The arm fell.

Sikrat was a stubborn bastard, they wouldn’t let themselves lose a staring match if their eyes were to start bleeding, but even with that said, they couldn't let their friends die, either. Comrades.

So, when the arms eventually did fall, trembling and tired, the creature’s body simultaneously hitting the pavement as well (out of sheer exhaustion, it would seem), it was Sikrat who was there to combat it. Heart beating out of their chest, arms moving faster than they could ever remember them moving before, summoning dozens of swords of differing sizes, all propped up and pointed at the falling limb, large enough to crush a house with no effort.

Many of the misused weapons simply stabbed into the arm, but like a balloon faced with a bed of spikes, there were eventually enough of them to actually slow it down. The problem, however, laid in that once a sword actually stabbed into the arm, it caused a wave of acidic blood to flow out, melting the sword into a black, bubbling sludge.

This happened to quite a few swords, causing Sikrat to understand that they’d need more swords if this was to work. The air seemed to quake under the immense weight of the arm, and if the swords weren’t melting, they would surely have been bent and crushed just by the weight. Sikrat was almost too focused on continuously summoning swords of varying sizes to figure out a solution that wasn’t “more swords”.

“Lily, Helios, Assist me!” they barked at their fellow magical girls. Lily did not even glance at them, her mind completely captivated by the falling arm of doom to care for Sikrat. Helios, Sikrat’s only remaining hope (Bro was out of the question, considering how high he was) seemed to be entirely enraptured in prayer. Sikrat hoped it was for Saint Beatrice and not some other divine entity, considering that one of them was in the middle of trying to crush them.

So, Sikrat was the only one able to do anything. That is, if you only counted the magical beings. A quick look at the dishevelled state of the officers, anxiously awaiting orders that would never come, proved that the magical beings were the only ones that should be counted, period. If this wasn’t the reason Kratos and the rest had come here, Sikrat couldn’t figure why.

Gods, they were starting to feel tired. Summoning sword after the sword, hoping it might help more than the last… it was extremely tiring. There was an odd smell in the air, biting and harsh, but not cold or anything. It smelt as if the air was trying to chew them. There was no question where this odd, slightly metallic smell was coming from. The pavement was covered in the blood of the creature, oozing from its neck and arm. The creature itself had actually collapsed fully, head on its side, barely able to even see what Sikrat was doing. The only part in the air was its arm, which was propped up by about a hundred swords, each sword having to be replaced every second since they all melted eventually.

This wouldn’t work for long. Sikrat knew this, Adam knew this, and somehow, the police officers could tell as well.

This wasn’t a battle Sikrat could win, but it wasn’t a battle they could afford to lose, either. All their concentration was eaten up by having to replace one sword with another, broken with new, black sludge with pristine metal.

Their body grew heavy. The sweep of a hand to summon a weapon soon became a motion almost too hard for the muscular amalgamation of this-world and that-world. Neither part of Sikrat knew why this was happening, but somehow, Sikrat as a whole could understand that it was happening. That they didn’t have long. If they didn’t move out of the way, they’d be flat pancakes underneath the arm of a God.

With every replaced sword, this truth loomed heavier over them. With every swap of sword and black goop, the limb inched just a little closer, blotting out just a little bit more of the sky. Soon, all too soon, the arm was almost completely upon them, trembling and bleeding, the few swords keeping it in the air scraping against the concrete below with such force that sparks could be seen flying. They wouldn’t have been visible at all if the darkness hadn’t become so absolute.

This was it. This was really it.

Defeated at the hands of a damn God. A creature that shouldn’t even be in this world.

Bending metal screeched, a final whine before they fully gave.

How useless. Thrust into a new world, given a mere three days to live, and then gone. Sikrat cursed the names of the Divines, of the ones who had gotten them into this somehow, of the one mere seconds from destroying them and this whole damn world along with them, surely just for the heck of it.

What a sick joke.

Surely…

Surely he wasn’t too late?

He trusted the police, yes, he was very very sure that the police could handle pretty much anything, but that thing… Antenora, the other part of his mind reminded him, yes, Antenora wasn’t a creature humans could handle. That other part of his mind, the part that spoke Latin and prayed, told him Antenora wasn’t Antenora, but someone else. He didn’t hear that part. It was muffled and unclear, both to him and the one who had said it.

Most everybody had evacuated by now, which was good. He couldn’t see anybody out on the streets unless the group of people he was dashing towards was to be counted as one.

Neither part of him was used to running for extended periods like this. His chest was on fire, his soles were numb, and his sides were just straight up in pain. Not any specific sort, just that ill-defined pain you sometimes get in your chest that makes you think you’re about to die or something.

But he’d powered right through that.

Well, somehow he’d cast some sort of weird spell to mitigate the pain, but still. He’d powered through it with all his strength!

Lord above, he’d almost had a heart attack when he saw Antenora just straight up fall down! A stray tentacle had almost crushed him, but he had heroically survived! He’d also saved this dude from getting crushed as well and then healed his broken leg, but that wasn’t anything to brag about.

No, what he did want to brag about, was the fact that he had reached the scene of “shit going down” in ten minutes flat. He’d just followed the destruction to its core, but there it was. Antenora, massive and spooky and strangely pathetic, apparently trying to crush a bunch of people who were dressed as strangely as he was. Very interesting.

Interesting people in interesting clothes doing interesting things aside, he had things to do.

The spells rolled off his tongue and took form in his hands quicker than he had time to think of them. One for enhanced speed, one called Arms of Antenora (how ironic, but it was the only suitable spell) and he was off.

Sikrat could only barely notice how a blur flew into the cage of swords and flesh, their three somehow incapacitated teammates scooped up into what almost looked like tentacles, and then, as soon as it had arrived, it was gone. A blur Sikrat could only consider their only hope.

The fort didn’t need protecting anymore. If the arm fell, nobody would be hurt. Not Lily, not Helios, not Bro, not the police officers…

A sword fell, clattered to the floor, bereft of its blade. It was not replaced.

Sikrat sighed.

Everything seemed to tremble. The arm, the swords, Sikrat themselves…

A crack, a final deathly groan of the few swords, and with a snap, the arm finally fell. Heavy, all-ending. Right, they forgot to save themselves, didn’t they? Their body was so heavy. Could they even move if they wanted to? They didn’t think so. But, soon, they wouldn’t have to think at all.

Maybe that was ri-,

In a blur of sounds and colours and the roaring of air and blood in their ears, they were all of a sudden very much so not… dead.

“That was close, everything fine, buddy? You did well holding up until now,” a kind voice asked, and Sikrat realized even more vividly that they were, in fact, alive. A gust of wind brought Sikrat’s attention to the arm, which was now, much like the entirety of the creature, on the floor. Just lying down. Tired eyes gazing at them as if they were an unusually interesting specimen of some rare order of insect.

And then, they remembered to answer the person who had most likely saved them.

“Yes, thank you. I am exhausted, however, that should not hinder me in battle. Allow me to gather my wits and I shall return to fight, stronger than before,” Sikrat stated, legs and arms trembling like leaves in a breeze. The unknown saviour noticed this.

“No, you’re not fine. Don’t worry buddy, I’ll heal you right up,” he said, not even waiting for Sikrat to answer before he planted two hands in their shoulders, forcing them to lock gazes. Sikrat hated not being able to completely keep an eye on the creature, but…

Blond, shoulder-length hair covered his pale, curious face. Two icy blue eyes peered out from behind the bangs, quickly closing to focus on the spell about to be cast. His body was slender and covered in rather typical robes. Compared to the bedazzled thing Helios was wearing, it was almost boring.

Warmth and power flooded his body, from his shoulders down to his toes. Whoever this man was, his element seemed splendidly suited to healing. The exhaustion that had been building up inside Sikrat was gone within seconds, replaced by a pleasant fullness and energy.

“-Now, that’s better, right? I don’t really care how you feel, probably barely alright, but considering that I’ve still got a lot of Magick to spare I think I did pretty good!” he bragged, grinning brightly. Somehow, the expression seemed to fit him. Somehow… that smile reminded Sikrat of somebody. Or, rather, it reminded Kratos of somebody.

A name fluttered to their lips.

“...Tiftos.”

The man, Tiftos, maybe, let their smile fall into a thoughtful frown.

“Yes, maybe. I’m… not sure. But that doesn’t matter now! Antenora matters!” the man said, grabbing Sikrat’s hand to pull them up. Yes, that’s right. Antenora was its name, and it was what mattered.

“Lily, Helios, Bro! Let us fight!”

This was reminding him of something.

Something bad.

Something he didn't like.

On the ground, beaten and battered, awaiting death.

Humans, those damned insects, standing over him. Ready to kill.

The memories flooded him. His mind, his being, his soul.

He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth.

He wanted to cry, but he wasn't human enough for that.

He wanted to live.

How had he done this the last time?