Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 12

It Arrived from Memory Isle

“Out of bandages and right back into them, I see,” the Head of Medicine joked and put a palm over the unconscious teen’s forehead.

Tokken had been asleep on and off now for a good few hours, still recovering from the beatdown and shock. When he did wake, he felt every bit of his wounds singe him with pulsations of pain. For a young man as frail as he to have survived this long was something bordering on the impossible, in a world where those with even a smidge of power above others had a bad habit of tormenting to impress. In fact, the last wound Tokken could even remember having was a papercut. Spending so much time by a bookcase being useless and ignorant to the world would only have him see pain in such a meagre way, and even then, the sting made his eyes water.

The Tsuki’s noble, quartz-white hair rustled as his head shifted and moved. With fluttering, irregular blinks, he opened his eyes to the real world around him. Amongst the brightness, the doctor’s outfit shone first and foremost.

“Thanks… Fely…” Tokken muttered, his voice broken from sleep. “Couldn’t thank you enough.”

Fely brought a hand to his own cheek like a bashful young girl, standing up off the chair placed by the bed and stepping back to allow Tokken room to slowly sit up and find his feet.

The lad’s legs swung over the edge and his toes hesitated to touch the cold floor. His whole body felt heavy when he put his weight on his feet.

Fely stepped up to him, helping a crutch into his hand only for him to reject it.

“Oh, mister Tsuki,” Fely said in a mutter.

“I’m fine,” Tokken said. “I don’t need it. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, don't worry too much. Where’s… Where’s Chloe?” Tokken asked, looking around him to confirm the room was empty besides them.

“Doing some errands, I think. I believe she wanted to make herself useful during her time here,” Fely said. “Now that I think about it, I do remember her saying she wanted to help the refugees…”

Tokken’s back arched forward to hold his aching stomach. “Is that so? I’m glad. I thought I might’ve stopped her vibe. What’s this about refugees?”

“Oh, that’s right,” the Head said, clearing his throat to find the words he needed. “There were a few arrivals from that little island off to the west. Zwaarstrich, it’s called.”

“Zwaarstrich…”

“Mm, right,” Fely said, stepping to the lad’s side and helping him upright himself.

“Thanks. Why did they come here?”

“Well… They ran into trouble there, apparently…” Fely tried to keep the details to himself, but he knew he’d end up spilling them anyway. “With Crimsons…”

“Crimsons? Those are the Mortos followers, right?”

“That’s right. From the Badlands—— Oh no— don’t do that!” the mellow voice of the doctor warned, taking Tokken’s hand off his swollen eye.

The teen stifled a pained groan. “The Badlands?”

“Yes, now come on, let’s get you to the Ward.”

“I want to... I want to meet the refugees.”

“Absolutely not, young man,” Fely cut, his voice colder and firmer than anticipated. The quietness instilled after gave the doctor a blush. The stresses of work had been catching up to him.

Tokken gave him a careful look but chose not to say anything. He may just be a doctor, but he was still one of the four highest authorities of the Syndicate.

Fely patted his coat down and wrapped Tokken’s arm around his shoulder to help him walk. His movements were far less fluid than the fledgling remembered. They were staggered, skittish, erratic.

“...Can I see Chloe after this?” Tokken asked, careful not to raise his voice.

“Yes. Or, perhaps, no. Maybe.”

He was tired. The lad could make out that much. So tired. Tokken’s heart felt heavy, burdening him like this. “Alright…”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The infirmary, a room designated to aiding external allies during times of need, had turned into a symphony of ceaseless noise seconds after the few surviving Zwaarsts arrived. Doctors and therapists flooded the room, providing the children with comfort as they screamed or shook through their shock. What they had been exposed to in the span of one day was more than what a thousand adults should have to go through in their lifetimes. The stress was so severe, two of the infants had undergone a catatonic state, and no amount of effort from the doctors could cease their episodes. The tragedy was all too much. Nurses and medics walked in and out of the room, first confident, then in tears or with a migraine.

With all this said, however, nine of the sixteen children had silenced their cries thanks to the efforts of Chloe, who, despite her timidness, did her best to soothe them with her presence. Her being a canine, and especially pretty at that, made her a source of attention among those who hadn’t quite lost themselves to the scenes. A surprising and purposeful use of her physical traits that the rest of the staff appreciated. Anything to keep the poor things from screaming their cords out.

Having been made to know of the existence of the Last Resort Project, Chloe felt especially well fulfilling this role. Even if she was only seen as a support animal, she would take it gladly, and to her benefit, Mumble had reluctantly agreed to help with the more hands-on tasks, going as far as to help wash the little cuts and bruises of the group’s hurried escape to the mainland. He even offered tips and life advice to those he could earn the ears from. Mumble had shown a side of him that Chloe respected. She thought him a brute, and maybe he was, but he had some heart at least not to prioritise his infamous Pride.

Of the two women who had escorted the kids out of the island safely, by whatever extraordinary means they may have taken, one was in no better state than the litter. Her shock had made her entirely unwilling to speak, and for the first half-hour of their deposit here, became extremely paranoid at the slightest touch of the doctors; be it on her or the younger ones.

Then there was the second. She seemed disturbed, sure, but her freezing stare, dark-ringed eyes and firm posture made evident that her standard routine was already tough enough to keep her on her toes through such monstrous weather.

Thanks to her continued ability to speak coherently, she had been pulled aside into a separate room for interrogation. Information was pivotal, yet scarce.

Two officers in furbished, grey Nynx suits stood side by side by the door, and through it came a tallish, sickly-looking man in a medical uniform that had been spruced up a bit with some dark greens and blues to look less monotonous as well as set him apart from the rest of the staff. The ribbons on his left shoulder gave away that he was, by some means, simultaneously a Colonel. The First, no less.

He tapped a stack of papers on the table, gesturing the woman opposite him to take her seat as she still stood.

“Authority granted,” he said, his voice strict. “Marcelle Roche. Zwaarst nobility. How old are you?”

Marcy raised a brow. “Not Zwaarst exactly. And does it matter?”

“We’re trying to see if you’re cooperative," he said.

“Ask me something more meaningful, then," Marcy said.

The Colonel cleared his throat, giving her a stern look. “We still have our doubts concerning your offhanded claims.”

“Offhanded?” she spat. “I answered your questions. I’m so sorry we were too busy panicking for our lives to get into details.”

“We understand that.”

“Do you? Because I can’t remember such inactivity in Zwaarstrich on your company’s behalf since… ever.”

Her tone was hostile. It was natural. Frustration was fair, given the sheer state of her homeland. The Colonel and doctor hybrid took his eyes off her for a minute, taking a moment to soothe himself.

Lifting his head, he said, “You claim Zwaarstrich has fallen. That much we can deduce.”

“So where’s the doubt? If you’d excuse me, those kids need real professionals who actually care about their survival.”

“In a moment. What concerns us regarding your honesty isn’t the damage itself, but the perpetrator. The people—sorry, person—responsible for the fall of Zwaarstrich, including those who fled to the Bunker; was it truly a single individual?”

The woman folded her arms. “Yeah. We only ever saw him amid the blood mist of our people. The people you failed to protect.”

Losing his patience, the man exhaled through his nose, shushing the harshness of his tone. “You sound like you’re not too startled about it all.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. The glare she gave made his forehead sweat. Offended by his words, Marcy stood up to walk away only to stop when the two guards took a step forward.

The Colonel pressed his fingers into his head, not even looking at her. “You can’t leave yet. We’re not done here.”

She didn’t like that. “So what, the Syndicate’s keeping its refugees hostage now after failing them beyond a reasonable doubt?” Looming over the table to stare down at the ridiculously empowered man, she spat her venom in tongue. “We really thought your men had just fallen before we caught wind of them, but now we know that’s not the case. You know, Xavier is the only Syndie we found to have arrived on scene. Thank the Goddess he was born there, right?! Otherwise we would’ve gotten fuck all!”

“Goddess bless his soul…” the Colonel added quietly.

“So what doubts do your superiors really have? The extent of your incompetence? You’re a joke if you think you have any right to question us after the hell you forced us to run away from!”

Driven up the wall, the officer slammed a fist against the desk and sprang up to meet her eyes, fighting her poisonous stare with his own. “Your fucking fault for choosing to live on the front lines!”

Marcy’s eyes narrowed as he watched the man’s act. He was fighting the truth with worthless words. He was under pressure. Grabbing his lapel and bringing him closer, her silver tongue sharpened all the more.

“Our homes were devastated — animals beloved and historic infrastructure torn right out of our grasp. We chose to live far away from the toxins of this place on purpose, and we had an agreement that the Syndicate would do its part in protecting it, did we not?”

The air got caught in the Colonel’s throat as he choked on his anger. He raised a palm to stop the guards from engaging. “Our circumstances weren’t ideal. Yanksee would’ve trampled us.”

“Yeah? Well, guess who’s going to trample over you now, after you let a whole country die for your petty territorial interests? Because that was just one man, and judging by his age, experience wasn’t a quality he well endowed.”

The officer’s eyes widened. “The Harbinger…?”

“Of Famine. He alone robbed us — robbed those children of everything they owned and everyone they loved to satiate that monster’s bloodlust. And here you are, ungrazed, having sat on the sidelines knowing it would happen.”

The humble noble took her seat again, looking away as not to stir her emotions again.

The officer looked stunned, his eyes glued to the table in guilt. With a shaking breath, he asked, “Did he give a name…?”

“Yes, he did. A fitting one, too. He called himself Karma.”

“Karma…?” the official's back straightened in disbelief, his eyes wide and his pinpricks small. He knew she knew. The look she gave told of her knowledge. The perks of being a noble entwined with the Syndicate.

A sadistic snide made itself on her face. “Ah, I almost forgot. You remember him all too well, don’t you?”

The First Colonel dropped his mouth into his palms. “Oh my… sweet Goddess…”

Injecting him with the last of her venom, she said, “Oh yes. The wolf that ate our herd and your Champion, too. The little lamb that escaped your hands because of a sentimental oversight.”

The officer struggled to respond, choking on guilt. "We couldn’t have…"

"Predicted it? This Guardian with a child? Are you fucking serious? You people are just monstrously inadequate. So tell me. Explain to me now where my family has gone. Where I will even find their bodies to lay under stone and pebbles; reduced to a mangled mess. You know, an empire that’s too scared to even think of its past mistakes is doomed to fall into itself. And you will be next, Colonel." With that piercing sentence, she stood up to leave once more. Seeing the officer rest his elbows on the table, his head in his palms, shaking like a startled dog, she could see there was nothing left for them to ask.

Putting a hand on his shoulder and ripping the badge off his attire, she whispered in his ear like a snake, “You know what? Something tells me your likes never expected there to be survivors at all. Well here we are, bitch. May our presence's reminder of your inaction crush you and shrivel your soul.”

He couldn’t bring himself to even look at her, fearing the worst. “Please… Don’t inform the Guardian. He wouldn’t understand——”

“He’ll find out anyway. It was his mistake, after all.”

With that, her poison had finished unloading, and she wasn’t stopped when she walked right out the door back into the infirmary to help the victims cope. The guards were left in awe. This overwhelming feeling squashing the Colonel’s mind was just one punishment for allowing neglect to ignite a blameless nation’s fall. The Syndicate had taken a loss for the first time in decades.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Opposite to the house of panic a few miles away, the convoy of trucks and vans were dead silent in their interior. Every soldier here had psyched themselves and assimilated the danger they were going to be put through. The patriotic and loyal looked overjoyed to fulfil their part, whereas those more neutral to the Syndicate took the time to whisper their prayers to the Goddess Victus.

Some did tear up, of course. These soldiers lacked not families, or so many did. It was common practice to carry some kind of memento of your loved ones somewhere close to you. Some held pictures, others watches, and some just smiled from their memories. A child’s first footsteps. The smile of a spouse in a field of grass. Just the sun, uneclipsed by the dust and the filth and the scum.

Erica was one of those who tried her hardest to keep her head high. She was the highest in command on this mission. To risk losing a Brigadier was too risky, but proved a necessity to keep these troops inspired — a Celestial to guide them like the holy light that Victus herself promised on her followers and beloved children. If only they struck first, beyond the turning point, Erica was told in secrecy that her mission could be abandoned. That she should take flight amid the storm. To ignore the faces of the damned as they watched promised hope lie and fly away.

But she wasn’t like that. She was a fighter and a leader, too.

Erica sat with her head buried between her knees, her wings flat and spread over her back as she listened to the rumble of the vehicle’s movement which drowned out her hushed sobs.

The angel’s body stiffened when she felt a presence seat beside her. She raised her gaze enough to see who it was. A young, skinny Wylven with a grey coat held a pouch out for her to grab. It was one of her platoon members.

“Maxxie?” Erica’s voice cracked. She coughed and said it again, uprighting herself. “Maxxie? What’s this?”

“It’s for you, ‘Er,” he said, muting the natural gruff in his voice.

She took the pouch in her hands and unbundled the string that held it together. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw it.

“Corvus entrusted it to me. He said you’d lose it.” The Cryptid chuckled. He was taller by an inch, a proud wolf and yet so humbling.

“That… He couldn’t give it to me in person?” Erica said in a little laugh, sniffing and holding the gold necklace close. It was the same that she had seen him wear during his years of infancy. The epoch of his life during which, just as most young Celestials born with great wings and no halo, he dedicated day after day to master his abilities and hone his strengths.

The period of time the young swan and hawk first met. Erica gave a nostalgic smile. She remembered how she met him after weeks of teasing him for being a ‘swan’. A well-kempt, uptight, perhaps vicious Celestial, but with no desire for heroism nor exploration. He grew into the rough eventually.

The Wylven saw her smile, and in turn, he simpered. “I gave him your smack, in case you regret not dealing it.”

Erica gave a short snigger. “You’re right, there. Always thinking ahead. I like it.”

The cars came to a skidding halt as the shore became the apple of all sight. In orderly and practised fashion, the soldiers of all shapes and sizes, furred and not, jumped out of their trucks and vehicles and wasted no time establishing a simple formation before the coastline. Gunners at the rear, muscle in the front.

All soldiers clutched their weapons steadily. Guns were loaded, spears were primed, blades sharp. The Celestial took her place at the front. The true front lines.

Then, stabbing her halberd’s pummel into the gravel that replaced this beach’s sand, Erica looked out on that gorgeous ocean. So clean it looked. And so ominous, too. For she knew, as did all those present here, that the island visible in the far distance — a country that once thrived humbly and peacefully, had been turned into a despicable bloodbath. Who knows what they might find the day the Syndicate is able to return there.

Erica breathed deep, drowning her nerves and tightening her hold on the Celestial’s emblem that Corvus’ gift bore. A rounded pyramid standing tall at its pinnacle and bathing that below by the base with the presents of the heavens. The generosity of the Saintess. Light, earth, warmth, love, life.

Noire stepped up next to Erica, awkwardly lacking a place in the formation. Nobody complained. Most had been made aware of his prowess, and some were fine with his sacrifice. A strange man possessing uncanny power. A risk not worth taking by conservation. May his power strike true like a javelin between armoured plates. A worthy meatshield.

Between nervous breaths, the Celestial in jade-tipped scale armour turned to see that the wizard’s expression looked just as if not more unnerved than hers.

“What’s gotten you so fretted?” Erica mocked, though the shake in her voice betrayed her.

“This feels… terribly unnerving to me.”

The angel gave him a funny look, and soon noticed his slow, meditative takes of air. “You realised it too, huh…?”

“Realised?”

“That you’re gonna die? It’s scary, isn't it?”

Noire’s eyes widened and teeth clenched. He took a step back, biting his fingernails until they bled. “A—Ah, that’s right. The beginning of the end. A contract is meeting its expiry. A… A silent… A parasitical…”

Erica's eyes narrowed. “What are you…?”

“M’am, look!” Maxxie’s voice called, putting a paw on her shoulder.

Worried murmurs came about from the group as the outline of some watercraft became visible on the horizon. The Celestial saw it too, and trying her best to ignore her trepidation—through tension and anxiety—she raised her halberd to the heavens and proclaimed, “There! A raft approaches us! Let this mark the beginning of the cultist extermination!”

“Wait!” a female Mynotaur bellowed. “It could be a refugee still!”

Erica made an awkward noise and turned forward again. Watching the tiny little wooden boat drift its way to land unguided and without so much as a suggestion of hurry on the calm seas, the minuscule waves dragging and grinding the gravel, all with a pink sky ripped from a canvas with clouds akin to torn cobwebs combined together to make a hypnotic, mesmerising scene; the smell of salt lingering in the air.

And then, starvation came.

Those behind her stopped muttering and started groaning in discomfort. The closer the boat came, the worse the effect became, and soon those of weakest wills found themselves collapsed on ground stone, clutching their stomachs and writhing in pain.

Erica’s panic grew. Her head thrashed around as she scanned over her soldiers, noticing that even Maxxie looked faint. And then, the sound of a crash and a grind of rocks and pebbles against the surface of polished wood reached her ears.

The Celestial spun to meet the raft’s collision. And there it was. It had arrived from the fallen country. It had arrived from Memory Isle.

It. It, because this thing—this monster that had hopped off the little vessel alone—had neither the humanity nor decency to be a ‘he’. Clung to its body was the evidence of the slaughter it had committed. A killing of unforgivable, inconceivable, unregistrable proportions.

“You motherfucker!” an emotional rifleman from the rear shouted out at the Harbinger coated in dark red. He took aim, and without remorse, he fired.

The aim was true. Despite the situation, he kept his body from hesitating, took aim and he shot the young man. But whereas a bullet should shred through flesh, this one impacted against nothing inches from his shoulder.

Erica’s eyes widened, and those still standing that had seen it happen were left with gaping mouths. They knew the bullet struck something. But it was nothing. Air alone shattered the shell and dispersed the Black Powder therein as if it had struck against an imperceptible wall.

The young man stood with a visible slouch, his back arched forward and his arms hanging. The mangled-looking sword in his grip clattered and bounced upon the stone waste beneath as he walked forward.

And then, with an open grin full of life and joy filled with smooth, sharp teeth, the young man, the Harbinger of Famine, spoke.

“And there it is, here it stands, here they all stand! In file lines. Like a buffet! All ripe pickings. Delightfully and respectfully arranged. Like silverware on a fine dine!” His words were at the boiling point of enthusiasm. He kept himself from shouting out of excitement.

Seconds after, Maxxie, blinded by fear, shouted out an order for mass fire. And so, every rifle was shot at once so ferociously and with such anguish and terror that two friendlies were struck and killed from misaim.

“STOP——!” Erica screamed but to no avail. The noise of bullets exploding from guns and then again against a wall that shouldn’t exist was nauseating enough to drop the Celestial on her knee.

Of course, by the time the firing had ceased and the smoke had raised, the psychopath was left without so much as the powder from the wasted bullets on his skin. The look on his face was one of pure amusement. As if this was little more than theatrics.

With a tilted head and wide, outstretched arms, Karma boomed to the heavens, saying, “THUS DO THE LAMBS PLEAD, OH HOLY THE LORD!”

Then, a noise came. The sound of energy being rebirthed and repurposed filled the area just as loudly as the gun show, swirling around the bubble that surrounded Karma’s form, projecting into and traveling through the earth like the quaking smite of a vengeful God.

Erica couldn’t believe her eyes as she witnessed the midsection of the formation erupt in a violent, white explosion that took the lives of the Syndies sent here; courage be damned. And thus, as her life too would be claimed by the shockwave and uprooted ground, the necklace she wore shone with the brightness of a caring, motherly Goddess.