“Who made the Rusting?”
Nadeden responds to the question with a deep sigh of dread. Smith is aware of her mission now. “The Emperor of the Division of Humanity. Gelmidas Atheneum, he’s a pure force of nature. A man you don’t want to trifle with. He and his Warbound burned down my village and everyone in it. Only Hadel and I survived. I will not rest until I’ve had my revenge.”
Smith walks over to Nadeden, who begins walking onward once more. “Why did Atheneum burn your village?” Nadeden flexes her fingers across her holstered bowstring. The bandage on her palm intertwines with the rope for a brief instant, causing her to pull it away. “I betrayed him. Shifted my loyalty. I was once among his Warbound. Granted, I only joined after I deserted the Republic.”
“We picked her up after she shot down the seventh legion’s commander.”
“She didn’t just take out their commander, though.” The two men outside of Nadeden’s cell were the jewels of the Division’s war effort and the beating heart of their propaganda machine. “Oh, really?” he scoffed back at the other man, who quickly retorted, “Yes, Orson, really. She massacred the whole legion.” Nadeden smiled through her bloodied face. “But she’s-” Orson gasped. “She’s just one woman!”
“And that one woman is the Republic’s best archer, and no slouch when it comes to hand-to-hand combat either.” Orson went silent at the other man’s reply, giving Nadeden enough time to crawl over to the cell door. “Is she…” Orson hesitated, “Is she the Scorched Archer?” Nadeden’s hand shot through the iron bars, grasping Orson’s head and slamming it back against the hard, frigid metal. “Yes.” She said, quickly taking the keys from Orson’s unconscious body. She freed herself while the other man looked on in dismay. Nadeden lunged at him. The pair wrestled, but Nadeden easily gained the advantage. She stole the man’s knife, stabbing him in the gut before running down the corridor. A screeching alarm rang throughout the ship. Nadeden cursed herself, exiting the prison corridor only to meet the alarm’s origin point: “Halt, prisoner!” A swarm of armored guards zeroed in on Nadeden, who seemed prepared to take them all on until a better plan snuck its way into her head. “But I’m a deserter.” She flatly exclaimed with a smile. The guards looked amongst each other, unsure of what to do next. The stabbed man wandered in, “You idiots, she’s the damn Scorched Archer. If she wants to fight for us, even if it is just a ploy, you let her. She could win us this whole war.”
“You fought on both sides?”
Smith’s comment drags Nadeden out of her memories: “I did, but not because I believed in either of them.” The statement puzzles Smith. Nadeden seems so driven by her goal. Why would she fight without one in mind? He imagines Nadeden on a battlefield surrounded by soldiers, performing meaningless and horrific acts of violence. It is an odd and revolting picture. “Why did you fight then?” This is the first of Smith’s questions that Nadeden takes quite some time to answer. She runs her palm against her bowstring again. She thinks back on when her first bow was handed to her, when her first arrow was fired, when her first life was taken. It was a lifetime ago. Many lifetimes ago, “I fight because the universe asked me to be a warrior, and I had no choice but to accept.”
“There’s always a choice.” Nadeden laughs at Smith’s response, “Did you choose to be on that Bioship?” Smith sighs, “No.”
“Did you choose to be put in that body?”
“No.” Nadeden turns her head back to Smith at the answer, knowing that she’s no doubt made her point. “Smith, I fully intended to fly away in that ship I found you in, but now things have gotten complicated, and I have the feeling that this is just the beginning. I don’t know how long I’ll have to put up with you, but I need you to realize something right now. In this life, you don’t get to have the luxury of choices.” Smith hangs his head, continuing to walk in silence. Nadeden’s demeanor is cold enough that her mere presence is beginning to chill him. This woman can be saved, Smith thinks, I’m sure of it.
Day broke two hours ago across Terra-gilma, yet the only indication of this against the clouded sky is a slight yellow haze. Smith has gone nearly a full day without rest. His new body is tiring out. His legs stiffen. A yawn works its way through him. His thoughts begin to grow fainter, drifting off into flickers of unreadable words and indistinguishable images. Nadeden sighs, noticing Smith is slowing down. “Feeling tired?”
“What’s tired?” Smith yawns with a clueless smile. Nadeden groans, “Alright, Mr. Comedian, I only have one sleeping bag, you take it and I’ll keep watch. I’ve had enough rest anyway.” The pair set up camp among a legion of spindly dead trees. Their branches stretch down just enough to shield them from the rain. Smith crawls into the sleeping bag, leaving Nadeden alone to watch the sky. I’m sure now, she’s not heartless. Smith’s thoughts fade as sleep takes him. Nadeden’s thoughts are less optimistic. He’s dead. She thinks He’s a naive idiot; it’s only a matter of time until he gets himself killed. “Just like you, Hadel.” She mutters to herself
“And just like you too…” She twists her bowstring again as she trails off. She doesn’t dare utter the name of the one she’s thinking of, even if it’s only to herself. The Memory of his death is too painful.
“You’re dead too, though, aren't you? My lovely Nadeden.” The voice cuts through her, leaving her to slash out at the empty air with nothing more than her fists. Her body is in a feverishly cold sweat. She frantically clutches her bow, twirling the string again to remind herself of where she truly is, that where she finds herself is in the here and now, her present and not her wretched past. The voice wasn’t real. Her hands slip off the string. “The voice wasn’t real, he’s not here.”
“Who’s not here?” Smith utters behind Nadeden, bundling up the sleeping bag. His dark eyes, outlined by his black face paint, gaze into her like a baby bird. She feels naked; her very soul is nearly exposed. She wipes the sweat from her brow. “No one.” She gasps, moving into a low whisper, “It was just a dream.” Smith shoves the sleeping bag back into the satchel.
The pair resumes their journey. This time, the silence between them is somewhat bearable and, in fact, preferred. Smith is still adjusting to his new body, but has resided within it long enough to now find the experience tolerable. Nadeden is mainly grateful that Smith hasn’t brought up her violent reaction to her dream. She can’t let herself nod off like that again; she needs to remain focused on her mission.
“That’s where we’re going,” Nadeden states, handing her telescope to Smith. He spots the massive bellowing fire hiding under a cliff in the distance. The fire lies at the center of a hollowed-out, fully rusted Division dreadnought surrounded by struggling plant life and poorly applied concrete housing. It is the most densely populated village on Terra-gilma. The natives call it “The Tank. Fiskesjef runs the place.” Smith lowers the telescope, handing it back to Nadeden. “If Fiskesjef wants you dead, why would he let us borrow his metal?” Nadeden chuckles, “Oh no, we aren’t borrowing his Metal, Smith. We’re going to steal it.” Smith is finding it increasingly difficult to be surprised by Nadeden’s lack of morals. “Alright, well, how are we getting in there?” Nadeden points toward the towering entry gate. “Guards are positioned at the front entrance at all times, so there’s no way we’re getting in through there.” She points to the sideways command deck of the Division dreadnought. The top of its hull has been torn open by rust, giving it a striking resemblance to an archaic chimney or smokestack. “That’s going to be our way in.”
“How are we getting all the way up there?” Smith asks as Nadeden removes her satchel, “Up? Kid, look around you, we’re the ones who are up right now.” Smith creeps over to the edge of the cliff he finds himself upon. Looking over it causes what little sustenance is in his stomach to churn over and work its way to his throat. He thankfully gulps it back down before it can burst from his mouth. “I did something like this once,” Nadeden states, stepping up behind Smith. She holds her cloak fully spread out and folds two arrows into it before stabbing the arrowheads into the wood of the bow, which she places where the hood rests. “It’s gonna be a little rocky with the rain,” She removes her bulkier tactical gear and keeps only what she deems essential. “But I’ve been exercising, and since you were dead yesterday, you shouldn’t weigh too much either.”
“What?” Smith questions, bewildered.
Nadeden pushes him off the cliff.
Entering freefall, Smith’s body flips around, his arms and legs go limp. His stomach churns again. Terror overtakes him. The uncertainty of his situation creeps over his senses along with the roaring wind in his ears and the threat of gravity. Before his influx of emotions can transfer into proper thoughts, something grasps at his sweater, dragging him up into a sea of stained cloth. “Hang on to the bow.” Nadeden orders tilting the makeshift hang glider to the left ever so slightly. The rain thrashes against the glider, hastening the pair into a rough descent against the edge of the rusted structure.
Nadeden slides onto the command deck, rolling across the unstable structure while collapsing the hang glider back into its original components. She throws her cloak back on, flipping up the hood. She then glances at Smith, whose landing was far less graceful. He tumbles into several pieces of what was once considered furniture, falling beside Nadeden with a loud thud. Nadeden helps him up, dusting off his sweater. I may be getting through to her, Smith thinks, or at least growing on her, now. I just have to make sure she lets me live long enough to see the Forge and fully redeem her.
Nadeden cracks open a rusted door with a swift stomp that drops her down to the next level of the dreadnought. Smith follows. “Fiskesjef’s compound is near the center of town. He stores all his valuables there.” She states, stomping down another door, breaking into the next level with Smith behind her. “That’s where we’ll find the metal?” He asks, “That’s where we’ll find the metal.” Nadeden answers. Smith bites his lip, hesitating to speak the words that he must. However, he ultimately decides that Nadeden is ready to hear them and that her reaction can’t be nearly as bad as he thinks it will be. Right? “Nadeden, about the metal…”
“What is it, Smith?”
The pair breaks down to the next level without hearing the subtle sounds of the hull cracking.
“Well, Machinists have different roles and, um… building isn’t mine.”
Nadeden turns to him with a look of disappointment in her eyes. What Smith doesn’t see is the rage it could easily transform into. “What do you mean? You can’t build?”
“Well…”
Before Smith can finish his answer, the hull of the dreadnought crumbles right in front of them.
“You really thought I wouldn’t have this place guarded, Nadeden? Coming here was a foolish mistake, old woman, one that will kill you.” Fiskesjef and his men move in on the pair with their weapons at the ready.
“Start with the boy,” He orders. “I want to kill the Scorched Archer myself.”