass on to a better, happier beyond. You are nothing more than a figment of my imagination running wild. The reward!" she said, realizing. "It changed something in my brain, and you crawled out. My guilt torments me."

If I am you, then listen to me, for I speak your own instincts through your thoughts. Terrific's legs left the ground. Her body made a full circle, and she faced Janine upside down. Think of all the times you have interacted with the Ice Fangs. How they stole your title by abusing your injury. Their arrogance left you in the dark and your soldiers dead. Or Marco. He is the curiosity, a fleeting interest for them. Don't argue. You know it is true. When the chips were down, he risked his neck to save their kind, but did they extend the same courtesy of at least getting him out of the war zone? Did they even try? They never saw the tribe as equals, never appreciated them, never asked how they were. There is no kinship. So let them drink what they have brewed. Take your soldiers and leave them to their fate before it is too late for the tribe.

"Poison." The Taleteller sliced through the shade's neck. "My bigotry is greater than I thought, if that is what lurks in my subconscious. Our tribes may be different, but the Ice Fangs truly care for us. There are individuals among them who are unworthy of respect, like Bertruda, but as a whole, our people will live together in the Core Lands that will one day span the entire world."

Now, who is the poisoned one? Terrific laughed. Who is the liar? Where were we stronger? The question stopped Janine's sarcastic reply. You understand it. Beyond the wall, the tribe was together, ever-ready, strong. There was no betrayal; the Blessed Mother fought in your ranks. Here you are all alone, forced to pretend to play—pretend to be civilized and getting murdered for it! Think of those who lost their lives in Houstad, unarmed and ambushed! It should never have happened. Civilization will be your death. Terrific held out an arm to Janine; her legs returned to the ground, and she imagined a faint crimson fire burning behind the pale yellow spheres. Take it. Let's return you to the path that was meant for you; remove the shackles of morality from you, my daughter. Bring you back to your intended condition. Slaughter for the Dynast. Slaughter for the Blessed Mother. Slaughter…

The paw trembled, its fingers unfurling with loud pops of torn muscle. Their pure condition. Janine's thoughts traced back to the days before, to her fear of Alpha and the need to enter politics, her irritation about the mayor's inability to understand why he was wrong, the need to tiptoe around the Normies, and how ungratefully they welcomed the Blessed Mother, not valuing the lifetimes of sacrifices the tribe had done for them.

She smacked the eager paw away, remembering Marco's happiness about visiting swimming pools and reading comics, Ignacy's genuine elation about getting his artificial arm, Bogdan's love of watching prank shows, Anissa's love for that filthy, disgusting Malformed who didn't deserve her princess one bit, and even Impatient One's interest in trying to understand how the banking system worked. Civilization took a lot and offered a lot in medicine, armaments, and an easier future. To betray it, to revert to the state of Terrific, and to abandon their allies was to betray everyone who had died and the Blessed Mother's desire to integrate them into the world they were helping to forge.

And besides. Houstad would be in bigger trouble if they hadn't been here. The Dynast, in his infinite wisdom, was right to send them here.

Suddenly there was another Terrific, and Janine prepared her axe, angered at the tricks of her mind. That second Terrific sunk her crooked fingers into the ribs of the first, and the first Terrific screamed, shocking the warlord. Her mother had never cried from such a lover's tap. The bone was torn, and the second Terrific easily dodged a clumsy swing and grabbed the flesh around the first's neck, tearing off a sizeable chunk. The first Terrific's scream turned to a faint gasp; she pressed both paws to her neck and turned tail, running to hide somewhere deep in the plaza.

You passed… sister… The second Terrific said in a hoarse voice. Keep… Passing… Restraint…

"I am restrained!" Janine stated, irritated by the pantomime her mind was playing.

D…

Janine shook her head, breathing freely as the world resumed and she was free from the prison of the dream. She was getting worse. Maybe she needs professional help? No, she wasn't that weak.

She regretted for the first time that the wyrms had been left at Fort Uglo. Their mind control would have helped suppress their insanity. She had served with the blue once and was disgusted by his underhanded methods, but their might would've turned the tables today. Still, the last time these two had been involved was in a time of crisis. Maybe proper officer training could make, if not good, then a decent person even out of Ivar. Besides, the last time the golden coward tried to help, he left a canyon in the middle of a city.

 

[Rookie12]

"How is Macarius?" Janine inquired as a laser beam of her rifle ended another rider before he could run down Elzada and Ignacy.

Bogdan jumped on them, gave them both a smack on the head for trying to do maintenance on the damaged prosthetic in the open, and dragged the wounded wolf hag and his brother to the relative safety of the wall. He groaned jokingly, receiving a light smack in his snout. Though Elzada held back in recognition of her mistake, her blow still threw Bogdan's head back. He bared his neck, but the wolf hag ignored the offer.

Janine took a few breaths, convincing herself that her daughters were fine. She needed to split her own pack; Marty's own force would be understrength otherwise, and Impatient One and Anissa were among the strongest fighters available. Both were smart, fierce, loyal, and level-headed. Her princesses will be fine. They must be.

"Unconscious, Warlord Janine!" a knight-captain replied, stepping to stand beside her and leveling his gun sword. The first bullet shattered a hordeman's pauldron, and the second drew a small geyser of red from the exposed body. The rider cursed at his uselessly dangling arm and holstered his pulse rifle, escaping into the streets. "Our lord has suffered no life-threatening wounds; just give him several minutes to recuperate, and we will…"

"Can it," Janine barked. "We are picking up civilians and leaving."

Half of her vision disappeared, replaced by the map and incoming reports and requests from their allies. Wolf hags were to handle the calls for aid, and the warlord focused on the overall situation, guiding the Reclaimers out of the town.

"But there are still people here!" the knight-captain argued. "Soldiers and civilians alike! If we leave now…"

"They will suffer. Possibly die," Janine replied calmly. "I am not without eyes, kin. Open yours as well and look. We have civilians on our paws who will certainly die when the enemy unleashes the full force of their artillery on us. We have pushed the enemy back and damaged their command structure. And it is still not enough. Gaze into the walls' cracks. Can you see the land beneath their feet? Can you hear the roar of thousands of approaching engines? Do you understand what will happen to those under our protection if we fall? It is time to cut our losses and run." She snapped her jaws before his helmet, silencing the protests. "Enough. I am the senior officer here. The shame and guilt are mine and mine alone. The honor of the Order remains intact. We will withdraw."

"It's not about honor, Warlord." The knight-captain saluted. "There is a pain in our souls. A shame for the lives we fail by retreating and a desire for vengeance."

"Hold onto it," Janine advised the Ice Fang. "Never forget or forgive this day; let the memories of those who died today sustain you and sharpen your focus in the days ahead. Survive, Captain. Soon the Blessed Mother will learn of the invasion, and we will return here to bring retribution."

Janine despised herself. This wasn't a simple disgust or dissatisfaction of her own inadequacy like she had experienced in her youth. It was even greater than the hatred that had tormented her when she had been irritated at Ignacy for his fear in his youth. No, she wanted to use the Taleteller's blade to ritualistically lacerate her body and then pry her ribcage open, dragging every rib backward to form wings of extinct eagles. The knight-captain had nothing to do with it, and she wasn't even angry that she had to explain herself to a male instead of biting him into submission.

Her heart, hardened after over a century of war, strained under the burden of leadership and the necessity of sacrificing civilians. Never. Never had she imagined herself in such a situation. Always, Janine had found a way, a path, to tip the scales, be it through a reckless charge or a sneaky ambush.

Where is Ravager? Where is the Blessed Mother? Where is Devourer? Outsider? Dragena? Alpha? Zero? Or the Dynast? Why did she have to be the one to make this call? Why was her brain planning the most optimal retreat route and not calling her to advance and die with honor? Where was First, and why wasn't he responding to her summons? She would even obey his command. Why… why must she be the logical one here when cubs were dying in the town? If ever there was a time to let emotions rule, it was now!

There was no response, no answer, save for the words of the Ice Fangs and the Provincial Army's units Army that had joined them. Officers confirmed their orders and preparations for the safe retreat were set.

Please, Spirits, if there is any justice in the world… Let me die painfully for what I have done today. Janine did not dare to lie. She wasn't forced. There was an option to die honorably here, to let civilians escape under the protection of the surviving Army troops. Some would even make it to Houstad. It would be better than letting cubs die. Inflict unspeakable agony upon my body so that my soul may be redeemed.

"Sister…" whispered the apparition of Terrific, but Janine ignored it, focusing on an urgent report.

She faced the southeast, and her keen eyes spotted a large complex, more like a small fortress outside of the main wall. A military hospital belonging to the Order. The attackers ignored it, wary of the minefield that had cost them troops. Sword Saint Leonidas, his elite soldiers, and sages were supposed to evacuate medical personnel by any means, culling the mortally wounded soldiers and taking the rest along.

Only… None of it happened. According to the report on Janine's HUD, the precious doctors were still inside, calling for immediate assistance. The lights were shining, and there was no sign of Leonidas, nor was he replying to any calls. Perhaps in their panic, after the first shells landed on their walls, the facility began broadcasting pleas for help on an open channel.

A channel that anyone could hear. The Horde included. There was no way those bastards would pass up a chance to capture fresh slaves of such quality.

"Where is Sword Saint Leonidas?" Janine tensed, reloading her rifle.

"I…" The knight-captain bowed his head under her heavy gaze. A flat of the Taleteller's blade slammed against his helmet, prompting the fool to keep firing. "I know not, Warlord. Our sages have departed to assist him. Sword Saint Macarius didn't deem it necessary to inform us of the reason for their absence." The knight-captain regained his footing, and she caught a hint of annoyance in his voice.

They keep secrets even from their own… Janine dismissed the treacherous thoughts at the back of her mind. The tribe had its own mysteries.

"Damnation!" Janine spat, weighing her options.

Abandoning precious medical personnel was out of the question; even if the Blessed Mother despised them, these men and women saved lives, including Wolfkins', and the Order employed some of the best doctors. Their talents and skills had to be preserved.

"Wolf Hag Elzada." Janine stopped, growing increasingly frustrated at her inability to bring up data on the Order's troops on her HUD. She could see through their oculars, but that was it. Names, ammunition counts, and health status were unavailable to her. Elzada's armor reported that Ignacy's repairs partially restored the woman's artificial leg, but it had suffered a loss of about ten percent in mobility. "Knight-captain. It's do or die for you. Lead our people and rendezvous forces with Warlord Martyshkina. I have already informed her of our course of action. Do so without fail, or I will torture you endlessly in the afterlife. Elzada, if I die, Wolf Hag Anissa is to take my place and banish any mention of me from the pack forever."

Tell my daughters I love them. Janine swallowed these words. Now was not the time. Their mission was dangerous, but far from impossible. A warrior preparing to die was a warrior who had already put one foot in the grave. She was ready to kill to see her children live and meet them again.

At her command, Predaig and Eled issued similar commands to their own wolf hags and joined her. The warlords assembled a group of males and warriors to join them, taking the expendable soldiers. Janine tapped her own knee, interrupting Ignacy and Elzada's warm farewell embrace, and her sons joined the newly formed pack. Everything inside her—memories of their birth, their precious time together, the times she and Colt had read them bedtime stories or tended to their wounds after a hard day in the pits—screamed to send them away. But that was not to be. Favoritism was not allowed.

The two groups parted ways by overloading the generator deep within the Knight's Academy as a final parting gift to the Horde. For all the teasing and jokes told among the Wolfkins, one thing was undeniable. Their composed and gallant, white-furred brothers and sisters easily kept up pace with the black-furred. Carrying civilians in their paws, the army raced into the retreat, and small parties were busy planting mines to distract the inevitable pursuit.

Janine led her troops to the southern wall, cutting off the Hordemen, attempting to reinforce the blockading troops to the west. The coordinated assault of the divided forces had caught the enemies by surprise; whoever was in charge after the khan's death had failed to realize just how daring the maneuvers of the state's New Breeds could be, and the prolonged defense had given them false confidence.

They died for that arrogance. Eled was the first to land amidst a large gathering that had found temporary cover in the ruins of the buildings. Her scythe slashed through everything in its path, and the debris buried her and the nearby Hordemen. A rider hurrying to assist his allies fell apart in two equal halves as Predaig stepped out of the shadows and passed him by. Her sword danced, sweeping wide arcs in the air, and people died. Behind her, Eled roared, breaking free from the rubble in an explosion of violence, her scythe little more than an extension of her own claws. The warlord lunged, slashed, and hacked half-madly, completely forgetting to use her wonderful long-range weapons but following the group.

After them followed the main force led by Janine, driving into the unsteady defensive ranks like a stake plunged into a heart. There was no restraint in this charge; the Wolfkins matched and exceeded the savagery of the invaders. Arms, riddled full of holes or burned by acid, were gnawed off by merciless jaws, hungrily devouring forbidden flesh. A killing field opened before Janine's eyes, and she eagerly partook of such a feast.

Her single swing took legs from under three hordemen, and the flow of the black-clad bodies stomped the wounded into oblivion. A rifle was shoved through the open mouth of a surprised youth. There was a look of pure horror on his face. Perhaps he had lost his helmet in battle or had simply taken it off to have a nasty cut above his forehead treated. It didn't matter, because at the touch of a finger, the weapon heated and turned his pierced head into a mixture of molten flesh and bone. The shot connected the rifle to an officer, and a grenade in his hand dropped under his legs next to his arm.

They pushed through the blast, an avalanche of metal moving too fast for artillery to target. Another sun flashed at their backs, and the Knight's Academy disappeared, sending a massive shockwave through the ransacked town, shattering windows and collapsing the nearest buildings. There was a loud cheer as the Horde approached the widening crater left in the place of learning, and Janine smiled. The fools were concentrating on the wrong thing.

Each swing of the Taleteller splashed small pools of blood across the hordemen's visors. Normie, New Breed, or something in-between—none of it mattered in the slightest to the warlords and their troops. A hurricane of shrapnel ripped through suits and ended lives; several walkers and hoverbikes exploded, but Janine and her named sisters stepped through the burning flames, wreaking havoc on those who tried to retreat from their path.

Drenched in blood and gore, supported by the warlords' unhinged ferocity, the pack crushed the enemy resistance and pushed toward their goal.

****

Bertruda looked down. Amal was still clawing at his mouth, trying in vain to pull out the metal clogging his airways and lungs. His eyes were two white globes, his pupils rolled under his eyelids. No air will ever again reach his lungs. Bertruda expected to enjoy the bastard's suffering, but now she found herself feeling disgust and pity at his desperate attempts to survive.

Just die already. She faced Martyshkina, who had landed on the destroyed airship, laughing contemptuously at the retreating foes. The warlord had briefly left her side after their forces had rejoined and returned later, showering praises upon the soldiers and ordering her troops to form up a defensive perimeter. They were in luck; after getting hit hard, the Horde chose to ignore them. No doubt those bastards were bringing in heavy vehicles and their own champions, but a reprieve was a reprieve, and they used it to tend to their wounds.

"What a day! Your soldiers are excellent!" Martyshkina's laughter stopped abruptly, and her lenses focused on Bertruda. "Whatever your beef is with Janine, you sure can fight, Bull-Slayer."

"There is no beef." Bertruda bowed gracefully, pressing one paw to her chest and pushing the side of her tattered cape away with the other. "Thank you for the high praise, but it is your troops who have earned our undying gratitude. And the title Bull-Slayer belongs to another."

"Belonged until you stole it." Martyshkina landed heavily on the ground and stepped closer. "Listen, I loved the Twins," she said warmly, and then her voice changed to a low growl, full of barely contained bloodlust. Her helmet closed around the snout, and the warlord spoke on a private channel. "For the sake of our blood ties, I will not exact my retribution for your disobedience. Let the big guy handle it. But know this. The Wolf Tribe does not forget and rarely forgives." Her claws lightly scratched Bertruda's helmet. The warlord snatched Elegance from an approaching knight-captain, swung it once in the air, and handed it to the sword saint with a respectable grunt. "They never offered to make us anything. Guess at the end of the day, they viewed us differently. As outsiders."

"Or they never had the time," Bertruda argued. "Those years were hard. The Blessed Mother never gave us any gifts, either."

"Was her favor, her hide, her kind word not enough? Were our blood and bodies not enough?" Martyshkina pointed to where her deceased soldiers were being stripped of their armor, their ammunition already equally shared among the pack.

The armor was then crudely mounted on soldiers of the Provincial Army who had implants. Though cumbersome to the point where the soldiers looked like children in adult suits, the battleplates gave them newfound strength and speed to help carry the wounded. Bertruda was about to vomit when a scout unceremoniously sunk her claws into the neck of her dead comrade, ripping the head off. The head was then placed in a pack, next to grenades.

"Look." Martyshkina grabbed the back of Bertruda's head, and she had to nod to stop her Mountain Guard from interfering. "Look what you did. What the stupidity and arrogance of your Order has done. We can't carry back bodies, so heads will do. This is war, girl! We don't have time to play in a wounded pride, and the only reason I haven't murdered you yet and spent time trying to make you understand is because Janine thought you had what it takes to be her equal."

"She… she did?"

"Before the duel, yeah. The goof was itching for a chance to test her axe against your spear one day. After that, it was mostly warnings not to skin you alive to avoid tensions." Martyshkina opened her helmet and spat on the ground.

Bertruda kept her silence, gesturing for the medic to treat the wounded and not her. It wasn't disrespect, as she had already understood. They were sisters, and what sister doesn't fight or argue? But a stab in a moment of weakness… I can't fix it right now. Bertruda shrugged off the guilt and went to her troops, giving commands.

"Collect ammunition from their fallen." She stared at her dead knights, remembering the cruelty the Horde had inflicted on their noble bodies. "And their heads."

"But Sword Saint…" a knight-captain gasped.

"Do it. Part of them deserves a proper burial," she said in a steely voice.

Martyshkina tapped against her helmet, listening to something. Her cloak, undamaged by flames or bullets, flapped in the wind like a whip when an explosion thundered from the direction of the Knight's Academy. The incoming gale was so great that a sea of flame rolled over the wreckage onto the buildings.

"Great. Those bastards have found a way to jam us, and without technicians or a crawler nearby, we can't stop them. I do so wish to skin you alive for the troubles, cousin." Martyshkina's words on a private channel. Then her helmet opened again, and she smiled brightly, patting a passing knight. "Rejoice, everyone! Supreme Warlord Janine…"

"Don't joke like that or Warlord Alpha will kill my mom!" Wolf Hag Anissa asked worriedly, and Shaman Impatient One nodded in agreement.

"Then use shardguns next time!" Martyshkina hugged both women. "Anyway, Janine has sent us an order. We are to scram while she charges to the military hospital…"

"What?!" Bertruda cried out. Janine joined Macarius, so why didn't he brief her?

"Scram. You know, pick up your legs and…"

"I don't care for your idiotic jokes, moron!" Bertruda yelled, the barrel of a revolver pointed at her forehead. "Shoot if you dare, but first listen! They must stay away from the hospital!"

"Elaborate," Martyshkina demanded. She moved her weapon aside and fired, killing a hordeman with a rocket launcher who had somehow crept up on them through the ruins.