“Fire!”
With the swing of his sword, Sergeant Thorn gave the order to fire the catapults into the city of Jotunmiss. The hulking projectiles blasted through the air, demolishing everything in their path.
Nadeden rushed through the debris with Orson, Davon, and the Fifth archery squadron. Davon slammed his back up against a wall, giving a hand signal for the archers to cover him and Orson as they breached the building.
Davon kicked down the door, slashing at the first man.
Orson drove his sword through another.
The archers picked off what was left.
Davon signaled for silence, fearing that those upstairs might have heard them. “Nadeden.” He whispered.
She stepped up to him, bow at the ready. “Sir.” She uttered back, awaiting orders. Davon smiled, thanking the gods that he was still on the same side as her. “Take the top floor. We’ll establish a perimeter.” Nadeden nodded at the command, moving up the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Orson asked, still in a hushed tone like everyone else, but a bit more aggressive. “I’m testing her,” Davon explained.
“You read the intel right?”
Nadeden made it to the top floor, sneaking against the doorway before breaking through the door itself. She raised her bow and prepared to fire, only to find no target in sight. For a moment, she was relieved. Until she looked down.
Two children.
A boy and a girl were standing with daggers in the corner of the room.
Nadeden sighed. The children weren’t scared. They had that childish look of invincibility on their faces. The same one that Nadeden once knew so well. That wasn’t what made them different from her.
What separated her from the children was the fact that their parents probably told them this might happen. Probably told them they’d have to kill someone. Maybe they even told them that they might have to die. Nadeden never knew her parents, but these children knew theirs.
Her fingers tensed on the arrow and bowstring; the children tensed as well. The boy held up the dagger like a torch in his hand. The girl gripped hers tightly as well. Nadeden had been that girl once, holding tightly onto a blade for dear life. Nadeden stepped forward, keeping the bow drawn and the children as far from her as she could. “You should have killed me by now.”
The children remained silent at her cold, slow breath. Her next statement was more certain, factual. “I had murdered over a dozen men twice my size when I was your age.” The girl looked up at the comment. She began to walk toward her. Nadeden kept her grip tight on the arrow, hoping she wouldn’t have to release it as she muttered, “How many have you killed?” She thought that the children would have lowered their weapons at the question. That reality would have broken through to them.
Instead, the boy leapt forward.
Nadeden walked down the stairs once it was all done. A tired look masked her sickened face.
Davon waited for her, already pulling out a cigarette, “Is it clear up there?”
“Yes.” She muttered with her head down as she moved to the door. Orson turned to Davon once she had left. “What was-”
“Come on, Orson. She’s been fighting since she could stand. She’s tougher than all of us for better and for worse.” Davon stated, unsteadily placing the cigarette in his mouth, “She does what we can’t. Tell me, old friend, could you have murdered those kids up there?”
Orson hung his head at the brutal words. Davon took a long, drawn-out puff of his cigarette. Letting the bitter taste of it linger on his lips before letting out a deep sigh. “That’s what I thought.”
Nadeden awakes coughing in a rocky pool. Blood has mixed its way into the warm liquid and continues to do so as she coughs up more of it. She attempts to stand but notices that her wooden leg is gone. Shocked, she touches her face, noting that the bandana covering her burnt-over eye is missing as well.
“You almost died,” Granix states, appearing in a rock formation before her.
“Is he dead?” She asks.
“Who?”
Nadeden sighs, knowing by Granix’s response that Davon is long gone by now. He no doubt summoned a portal at the last minute. “You shouldn’t have come back for me.” She groans in pain, trying to stretch her body back into place.
“I had to.” Granix replies, “We have to save Smith and chase off those pirates.” Granix’s remarks cut into Nadeden.
“Smith...” She mutters under her breath before ordering Granix, “Take me to him.”
The Mystic’s head is on the other side of the room, its scalp is being pet like a cat by a Squideel who has been newly appointed as captain of the ship.
The captain holds out the Mystic’s head to Smith. It has now rusted beyond repair. Smith looks away, his face bruised and beaten. The captain grabs Smith’s head, moving it to her eye level. “Still not going to tell us what happened to your friend?” She asks only for Smith to remain silent. Annoyed, the captain releases her hold of Smith. Her hands now tighten on the Mystic's head. Her claw-like talons of fingers dig into the rust before stretching out of their sockets to strike Smith’s head with the metal head of the Mystic. The captain’s hands snap back into her arms. The fluid green skin recoils like string on a fishing rod.
Smith coughs up more blood.
Now. He thinks. Now would be a great time to summon metal.
Come on, iron.
Iron in my blood, get me out of here!
The Captain questions Smith again, “The Woman who killed Captain Ymirdrun, where is she?”
Smith flexes against his bonds. I need something to cut this rope! A knife! Scissors! Something! I need to picture it!
The Captain’s four eyes stare at his feeble struggle.
How did I do this before? Smith questions before pleading from his bloody mouth, “I saw as much as you did, one second she’s there, the next she’s gone, that’s all I know.” He looks upon the Mystic’s head in the Captain’s hands.
He coughs, “Can you let them go?” The Captain smiles, “Sure.”
She drops the head to the ground. It lands with a thud, sending a large crack through the rusted metal, nearly splitting it. Smith looks on in horror. “Do you know why everyone on this ship hates you robots? Or should I say non-organics?”
Smith flexes at the captain’s words, scratching into the rope. “Your very existence is a defiance to the gods and the nature of the universe. You are not born of anything natural. Of Stars or Man and Woman. No, you were built and now you think you can live in a body different from the one you were built in?” The Captain continues. Smith’s fingernails are now bleeding from scratching the rope. “We don’t get to choose how we live, how we’re born. The gods decide for us. They bless us with minds and souls and bodies. We don’t get to just change them as we like, so why should you?”
“I didn’t choose this,” Smith whispers through the beaten lip of a mouth that is not their own.
The Captain leans in toward Smith, “What did you just say?”
Smith averts his gaze from the Woman, focusing on his kin on the floor. The Captain huffs, “Y’know it really didn’t matter if you told me where the human woman went or not since I was going to kill you anyway, but maybe if you tell me now I’ll let you go.”
Smith’s hands go numb. There’s nothing left in him but desperation. Even with his fingers bleeding, he can’t summon metal. “I already told you I don’t know where she went.”
The Captain is not pleased by this answer. “Perhaps you need a bit more motivation.” She sneers, lifting up her wide tail. Her skin stretches and pops until slamming down into the Mystic’s head. The strike splits the cracked metal straight down the middle.
Before Smith can scream out in shock, a blinding light and deafening sound erupt from the head.
The shockwave that follows sends the only two individuals in the room flying into the walls. The ship shakes as those on board it all file into the room holding the head. They all surround it as it gleams with light.
All except for Smith, who is still bound to the chair. He watches on in a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and horror as the light begins to twist into a series of odd shapes within the circle of those waiting for an excuse to kill it.
The light twists one last time, finding a final form in that of an orb coated in Runes? Smith positions himself upright as best he can while slinking toward the orb. I’ve seen those Runes before on the Forge and on those containers back on Terra-gilma. Smith recalls as he falls back on the ground. This body is failing them yet again.
“Who hath summoned?” The voice rings throughout the room. The crew readies to attack as Smith cautiously calls out, “I have?”
The Orb expands the runes, plastering the walls.
Flashes of light overcome Smith as a Mystic portal snaps the room in half, dragging him through it into a different room.
A room of pure light.
Smith gasps.
The damage to his chest, lungs, and even arms and hands is all gone now. This place healed him instantaneously upon his arrival.
“What is going on?” He exclaims to the Orb floating in the center of this pure room.
“What doth thine wish to exert on reality?”
Smith stands, asking the orb, “Mystic, is that you?”
Silence is the only response.
Smith grips his hands into fists. “What did you do with them?”
Again, nothing but silence.
Enough of this!
Smith grits his teeth.
I was trapped in that box for so long that I can’t even remember when I was locked in it. Then, when I finally got out, my savior turned out to be a former soldier with a bloodlust and thirst for revenge! Then my body gets destroyed by some enchanted corrosion plague, and I’m forced into this one! Then I’m thrown around and beaten in by everyone I meet, regardless of how kind I am! Then I finally found another Machinist, only to find out the Forge was destroyed! Then the last of my people dies in front of me, and now I’m in some sort of mystical nightmare!
For the first time ever, something burns within Smith. A feeling that of which they’ve never known, both as a Machinist and as a Human.
Rage.
Smith runs toward the orb, leaping up to it with a fist, “BRING THEM BACK!”
“Where is the Messenger?” Sergeant Thorn asked the Warbound and Fifth archery squadron once they arrived back at camp. Nadeden was the first to respond, “Davon said he was looking for something before he ran off.”
Thorn lashed out with a booming voice of command, “Well, tell him to come back!”
Orson cut in, “The orders came from the Emperor, sir.” He handed the Sergeant a folder Nadeden had not seen before.
She carefully eyed the exchange.
Sergeant Thorn opened the folder. His eyes went wide in shock. “Oh, I apologize.”
He quickly slammed the folder shut, holding it out to be returned. Nadeden reached for it only for Orson to hastily snatch it.
“No problem, Sarge.” Orson nervously chuckled, trading suspicious looks with Nadeden before marching away. The Sergeant left as well, although in the opposite direction.
“Hey, Scorched Archer, the other guys and I would love to get some tips from one of the best Archers out there. If you don’t mind, of course.” One of the squadron members inquired.
Another chimed in, “Yeah, you did pretty great out there! Really lived up to your reputation. We’d love to learn how you do it!”
The men were eager.
Too eager.
Eagerness is what gets soldiers killed.
Nadeden spent a moment lamenting their possible fate until a sharp pain kicked within her.
“Sorry, not today, I’m just not feeling up to it.” She coughed out, scrambling off to a clearing in the camp away from any onlookers.
She vomited onto the ground. “Oh, Gods.” She whispered, “Fuck you, Gerry.”
She vomited again, slumping onto the gravel.
Well, there’s no doubt about it now. She thought as she resisted the urge to cry or laugh or just do something, anything to drive out her emotions.
She clutched her stomach, “Come on, kid. It’s been a long day, can’t you cut your Mom a break?”