“Hey, Scorched Archer. Take this.”
The voice had come from above Nadeden’s solitary holding pit. The guards of the Division dreadnought had placed her in the infinite darkness of the metal chasm after her attempted escape. The warm voice was the first sound she had heard since being left to rot. She thought it was an illusion at first, but the metal canteen falling beside her with a loud thud brought her back to her new reality. Nadeden gazed up to view the young man she had stabbed in the gut during her foiled escape. The man who convinced everyone to let her live. He smiled at her. “They’re still deciding what to do with you, ya know. It might be a while, so you really should drink something.” Nadeden stared at the canteen. Her blood-dried face reflected in the polished metal. The man above her sat next to the hole leading to the pit as close as he could without falling in. He spied the still-unattended canteen and laughed, “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned or anything, it’s the standard ration they give all of us.” It was only then that Nadeden noted the glasses he was sporting. They were a round pair lying on a rather rigid frame, which reflected more light than the glass itself. The light brought out his eyes. “You’re not a soldier,” Nadeden stated, snatching the canteen.
“How did you-” Nadeden interrupted him before he could finish. “Your eyes. They’re innocent. You still believe in what you’re fighting for. You act your age, too much as well. I have to hand it to you, though. You put up a good fight when I stabbed you, but you weren’t prepared for it. You let your guard down too easily. You’re doing it right now.” She scoffed, “Helping the enemy.” She opened the canteen and poured the water onto the metal floor. The man sighed, “You got me. Orson, Shanna, and the others are the real soldiers. I’m part of their unit, but the propaganda team didn’t even put me on the poster. I don’t blame them. All I do is fill out battle reports. I’m still well-liked, but half of the people on this ship don’t even know my name.” Nadeden stayed silent. “Everyone knows the Scorched Archer, though.” He went on, “You got one thing wrong about me, though. I don’t believe in what I’m fighting for.” A certain strength hid in his voice with that last sentence. Nadeden gazed back up at him. “I believe in fate, though. I believe in people, too. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why you’re here, Scorched Archer.” Even at that age, before fate called upon him, confidence was hiding within this man, although he was still naive.
Nadeden tilted her head. Her unwashed hair flung to the side, smacking her face like a mop. Why was this man showing her such kindness? Why did it feel genuine? No one had ever treated her like this before, except when they wanted to use her. That’s it, she thought, I will use this man to ensure my survival. “Don’t call me the Scorched Archer.”
“What do I call you then?” He asked from above.
“Nadeden.” She smiled, standing up.
“Just Nadeden?”
“That’s my name.”
“My name’s Gelmidas!” He answered enthusiastically and anxiously, “Gelmidas Atheneum! Call me Gerry, though! All my friends do!”
“Friends?” She laughed. “Yeah!” He nervously joined in her laughter. “I don’t have friends.” She chuckled. “You have one now!” Gerry shouted back with an amount of joy filled with such innocent and unexpected happiness that it caused Nadeden to feel something she hadn’t felt since she was a child. Although she wasn’t quite sure what that feeling was.
Depending on how much force is applied, being thrown against a hard surface, such as concrete, is enough to kill a human. Such force can also cause permanent or temporary damage to an individual’s body. Being shoved into a concrete wall by Nadeden will only cause Smith temporary harm, although he will occasionally feel a slight stinging sensation in his ribs for the next few days. As for now, though. For now, he’s just grateful to be out of her way.
Her movements in the rain are infused with pure madness and bloodlust. With each strike and fire of her bow, another enemy is reduced to nothing but a corpse beneath her feet. Each opponent she faces never even stood a chance.
Smith has witnessed the aftermath of Nadeden’s exploits before, but this is the first time he has ever beheld her actions in the heat of battle. She moves without ever having to stop for a breath. It is clear that she derives joy from it, yet it is also clear that she knows no other source of joy. This is her life. This is her purpose in life. Nadeden is nothing else. She can be nothing else. She is the Scorched Archer. The undying flame whose arrows burn brighter than a collapsing star. Yes, this is indeed all Nadeden is. She is violence given human form. All who come close to her will only come to know pain.
Smith is terrified now.
This woman cannot be saved, he thinks. She knows that I cannot build.
She is going to kill me.
With each one of Fiskesjef’s men Nadeden kills, another arrives to take their place. She’s in the heart of enemy territory now, and if she doesn’t find a way to end this quickly, she’ll find herself even more exhausted than she already is. And exhaustion breeds weakness. And weakness means defeat. Holstering her bow, Nadeden slices through two Gilma fish with a rough arrowhead, pushing their bodies aside to reach Fiskesjef at the center of town. “You brought this on yourself, Nadeden!” Fiskesjef taunts, swimming upward as Nadeden approaches him. She’s too fed up with him to respond with anything but violence. She reaches her muscular scarred arms up to Fiskesjef, leaping into the air to grab his scaled fin. “What are you doing?!” Fiskesjef screams as Nadeden sinks her rotting teeth into his body, “You’re uncooked.” She mutters, spitting out the meat. She wrestles Fiskesjef down into the center of town, where the fire lies. “YOU’RE INSANE!” Fiskesjef shrieks moments before plunging into the fire, “I know.” Nadeden whispers back, slamming down on Fiskesjef’s burning body. She laughs, tearing into the roasting fish with her bare fingers as the flames roar around her.
The crowd that has gathered in the center of town looks on in horror as Nadeden bites into a chunk of Fiskesjef’s tender fat. Grease coats her face and bandana. “What?” She inquires, “It’s good salmon.”
It is at this sight that Smith’s stomach churns for the final time, and what little sustenance is in his body comes pouring out of his mouth and nostrils.
Nadeden stuffs another piece of rich meat into her mouth, stepping out of the fire. The crowd of onlookers has grown beyond Fiskesjef’s gang and is now mainly comprised of peaceful citizens who have just witnessed their leader be exposed as nothing more than another piece of food for the universe to meaninglessly consume. Nadeden can’t stop grinning. She simply can’t wait to do something similar to Emperor Atheneum. Her mind is running wild with murderous ideas.
Smith gags on empty air, staring down at his vomit. This body, this reaction… his thoughts race. Nadeden is going to kill me. I might even want her, too. Maybe I’ll wake up from sleep mode then. Yes. Yes, this is all just one long nightmare, isn’t it? I went insane being locked up in that Bioship, and this is all just one bad dream I’m imagining!
“I’m going to wake up soon.” He mutters to himself as Nadeden approaches him. She rips him off the concrete and into the cold prison of her arms. “You can’t build? I don’t care, you’re going to try anyway.” She aggressively delivers the order with an uncanny amount of scorn while pulling one of her arrows out of Fiskesjef’s men. She returns it to her quiver before dragging Smith over to a concrete structure, which appears to be held together by nothing more than sticks and prayers.
Once they enter the building, Nadeden throws Smith onto the ground, walking off to find the metal. Smith’s body trembles with fear. His mouth gags again, and his hands shake. The litany he reminds himself of his religion, turning to it in this desperate time. I must repeat the litany of life. “Life is precious-’’ he begins, only to be interrupted by an airtight container thrown at his face. The container falls in his lap while the lid slams onto the floor. A small sheet of metal lies inside of it, already beginning to succumb to the Rusting. Smith looks at Nadeden. She stands above him with five more containers. She dumps them all down in front of him. The metal strikes the floor with a loud clang. “This is all I could find.” She scoffs, “So get started.”
Smith grips the thinnest sheet, wrapping his uneasy fingertips around it only for the metal to rust away in his palms. “You really can’t do it, can you?” Nadeden asks, already knowing the answer. Smith simply nods, sinking further in on himself. Nadeden turns away. Frustration builds within her. Smith digs his nails into his shoulders, embracing himself to provide a brief glimmer of comfort in this endless despair. He could feel the absence of metal when he awoke in the Bioship, but now he feels the absence of the metal in front of him, as well as seeing it with his own eyes. He recalls the metal back at Hadel’s home, he recalls the circuitry, the engine, and the- “There’s a ship here.” He whispers, his skin crawling with a unique energy. This body is different, yet it can still serve the same purposes. Smith just needs to focus. “There’s a ship here!” He shouts at Nadeden, who turns back toward him. It hardly has any fuel, yet the metal can feel the fuel inside it. Smith just has to feel the metal, become one with the metal. Although this body is not metal, this body is unnatural. They are not meant to dwell in the he, yet they must feel with his flesh, soul, and mind.
Smith taps his fingers along the ground in a drumbeat. “Where?” Nadeden asks Smith, who laughs joyously. He laughs like a boy, Nadeden thinks. Smith stands up, running into the backroom of the building, where he rips a tarp off a slightly rusted dropship. Nadeden sprints up behind him. “There is fuel inside of them. They’re willing to work for you, they told me as much. They are begging to get off this planet almost as much as you.” Nadeden locks her eye with Smith. He grins at her like a dog desperate for their master’s approval.
“Good work, Smith,” Nadeden pushes him aside to enter the ship. She fires up the engine, grasps the controls, and swings the door shut. Smith bangs on the door. “I need to go too!” he pleads. Nadeden ignores him and commences the takeoff procedures. Fiskesjef’s men enter the compound, working their way to the backroom with a freshly ignited blood lust. Smith witnesses the gang enter while Nadeden flies the ship out of the backroom. The wooden wall explodes from the ship’s takeoff, sending splinters throughout the room as it speeds into the distance. Smith receives a splinter to the wrist and collarbone. Several stick into his sweater as well. The wood only tears into his skin when the gang members begin to beat him. Collapsing onto the ground Smith’s body is assaulted from all sides: “Life is precious,” a boot sole stomps his chest; “Life is all,” a fist slams his neck; “I shall not raise my hand,” a kick strikes his legs; “I would weep for the dead,” blood is pouring down his back; “If I had tears to shed.” The beating continues. Blow after blow, Smith holds onto his litany, refusing to defend himself or fight back in any way that could harm these men. “Life is precious, life is all, I shall not raise my hand, I would weep for the dead if I had tears to shed.” Nadeden abandoned him, yet she did not kill him when she learned he couldn’t build, and she let him lead her to the ship. He can hold on to hope. He can hold on to religion. He can hold on to his life.
Another kick strikes Smith’s back, sending him rolling over into another man’s boot. The litany echoes in his mouth: “Life is precious, life is all, I shall not raise my hand, I would weep for the dead if I had tears to shed.”
A boot squashes his face, his nose cracks, spewing blood and mucus. Smith’s blood joins together into a puddle. An undefinable sensation tingles through Smith’s body. Yes, of course, there is iron in human blood. Smith senses the individual iron molecules, communing with his old friends. He informs them, I cannot bring harm to these men.
We understand. They exclaim.
The iron from Smith's blood erupts into a ball of metal that expands into a system of chains imprisoning the men. Smith rises. His eyes blur. He readjusts to the pain enough to spot Nadeden landing the ship back into the room. She steps out, dumbfounded at how Smith could have survived and how these men could now be in chains. “You came back for me… why?” Smith mutters, collapsing out of physical and mental exhaustion. Nadeden catches him and places him inside the ship. “Let’s just say you remind me of someone, Smith.” She takes the controls again, tilting her head back to watch as Smith is taken by sleep. After everything I put him through, he still chose kindness. Nadeden moves the ship into Terra-gilma’s atmosphere. As she pierces it, she smiles to herself. He’s naive like you, too. Thep ship fully enters the vacuum of space. Nadeden is one step closer to her goal now. She looks back at Smith and shifts her satisfaction into a statement rather than an expression: “Yeah, you’re gonna get yourself killed, kid.”
The chains around the gang members refuse to rust. Despite a full day passing, the Emperor’s weapon has yet to destroy this new metal, as it has every other metal in the galaxy. Somehow, this is not the main thing that concerns Davon Yemer, messenger of the Division of Humanity. No, the main thing that concerns him is the fact that the Scorched Archer has escaped the planet she was exiled to for her crimes. The very planet that he sent her to. Davon sighs before stepping through the portal he summoned.
Emperor Atheneum is not going to be happy about this.