"Anything else, commander?"
The commander's smile stretched wider.
"Oh, that will be all for now. I'm sure you and I are going to get along just fine."
Turning his head, the commander saw the anger and fear etched all over Lewis' face. At first it had been difficult to tell, but now the commander saw their resemblance clearly. They were dressed in Inmates coveralls, these two, but the boy at least certainly didn't hold himself like one. What were these two doing on the surface anyway?
"What about you?" he asked "Have you got any of your sister's fire in you?"
Lewis looked down, unable to match Aggie's tenacity. He always wished he could be her. Be as strong, prideful and spiteful as her but he was only Lewis. He was only a pup following his master. Instead, Lewis looked away from the captain and towards the walls or rather anything else besides the men that could kill him within the second.
"I have whatever you need from me, sir." Lewis said. Aggie rolled her eyes.
The commander turned his nose up at Lewis in general distaste. However, if he'd do as he was told then there was no reason to shed any more blood. Surely they could find some way to make use of the boy in due time.
"Find somewhere to put the pair of them." he ordered to his men dismissively, leaving himself and Abigail alone in the mess hall... besides the dead bodies.
"Thank you very much for your help today Abigail, you saved a fair few lives."
"I suppose I did, though the same can't be said for those less fortunate." Abigail said with a slightly saddened tone as she looked at the dead bodies, the sight made her shudder, she had never seen a corpse before, especially one so freshly dead.
"I did what was necessary given the circumstances, I realised that the status quo was not in our favor; anything else would have resorted in death."
"Necessary?" the commander mused, smiling again. "Well, I'm sure you'll learn to like us in the end. In the mean time, it won't be long until my men will be expecting a celebration. Come on, let's see if we managed not to completely trash your bar."
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"anything you need at all and I'd be happy to help."
Nikolai smiled awkwardly, unsure how to express what he felt at seeing Lucia so... happy. He hadn't seen her like this in, ever. In fact, Nikolai couldn't think of a time he'd seen anyone so pleased with him. He tried his best to squeeze her hand in response, but he did so gingerly. Her hand felt so small in his, like he could crush her bones into dust without even trying.
"Try and rest for now." he told her, softly. "We move South as soon as you feel better. I don't know when we might have the time to... but I'll work at it. I promise."
With that, Nikolai stood up and left Lucia alone, setting off through the rocky tunnels back to where the rest of the Free Men had made a rudimentary camp for themselves, apart from the Songbird soldiers. The clunk from his pneumatic leg echoed in the space with every other step, and at intervals broke loose small showers of dust from the ceilings.
clunk; clunk; clunk...
Nikolai couldn't say for sure where this new way of thinking would take him, although he'd decided that part of leading above ground was that you couldn't know what was around every corner. You had to take things as they came.
clunk; clunk; clunk...
Lucia seemed to believe that there was someone inside Nikolai still, who didn't have to be defined by all those years of killing and of pain. Was she right? Nikolai wasn't sure. For as long as he could remember he'd looked and played the part of a monster, and he had never not been aware of how different he was to most others. Looking at his scarred, gigantic form, it was difficult to imagine how anyone could ever look at him and see someone gentle, someone safe, even if he did find it in himself to be either. It felt good to hope though, and for now at least Nikolai was just content to have done something to make her happy.
clunk; clunk; clunk.
As Nikolai passed under one of the light fixtures, his heavy footfalls shook loose the bare bulb, the fire inside it guttering out. It tumbled down, unseen to him, and a second later the hot glass struck the bare skin on the back of his neck.
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In a flash the roughly carved tube of stone dissolved from Nikolai's gaze, replaced by a blaze of pain made light. All of him was on fire. No, this time, he was fire, strewn across a blazing field that stretched for eternity, devouring everything he touched. He was the flames, and his breath was thick, dark smoke. When he breathed out, the smoke appeared to take on shapes for a split second, dispersing before Nikolai could grab hold of them, to turn them into charcoal and capture them forever. A woman's face howled in anguish, and a boy dragged his broken, blistered body along a dark hall. Lastly, Nikolai saw a face that he did not recognise, who's features he could barely even distinguish in the swirls of grey, let alone place. His flames cringed away from that face, and the moment was lost.
A familiar voice came in, borne along the vicious, howling wind that rose with him, fed him. It was the voice of the shrieking woman.
"Nikolai! Nikolai! NIKOLAI!"
"Don't!" Nikolai called, his voice a roar from a gout of flame. "Don't come near me! I'll hurt you, I'll burn you!"
"Not you." a second voice whispered "You know it's not your name."
"NIKOLAI! NIKOLAAAAIIIII!"
"Who is he?! Where is he?! Show me Nikolai!"
"Call for him."
And now Nikolai was yelling too. Screaching the name he'd claimed to the shrouded heavens, spitting burst of embers into the sky. Only he was receding, his fire guttering out and dying, the smoke that had before showing him secrets becoming thicker, and stiller, obscuring what lay beyond like a vale.
"No! Not yet. Show me Nikolai! WHO IS NIKOLAI?!"
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When Nikolai awoke, he was slumped to the side of the tunnel. No, it was a tunnel, but not the one he had been in before. This one was shorter, and more dimly lit. In his hands he felt something sharp, and looking down found that his palms were lacerated with shards of glass, the remains of the light bulb that had hit him. They were now completely cool.
What was happening to him?
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They held down that door for what felt like hours, though the ever-rational part of Lee's brain couldn't resist telling him, even at such a preposterously unnecessary time, that it couldn't possibly have been that long. They each had enough ammunition for perhaps 20 minutes, if they were careful. All the same, Lee's senses were haywire, and time seemed to slow as he fell into a mechanical, disturbingly calm routine.
'Keep your breathing steady;
Aim for the centre of mass;
Double tap for each man;
Don't rush the reload, keep it smooth.'
After so many years, it came back to him as if the war had ended yesterday. Had they not been fighting for their lives, Lee might have stopped to consider how unsettling it was that his training had so profoundly ingrained itself into his subconscious, driving him to kill without feeling and with seemingly next to no effort on his part. It was not an experience he enjoyed, it never had been. Enjoyment was too strong, too inefficient an emotion to apply to it; and yet... Lee found himself feeling strangely comfortable for the first time in months, perhaps years. The simplicity of the equation; kill, or be killed, was cathartic. It pushed everything else away and reduced Lee, or perhaps elevated him, to nothing but a set of eyes, lungs, a beating heart and a trigger finger, all working with the keenly-tuned harmony of a well-oiled engine, or a symphony orchestra conducted by a maestro. Had he been waiting in anticipation for this moment for months? Hoping for it even as he worked to prevent it?
The enemy pushed forward and died in the dozens. Bullets puncturing through and overwhelming their vests, or else finding the weak-points between. The ones pushing forward may have been able to rely on those behind them laying down fire, but Lee had the range and accuracy to outmatch them. His rifle was stable, the recoil, while firm, just another part of the process that Lee took in his stride. They came forward, they fell, and those behind them would sometimes stumble over the bodies, or bits of bodies, of their comrades. That was not Lee's concern though. They had not been people, they were not even avatars of some kind of malevolent evil. They had been targets, and now they were nothing. Further to the back, Lee spotted one priming a grenade. Prioritising the threat, Lee dropped him, sending the armed explosive spilling from his hand. More dust flew up, and more men fell. In this brief respite two Wardens at the front primed and threw grenades as well, adding to the slaughter. Cognitively, Lee was aware of his surroundings being full of noise; gunfire, explosions and voices. Many of these voices were the irrelevant screams and panicked curses, which were discarded. However, there was also combat intel, riding above it. Indeed, Lee added his own voice to the mix, projecting orders clearly. However, even from these Lee felt a separation. They came forward, he fired, and they fell. That was all there was in the world.
A bullet, fired from where he could not say, for until it pierced his skin it did not matter, tore through his left shoulder just under the collar-bone, punching Lee backwards. The force of the impact, and the white hot lead that cut through his tissue, broke the illusion. Now, the noise was deafening, the smell of gunpowder, blood and seat so acrid Lee wanted to vomit. His breathing was ragged and irregular, his heartbeat racing, his skin clammy and his mind dizzy. Montoya yelled something next to him, but Lee could not make out the words.
He had fallen largely out of the cover of the workstation that he and Montoya had crouched behind. Turning his head to look down range, he saw one of the Warden's crouched at the front, one who had thrown a grenade earlier, get shot through the head. A red mist sprayed backwards, and Lee felt ever tiny droplet of it that came to rest on his face. The man who had been standing next to him swore, leaned out to fire again, and crumpled as another shot hit him in the upper thigh. Lee felt a pressure on his chest, and friction against the floor. Montoya had moved over to his position, and was trying to drag him back out of the line of fire. With one hand on Lee and the other still holding his rifle, Montoya had nothing with which to cover his face when the cry of "FLASH-BANG!" was raised.
The world was gone in a blaze of dazzling white and a tuneless, repulsive ringing inside Lee's ears. He might have cried out a writhed where he lay. He may even have vomited or wet himself, it was hard to be sure. In the midst of the chaos, Lee was only truly away of one thing. A weight falling across his legs. His vision returned slowly and in poor condition, seeing quadruple or more of everything around him. At first, Lee could not make out the shape in the forefront of his gaze when he raised his head. It was large, dark, and moving, thrashing even. As his eyes slowly readjusted, the shape materialised as Montoya, his legs kicking frantically and his hands clasped up against his throat, trying to stem to blood that spurted between his fingers.
Men in Shao Long uniforms were pouring into the room, ignoring the dead and ending the dying. One man came and stood over Montoya, who's right hand left his neck and, soaked in blood, travelled down to his hip where it fumbled at his holster. Before his panicked digits could make sense of the clasp, the soldier had pointed a shotgun at Montoya's face, and fired.
Next, the soldier turned to examine Lee, studying him with cold eyes. Lee could have made the same futile gesture as Montoya, and received just as quick an end. Instead, Lee met the man's gaze, his expression blank and his hands still, wondering if it would even make any difference. When the moment passed, the soldier lowered his shotgun and spoke to his comrades with words Lee found he could no longer comprehend, before a boot rose, and came down hard at the centre of Lee's face, making all the death disappear in a flash of pain.
