The Roar That Parted The Currents [1.3]

This scene contains a graphic depiction of consensual sex.

Murati wondered if she would still come tonight.

They had promised, but then–

As brief as the fight was, she had been awful to Karuniya with those few words.

At least there was electricity in the hall now.

When she got home after her meeting, and the subsequent events she wanted far, far from her mind, her hallway’s power had been restored. When she arrived, her synthesizer music was blaring again, barely muffled by the door. A gaggle of engineers, still working on the farther parts of her hallway, stared at her as she appeared before them, ‘the owner of the very noisy room.’

“It’s DJ Hard Roe!” She shouted at them, an attempt at humor they did not appreciate.

Everyone got back to work and Murati disappeared into her room.

First thing she did was use the panel near the door to quiet her music.

She then sank back against the closed door behind her and sighed deeply.

All the way down the door, until she was seated with her arms around her knees.

The silence in the room just made her head pound harder with shame and anxiety.

“Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid; arrogant, stuck up, bitch. Stupid.”

All of it was meant to assail herself. She could not fault Karuniya anything now.

She pounded her fist on the door behind her.

Her alarm clock continued to count the minutes and seconds. It was 1100 hours now.

She had a full day ahead of her still.

Time kept moving. Life went on. Murati just had to deal with it.

Sighing deeply, she stood up, one hand on the door, another on the wall panel.

DJ Hard Roe’s “Abyssal Love” album then began to play once more.

There was a rich sound to it. DJ Hard Roe really took advantage of the ever-increasing sophistication of computer software to make fascinating sounds, but she wove in traditional melodies to create what she dubbed “the sound of modern sex.” Murati quietly revered her style.

It was the soundtrack to most of her days, ever since its release a year ago.

Perhaps not the sound of modern sex, for her, at least not then or most days.

To her, it was the sound of everyday life beneath the currents.

Sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh. Erratic, shifting; then dramatically winding down.

Murati sighed. Life went on. When next she saw Karuniya, she would apologize.

For now, as she recognized before, she had a whole day to live, here, by herself.

From the nightstand drawer, she removed her reading glasses and set them on the table.

She then removed an injector and a bottle of medicine and set them there too.

Her coat was still practically spotless. She put it and her pants back in the wardrobe.

She removed her full bodysuit and changed out into a two-piece swimsuit instead.

The top was sleeveless, front-zipped and cut just above the belly; and the bottom was a pair of shorts, all made of plastic and synthetic fiber. All black, and unlike the tight bodysuit it had a bit more give. This was the sort of suit you could wear comfortably around your room.

Uniform policy for the military required full suits for meetings and combat alert.

Around her room, a sporty two-piece was just the thing for Murati.

She closed the wardrobe and pressed a button on the wall.

Had the music not been so loud, she would have heard the wardrobe mist her clothes with moisture and a cleaning solution. Then a warm mist and a strong fan would have dried them off.

Murati hovered back to the drawer.

She picked up the injector and filled it with medicine.

Gently, she ran a finger down the end of the injector. It was sharp.

With one hand she pulled her bottom down a little below the hip.

Her other hand stabbed the injector into her side and pushed down the button on the back.

She gritted her teeth. It hurt; it wasn’t supposed to, but she had made it hurt.

There was something cathartic about it. Both the self-loathing, and the hormones.

“Fuck.” She mumbled. “You suck, Murati.”

She pulled the injector out and dropped it on the nightstand. There was a dribble of blood.

When she mastered herself and ceased to cringe at the pain, Murati tremulously opened the drawer and put the vial of medicine back inside. There was more medicine in there. A pill bottle; and a few packets of powder meant to dissolve below her tongue. She looked over the packets.

She had asked her doctor for the powder. For a special occasion she had said sheepishly.

Like the condoms also in the drawer, it was likely to now go unused.

She threw them back in the drawer and withdrew the pill bottle.

Taking two yellow pills from it, she walked over to one of the wall panels.

At the push of a button the shower opened. It was not only a shower: it was a very cramped full bathroom. To even get in she had to push the toilet down below the level of the floor with one foot, at which point it would lock in and become the vent for the dirty shower water.

She was not too tall, and she was fairly lean, and still with the door closed, she would be packed in, her arms at her sides, only really able to turn with some effort and reach up or down to scrub herself. She felt like a canned fish, packed in with soapy water or foamy mist.

There were barely centimeters of headroom at the top.

Water usage was controlled, as the machine was programmed with its weekly allotment. Foamy soap was dispensed from the sides and the roof, water could be sprayed, misted, or dispensed as a full shower, and water for drinking could be procured as well.

It was this latter function that Murati now desired.

She opened a tiny side-drawer and produced a reusable cup.

From one of the rear water sprayers she filled the cup.

She took her pills, and drank some cold, clear fortified drinking water.

Refreshed, her medical regimen taken care of, she closed the shower and sat on her bed.

“So Murati, what now?”

It was 1135 hours, and the whole day was still ahead.

Murati laid back in bed, facing the wall, and pressed her fingers on the panel.

Everything was context sensitive. In a sense, her entire wall was the panel, and any square she touched could become controls. The screen was poor quality. Even the minicomputer she looked at back at the Navy HQ was easier on the eyes. Text and images were poorly rendered, so browsing BBSes on her wall was a pain. It was really only good for daily tasks and playing music. The room’s computer box was under her bed, along with her modest collection of diskettes.

There was LAN access, but for anything other than official broadcasts it was quite slow.

Between the clunkiness of the room computer and the power outages, she ultimately asked for and received a battery-powered alarm clock that could reliably remind her of scheduled tasks.

She wished she had loaned a minicomputer from the library.

For a moment, she switched off the music from the computer and tuned into a broadcast over the local area network. It took a moment to receive, both because establishing a LAN connection was arduous, and her computer itself was old and overburdened. When the connection finally got through, and stabilized, it was rock solid, however. While the picture was terrible, even when she tried to restrict it to only occupying one wall without blending into the ceiling, the audio was pretty crisp. You could definitely rely on Union audio equipment, even if the screens still needed a lot of work. Because it was a priority stream, once connected, the broadcast was smooth.

An older man behind a desk read off the day’s announcements in a rich voice.

“–In agricultural news, Lyser’s Agricultural Institute is reporting Corn and Soybean yields are ahead of plan, with a surplus of 18% for the first growing season of 979 AD. Rather than distributing greater amounts of these products, the Union Agricultural Commissariat, in a highly criticized decision, have opted to retain the surplus to grow the strategic reserve as part of the Two-Year Famine Protection Program. In a statement, the Commissariat spokespersons indicated that the allotments are currently ‘In a good place’ and that nutrition has been even, equitable and high quality in the Union. They urged citizens to look ahead and help the country future-proof its food supply by maintaining consumption at these levels and doing their best to work toward surpluses. Lyser has also reported a small increase in the amount of primary pollinator production–”

Murati tapped the panel to swap back to music.

Agricultural news was extremely important to the Union because it was a Plan Year.

It was not Murati’s interest or forte, however.

A few more taps, and her walls began to display moody colors for ambiance.

DJ Hard Roe returned to life with the rebellious, crackly beats of “Euphotic Hatefuck.”

Murati donned her glasses and withdrew one of her books from the pile.

“Remember to return these.” She mumbled. But she would not. Not yet anyway.

All of them had thick binding and covers. They were called “limestone paper” books but the pages were made of a complicated mineral compound, with some petrol products in there too. She could get books loaded as text files on a minicomputer, from the same library where she got the books. But there was something she liked about the physical books. Perhaps there were less distractions involved. Or their immediacy: turning the pages for example. Murati could not pin it down. But she would rather read about the Empire’s wars against Alaize to its west, on paper.

It was 1216 and she still had the whole day ahead of her.

At 1300 hours however, she was informed of a visitor at her door.

The alert appeared on the wall and muted her music.

“Lunch! Ms. Nakara, your combined lunch– would you like ‘A’ or ‘B’ today?”

“I’ll take ‘B.’ Please leave it at the door.”

Murati called out. She was not dressed modestly enough for polite company.

“Sure thing! Please pick it up while it’s still warm.”

This was the last thing the delivery boy said before the music kicked back in.

After a few moments had passed, Murati cracked open the door, slipped her arm out and pulled the lunchbox into the room. It was a white plastic case with a spork included.

Inside, the box was divided into four courses.

There was a corn flatbread, a portion of pickled lettuce with an oily tomato relish, a soybean and yeast cutlet, and a fruit preserve. The pickles looked crisp, but the flatbread was a little stiff. The protein cutlet was slightly firm on the outside, soft inside, and coated in a bit of sauce, probably flavored with more yeast, corn or soy, or all three. On top of the cornbread there was a little packet of citrus powder, to be torn open, spilled into a cup and drank with water from the shower.

She wondered what was in the ‘A’ menu. She liked the cutlets, so she lucked out. 

Murati picked up her cup, mixed herself the citrus drink and with military discipline, quickly devoured her lunch. She did pause to taste the cutlet, which had a nice, sweet-and-savory taste. In a matter of minutes, she had eaten. A box lunch was not usually a meal to obsess over. One did not even order such meals. They were provided daily to every Station resident.

When she was done, she opened a slot in the wall and sent the box down a chute.

Wherever it was that they went, they would be recycled for materials.

Murati then spent the next several hours in her books.

There was not really day or night for her. The Station environment harkened back to these strange contradictions of human life in its present state: at some point during the course of the day her lights automatically dimmed just a little, when the computer believed she should be winding down for the day. But Murati would simply raise the brightness of the room lights back.

In a fit of pique, she finally got up from her bed.

Murati stepped into the shower, underwear and all.

She got a splash of water, a mist of freshner and then a warm spray to dry herself off.

Her next destination was her wardrobe.

She pushed her uniforms and wetwear aside. In one corner, she had a pair of sleek pants, dark blue with strips of translucent material below the thigh, as well as a button up synthetic white shirt with a black collar and elbow-length sleeves. Both had been acquired for a special occasion.

“Might as well not let them go to waste.”

She put the shirt on, buttoning it up to just over her breasts. She then unzipped her swimsuit top until the zip was right below the buttons: that way she exposed her collar and just the littlest bit of her chest. The pants, she wore without a belt. Everything fit perfectly; she could see her whole look for herself in the mirror in the back of the wardrobe.

Just like the models in the culture ‘zines.

She had seen the clothes on a dummy in a co-op. Murati had little sense of fashion.

But Karuniya, who had tagged along to shop, liked the look of them.

“That tall, dark soft-butch look really suits you.” Karuniya had said.

“I’m more like average and lightly toasted.” Murati had replied.

“If you really believed in yourself, you’d be so hot, you know?”

Murati did not exchange for the clothes right then.

She did come, sans Karuniya, the next day. And then she acquired them.

They had cost her half of her credits, but it was worth it.

Even if Karuniya was not there to see it, the clothes were amazingly comfortable.

She liked the look. Particularly the gap of brown skin at her neck and collarbone area.

While the pants really clung to her, they felt so easy to move in.

Murati did feel like a much more confident woman was staring back from the mirror.

A woman in her prime, lean with a refined expression and striking features, rebelliously short and untidy black hair, auburn eyes that shone with glamor, strong shoulders, long legs.

She was a complete and total specimen.

This woman could do anything.

She might even apologize to Karuniya for today.

Heaving a long sigh, Murati made for the bed and dropped herself on it.

It was 18:05 and around this time was when she had expected to have a date.

Instead, she was alone.

She hated the way that she reacted to Karuniya and she could not keep it out of her mind any longer. While she cared about her career (and who could say that this opportunity would not advance it?) she knew from the bottom of her heart that she cared about Karuniya too. And even if they never dated again, she would absolutely hate losing her dearest friend in the station.

“I should go talk to her.”

Her legs wouldn’t move. There was still an unearned sense of stupid pride in her.

She sighed again. She almost considered turning down the synths. The throbbing, sensual sounds of “Two Dolphins Meet Far Away From Home” were starting to compound the difficulty she had coming to any decision or making herself accept anything that had happened. On most days, the soundscape helped her to focus and drown out distraction. Today, everything was a mess.

Her legs still wouldn’t move. “God damn it, what am I doing?” She shouted.

That particular decision, at least, would be taken out of her hands.

Her music paused again by itself, mid-shout.

Murati sat up suddenly.

There was a notification on the wall. Someone was knocking on the door.

Because this was someone authorized to the room computer, an ID image was shown.

Shoulder-length hair, bright eyes, olive skin. An innocent smile.

She had taken this picture at the Academy, with her hair dyed green.

“I brought a peace offering.”

Karuniya called from the other side of the door.

Murati was still as hesitant as before to speak. To own up; to apologize.

Nevertheless, she found herself quietly opening the door.

“I know you’re annoyed with me.” Her partner said.

Karuniya walked in with a confident strut. She knew what she was doing.

She had a bottle in hand and a smile on her softly painted lips.

Like Murati, she had also dressed up for the date night they had promised to have.

“I’m not annoyed with you.” Murati said, trying not to stare too much.

How could anyone be annoyed with someone who looked like that?

Karuniya had also changed out of her full suit. Instead she wore a light-blue one-piece, front-zipped, with a high leg-line and exposed shoulders. Over it she wore an off-shoulder crop top with long, translucent sleeves, all yellow, buttoned just over her breasts, along with a skirt and stockings of a similar color and make. The skirt had a gap around the hips to expose skin.

Those materials had to be synthetic and petroleum products. There wasn’t a cotton shirt in sight in Thassal, or much of the Union. It was too expensive, the growing space at too much of a premium. And yet, the make was so state-of-the-art, so fashionable, Murati almost mistook it.

Murati always found her face radiant; but she had made herself up a bit more.

Her hair had a glittery sheen, still hanging behind her back but brushed with a little more care. Her lips were painted just slightly reddish pink. Her cheeks glittered, flushed slightly pink with a hint of makeup powder. She must have been saving this stuff — it was all amazing. Murati was transfixed with Karuniya as she moved past her to set the bottle down on the nightstand.

“I always thought it was really hardcore how you injected it.”

While Murati was busy staring at Karuniya, the scientist had been dissecting the room. Her eyes had settled on the injector and medicine bottle that was left discarded on the nightstand.

She just barely mastered herself in time to respond with intellect over libido.

“Injections have higher doses than pills. You take them less often.”

“You already take like two pills for other stuff, so do you actually gain any time?”

She had a point, but Murati did not invite her over for health coaching.

In fact, she had been reasonably certain the invitation would be off, after what happened.

“Want a drink? We’ll have to pass around your cup.” Karuniya said.

Murati felt that Karuniya was pointedly avoiding discussing the events from earlier.

She decided to play along. If she was honest with herself, she was happy to see Karuniya.

And that was a response, she assured herself, made with intellect over libido.

“I can’t well turn it down if you went out of your way to get it.” She said.

Karuniya’s bottle contained a sweetened and watered-down corn wine.

They twisted off the cap and poured themselves a cup of the clear brown drink. They sat on the bedside and took turns drinking. Lyser corn wine was a special drink: there was a process to it. Most people would have just gotten a drink of raw corn alcohol and watered it down if they wanted to get drunk. Corn wine was an experience. Of the milieu of flavors, the taste of sweet corn was strongest. Corn wine lived up to its name. Each sip was frothy and slick, coating the tongue. Then followed the sting of the liquor, and the warming sensation as it flowed down the throat.

“This is pretty good.” Murati said. She gently tilted the cup, sloshing the liquor.

“Lyser had a good crop this year! Whatever year this was.” Karuniya said.

She lifted the cup as if to toast and took a sip.

“Year XXX, a good vintage.” Murati joked. Karuniya even laughed at it.

“I’m hungry. Let’s get something! We can pool our credits together if we need to.”

Karuniya put down the bottle on the nightstand. Any wall in the room, save for the sliding doors for the shower and other utilities which had their own controls there, could become a portal for the room computer. Over the nightstand, she put in a request for the food administration page.

Murati, still playing along nonchalantly, simply watched.

A grainy window appeared a few minutes later. Communicating with the wider community of the Station through the LAN was not instantaneous. Broadcasts had bandwidth priority and messages were slow. Eventually their patience was rewarded with the room service page.

“A menu or B menu?” Karuniya asked. Murati simply shrugged.

Like magic, a few minutes later, there were a few knocks on the door.

Once the delivery was made, Murati simply picked up the food at her doorstep.

Dinner was similar to lunch, with the addition of a soup cup and pickled eggs. There was a potato salad, bread, and a savory protein cutlet, likely soy and specially bred yeast.

The two of them sat on the floor with their backs to the bedframe.

“Not exactly a candle-lit co-op table date.” Murati sighed.

“What is a date, but the two people who are together?”

Karuniya sidled up to her on the bed and linked their arms together, holding Murati’s hand.

There was a sweet scent wafting up from her that reminded Murati of the botanical garden at the Academy. Flowers; barely seen outside of a lab in the Union. But their scent was still there. Had Karuniya gone to visit the garden? Did she shed tears under the heavy scent of the plants?

That image was just too painful for Murati to keep ignoring.

“I’m sorry.” Murati said.

“I’m sorry too.” Karuniya said. She held up a finger to Murati’s lips before she could tell her that there was nothing for her to apologize for. She knew Murati too well. “No, Murati, I was presumptuous. We’re not kids doing group projects anymore. This is for our careers. I should have asked you and realized your feelings. I’m taking responsibility for this too. If you want out–”

“I don’t!” Murati said, gently guiding Karuniya’s finger off her lips. “I want to do this. A ship is a ship; a mission is a mission. I’m going to learn new things and see new sights, with you.”

Karuniya was surprised. Murati even surprised herself, with the forcefulness of her words.

She had only given it an inkling of thought throughout the day. Now that she had put it into words and advocated it to herself from a broader view, she actually felt a little excited. After all, she had been afraid of leaving Karuniya forever, or vice versa. Now they had their own ship.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Determination clearly shone in Murati’s face. Karuniya’s posture softened.

“Let’s toast to it then!” She said.

“How?” Murati asked. “We’ve only got one cup.”

“I can think of a way.”

Karuniya lifted the cup for a toast, took a drink, and pulled Murati into a kiss.

Sweet corn, stinging alcohol and a warm tongue stole through her unguarded lips.

“Toast!”

Pulling back, Karuniya giggled. Murati, her heart beating quickly, suppressed a laugh.

“You’re always up to something.” She said. “You’ve got an evil genius to you.”

“You’re right. I’m most definitely an evil genius. But at least I’m not a troublemaker.”

She dipped her flatbread in the soup and took a dramatic bite from it, winking.

“What was that?” Murati laughed. “What was that gesture even supposed to mean?”

“Eat up before it gets colder.”

Teasing her, Murati picked up her own flatbread and made an exaggerated wink.\

Karuniya stuck out her tongue.

After their romantic dinner, the pair resumed their casual drinking. Karuniya inspected Murati’s general messiness. She had no room to talk. Having been over at her place before Murati knew intimately that she had a book pile just like her own, just with different contents.

However, rather than her evil genius, Karuniya had genuine curiosity.

She picked a book off the pile, on the development of Imperial fleet tactics.

“This is just like you.”

Karuniya smiled fondly at the book. “It’s like holding a tiny little piece of you.”

Opening up the pages, she flipped through various wordy descriptions and diagrams.

“Do they still operate like this? This book is a hundred years old.”

“It serves as a foundation.” Murati said.

“You really think about this stuff all the time.” Karuniya said. “I signed up at the academy because the military has a monopoly on science here in the Union. So, I guess I’m a soldier. I just do not have as much of a concentration in the operational art. Do you think that’s a weakness?”

“No, I mean, when we go to war you will perform science-y roles still.”

Murati had said that with such confidence that Karuniya stared at her in silence.

After a pause, she asked, “You think we’re going to war?”

“Eventually we must. I mean, you know, the contradictions and all that–”

“I read Mordecai too you know. But does that actually mean war?”

“It will eventually. The Empire in the long term, needs our resources against the Republic.”

Karuniya laid back against the pile of books, looking up at the ceiling.

“Wow. I guess I never thought about it like that. I feel like– well, like a liberal. I guess.”

“I forgive you.” Murati teased her. “Besides, you have all kinds of incredible knowledge I don’t have. I can’t predict currents worth a damn; I don’t get biomass concentration. I’d need you.”

Karuniya stood up from the floor. Her expression changed suddenly.

“Murati, listen to me. I made a decision today.”

Facing Murati, she extended a hand to her. Murati took it and stood with her.

“I want us to be together. I never want to lose you. Both of us have lost enough already.”

Her other hand she stretched to the wall.

Without looking, she input a command to Murati’s room computer. For people who got used to room computers, it was not hard to work the inputs while looking away, or even to type on the wall with a completely absent mind. The whole time she typed, Karuniya had the most intense lock on Murati’s eyes. Murati felt a sensation come up from her core, a growing desire.

As the lights dimmed, those emerald eyes grew fiery, passionate.

Her soft hand tightened its grip on Murati’s.

There was a notification. Karuniya had recorded herself in the room log.

“I’m staying the night. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I kinda missed sleeping over.”

She walked around Murati, hand in hand, never breaking eye contact. She sat on the bed.

Heaving a contented sigh, she tugged at the neck of her suit.

“Do you want to hold on to me? Even if you don’t– will you indulge me?” She asked.

A zipper pulled down; a button popped.

Karuniya beamed with anticipation. Her breasts were half-exposed.

Murati did not need any further hints and did not respond with her voice.

She took Karuniya by the shoulders and practically pounced on her.

Silent, confident, her body communicated the desire she had and her total acquiescence.

There was barely room on the bed for them to lay together — except with one on top.

Karuniya locked eyes with an expression that was ravishing in its confidence.

As the tallest of the two Murati gently tipped her head down to her.

Their lips joined. First the kisses were brief, between intermittent, warm gasps.

Laid down against the bed, Karuniya embraced Murati, and pushed herself up.

When their lips next met, they locked tight, savoring one another, breathless.

Murati’s fingers glided across Karuniya’s belly, relishing the soft contours of her skin, the tiny twitches of motion from her body as she reacted to the touch. Her fingers traced her belly, to her hip, and down to her thigh. Pressing between her legs, she reached under the wetsuit.

Her lips brushed past Karuniya’s cheek.

Ever so slightly, they spread for a gentle nip at the warm, pliable flesh of her earlobe.

“Oh! Murati–!”

Exploring further, Murati felt a rising pulse as she sucked on her lover’s neck.

Mumbling little cries escaped Karuniya in fits and starts. She closed her eyes and dug in her fingers. Her legs pressed against Murati and kicked, thighs rubbing, toes curling with pleasure.

“Murati, this–”

Her moaning grew louder, incoherent. Her cries shuddered with her whole body.

Briefly lifting her other hand, Murati tinkered with the wall panel as Karuniya tittered.

Synthesizer music filled the room. Karuniya bucked her hips, nearly jumping.

Both from pleasure and incredulous surprise.

“What the–! You’re ruining– hngh!”

Karuniya’s complaints were interrupted by a cute little moan as Murati found a sweet spot.

Those fingers which were occupied within Karuniya had taken no pause.

With the music blaring, they found a pleasant new rhythm.

“It’s your modesty that I’m protecting.” Murati said into her ears.

“Oh shut– ohh!”

In lieu of shutting up, Murati drew closer again to Karuniya.

Karuniya’s back arched, and she drew forward, seizing Murati and pulling her deeper.

All of the playful sounds escaping Karuniya’s lips were masked by the synths.

Only Murati could delight in them, as close as she was, tasting them in her breath.

“What a noisy girl.” She teased.

“That’s– you–”

Karuniya tugged at Murati’s dress shirt, undoing the buttons and slicing down the zipper to start undressing her. She squeezed the pliable material of the suit, gritting her teeth. Her whole body shuddered from Murati’s attentions. With effort, she pulled the suit and shirt off Murati’s shoulders and down against her arms, exposing her sweat-soaked, heaving chest.

Her hands went from the suit down to Murati’s breasts, digging her fingers into the skin.

Responding to her lover’s feverish grip on her chest, Murati pushed deeper and faster.

Karuniya tensed, her back arched. Suddenly overwhelmed in climax, she jumped forward.

Perhaps she had intended to embrace. Instead Murati knocked heads with her.

From the sound system, a much quieter, less intense track suddenly began to play.

“Fuck–” Karuniya began through gasping breaths. “–Goodbye, mood!”

Clinging together, near totally naked, they burst suddenly into laughter.

Murati was so taken in with Karuniya. She was positively glowing. She was so beautiful.

“I love you, Karu.” Murati said. “I love you so much. Let’s stay just like this.”

She squeezed her lover tightly. For a moment they held one another, neither moving from the spot. Everything felt light and warm and fun. Comforting. They laughed a little more together.

Karuniya recovered her breath. Suddenly, she pulled down Murati’s pants.

“I love you too, Murati. But listen it’s neither fair nor hot if only I have fun.”

Her fingers sent a thrill, longing and anticipation cascading across Murati’s entire body.

“I’m having fun.” She replied, gently holding on to Karuniya’s waist.

“Yeah, yeah; enough of the strong, reserved service top stuff, just come here.”

From the nightstand, Karuniya coyly withdrew a pair of foil packets.

One was full of powder. She tipped the contents into Murati’s mouth to dissolve quickly.

A second packet contained a condom.

Karuniya teasingly reached between Murati’s legs and laid a hand there. First to slide the condom down Murati’s shaft; then just to squeeze. Between her grip and the medicine, Murati felt a powerful rush of blood. It was impossible to maintain her strong, reserved persona then.

Stroking faster, Karuniya brought her other arm around Murati’s neck. She kissed her, briefly — then pushed her down onto the bed, her hands supporting her weight on Murati’s chest.

Her lover rising and falling over her, with the music slow and the lights dimming, their eyes locked together with growing intensity even as their bodies quaked with pleasure–

Murati almost felt as if time had stopped. As if she was in a sublime dream.

Karuniya’s weight and warmth on her body did make Murati shout.

Both of them shouted.

Heads swimming, heartbeats pulsing from one to the other as if one flesh. Diving deep beneath the surface of each other’s bodies, touching everything, tasting everything, holding back nothing. Holding hands adrift in the currents of their pleasure, the two of them lost the time.

They were taken by a raw desperation. Sex was nothing new, but that night was different.

Between the first kiss and the last orgasm, the world changed. They felt it in on their skin.


Previous ~ Next

BERSERKER (71.2)

This scene contains graphic violence and death, and brief homophobia.


To the outside world it seemed Loupland was covered in a perpetual snow.

In the spring, however, Loupland thawed just like the world beyond the arctic sea.

Green grasses peered from under their blanket of snow. Flowers, covered in cold dew, rose from the earth, seeking the returning sun. It was the eye in the storm that seemed to consume the little country. A respite from the blizzards. In days gone by, the folk would have come out to till the fields and hold markets and dance under the festival wreaths.

Times changed, but at least the children still laughed and played.

That spring, a little girl from the village decided to go climb the mountain. She did not climb far, but she climbed far for a child. For a child, she felt she had climbed the entire mountain, in her kirtle and smock, getting dirty, laughing aloud and alone. She climbed over big boulders and ran up little hills and after an hour or two she could look back and see the village below her like a little brown square etched on the green and white earth.

On that day and atop that climb, the little girl met a demon on the mountain.

She was scared at first, to see the creature bundled up in a cloak, huffing and puffing and making noises to scare her away. But her curiosity led her to draw nearer to the monster and to stare into its eyes, and she laughed and called it a little imp and ruffled its cloak.

“I’m not an imp.” said the creature dejectedly.

“Can I stay here and play?” asked the village girl.

“Whatever. Don’t tell anyone about me.” replied the imp.

She returned the next day, and found the imp again and brought some food.

She found the imp not wanting for food, its lair strewn with frozen bones.

She returned the next day and brought the imp toys since it was clearly a child.

She found the imp to be a girl by her choice of a doll, which she clung to tightly.

She returned the next day and brought the imp a kirtle and a little smock.

“I don’t wanna dress up.” said the imp dejectedly.

“Will you dress up for me?” asked the village girl.

“No!”

And the imp dressed in the kirtle and smock, but kept her cloak wrapped around herself.

“I’ll come back with more tomorrow!”

“You really do not have to.”

She returned the next day having brought a blanket, stitched up into a cloak.

“Will you wear this for me?” asked the village girl.

“Ugh.”

She helped the imp into her new cloak.

She found the imp had a furry little tail, and she wagged her own furry little tail.

Day after day, the village girl awakened early, ate her porridge and drank her milk quickly, and ran off laughing and smiling to the mountain to play with her newfound friend. She showed her friend many things from the village, fruits and toys and sweets. The imp barely played, choosing mostly to watch, but it was enough that she remained. She followed the village girl wherever the village girl wanted, and they explored the caves and crevices of the mountain, and climbed higher and lower, and had fun.

One day the imp stopped the village girl and spoke to her in a new voice.

“Want to see something strange?”

“Yes! Show me!”

Eager to learn anything at all about her new friend, the village girl followed the imp to a spring formed out of thawing ice, where the imp reached down into the water, and took from it a big fistful of frost. As her hand rose from the water, the spring froze where the fist had entered, the little waves and ripples on its surface etched hard in the ice.

She really was a demon! A demon that could do witchcraft! It was amazing!

Never had the village girl been this excited.

“Promise me you’ll keep it a secret.”

“I promise!”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

“I won’t! I never have!”

And so the village girl returned home, and every day she would leave for the mountains to play again, and she enjoyed many moons of the thaw season in this fashion. But the thaw season was too short for the village and too short for the girl. Soon the snows began to blow over Loupland once more, and the thaw season, and its thaw jobs began to wane.

Despite this the village girl was resolved. Whenever she had no lessons or finished them early, she would put on her coat, put on warm leggings and thick boots, and she would go out, though the mountain was treacherous and slippery. Though she even took a few bumps, the village girl was very brave and made it to the Imp’s hideout without fail.

“Stop coming here.” Said the imp.

“No! Lets play.”

Reluctant as always the little imp would play with the village girl.

“Soon we’ll be separated by the ice. Or something else.” said the imp.

“No! Lets play.” replied the village girl.

She made a great effort to meet her friend whenever she could.

However, the village around her was changing. With the coming of the snow, there were more people walking the street with nothing to do, crowding the shops and bars, being loud. There was a lot of tension in the air, and it felt dangerous to go outside, but the village girl kept going, heedless of anyone’s caution. Her routine went unchanged.

One day, however, without her noticing, three men followed her right to the mountain.

They had bottles in their hands, and strange expressions on their faces.

“Every bloody day you leave the village, and come here, for what? Ain’t nothin’ here.”

“Little girls shouldn’t be running around making a racket when the village is struggling.”

“You’re too carefree! It pisses everybody off. What’s up here that’s so special?”

They reminded the village girl of her own father; drunk, jobless, shouting every word.

She felt very nervous, and could not answer their questions, and it made them irate.

“Didn’t your mother teach you respect? Huh? You think you can look down on us?”

One of the men shoved the girl down at the maw of the imp’s cave, and she cried.

In the next instant, the imp stepped out from the shadowed rocks.

She gazed coldly at the men and they gazed quizzically back at her.

“Who’s this? Why she hiding out here? Who’s daughter is she?”

“I’m nobody’s daughter. Go away.”

Confused, the drunks commiserated while the imp stared all of them down.

“Huh? What’s with that tone, you brat? You think you can talk to us like that?”

All three men had emptied their bottles and held them like clubs.

Across from them the imp stood unfazed.

Her tail stretched straight behind her, and her ears were raised in alert.

Meanwhile the village girl tried to calm everybody down.

“She’s not bad! She plays with me! She’s just living out here. She doesn’t mean any harm.”

“You shut up, you brat. You wanna get hit again?”

One of the men raised an arm to strike the village girl with cruel ease.

In mid-air, the arm stopped moving.

The Imp’s eyes turned icy blue.

“What is–”

Suddenly the man started to scream.

His raised arm started to shake, and his whole body contorted in pain. Dark black veins threaded visibly through her skin, becoming harder and sharper as if the blood inside them was thickening, hardening, stretching. Everyone present watched in horror as the man’s arm started to peel away along lines of the sinews like a blossoming flower of skin and gore, and the stem, blood frozen sharp right under his skin, glowing, and glowing!

The captive man was in such pain and terror that he could not scream anymore. He slobbered and twitched and hung as if his arm was dangling from an invisible shackle, suspended by some unknown force like a sack of meat, the blood in his veins freezing.

“Aatto no!” shouted Petra, little village girl Petra who only wanted everyone to get along.

“It’s a witch! It’s a witch! Kill her! Kill her!”

In an insane frenzy the remaining two men charged past their dying ally, bottles in hand.

“I’m sorry Petra, but you can’t hear what is in their disgusting heads like I can.”

Aatto, Petra’s friend, the mystical little imp of the mountain, raised her hand and without expression, pushed on the men and sent them flying off the mountainside, their bodies twisting and smashing and clinging to the snow and rock, collecting into balls of slush and blood. Blood drew from her nose and from her eyes, her glowing, icy-blue eyes.

Petra saw it, the blue steam that emanated from Aatto whenever she committed this sin.

She rushed to her friend and hugged her around the waist, weeping openly into her.

“Why are you crying?” Aatto shouted angrily. “They were going to hurt you!”

“I’m not crying for them.” Petra said, sobbing and screaming. “I’m crying for you!”

At Petra’s touch, the steam started to calm, and Aatto started to shake. She wept a little.

“Shut up, Petra. I did a good thing for once. I did a good thing.” Aatto muttered.


Ayvarta, Solstice Desert — Conqueror’s Way Approach

“Aatto! Open up!”

Atop a wooden staircase, Petra banged on the door of the camp’s command center module, a small air-conditioned mobile home set on the bed of a tank transporter. She saw beads of water dancing on the shuttered windows, and could feel air coming from under the door, so she knew Aatto was inside. She banged on the door twice, but there was no response. Behind her, General Von Fennec tapped his feet on the step impatiently.

“Why did she lock herself in here? I’ll have you both know this is my command center!”

Petra sheepishly turned to the General with her hands clapped together as if in prayer.

“Ah, well, Aatto really doesn’t like the heat, anything above 20 celsius is bad for her see–”

“Get that door open this instant, and that punk out in the desert fighting! Now!”

“Yes sir!”

Petra twisted sharply back around to face the door and started to twist the handle.

She brought a foot up to the door and kicked it, doing little to move it.

Though she had basic combat training, Petra Hamalainen Happydays was not a fighter, but a support officer. Specifically, a radio operator, as well as deputy to Lieutenant Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather. She was, compared to the tall and fit Lt. Stormyweather, smaller, plumper, and far less capable of battering down a door. She stopped for a moment to tie her golden hair up into a ponytail, her tail swishing to and fro with excitement.

This pause to gather herself before her next attack prompted Von Fennec to scoff.

“Good god you’re all so useless. Out of my way!”

Von Fennec pushed Petra aside, and put his shoulder up to the door.

In the next instant, the General charged the door, and the door suddenly opened.

Von Fennec tumbled into the room, smashing into the carpet.

Petra stood at the doorway, her hands raised in alarm.

“Petra,” someone mumbled in an aggrieved-sounding tone.

Inside the command center, behind Von Fennec’s desk, was Aatto herself, seated sloppily on a rotating chair with her arms dangling, her head thrown back. Her black uniform jacket and shirt were both unbuttoned down to the belly, bearing glistening brown skin and a hint of muscle — and well over a hint of her breasts, her brassiere’s central clip snapped apart so as to almost fully bare them also. Her hair was down, long and black. She was sweating like, well, a dog; all of her body was profusely moist, and her icy blue eyes looked like they would roll back into her head. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

“Petra, I’m dying.” Aatto said. “Petra it’s 44 degrees. I am going to die here.”

Sighing, Petra wiped sweat from her own brow and maneuvered around the fallen Von Fennec as carefully as she could. She rushed to Aatto’s side and immediately fastened her brassiere back and started to unbutton her shirt and jacket, trying to save her dignity.

“Aatto you’re an officer now! And in an army of men! You can’t behave this way!”

“Petra, I’m absolutely going to die. I am melting.” Aatto mumbled.

She fixed Petra with a pathetic look. She had absolutely beautiful eyes, even then.

Petra tried not to stare too deep into them as she fixed the Lieutenant back up.

“Aatto, you slob! You barbarian!”

Petra sighed again, and behind her, Von Fennec helped himself up from the ground.

“You have a mission, you witch! You monster! Go out there this instant.”

“Petra, I’m so hot.” Aatto said, ignoring Von Fennec.

Von Fennec grit his teeth, while on the chair Aatto swooned and slumped.

“Aatto!”

Petra raised a hand to Aatto’s brow and found her blazing hot.

She couldn’t spot any of the blue steam, the sign that Aatto had overdone it with her ESP.

So it was not a supernatural malady — that fact scared Petra even more.

She could, somehow, heal Aatto’s self-inflicted psychic wounds. But she couldn’t heal this.

“She’s burning up, General!” Petra said.

Von Fennec stood, silent, stupefied.

“If I lose her, and the Vishap, and Von Drachen. My career– no, I’ll be over! I’ll be killed!”

He rushed to the desk and started shaking Aatto.

Petra grabbed hold of him and shoved him back.

“This isn’t helping, General!”

“Do something Petra! Do something for God’s sake!”

“I regret so much. I’ll never get to marry Petra.” Aatto said.

Von Fennec blinked and stopped struggling. Petra covered her mouth, scandalized.

“WHAT?” She then shouted.

“We’ll never get to raise a litter of pups–”

“EXCUSE ME?” Petra shouted again.

Von Fennec took a step back from the chair and rubbed a hand over his mouth.

He then suddenly kicked the chair, knocking it from under Aatto.

“Lieutenant Stormyweather, I order you to assault Conqueror’s Way this instant! Your sexual deviancy will be overlooked if you succeed!” General Von Fennec shouted.

On the floor, Aatto started laughing uproariously, and the room suddenly cooled.

It was as if all the heat of the desert had been extinguished with a thought.

“Will do, General Von Fennec! Just give me some water and a target.” Aatto said.

“There’s an entire goddamn river where you’re going! Move! Both of you!”

Petra, mortified, red in the face, and far more tantalized by these sapphic ideas than any good girl of Loupland should be, stormed off with her hands balled into fists, stomping.

Aatto raised herself off the ground, and looked out the door with distress.

“Wait, Petra! I wasn’t kidding! Let’s get married!”

She ran out the door herself, Von Fennec staring at her back with gritted teeth.

Like Petra, he too knew the weapon that lurked inside that oafish bush-tailed girl.


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The Battle of Conqueror’s Way (70.1)

48th of the Lilac’s Bloom, 2031 D.C.E

Ayvarta, City of Solstice — North Solstice

Deep in the heart of Solstice, under the shadow of Armaments Hill, the ground began to tremble violently. Several blocks out from the headquarters of the Golden Army the shocks and the stirring of Solstice’s three great biting heads could be felt in the floor and the walls. At the Varnavat Artillery Base, there was nothing but blacktop and three massive structures. Stone turntables each the size of a city block, arranged in a triangle around a central control tower, began to turn three massive 800mm cannons.

All three cannons, each 20 meters long, lay on enormous steel bases. Recoil tubes larger than two adult men standing atop each other and thicker than a sand worm were installed atop the barrel to carefully reset the weapon as it slid across a mount some 15 meters long, criss-crossed by the skeletal components of its wheel-driven elevation mechanism. Each gun had a crew of 250 men and women assigned to it for setup, maintenance and repair, along with an elite 15-troop gunnery crew. These hundreds of people crowded the spinning terrain of each turntable, tightening screws, lubricating parts, working the cranes that raised 4-ton explosive shells up to the massive breeches.

Before the Solstice War, the Prajna had not been fired in anger since the revolution.

Now it felt almost routine. At the Sivira HQ not too far away, at Armaments Hill just a stone’s throw from Varnavat, in the surrounding streets, and even in the control tower a hair’s breadth from the epicenter, there was no stress. Civilians passed by the base on their way to work or shop in the North Solstice City District; at the military installations men and women walked the halls with their feet gently quaking, and with the earth’s palpitations winding their way through their guts and lungs, and they bore it quietly.

Every one of the three 800mm Prajna Super-Heavy Howitzers turned its barrel South.

Lieutenant Adesh Gurunath of the 5th Guards Mechanized Artilery Brigade watched the massive guns moving, settling, and the teeming mass of humanity that crewed them, with a mixture of awe, pride, and a lingering, uncomfortable sense of mortality, fear, despair. He was dressed in the formal uniform, coat, button-down, skirt, leggings; his shoulder-length hair wrapped in a bun, his glasses dripping with sweat from his brow, his entire face, ordinarily pleasant, soft and effete, contorted with anxious disbelief.

At his side, his previous superior, now-Major Rahani, outdid him in military elegance with the addition of a bright rose in his hair and a touch of makeup around his eyes and on his lips. Smiling, with a hand on his hip, he patted Adesh gently in the shoulder. His own skirt was just a little bit shorter than Adesh’s, who wore a more conservative woman’s uniform. Both of them had dressed up their best for the facility tour.

“I knew you’d love to see it. My husband is an engineer here, you know.” He said.

He pointed toward the third gun with a winking eye. Adesh made no expression.

He had wondered so many times before: why me? His life had been spared in battle so many times; he had felled so many foes with so little understanding of how or why; he had been promoted away from his friends for so long. Now Rahani had chosen him to bear witness to this. Rahani was going to become one of these powerful, elite gunners.

“Please don’t be nervous. I know on some level that these weapons scare you and you hate using them. I just wanted you to get the full picture of what they can do, before you decide anything.” Rahani said. “I know you’ve been through so much, Adesh. You’re on the cusp of major turning points in your life. You can’t just go with the flow anymore.”

Major Rahani wrapped an arm around Adesh, and drew him close in a motherly way.

“You like guns, right? I think seeing this might help you understand some things.”

In front of them, the guns began to elevate, and then were set into their final arc.

“For the artillery, we are at a crossroads between movement and power. We’ve never had to think about this before, not the way we do now. This right here, is the power you could have by staying rooted where you are now. By stalwartly defending this place.”

Adesh raised his eyes to the barrels of the three Prajna as their breeches locked down.

Standing beside the control tower, he saw flag-wavers come running out of the building.

“You’re here, in Solstice now. You could stay here, like I have. Isn’t this magnificent?”

There was a great and mighty shock that sucked up all other sound.

From the barrel of the Prajna came a flash like a bolt of lightning, and copious black smoke belched out in the wake of a massive, red-hot shell that rushed to the horizon like a shooting star. Beneath Adesh’s feet the ground quaked, and he felt the onrushing force of the gun’s shot like a tidal wave, washing over him. Into his every bone, to the marrow; within his guts; even his eyes felt like they were shaking with its power. He wept openly.

In succession, the second and third guns fired their own projectiles, and Adesh nearly fell; had it not been for Rahani holding him close, perhaps both of them would have fallen. Gunnery and engineering personnel all around stood in the same shocked silence, picking themselves up from their own exposure to the god-like force of the gun firing.

Somewhere out there, something was going to catch those stars and die.

Adesh stood, speechless.

He wished so much that Eshe and Nnenia could be here with him.

He wished he knew where they were.

He wished things hadn’t resolved the way they did.

Rahani, at his side, smiled and waved off the rapidly disappearing shells.

He sighed deeply, and turned to Adesh again.

“We could defend this city’s walls until the end of the war, safe and sound. No more fighting, no more stress, helplessness, powerlessness. We would have 15,000 of the quickest guns in the world, and the three biggest guns in the world, at our disposal. We can do desk work, start families, make passionate love to our partners every night.”

Something small, insignificant almost, wandered in from the edge of Adesh’s vision.

There was a Chimera moving about, towing one of the Prajna’s massive shells.

Its gun was bound up with cloth. There was no need for it to shoot. It was just a tractor.

“But this is a new age also.” Rahani said. “You could follow this war to another border. You could follow General Nakar, the only person in this army speaking of Attacking.”

“I could leave the army.” Adesh said, sobbing.

“You won’t.” Rahani said. “I know because I said it once too. I see a lot of myself in you.”

Adesh hated how right Rahani was, despite how much he loved him that moment for it.

Rahani, with his gentle smile and pretty features, who had saved him so many times.

He was always there for him. Even now, when he had no responsibility toward him.

“You want to do what is right; but you also have to do what is right for you. All of our people are part of this war now. But you don’t need to sacrifice your life for it.”

Rahani pointed at the Prajna’s once more as if reintroducing them to Adesh.

“Please consider it before you return to Mechanized again, Adesh.”

It was a kind, wonderful gesture.

But Adesh knew what he would do.

It was so kind and so wonderful because it was so unnecessary, so ineffective.

He was the only one in that field, it seemed, who saw that Chimera trundling about.

Adesh knew he would unbundle that gun and leave everyone behind. On those tracks.

Rahani sighed a little bit. “My hubbie will be busy, so, lets grab a bite and catch up!”

He clapped his hands together happily. Adesh nodded his head.

“I would like that. You’re the only one of us I can visit anymore.” Adesh said.


Ayvarta, Solstice Desert — Conqueror’s Way Approach

Major General Von Fennec stood on the back seat of his utility truck and watched in a mixture of horror and exasperation as a shower of rocket fire wiped his and Von Drachen’s troops off the bridge to Conqueror’s Way. He had heard of the Ayvartan rocket troops and their howling ordnance, but seeing it with his own eyes was like watching meteors raining from the sky on his men. It was sudden, infernal, and vexing.

The disdainful hand of a fiery goddess, slapping his men like pieces off a game board.

Truly that Madiha Nakar had a knack for setting her own battlefields aflame.

Setting down his binoculars and turning away from the scene of half his men burning to death and the rest fleeing like cowards, the general tapped his foot against the rib of a girl below him on the back of the truck, crouched in clear discomfort beside a portable radio. She groaned upon being struck this way, and grumpily turned her blond head.

“Casualty estimates, right now.” He demanded.

Promptly but with a trembling in her voice, the young woman responded.

“Major Yavez is saying a hundred and thirty, at least. Battalion combat-ineffective.”

“What about the Vishap?”

“It appears unharmed sir.”

Von Fennec sighed with a deep relief. He dropped his binoculars on top of the girl.

“Acceptable. Tell those idiots to get back on the bridge ASAP. Combat ineffective my ass.”

The General left the girl, speechless and rubbing her head, and dropped off the truck and onto the sand. His all-terrain quarter-ton “Peep” truck was parked in the far edge of the battlespace, with a full view of the bridge but ample distance between himself and any guns. He had been watching the battle with a keen interest in the Vishap’s advance. He was an old warhorse of the days of carriage-drawn artillery, and rose through the ranks with the mortar and howitzer men of the last war. This Vishap was really something else.

He was excited to be entrusted with it. To him, it meant Lehner still believed in the old staff, that he was bringing the respected elder statesmen of the army into his future.

Unlike his compatriots, Von Fennec readily dispensed with tradition if it suited him.

Now even the artillery men could know the glory of the assault! They could finally take whole cities by themselves, and humiliate the enemy in the fashion of the infantry! No more was the artillery a lowly thing dragged behind the lines, or saddled with the thankless defense of worthless camps and fortresses. Now in this age of maneuver, the innocent artillery that fired unknowingly into the sky, could itself know blood and fire!

All he had to do was watch the Vishap as it crept toward the city, and await victory.

Now that was progress he could agree with.

Von Fennec walked back toward the tall dunes surrounding his camp.

“Sherry, I shall be in my command tent, tell those cowards to get back in line–”

Moments after he turned his back, as the firestorm died down on the bridge and the Vishap’s gate-smashing shells once more became the loudest presence on the field of battle, Von Fennec felt a trembling moving from the floor to his legs, up his bones.

He shuddered, and turned once more toward the city.

He saw trails of smoke stretching over the sky like black lances.

And the speartip was a trio of glowing-red shells like stars being shot into space.

From the back of the peep truck, Sherry stared at him with terror in her eyes.

“General, the Prajnas have been fired! We’ve got three shells, south-bound!”

Von Fennec sighed deeply with great relief.

“Not my problem then! We’re attacking from the east. Tell my men to keep fighting.”

Safe knowing he was not the target of those monstrous guns, Von Fennec once more turned his back on the truck and the city and ambled away, his gait irregular from horse-back injuries sustained long ago. He had a bottle of wine in a personal icebox on his command vehicle. He could see his HQ already, near the Vishap’s old container. A tank transporter with what resembled a little house on the bed instead of a vehicle.

Several minutes later and sopping wet with sweat, he put his fist to the HQ’s door.

Finally, time for a well-earned rest and maybe a bit of drunkenness.

Von Drachen was out there somewhere, he could do the commanding–

Von Fennec then heard the beeping of a horn, and turned to see the Peep rushing close.

Confused, he watched silently as it pulled sharply up in front of him.

Sherry was in a panic in the back. She was waving her arms with every word said.

Her glasses practically fell off, and her professional-looking hair bun was out of sorts.

“General!” She cried out, short of breath.

Von Fennec turned back around and reached for the door, hoping to ignore her.

“Corps is calling an immediate retreat out of Prajna range!”

Von Fennec stopped and abruptly turned sharply over his shoulder.

“They’ve sustained casualties as high as the divisional level. Our southern thrust is broken, we’re practically fighting alone, and we’re closest to the city.” Sherry said.

Von Fennec blinked.

To retreat would mean–

“We can’t abandon the Vishap! My career will be over!” Von Fennec said.

He turned his head sharply every which way, looking for that uppity mutt.

“Where is Aatto?! Get that bitch out here! We need to extract the Vishap immediately!”

Von Fennec was losing his sun-addled mind entirely.

Demure and white as a ghost, Sherry mumbled, “Sir, um, about that–”


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The 3rd Superweapon (69.4)

This scene contains violence and death.


On the road leading to the eastern gate sixteen trucks and tractors assembled, each of them supporting via metal scaffolds a bed of 132mm rockets. They assembled in a formation that took up much of the clay road between a pair of evacuated shops and restaurants at the edge of the city. Each driver, accompanied by a small gunnery team, exited the vehicles. Together the teams began to adjust the angle of the rocket launchers. There were at least twelve rockets per truck, and around eight rockets to a tractor.

Madiha Nakar watched the so-called “Guards Heavy Mortar” teams setting up Ayvarta’s secret weapons. She helped them adjust the elevation of the launchers via short-range hand-radio, feeding them the distance and coordinates to the approaching Vishap.

Once all the trucks and tractors were situated and their rockets ready, Madiha left them.

She turned around and ran to the opposite end of the ramparts, fixing her gaze back to the Conqueror’s Way, whenever she heard the Vishap fire its main gun. She guessed the weapon must have been at least 150mm caliber for all the damage it was doing, and loaded with anti-concrete explosives. From her high vantage, directly in line with the bridge, it was hard to see, but she knew the massive vehicle, surrounded by infantrymen, had punched neatly through the first gate. She saw the smoke and some of the rubble go flying into the water in pieces. Now the ruins of the Second Gate obstructed her view.

“Parinita, stay here on the main radio, I’m running farther up the wall!” Madiha shouted.

Parinita nodded her acknolwedgment, and the General took off running. She kept her eyes on the bridge, and as she got an angle on it from the wall, she could see around the rubble of the gates, and spotted the Vishap trundling toward the second gate. Its machine guns were firing at all sides, and the main gun fired an explosive shell the second she caught a glimpse of it. A horrid green fireball launched from the front of the tank and struck the rubble of the second gate and instantly reduced to dust a substantial amount.

Her troops around that ruined gate had taken blocking positions. Small caliber anti-tank guns, the only sort that could be hidden around the rubble, shot little red shells of 45mm caliber at the Vishap that ricocheted off its armor and exploded harmlessly on its bulldozer blades. There were six or seven shots Madiha saw flying out, but the Vishap hardly slowed, charging into the blasts confidently. Its frontal machine guns swept over her troops’ firing positions, covering the ruins of the second gate in automatic fire.

Under this assault, and all too aware of the approaching hulk, her troops retreated.

Madiha raised the hand radio to her lips. “Ready a creeping barrage, fifty across.”

Below the walls, in the city at her back, the rocket teams prepared their payloads.

“We’re golden, General!” replied the men on the radio.

“Acknowledged! Salamander 132mm rocket barrage, fire!” Madiha shouted back.

Organized in their staggered ranks, rows of trucks and tractors unleashed their rockets.

Dozens flew at a time with an unearthly sound, a haunting, howling noise. Arcing over the wall, they left trails of fire in the sky. Even the Ayvartan troops turned their heads up to watch the explosives cut across the firmament. Neat lines of bright orange flame drew overhead, past the second gate, and fell directly into the bridge. In quick succession the rockets crashed and violently exploded, setting off a series of deafeningly loud blasts. One after another, great fires bloomed from the earth around the advancing Vishap, churning up the top of the bridge, casting geysers of smoke and stone into the air.

Madiha watched the carnage unfold below, and she licked her lips absentmindedly.

Most of the rockets smashed into the bridge in front of or around the Vishap. One rocket struck the Vishap directly in its bulldozer blades and blew off a section in the top-left; two rockets struck the top center of the Vishap and left fleeting fires burning atop the locked-down cupola. When the fire cleared the thick cupola was deformed and stuck.

But the machine relentlessly ground forward through the smoke. Its top armor was thicker than Madiha had thought. Then again, the rockets weren’t armor-piercing.

No, she had a different target. Her lips curled into a fleeting but wicked smile as she heard the wailing and howling behind her. She thought she felt the heat as the rockets ascended the heavens from behind her back, soaring just over the wall and descending sharply into the bridge once more. This time the payload landed right behind the Vishap.

The Cissean and Nochtish infantry on the bridge had halted their charge after the first rocket barrage. They shrank back from the Vishap, afraid of the fire and shrapnel, and stood paralyzed, a dense mass concentrated around using the remaining rubble for cover, with the Vishap pulling farther ahead of them. They stared, dumbfounded, as the second rocket barrage overshot the Vishap entirely and came down upon them instead.

“You’ll enter this city as ash on the wind, imperialist scum.” Madiha whispered solemnly.

She raised her binoculars and watched with morbid curiosity and a strange sense of duty as the rockets started coming down. Every line of rockets crept deeper and deeper into the enemy formation. Each descent resulted in a torrent of fire spreading and rising, and a column of smoke and rubble following in its wake. Men were thrown about like stones skipped over water, flying whole or in pieces or aflame in every direction. When the fiery explosions didn’t dismember their bodies, or failed to set their equipment and uniforms aflame and condemn them to a slow death, the concussive forces felt even at the far edge of the blast jerked the soldiers in awful directions. Men struck the stones, and flew against the concrete barrier, and tripped and tumbled brutally over rubble.

There was chaos and panic all behind the Vishap, and every man condemned to stand on the bridge was on fire or crushed to a pulp or both. Then came the final series of rockets, that reached as far as the desert, and even the rearmost ranks of the enemy felt some punishment. The farther the rockets reached, the more the lines spread, and several rockets were landing off the bridge, in the water, on the concrete barriers. Behind the Vishap, a long, awful line of butchered men and ephemeral fires, perhaps numbering a low hundreds dead, stretched out to the desert. There were more men coming, but they were paused at the edge of the bridge with fear, and when they moved they did so tremulously, inching their way and watching the skies in anxiety and disbelief.

This was the Salamander, Ayvarta’s howling demon of flames. It was a weapon of fear.

Madiha had succeeded. The Vishap was isolated. There was no man alive to aid it.

She turned from the horror at the bridge and ran back to Parinita and the gunners.

There was a familiar face waiting there alongside her secretary. Long, silky dark hair, dark eyes, an impassive face. A young woman of unremarkable stature, wearing a big pair of goggles and the padded suit and thick gloves of an engineer. Sergeant Agni.

She raised a hand without an expression on her face, and said, “Hujambo, General.”

“I’m glad to see you Agni. How soon until the drawbridge descends?” Madiha asked.

The bridge part itself was no longer needed. Conqueror’s Way had for at least a hundred years now become a fully stone and steel bridge connecting both ends of the river. However, the drawbridge was kept as a gate. There was even space for it atop the bridge so horses and trucks could move seamlessly over it. And so the troublesome raising and lowering was still necessary: and currently, a major issue, owing to its malfunction.

Sergeant Agni shook her head, while fidgeting a little with her goggles.

“It will not be down in time. We need to source a very specific motor in low production.”

Madiha sighed. “Are the climbing troops prepared for action?”

“We have a dearth of climbing gear, but we’re almost there.” Agni said.

“We need to make greater haste.” Madiha said, a hint of frustration creeping in.

“Madiha,” Parinita called out from the floor.

Madiha crouched down behind the rampart stones to confer with her lover.

“Status?” She asked. She tried to put on a gentle face for Parinita.

Parinita was tougher than anyone gave her credit for; she didn’t need it.

“Everything’s a mess, but listen,” Parinita started, her face dripping sweat, and her breathing clearly affected, but with a resolute look in her eyes, “Regiment has just scrounged up a 152mm gun from the battery that got destroyed a few days ago at Sadr. It’s been repaired enough to work again, the shocks and carriage aren’t great, but it’ll shoot if it’s assembled. They’re coming in with a truck, ETA two or three minutes.”

Any additional heavy gun was useful in this situation, but it was a long shot.

“The Vishap’s roof might be too strong.” Madiha said. “And we’d need to immobilize it.”

“I have an idea.” Parinita said. “Madiha, what’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever lifted?”

Madiha looked at her own arm and flexed it a little with a quizzical expression.

“Lifted? I’m reasonably fit, Parinita, you know this, but I don’t think–”

Lifted,” Parinita said again, with a wink this time.

Madiha blinked, and she understood immediately what Parinita was thinking.

She turned to Sergeant Agni and looked at her with haste and intensity in her eyes.

Sergeant Agni, inexpressive as always, seemed to understand the urgency.

“It’ll take a miracle to get a shot over the wall without it killing you.” Agni said.

“I’ll show you a miracle.” Madiha said.

“Please, trust her, Agni.” Parinita added.

Sergeant Agni nodded. She replied in a dispassionate voice, but with a hint of curiosity.

“Then if the General shows me a miracle, it is only fair I show a miracle in kind. I can assemble it enough to shoot in a few minutes if you can bring it up here for me.”

Madiha embraced Parinita, kissed her on the cheek, and bolted back onto her feet.

She rushed to the wall, and spotted a truck cutting in between the rocket launchers.

On the back, tied up under a tarp, were the pieces of the refurbished heavy gun.

Madiha reached out with her hand, focused on one of the recoil tubes sticking out.

She felt a tiny pinprick of hurt in her brain as she pulled on the object.

In the next instant, the recoil tube went flying out of the bundle as if kicked away.

It soared like a Nochtish football over the ramparts, twisting and turning.

Parinita and Agni both gasped all at once as the object came flying at them.

“I can catch it!”

Madiha quickly pushed on the object, and in a blink, countered its spin and stopped it dead in the air, preventing it from smashing her fingers off as she caught it in hand.

It was very heavy, and nearly pulled her arm to the ground in a second.

But she brought it up the wall, and she caught it.

The General shouted with girlish excitement, reminiscent of her childhood days.

Agni stared at the tube, at Madiha’s arm, and then at Madiha.

Parinita sighed. “Remind me to never ask you to do things again.”

Madiha smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, you won’t have to. This will be my idea from now on if you don’t.” She said, deftly twirling a bullet in the empty air with nothing but her mind.

Far below her, the ground crew was stupefied with the disappearance of the recoil tube.


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Declaration (66.1)

This scene briefly contains sexual content.


42nd of the Hazel’s Frost, 2030 D.C.E

Federation of Northern States, Nocht — Rhinea

“Ugh.”

She awakened to an atmosphere of heat and sweat, but also cold, clinging to her skin. Once the haze of pleasure had blown out of the room with the central air, it left behind the staid reality that followed a fantasy. She was back in the world, a person once more inhibited, and she could hardly stand the disappointment and tedium she felt then.

It was the least delectable part of the transgression: dealing with the consequences.

“Why do I keep doing this to myself?”

Cecilia Foss mumbled to herself as she stared into the placid face of the very nude woman in front of her, peeling the woman’s legs off her waist while at the same time gently extricating herself from the arms of her sleeping boyfriend, just behind her. It had become almost a talent, a series of acrobatics, to retrieve herself in such situations. Making sure not to awaken anyone, she slowly left her bedmates, gently stirring behind her.

Surveying the scene, there were a lot of cigarettes, a lot of drinks, a lot of discarded rubber. This was a hotel room made for thrashing, thank God; she was certainly not going to pay any fees for it. She recalled all too clearly the reason for all this. She wished she didn’t; in short it was stress, greed, hunger and neediness and loneliness. Perhaps not so short.

It was an important date, too! And she had blown it off to fuck a computer and her boy.

“Ugh. I’m the worst. God damn it. She’s waiting; Agatha’s going to be waiting.”

She found her leggings, her heels, her skirt and blazer, and the rest of it, strewn about the room. Her brassiere was nowhere to be found; Cecilia glanced over the bed with misty eyes, shook her head, and stubbornly dressed without it. God knows she needed it, but life wasn’t always so forgiving. She dressed, patted everything down, took a quick trip to the restroom to wash her face and apply a coat of lipstick– and the moment she turned around again, making to leave the bathroom, there she was at the door. Cecilia sighed.

“It’s so like you to hit me and run like this, Lia. This must be the millionth time.”

Gretchen had on a fake, coquettish pouting face, her short, curly brown locks greatly disturbed, her body wrapped in her partner’s discarded button-down shirt. Dangling from her fingers was Cecilia’s brassiere. Seeing it again, Cecilia kind of wanted it back; it was big, lacy and cute and firm and having walked a few meters without it she dearly missed it.

“I’m losing my touch. I didn’t expect you to be awake.” Cecilia said.

“No, trust me, you’ve still got your touch.” Gretchen said, winking at her.

Cecilia averted her gaze. “Usually I’m enough for the women I’m seeing.”

Gretchen scoffed and rolled her eyes. “So you can fuck everyone, but everyone has to–.”

“Yes, it’s not fair but it’s how things work around here.” Cecilia interrupted with a grin.

She could not help but feel a little bit jealous of the rings on their fingers; just a little.

Not because she wanted the same; she just didn’t want people in her life to leave her out.

Though judging by the current events, she would not have to worry about that too much.

Gretchen flicked the bra at her, and Cecilia caught it.

Casually, she started to undress again so as to put it on.

“Where are you off to now? Three-timing me?”

“You can’t really call it that? At any rate, I’m meeting a friend.”

“Just a friend?”

“She’s a special friend, but yes. She’s married.”

“Wow. Do you realize what you just said?”

“I know.”

She was married in a way nobody else Cecilia slept with was “married.” Even these two.

It was commonly said by the conservatives that Nocht had lost god, had lost marriage, had lost itself in the frenzy of power and industrialism. Its institutions were a shambles as were its ethics. For the state was only war and killing, the sex of machines; for the treasury, there was only plunder and privation, the sex of economy; and for individual people, whatever indulgence was their sex. Cecilia was not the average Nochtish citizen.

She had never had a faith in anything to begin with.

She told herself, she was a simple person. She just wanted to have fun, pure, easy fun, with whatever pleasure she set her sights on. She found things and took them because she wanted them and because she could. Difficult things to get, became games to be won.

But in the end even the difficult things remained simple.

Or so she thought; but the way her stomach churned and her heart trembled when she thought of meeting Agatha Lehner, after all she had done, after all that had been done to her, to both of them. It was not simple at all. It was the most complicated thing for her.

Achim never made her feel that way.

She thought he would; but he never did. He was simple, just like her.

Simple and comforting in his simplicity, which is what she liked about him.

She had known Agatha longer; and she only became more complicated with time.

“I’m still here, you know.”

Cecilia tried to move to the door, lost in thought.

She was nearly face to face with Gretchen.

Gretchen was complicated too, but in a simple way.

“I’m not going to let you dine and dash this time.” Gretchen said.

Cecilia smiled.

She leaned forward, pulled Gretchen in by the tie around her neck, pilfered from her man.

She took her sloppily painted lips into her own luscious red embrace.

“I’ll see you later. Alone.”

She spoke as her tongue parted her lover’s, and she walked off at the same time too.

Gretchen made no argument.


Nocht Federation — Windsbach, Haupt Radar Center

High atop the mountains separating Windsbach from the northernmost Republics, was a snow unlike anyone had ever seen, even in the mountain villages. However, the signals technicians at the Windsbach Haupt Radar Center did not see this snow fall, silver and swirling like ribbons from the clouds. Since the war began they were on long, rotating shifts that did not end until one was sure, with perfect certainty, to be replaced for at least twelve hours with another restless soul awaiting the slaughter come out from the sky.

All of them had been reared as adults on the nihilism of “the bomber will always get through.” And yet, their job was to stand defiant against it. Should the bomber come, they had to know when, from where, and what it sought. They had to deliver the unspoken retribution that nearly always came to the bomber that “got through.” Scrambling fighters, summoning air defense. These were part of their responsibilities. They had to protect the civilians too, by sounding the air raid sirens and alerting the fire brigades.

Like diviners from ancient times, they had only their scrying glasses: the massive FREIJA radar arrays, top of the line technology, hooked up to glowing green displays that pulsed with eldritch life inside the cold steel bunkers. While Ayvarta slowly toyed with short ranged mobile ground radars hiding in puny trucks, Nocht gambled its money on colossal stationary radars with incredible range and power. Untold amounts of energy flowed into the FREIJA arrays, and their signals could cover vast quadrants of Nocht’s sky and coast.

Inside the FREIJA bunkers, the technicians watched the green light pulse, and they waited.

For the long-timers, the magic had worn off. Their own planes showed up on the radar too, though nowadays, practices had evolved such that advanced warning was given to them to prevent panic and disarray. Seeing those blips made the possibility of an enemy blip far less mythical. Those were hunks of metal in the sky too. Newcomers were glued to their cathode-ray tubes, as interested in them as children had become with Television.

On that fateful winter day of the 42nd, radar technician Helmut Weigel sat in front of his CRT and saw nothing. He waited for hours, he ate his lunch at his desk, he read a book, nervously peeking at his station radar between pages to the point it almost became a character in stories. He looked over the energy output, checked the temperature and atmospheric pressure readings, and pored over various other gauges every thirty minutes.

His shift passed; he declared his intention to stand so as not to startle anyone.

From the upper floors where the military officers congregated, a young woman in uniform came down and urged him to stay in his seat. His replacement had an accident.

“You will have to stay here.”She said. “We’ll procure food and a chance of clothes, and I can stay here for fifteen minutes while you wash up. But you must come back to work.”

Helmut did not protest. What had he to go back to? He lived on his own in the village.

“What kind of food can I get?”

That was his only question, to which the young woman did not reply. She urged him out.

Once he was clean and had on a fresh shirt, coat and a change of pants, he sat back down.

Until a replacement could be found, he was on shift. He would keep working.

He stared at his screen, and saw a dozen blips all clustered together.

On his desk, just below all the gauges, he turned a page on his book. He was almost done with it, but he had another in his suitcase. Helmut loved fantasy adventures, with brave heroes and nasty goblins and mysterious dames. He put one back in his suitcase, retrieved another, and spread it open right in front of his monitor. He saw the blaring blips again.

Helmut put down his book, and he stared dumbfounded at the screen.

Coming in from the east were dozens of bombers.

Hundreds of them.

Helmut stared until the green glow burned in his retinas.

He reached for the telephone at his side.

“Hello? My CRT is broken. Can you send someone down here?”

Procedure dictated he describe the problem in detail–

But on the other end, an engineer too cheerful to have work simply said, “Sure!”

And then they hung up on him.

Helmut stared back at the screen. They were not going away.

Those blips were moving.

He ripped a piece of paper from the side of his workstation and found the numbers for his counterparts in various other stations. Every week they performed a comprehensive data corroboration drill, where Helmut and all of his colleagues in Windbach would call their doppelgangers in Junzien or Tauta or Ciel, and compare readings where their signals met.

“Hello, this is Helmut Weigel, station #13 Windbach. My station’s catching a large concentration of enemy aircraft coming in east-southeast at latitude–”

Helmut described everything he needed to and while he did, he heard an eerie echo from every station around him. People rattling off coordinates and latitudes on the phone, the sharp twisting of the rotary dials, the incredulous chatter between every stations.

“I’m afraid I don’t see anything on my end Helmut. I think you’ve got an ACS fault.”

Automatic control system, the mechanical network that kept the gauges running and regulated the current between stations and dishes, and so on. To so casually say that the entire FREIJA system in Windbach was broken to so fundamental a point put Helmut greatly at ease. Around the room, there was a great heaving sigh of relief as more information came in. No other overlapping stations saw the cluster. It was just ACS.

“Radar techs can go home! We’ll request patrol flights to cover the gap.”

That same girl from earlier, who told Helmut to stay, was now ordering everyone to go.

People grabbed their coats, lined up at the door, and made their way out.

Until the stations were fixed there was no use keeping extraneous staff around.

Outside though, the radar technicians paused all at once, considering the landscape.

Blowing in the wind, all around them, was a snow of silver ribbons mixed in with white.

Helmut held out his hand, and he caught strands, like Hollyday tinsel.

He wanted to report it, right away. But at the door to the bunker, he met with disdain.

“Just go and don’t cause any trouble.”

Helmut was speechless.

Aluminum. He wanted to say that word.

It had a radar signature. They had to know, right?

Why was aluminum falling from the sky?


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Dominoes (64.1)

This scene contains violence.


52nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, Rangda City — Council

Palladin Arsenica Livia Varus felt her brain trembling as she tried to process the sudden, deadly turn in her fortunes. She had hastily recalled all of her radio personnel back to her communications room upon discovering Von Drachen’s escape, and there she stood, pacing, rubbing her temples, eyes wide open, jaw hanging open enough to gasp.

“Order all units to fall back to Council and Ocean Road! Shut them down immediately!”

This nonspecific order belied her helplessness. On all sides the Ayvartan attack was slicing through her units. She was being pushed back from Rangda University, from the old 8th Division base, from Ocean Road itself. Madiha Nakar had come suddenly alive again and was sweeping her aside wherever she moved. Arsenica tried to raise her voice but her voice was not a gun, and all around the Lady Paladin, her guns were being silenced, one by one, shot by shot. Radio contact was sketchy at best, and she was short on field leadership.

It was almost enough to make her regret having sacrificed the Paladin combat team once led by her rival for the throne, Gwendolyn Vittoria. Almost, but not quite. She had her pride and still, and this pride was the rod set against her spine and keeping her upright. Throughout the battle, she waited, and she paced, and she hovered like a grim reaper over her radio personnel, over her tactical advisors, over the maps on the battlefield table.

“I want the Cheshires to dig in right on Ocean Road, do not allow anything through! I want barricades erected with whatever can be spared, and I want every gun we’ve got peering over or around cover and shooting until we’re out of ammunition! Use captured Ayvartan weapons, use anything! Throw rocks if you have to! We cannot let them through!”

Paladin Arsenica shouted as if it was a lack of effort and motivation that rendered a rock unable to pierce a tank. Her radio personnel relayed her orders with trembling voices and shaking hands, and they sat at the edge of their seats as if standing on tip-toe, nervously awaiting futile replies. There was nothing for them to hear back save incredulity and desperation, none of which was communicated back to the Paladin. But she was not as foolish as everyone around her assumed, not completely. She knew what was happening.

She was content, however, to remain uninformed. Ignorance allowed for some hope.

Then came the dreadful final blow in the place least expected. Northern Rangda, so stable, quiet, the bulwark sector that had been clinched by the elves at the start of the battle, began to call Arsenica’s headquarters. They called for help. Arsenica’s operators could hardly pass on the depth of the fear in their contact’s voices, and so Arsenica was coaxed into speaking and listening personally. She discovered then that horrific, final truth.

Amid sounds of heated gunfire, a woman’s voice pleaded, “Lady Paladin, we need support right away, the 8th Division is attacking every defensive line, and they’ve broken through to the east and south, heading into Ocean Road! We can’t contain them like this!”

Arsenica said nothing, and put the handset back onto the radio, and turned away.

The 8th Division, which had been several times humiliated, demoralized, broken, disarmed. Pushed into hiding in the darkest, deepest recesses of the city, cut off from supply and command, their communications compromised. Madiha Nakar had damaged them and the elven landings had broken them. So then, why? How? She thought she was hearing all their radio chatter: were they sending fake broadcasts and communicating personally among themselves? She could have sworn they were defeated, and yet here they were, using the last of their blood, bayonets and paltry ammunition to assault her.

And they were winning.

And they had won.

When this sudden surge of manpower met the lines of the Ayvartan motorized infantry under Nakar, they would become as floodwater uncontained. Surely that was their goal; any fool could see that Madiha Nakar had struck some kind of bargain with her former enemies against the threat of the elves, and this was the result. Arsenica had nothing that could stop such a press of bodies. She was barely hanging on as it was because Madiha Nakar had to stretch herself thin to cover the entirety of Arsenica’s line, as she desired to.

Had Von Drachen realized what was happening? She had taken an interest in him, but like all the toys of her girlhood, she had ignored him and was all but ready to discard him.

She could not indulge this fantasy for too long; gunfire erupted outside.

There was an explosion, one not distant enough, that alarmed the whole building.

The Paladin stared out the door, speechless.

Everyone in the room was looking at her.

Arsenica had a haunted appearance. Her skin had turned ghost-pale, her eyes shadowed.

She turned to the radio operators, then cast a sweeping glare at the knights out in the hall.

“What are you all waiting for? An order to retreat? You will receive none! You will remain here or lose your honor as cowards! Who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?”

She drew her sword, and advanced out into the hall, red in the face.

There was a yelp of fear and a most surprising result.

As Arsenica raised her hand to strike down the first subordinate who looked to eager to run, she was struck in the face by an iron-gloved fist. She felt the cold of the gauntlet and the heat of rushing blood as the fist swiped across her face. Arsenica dropped to the ground, bloody, her nose broken, in excruciating pain. She looked through her hands, pressing on her own face and mouth as if trying to keep the blood in, and saw the face of a stoic, black-haired elven woman, who gave her a filthy look as she lay on the carpet.

“Gisella?” Arsenica cried, in disbelief and despondence.

Gisella turned her back and left the hall at a brisk pace.

From around the departing knight, some lesser subordinates became emboldened.

Three younger girls approached Arsenica, and with vengeance in their eyes, lifted their metal boots and kicked. They struck her breasts, her belly, her limbs. Arsenica cried out and pleaded, but they neither intended to sustain their assault nor stay it completely. Each girl delivered several quick, hit and run kicks, before running away, peeling back one by one as each had their seconds fill of thrashing their superior. Shaking, bleeding, hardly able to move, Arsenica curled up on the ground, and cried, her vision blurring with pain.

Passing beside her, the radio personnel then fled, thankfully without violence.

Within minutes, the hallway and the room and maybe the council building, were empty.

Empty, save for a blonde, classically-elven girl, shaking in her ill-fitting breastplate.

She looked barely an adult and her eyes were filled with tears.

When everyone had left, she approached Arsenica.

The Paladin covered her body with her arms as best as she could, and curled up.

She was expecting to be struck, but instead, the girl touched her gently.

“Lady Paladin, I’m sorry, please, lets get you back up.”

Arsenica groaned, every inch of her body screaming with pain as the girl helped her to stand on one foot, and supported the woman over her shoulder. Huffing and puffing with the effort, the girl struggled to get Arsenica back into the communications room, where she laid her on the couch, and wiped the blood from her face, and brought her wine.

“It’s my ration ma’am. You can have it.”

She poured the drink between Arsenica’s broken, bloody lips.

It was hot. That wine had been in a tin pressed against this girl’s body for days.

And yet, that strange act of kindness gave the drink a strange potency.

Arsenica did not feel better. She could not. But she felt an odd inkling of relief.

Watching her drink, the girl started wiping her own tears, and looking down at her.

“I’m so sorry ma’am. I couldn’t– I wouldn’t have been able to fight them all. I was scared if I pulled my gun they would all start shooting and everyone would die. I’m so sorry.”

She locked eyes with her battered superior, pulling back the tin once it was empty.

“You– you don’t deserve it ma’am. I admired you for a very long time ma’am. Those girls have no upbringing! How dare they do this. I wish I could’ve stopped it. I’m so sorry about everything. All of us, if we’d tried harder, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I’m sorry.”

That girl apologized more and more and the reasons why made less and less sense.

Arsenica wanted to ask her for her name, but she couldn’t find the strength to talk.

Instead, she curled up tighter, and wept, traumatized and uncomprehending.


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