The soft chaws of metal heels gaiting the dead-leafed forest floor swept the wave of Myrmidon M.U.S.C.L.E. Entities as they pushed across the forest beyond the river. They may be of median height but they weigh twice of a healthy man of similar stature. In stark contrast to the heavy warriors named of ancient soldier’s ants of myth were the lighter footed H.E.N.R.I., Golgar, and the Mister Gutsy G-U-1-5.

“If the correlation of Secretary Baird’s life in relation to the possession of the Master Access Key still in his possession then he should be three hundred meters towards our north-west.” Myrmidon communicated.

“Interrogative Myrmidon, can you disclose how are you able to exert your personality amongst your M.U.S.C.L.E. units from far away from the Fort Bragg?” H.E.N.R.I. inquiried.

“Each of my units is connected to a neural network that all of them share through their hard drives. I can… ‘share’ my processing power to distribute into low-level processes from manual labor to combat. I leave myself here back at H.Q. to perform more intellectually complex calculations such as Tactics, higher reasoning, and complex computations. However, my ability to project myself is limited to the range of my main Neural Transmitter here in Fort Bragg. Once we have rescued the Secretary of Defense, we can discuss ‘alternative expansions’ of my said neural network.” Myrmidon explained. “Did the Pentagon not explain this to Mister Baird before his departure from the Capital?”

“The Priority is to rescue Master.” H.E.N.R.I. reminded Myrmidon.

“No more talkie, we must save hummie friend! Golgar gut anyone who tries to stop Golgar! Gomme Kutta righ’ere.” Golgar excitedly brandishes his knife as his batty mumblings stir the Leshy for the coming bout.

[-]

Arazni huffed and puffed as she forcibly dragged her new body through the dark forest outside of Vellumis. The amethyst-haired Crimson Herald had remembered seeing the black eyes of one Lysithea Sorrowscythe who had attempted to strike her down before she could even breathe her first breath on her second return in Golarion. Oh, how she sent the Pallid Angel with her bogus divinity flying and in tears when she swiped her spirit-borne Rapier from her hands before she could attempt to parry. Of how she fell so hysterically, flapping ‘We killed you!’ before her craven wings flew her away.

She panted out of breath, no thanks to her lungs likely not seeing active use for perhaps Aroden how long? Put alas, death decided she is not done with this world nor could she afford to be a beggar of a once-slain Angel be stingy of what hands she drew.

All she remembered from the moment Tar-Baphon snapped her neck with his tyrannical grasp were cursive whispers that besieged the very sea of thoughts she had slept by in a dream-like stupor. Whispers of doubt crept into her skin of her failures, her humiliation and of her death. Then afterward, silence as her slayers abandoned her in that limbo for her to rot. But not today. She cannot allow time to pass by. She was done hiding away, she blots out now every lingering unease that bastard Tar-Baphon made her face.

“It must not escape! Or our lives are to forfeit!” shouted behind her the pursuant Whispering Way Cultists.

Robed in their dark cloaks, they all wolfishly howled with feral claws, farming implements and some simple weapons as they pursued the reawakened angel. She could hear the drumming of their feet coming. There oh-so Aestetic Revolution they so vaingloriously wish to see coming.

Yet against her body aching that the Angel weakened from who knows how long inside her dream-chained prison could not quench her indomitable fire that bubbles in her veins. An angel who lost her halo, it may be history now for her, but this Gods-given second chance shall redeem her! She had waited idly by to enact her vengeance upon the Whispering Tyrant and his Undead sycophants for too long. Thankfully she easily recognized the shoreline across the Lake of the thrice-damned Settlement who dared bear so brazenly the Deathly Fly of the Pallid Princess, Urgathoa. She is just around the Northern fragment of the Fangwood Forest, beyond the Tourondel River. If she can reach a nearby set of hills deep within the Forest, she should be able to rendezvous with several of the Knights of Ozem’s long-time forest-dwelling allies. If of course they still live there for all of those years.

Yet for all of her thoughts that besiege her now of the future, she failed to take heed of the present, as her foot was tangled up on the twisted roots of a treacherous tree. Its hollow mouths seemed to turn against her with its dreadful visage. Arazni fell down below deep beneath the dark trench below. Blood persistently gushed out of her foot as the former Angel conjured her Divine Magicks to close the wound.

Thunk!

A close brush of an arrow that swooshed pass her hair stopped the Angel mid-casting as her implacable pursuer’s caught up to her. Their wolven eyes salivated upon the sight of blood from the wounded celestial as they descended upon the trench, cornering her.

“Tenacious little insects.” Arazni spat on the ground.

She weakly leaped towards the tree that had tripped her and broke a thick root piece off to arm herself with. Kneeling down, the Angel began to pray.

“I don the full arms of the faithful, that I may be able to stand firm against the schemes of all that is evil. For my struggles is not of flesh and blood but against tyrants, wicked deceivers, and the powers of darkness and evil against Golarion. I take these arms, born of the forested earth that you may allow me to resist in the evil da---.” The Angel prayed to bless her weapon, but as those holy words breathed away from her lips, her eyes widened in dismay that there were no Divine Energies coming down to inspirit her radiant weapon. Nothing anything close to her old Rapier of blazing Holy Lights.

“Aroden! Aroden? Don’t forsake me?!” Arazni held the tree root in distraught.

“Aroden is dead little angel!” one of the Whispering Way’s Cultists blasphemously declared. “He has been dead for millennia.”

“Silence!” Arazni roared as she grabbed the still unblessed tree root from her hand and angrily swung the makeshift club in a fruitless effort to exemplify her stubbornness.

But the Tar-Baphon’s lackeys only roared back with pompous laughter.

“It is not faith that is making you walk this world once again Crimson Crusader! But it is Anger! Anger from your failure!” the cultist mocked her further, only to provoke his chin to meet with the caress of the Angel’s club.

“I said Silence!” Arazni stomped her heavy foot down. She will not let these peons sully her no longer if she can help it, with or without Aroden.

She and her adversaries stumbled madly upon the maelstrom of violence as both of them all tried desperately to strike down the other, with the Angel’s millenia old prowess versus the Cultist’s superior numbers. With her club, the Crimson Crusader frenziedly swung it across the Cultists. It may lack the guile and finesse of her old Rapier, but it sure did allow her to create wide swings back and forth to keep the Tyrant’s minions at a distance as she straffed ever so around the forest, but her wounded leg would not allow her to get too far too quickly. Yet even despite her handicap, the Cultists fearfully shuddered at the martial prowess displayed forth by the former Angel. They huddled fearfully amongst each other whilst they faced the tip of their weapons forward like a fearful porcupine curled into its skin-given palisade.

“Rip her heart out!” one of the leading Cultists ordered. “She must not be allowed loose here again!”

“Come and face the Crimson Herald! Or all of you cravens?” Arazni taunted.

A trio of Cultists burst forth from the stack of Cultists to meet her challenge. Two took the attention of her eyes whilst a second angle around her to grab hold of the Angel. Grabbing hold of her strong arm, the crafty cultist managed to catch the former Angel flat-footed allowing his two other comrades to bombard her with several strikes of their weapons. Inspirited by the sight of their quarry on the ropes, the other cultists pursued forth.

Such blows, although numerous, would not fall the adamant Arazni so easily. She kicked, bite, toss before letting out a defiant scream as she jostled through these vile heretics one by one. If these puppets of the Whispering Tyrant are to fight oh so unscrupulously then she too! For every step she tried to escape, she would receive two despicable strikes from their blades. For every strike, she received she would return with two righteous rebukes. Battered but remaining steadfast amidst all odds that would have fell any lesser men, the Crimson Crusader stood firm.

Yet bravery alone could not defeat overwhelming numbers. Every bulwark and every rock eventually erodes from the lapping tides of water. The Whispering Way cultists adhered to their numbers and began to gradually cut her down bit by bit, armor through armor. When their magic Spells of the Dark Arts failed to humble Arazni, they resorted to their middling weapons and tools. When their arms broke they resorted to their fists. Slowly, gently, through a thousand cuts unforeseen, and yet unforgiving this is how the cultists inched closer to triumph.

“Kill her! Kill her! Take her Heart out!” the Lead Cultist ordered his brethren.

“Heavens! Someone…” tears dripped upon Arazni’s cheeks. To breathe and see the world and yet to be taken back down to the cold boneyard of the dead so soon? Whilst her hated enemy still lives? Her humiliation remains unanswered. And yet all those unanswered errors could not come to pass upon the fact that her God, her Teacher, her Friend, Aroden had forsaken her after just reawakening to a cold new Golarion…

“Master!” a voice cried forth and emerged beneath this drowning sea of malevolence.

Salvation.

[-]

“Check your Shots! Check your Shots!” Myrmidon alarmed his multiple vessels as they opened fire at the cloaked figures who amass and lay their voracious hands on their master.

The crack of their rifles, they unleashed a hail of bullets upon them. Cutting them down in swathes within the blink of an eye. Some lucky survivors of the first barrage scrapped away only for Golgar and G-U-1-5 to catch up to them with their lighter frames speeding across the sylvan floor. So sudden there advent of the mechanical march of the Myrmidons of Fort Bragg when the Whispering Way Cultists focused their eyes on their master that their limp bodies fell upon him.

“Don you try to run away from you ass-kicking you commie-lovin’ heathens!” G-U-1-5 gleefully gave chase. “Put some pep in your step shorty! You’re making me cry!” he urged the short-legged Golgar to keep up with him as they scared off the stragglers.

“Get them off of Secretary Baird!” Myrmidon spoke forth from one of his vessels. Sheathing their shotgun, the Chassis lifted up several of the cloaked assailants that dog piled amassed above the ‘Secretary of Defense’.

They dug through the man-made mountain until finally unveiled the very much beleaguered Doctor-Commander Cold Iron. It was a tragicomedy from the last he had seen him back in Vellumis. Once filled with enthusiasm and confidence now brought low to disgraceful abrasion around his body. H.E.N.R.I. would if he had the emotions to properly express his infuriation of not being by Izo’s side when he was betrayed. Maybe then he would not have suffered such perilous injuries.

“Bruises, Cuts, Lacerations… We need to perform first aid immediately before we can move him out here.” H.E.N.R.I. analyzed his master’s injuries. He turned over to his pockets and brought forth with him a Doctor’s Bag filled with numerous First Aid items scavenged from Fort Bragg. It was a miracle of American Ingenuity that they are still worthy of their purpose after so many centuries of disaffection.

“Work fast H.E.N.R.I., I am detecting twelve… nay eighteen… nay… twenty plus foot mobiles converging in our position in twenty seconds. Tortoise Formation! Protect the Secretary!” Myrmidon alarmed. “You have 300-Seconds before we exfiltrate.”

The M.U.S.C.L.E Units holding the shields formed a bulwark that protected their position from all sides. Their riot shields extended outwards to cover as much shielding to allow H.E.N.R.I the time he needed to revive the Doctor Commander.

“They send their hordes after us! Predictable maggots!” G-U-1-5 roared his buzzsaw.

“Acknowledged.” H.E.N.R.I nodded as he grabbed a syringe of Med-X Painkillers.

“The… Crimson He—He---” Izo babbled. “Ni-i-ights… of Oh---zzzeemmm… To mmeee…” he muttered into nonsense. Words not even in all of H.E.N.R.I.’s years of serving master was he in anyway familiar with what Izo is speaking of. More the reason to get him out of this hellish forest sooner rather than later.

“Kill the Golems!” the first wave of Whispering Way Cultists spearheaded. Amongst the host of reinforcements was a familiar sight for the Robots, the same emaciated humanoids hunched their four limbs who howled like dire wolves that spotted their bleeding prey.

Fangs sharp and salivated with rabid hunger, those mongrel wolves weaved through the forest floor. Zooming past their slower-footed brethren as they circled around the Myrmidon Bulwark. For once in the Artificial Intelligence’s life, they were being challenged. The ghoulish humanoids were much more agile, more coordinated than their upright coadjutors. They probed every nook and cranny of Myrmidon’s bulwarks for a gap in the armor. Their limber frames clashed with the shields ferociously. Each sifts seemed to punch ever so deeper through its wards, threatening to collapse Myrmidon’s bulwark by their weight. Yet each bastion remained firm, pushing off and battered away by the batons of the shield-fighting M.U.S.C.L.E. Robots.

“Have at thee! You knife-toothed freaks!” Golgar unsheathed his leaf blade, having climbed up on top of one of the Myrmidons before launching himself into one of the approaching Ghouls who made an attempt of the bulwark.

His reckless attack however only caused him to be callously swatted away by his would-be target of his rambunctious assault. His leshen body, for what miracle or mockery of physics bouncily ricochet off of a Myrmidon’s Shield and then returning back towards same Ghoul. The monster’s mouth shattered upon contact. It wasn’t as bloody nor as awe-inspiring as initially planned out for the pint-sized berserker. But that Ghoul would never indulge in his carnivorous cravings for a long time.

Even so with one taken down, there were still many more that continue to harry them. These wolven pack were a challenge for Myrmidon, primarily programmed to fight lumbar robots and humans rather than the canine-like opponents he faced. Gunfire and Batons was so easily weaved by their agility.

Myrmidon maybe prodigious mind in terms of earthly tactics and strategies in regards to the Art of War. But Myrmidon was and always will be a Learner first. His mechanical eyes tracked the movement of the Ghouls who circled around them. Each time they assaulted the shields, they analyzed their sprightly movements. There eyes shifted as fast as their four limbs had carried them. They were blanked into a pallid cream color with no prescence of any irises. Yet for such a seemingly ‘blind’ creature they were very much capable of spotting the faintest gaps on Myrmidon’s Shield Wall. The twitch of their noses oh so eagerly quivered on being rejected the soft and delicate meal beneath such armor that was Secretary Baird.

Reasoning deeply in mere seconds beneath all of the A.I.’s accumulated knowledge in Tactics, Psychology, and Biology, Myrmidon commanded one of their vessels to toss out a Flashbang. The robot’s hand raised upwards, and in a brilliant illuminescence beneath the dark Fangwood Forest, light pierced through. Blinding the Ghouls and stunning them from their erratic movement. Easy prey for the Myrmidons to cut down with merciless efficiency.

Those surviving Whispering Way Cultists retreated, whimpering away deep unto the dark heart of the forest. But Myrmidon’s machine learning held a significant possibility that they are merely retreating to regroup and attempt on their master’s life again.

“They backed off… for now.” Myrmidon turned around. “Times up! We are Oscar Mike.”

“Triage complete.” H.E.N.R.I. nodded after wiping off the chunks of muck on the floor consisting of blood, sweat and even some puke coming from a pale yet stable Cold Iron. He had managed to also remove his Vulcan Armor off from his body and collapsed it for ease of carry.

“Stop with your suburban chump jive! We didimau! We didimau!” G-U-I-5 picked up Golgar from the ground and carried him away as the entire group fled for safety.

“The Tyrant… mus---faaa…” Cold Iron sputtered aimlessly. “Heavenly Host above… I see… I see… I can feel your warm hands…”

“Come on master…” H.E.N.R.I. carried the Doctor-Commander over to his shoulder. Placing his arm on the side of his master and wrapping his legs.

The faithful mechanical manservant suspicion algorithms were setting off in him. The Doctor-Commander was neither a nor raised to be a religious person by his mentions of esoteric concepts of ‘Heaven’ being muttered so loosely from his lips. Perhaps his harrowing episode at Vellumis injured much more than physiological scars. H.E.N.R.I. will have to take him to Fort Bragg’s infirmary for intensive treatment.

“Jump down!” Myrmidon forewarned H.E.N.R.I. as the Myrmidons met a slope that led down to the river. Another side, was the salvation of Fort Bragg.

Carefully, they slid down each of the Robots covering the other from both sides of the slope before gradually all active units, including Golgar were now at the bottom. They cohesively once again forded the river as the rest of Fort Bragg scared off the rest of the pursuing Whispering Way Cultists. Absorbing shots of magic, clashes of iron, and bolts from their skirmishing weapons that would have fallen one of flesh and blood. But the iron-bounded Myrmidons pressed on, there will Unyielding. They Hotly coming past the Fort’s Bunker Doors, Myrmidon remotely sealed the only accessible entrance.

“Status Confirmed: Mission Accomplished.” The A.I. certified. A denotative sigh of relief and triumph saturated the Robots as the well-being of their Master was irrefutably confirmed.

[-]

“Plead thou my cause… oh Heavens above! Stand beside… the Crimson Crusader… against t-t-the… Tyrant!” Cold Iron twirled restlessly on the Infirmary Bed. As the metronomic Heartbeat Monitor ticks. “May my Rapier be steady, my hand is true, my feet be swift… m-uh my… throat… BUBBLING in my skin!” he gasped, eyes closed and leaking with tears.

“You are going to hurt yourself Master! Please calm down!” H.E.N.R.I. supplicated him.

“I don’t understand. He took enough morphine to fall asleep ten grown men.” Myrmidon grimaced in amazement.

“Our Drug Stock are hundred years old. The effectiveness of these drugs has passed their optimal efficiency.” H.E.N.R.I. complained.

“The Tyrant… MUST… Faahh--… Faahh--” Izo’s jaw agape spouting more nonsensical words across the room.

“This power…” Golgar slowly, as if approaching an impaired yet still feral beast, to the sleepless Doctor-Commander’s chest. There was a burning yet alien passion that glowed across his palms. A presence both serene yet fiery. Clashing against the waves and rocks that enclosed underneath. “Eh, Uhm… No-Blood manthing! Mama Sopas can help!” Leshy suggested.

“Help how?” Myrmidon asked.

“Big-Knight manthing no speak like Big-Knight manthing. Golgar thinky he caught something when he’s in Velumis. Gravelands many scary things… Mama Sopas maybe know cure.” Golgar explained.

“Are you asking me to entrust the Secretary’s Health to a FOREIGN QUACK? I have detailed files in Human Anatomy and Medicine! What does this ‘Mama Sopas’ have? Absolutely not!” Myrmidon squawked.

“Manthing ‘ought he can scuttle into Ustalav and No-Blood manthing friends be shook that he ‘most die-dieyeth?” Golgar sputtered lisply.

“Must… FIND HIM! KILL HIM!” Izo arose from his bed and attempted to leave but H.E.N.R.I. held him back down. “Unhand me y-you… y-you craven dogs! Send me back into the fray!” his wild eyes darted across his own Machines as if they were only mere strangers touching his sweating body.

An unnerving air drummed across H.E.N.R.I.’s servile algorithms. Everything he has known of his master is being made false upon this astoundingly atypical savoir-faire of the Doctor-Commander. Was this even his Master at all?

“His heart rate is spiking!” Myrmidon was alarmed as the Heartbeat Monitor attached to the Doctor Commander skyrocketed.

“Overrule!” H.E.N.R.I. declared. “I order you to get Mama Sopas now!”

“Aye-Aye!” Golgar saluted before scuttling off.

“Under whose authority?!” Myrmidon yelled.

“The authority for the one who holds my Master’s Wellbeing as his priority. Open the Vault Door Myrmidon and make sure Master does NOT leave this room.” H.E.N.R.I. took over the reins.