Chapter 5 The SPD

 

Inside a circular room made of stone, a man was leaning on a table in the centre with both hands. He was well groomed and better dressed, sporting a blue and silver robe embedded with jewels. He stood at six feet and one inch with combed hair that was neatly pulled back with wax. With eyebrows stiffened down, his eyes darted from side to side.

A metal door opened and in stepped an Unwanted. Only by their shoes, the man could tell it was a woman. She was unnervingly tall, but the most terrifying thing about her was the fragmented skull made of mist on her face. The colour was darker than black and far more mist pooled off her face.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man spat, unafraid. “I do not have time to be messed around by masked mercs!”

“Lord Evergrand, my alias is Speaker, Administrator Speaker,” the Unwanted spoke slowly and calmly, commanding instant attention upon walking to the man’s side. Her accent belonged to the upper class. “This is Mercy, Elder Mercy.” Behind the woman, outstepped the balding man with a dark mist on his face.

“That didn’t answer my question,” the man pressed with his hands turning into fists.

“We are not here to make friendships or alliances,” Administrator Speaker told him. Her voice was monotone and dull, but every word that came out of her mouth oozed authority. 

“Then what? Is this about my daughter? Mind you, she has over forty very well-trained guards when she travels and a team of five bodyguards that cost me an arm and a leg to hire. I do not understand the meaning behind this!”

Administrator Speaker ignored the man’s troubles and looked towards Mercy who took the lead. “Lord Evergrand. We mean no offence. The king has tasked us with defending the well-being of the country and each of the cities.”

“I am well aware of the contract my friend has unfortunately signed,” Lord Evergrand grunted with distaste.

“Then you should know that your family falls under that. We are only doing what we are hired to do. If nothing comes of it, then you are right, there is no need to worry. We are only ensuring your daughter will be well protected.”

“I do not want masked mercs to look after my darling!” the man shouted, slamming his fist down onto the table. “Even I barely know who you or your organisation is!”

Despite the man's anger and aggressiveness, the two Unwanted stood still, remaining unfazed. Mercy continued, “Lord Evergrand. I assure you it will not be much of an issue. We will not parade your daughter around with misted faces behind her. I will only send five Unwanted to transport her along with your guards in a blacked-out vehicle with E-Jammers activated. No one will know who is in the vehicle until she arrives at the location.”

“And what if I say no?”

“That is your right as her father. But if you’re wrong, then her death falls on you instead of us,” Mercy told him.

Administrator Speaker, his boss, turned her body to him, surprised at the unexpected statement. It wasn’t what they agreed on. However, she didn’t intervene.

Lord Evergrand stared blankly at the table once more. It was clear he did not like the Unwanted, and he didn’t trust them. But perhaps this was a good way of exposing them - he had heard rumours about them but how good could they possibly be? “Fine. So be it. Anything that goes wrong, or anything that is said to my darling, will be sent straight to the king and the media. I’m sure then he will change this contract he has with you.”

“Very well, Lord Evergrand. Thank you for—”

Before Mercy could finish, Lord Evergrand stormed past him and out the door. He was quickly swamped by five armed bodyguards wearing suits.

Through the door, they could hear Lord Evergrand yell, “WHERE IS THE FUCKING EXIT!?”

“Rather dangerous, Mercy,” Speaker told him after hearing the dulled shouting becoming fainter.

“I know, Ma’am, but I have to trust my gut on this.”

“Yes yes, under these circumstances it seems the only viable option. Good work as always. Who will you be assigning to the SPD?”

“The Ill-Favoured Five, ma’am.”

Administrator Speaker nodded slowly but suddenly stopped, appearing hesitant. “Do you not think this mission is out of their depths? We could easily put Combatant Elders with you overlooking.”

“I believe it is also about sending a message, ma’am. The Ill-Favoured Five can compete with Guardians - Goliath is equal in physical strength with any combatant Elder; when Lord Evergrand sees what a Raptor team can do, then I believe he will overestimate our power tenfold, hence gaining more respect for us.”

“Excellent foresight, Mercy. Are you sure this is a risk you are willing to take, this is Elora Evergrand after all?”

“Nothing ventured nothing gained, ma’am. I believe we have caused quite a name for ourselves in Eurella, and trying to patch it up while keeping our standards will take these sorts of risks.”

“Let us hope this doesn’t bite us in the arse, Mercy.”

 

8th of July, Day of the SPD

 

Before the sun had risen, Roach was standing in his usual clothes before a bakery with a cigarette pursued between his lips. Inside, the early risers were stacking dough into an industrial cooker. He threw the cigarette aside and let himself into the shop front. The door chime rang and a few of the staff turned their heads but quickly dismissed it as if he was merely wind coming through an open window.

Ignoring the workers, Roach zipped past them and entered a broom closet. Beneath a rug, he discovered a circle of runes engraved on the concrete floor. Activating a switch, purple lights glimmered from beneath the rug. In an instant, Roach vanished.

He reappeared inside a glass cylinder with the exact same circle of runes beneath him. On either side of him were other cylinders with misted faces flashing in and out of them. Above him was a dome roof made of bedrock, carved quickly by a stonemancer. At the front of the room, Fodders were waiting patiently to serve the Guardians and Elders they were assigned to.

Exiting out of the glass with mist on his face, he headed towards a sign that read, ‘Research Zone’.

As he ventured through the hallways, the austere surroundings greeted him with their simplicity and utilitarian design. In regular intervals, wired lights dangled from above, casting a glow that reflected upon the misted faces of those who traversed the corridors.

Eventually reaching his destination, he stopped at a door which read

 ‘REINFORCED RESIDENCY. ALIAS: OZARK.’ Just underneath that was, ‘PROBATION’.

Roach stared at the door for a moment and scratched his chin. With some deep breaths, he built up enough courage and knocked. A hollowed echo was his only reply. “Ozark,” he said, pressing his ear onto the cold metal door.

Nothing. 

Roach sighed and decided he would knock louder. Bang— bang— bang— the door creaked open. What was worse, however, was that it was pitch black inside. Though it was the early morning, Ozark never slept. Like all the other rooms, the light switch is on the left, and his fingers fiddled in the darkness for it. Upon feeling a slimy residue on his index finger, he withdrew his hand immediately.

“Fuck sake, Ozark,” he angrily mumbled under his breath as he threw his hand around to try and get it off. “Alright, I’m coming in!” 

An ungodly smell hit his nose; rotting corpses, faeces and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. With whatever little light entered the room, he stepped into it. 

“Ozark,” he said again in a quick whisper while pinching his nose.

Nothing.

“Ozark,” he grunted, smacking his hands together.

Then there was a scuttle; keratin-type limbs moving around the room in a fast pattern, scraping against the bare stone floor. 

At this point, Roach was already clutching one of his daggers in its sheath. 

“HI ROACH!” a voice screamed right in front of him. The lights suddenly came on and illuminated a completely naked Ozark in front of him. The only clothing she had on was a pair of red blast goggles strapped tightly around her head.

“Fuck, Ozark,” he said in relief, “what are you doing?”

“Any light can affect the—” she gave him a weary side eye, “Why are you asking?” she questioned, getting closer to him.

Glancing at Ozark’s body for a split second, Roach noticed she suffered because of her diluted genetics. Oddly shaped keratin appendages sprouted off her brown, patterned skin, and looked to be shaved down with a metal file. As a result of this, painful-looking scabs covered her small body. However, she appeared not to care.

Roach placed a firm hand on her face and steered her away. He then got a good view of the room Ozark was only meant to be sleeping in. At the back, there was a large wooden work desk. On it were glasses of eyeballs, a variety of organs and genitalia from ten different species. There was a pile of papers on the desk with most of them scrunched up. In the corner, right next to the open-aired toilet, there was a pile of faeces - they weren’t all hers. The other corner was blackened by fire with sheets of bullet-ridden metal dispersed around.

What most caught Roach’s eye was a large mound in the middle of the room with a green tarpaulin pulled over it. Moreover, there was a decaying hand sticking out of it.

“What’s this—”

“Nothing!” Ozark exclaimed, stepping in front of him and kicking the hand under the blanket with great effort.

“Right,” Roach dismissed, not wanting to explore further. “My revolvers?”

Ozark stared at the ceiling with her mouth open. “Oh yeah,” she finally said.

“You better have finished them,” Roach told her angrily. “I have a job today.”

Ozark bounded over to her work desk and began to thoroughly search through the many draws. Each was filled with so much junk she had to tug at them to get them open. Roach cringed each time in case his revolvers were in one.

“FOUND THEM!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She pulled out a box she could barely lift and carried it over to him. “Open it,” she demanded.

Roach complied. He flipped open the lock and saw two pistols inside.

“These aren’t mine,” Roach told her.

“Yeah they are,” she protested with her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Mine are revolvers, not these—”

“Yeah, I know. But revolvers are so old-fashioned and hard to reload. I’m surprised they even passed inspection,” she insulted, carelessly.

“Where are they?” he asked her again, taking on a serious tone.

“They’re here,” she confirmed.

“No. They’re not. Mine are made from a special grade of anodized aluminium with a .4 space-time propulsion, you can’t just—”

“I took all the parts out ‘cause they were old, melted down the anodized blah blah blah, added in a sprinkle of hardened fairy dust - very expensive, added in a 1.2 space-time propulsion - also very expensive and highly illegal even for us—” she breathed in, “with a timed charge which can increase to 1.8 and I even designed your bullets so they won’t crumple under the pressure.” She ended her speech with a bright smile.

“Ozark,” Roach grunted with elevated breath.

“Just try them!” she squealed in fear.

Examining them with a clenched jaw, he reluctantly picked up the firearms for a closer look. Gone were his cherished revolvers; these were cold, utilitarian pistols equipped with detachable magazines. The weight in his hand was greater now, the grip coarse and unyielding, adorned with purple streaks that resembled bolts of lightning. Yet, etched into the surface of each weapon were the unmistakable markings of 'R' and 'L', crudely carved with a knife. A sigh escaped Roach's lips, accompanied by a disapproving shake of his head. "Did you mention 1.8 propulsion?" he inquired, his senses probing the scent of one of the pistols.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wouldn’t that blow my hand off?” he questioned. “That’s like firing a souped-up .50 cal from my hand.”

“Hardened fairy dust: when under extreme pressure will absorb force and slowly push out the additional energy through space-time magic over a period of time. It may get hot though and will hurt - a lot.”

“And the bullets?” he asked.

“Black steel so they don’t just go boom. There’s actually a mode on the right side which can switch them to either full metal, hollow point, or spiral for that extra penetration!”

Roach couldn’t believe his ears or his eyes. Yes, his revolvers were beloved but Ozark had just created two weapons of unbridled power. It did cost him his head though.

“Try them!” she squealed again, this time in happiness.

“There’s no safety,” he told her, flipping the gun around to find the switch.

“That’s what I forgot,” she moaned, stomping her foot. “Who needs safety anyway?”

Roach sighed once more, but he steeled himself and aimed the pistol labelled 'R' at one the metal sheets. He pulled the trigger, and the gun emitted pulsing purple lines that resembled lightning. In a brilliant flash, a powerful blast erupted from the weapon's muzzle, almost causing Roach's hand to bend back on itself. The black bullet tore through the metal sheet and embedded itself ten inches into the stone wall.

“Fuck me, Ozark.”

“I’d prefer not to. But you see? It’s friggin’ awesome! HAND CANNONS BABY!”

“I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you.”

“Wait,” Roach said, coming out of his limited excitement. “You said you made specialized bullets?”

Ozark pouted, turning her feet inward.

“You want something else, don’t you?”

“Hmm, not something. A deal,” she proposed with a hand on her lips and her tiny feet pointed inwards.

“I don’t make deals anymore—”

“Please, just hear me out.”

Roach inhaled through his nose and looked down once more at the pistols. “What?”

“Well, I make you bullets and you give me corpses?” she offered half-heartedly, her palms upwards.

“Can’t you just buy them - oh, you’re banned, aren’t you? Did you speak to Mercy about relieving that?”

She groaned loudly. “Yes! And he said ‘You’re a threat to the organisation and the entirety of New London. The answer is no’,” she recalled in a terrible Slavic accent.

Roach looked at the blanket but she quickly stood in front of him.

“What are you making?” Roach questioned.

“Nothing!” she told him, taking a small step backwards, guarding the mound. “Just my project. All I can say is that it’s not world-ending . . . or city-ending - just so you know. I don’t want you worrying.”

“How many do you need?” Roach asked with his pistols on his mind.

“Orcs! No, Mountain Orcs! Nothing under 40% dilution. And a monthly supply of three from now on. In return, I’ll give you as many bullets as you need. I’ve already made 400 hundred bullets and six magazines.”

Roach kissed his teeth and half-smirked. “You’re an odd one Ozark. But, we have a deal.” He extended his hand out.

“Yay!” she screamed, clutching both his wrists. “Thank you, Roach!” 

“Put some clothes on Ozark,” he told her, noticing her tiny breasts.

Ozark stopped her celebration and looked at her own naked body. “Why?” she asked innocently.

“I have no idea,” Roach replied honestly, eyebrows raised under his mist “I’ll hire a Fodder to bring you them every month.”

“Ok, Roach!” she shouted. “Goodbye!”

Roach’s spine shivered as the door closed behind him. But alas, there wasn’t putrid air and disgusting sights. Feeling his new pistols in their holsters and magazines on his waist, he headed for the changing rooms, confident for the job ahead.

 

“Good morning, Roach,” Goliath said.

“Good morning,” Roach replied, sitting down on a bench.

In the cramped changing room, housing merely two showers, five lockers, and a scattering of benches, the team gathered. Pointy and Goliath were sitting down already dressed while Spike and Mute were in the showers.

“So this is going through?” Roach questioned Goliath.

“Yeah. Fuck knows why Mercy wants us on it,” the giant man grunted while tying his laces.

“We are his best Raptor team,” Pointy explained while reading his book without looking up. “I see no reason why he wouldn’t trust us with such a job.”

“It’s going to be a challenge keeping my dick in my pants,” Spike announced, stepping into the room stark bollock naked. “What if she just throws herself on me?” He squatted and thrust his oddly shaped member forward. Upon noticing no reaction, he turned to face his locker. However, the team did notice something.

“Did you have a productive day off?” Pointy asked him with a hint of sarcasm.

“Uh, yeah, yeah I did,” Spike replied with furrowed eyebrows.

“Remember much?” Goliath asked.

Spike clicked his teeth as his brain rattled for an answer, and then his eyes went wide upon realising his antics of the previous night. “Oh fuck!” He sprinted over to a mirror, almost crashing into it, and turned around. On his shoulder towards his neck were the words ‘Cum Dumpster’ in shoddy cursive with an uneven heart around it. “Nah nah nah nah nah nah.”

“A girlfriend?” Pointy speculated.

“Nah. She said she was pregnant or something,” Spike replied while bending his neck over his shoulder. “I knew I shouldn’t have had that drink.”

“You’d be a great father I’m sure, Spike,” Goliath jeered.

“It ain’t mine I can tell you that. AH! Fuck sake, what are these bitches doing to me?”

“Is it French?” Pointy asked, smirking under his mist.

“Elven - Comer Doumpastar,’ Goliath joked, chuckling after.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Spike cursed at them. “Have some sympathy for your teammate, ey?”

“It’s really funny,” Roach said without smiling.

“Fuck off, Morpheus,” Spike spat, twisting the towel and rubbing it along his gooch. “Uh, she’s so fit too. By the Three Moons, I just want to—” He began to hump the air but suddenly stopped when Mute walked by him, also naked.

Though she was a woman, she was a teammate first - eyes went left. She had the body of a small boy; no breasts, no curves and the only way to declare her womanhood was her genitalia. Surrounding it were hundreds of scars. Scars were also present down her back and at the bottom of her wrists. The most unnerving look about her was a single slit scar that stretched from her chin to the centre of her collarbones, directly down her jugular.

“Are you going to marry her?” Pointy questioned, poking fun. “With a bastard child, the White Moon Church won’t accept you.”

“Fuck the White Moon. I’m only married to this—” he pointed to his guitar, “and this—” he pointed to his penis. Just as Spike was pointing at his penis, Mercy walked into their changing rooms. Each one of them stood up tall with their hands placed by their sides. 

“Sir, debrief is not until—”

“0600, yes,” Mercy finished while glancing at his watch. “Administrator Speaker will be joining us on the brief and will be overlooking this mission. I wanted to come and speak to you in a more informal setting.”

“Of course, sir,” Goliath said, stiffening his posture.

Mercy placed his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “This is your most important job as of yet. Not only are there high stakes for you but for me. You should owe me nothing; your reputation has paid off immensely. But I have to stress this, there cannot be any mistakes. This is Elora Evergrand. Her father is annoyed, shall we say.”

“When do we make mistakes, sir?” Goliath asked.

“Well, Spike made one last night,” Mercy noticed in the mirror.

“It’s not mine, sir!” Spike protested. 

“What’s not yours? Actually, I don’t want to know. You will need to wear your uniforms as standard. Aliases as always, but don’t forget your style. You are not just on an SPD but you are also what her father sees and what the rest of New London will if word spreads.”

“Yes, sir!” the team shouted except for Mute.

“And by the Three Moons, do not let Spike talk to her, and no mohawk!”

Spike clenched his jaw and saggy butt cheeks, only managing a subtle nod to appease his superior.

“I will see you in Ops Room B-3,” Mercy told them, opening the door and slamming it behind him.

“That was sure fucking’ informal,” Spike tutted, grabbing his ballsack,

“Get dressed, Spike,” Goliath told him while throwing a black cloak over himself. “Keep that mohawk wet.”

Inside Ops Room B-3, a room with a holographic projection on a sleek circular table in the centre, the Ill-Favoured Five, Mercy and Administrator Speaker, were all standing around with mist on their faces. Administrator Speaker was standing further back than everyone else as she made everyone uncomfortable due to her high-ranking position.

“Alright,” Mercy said, dragging a hand across his face. “This is Elora Evergrand.” A hologram of the famed person appeared and rotated around. She was wearing an extravagant dress but her face wasn’t as detailed. “Daughter of Ivan Evergrand, second to the king. Rank S Hunter; prodigy in pyromancy and pyroenhancing - we cannot determine whether it is earned or bought or perhaps both. Twenty-three years of age - 47 kg. She should be wearing protective clothing as per our agreed arrangement.”

“GMS?” Pointy wondered.

“Again, Pointy - bought or earned. Our results say 57.27 for mancy and 37.11 for enhancing; capable of almost every variety of pyro spells and pyro enhancements up to the Fourth Maxa.” Mercy then brought up a Hunter ID with her details on it.

“Sounds like she doesn’t need our help,” Spike offered, almost choking. 

Mercy ignored him. “She has an important charity ball in Pettywell tomorrow and she will need to attend. There are no teleportation pads in Pettywell and the distance is too far to set one up quickly. Plane, jet or hovercraft is too risky. We have reason to believe they want to use her as a martyr. No, sigil - yes, a sigil for chaos. Your job, and your only job, is to transport her to Pettywell from her residence in the Overground. Her heart must be beating and she must be in one piece. Any emotional damage suffered will be deducted from your pay.” Mercy gave a side-eye to Spike.

“Routes?” Goliath asked.

“Straight. Diversions if necessary. They will all be uploaded to the vehicle but I’m sure Spike knows his way around. Go straight through every checkpoint. It cannot be covert, unfortunately, she is Elora Evergrand after all. But, you five will not be seen. Drive her there, drop her off and drive back to base. No mohawks no comments no music no speeding - if necessary.” Mercy breathed in, collecting himself. “You will receive triple your ordinary pay for a protection detail. Bonuses if things turn sideways.”
“How likely is an engagement from the Children of Discordia?” Roach asked, folding his arms. “

Mercy hesitated to answer. Eventually, he reply, “We believe it to be highly likely. But, we truly don’t know. Expect and prepare for the worst.”

“We’ll bring the war bags, sir,” Goliath responded to which Mercy nodded.

“Is there Overwatch? Code Black?” Roach questioned.

“No Overwatch since this is more or less low profile but there is Code Black, dire only as usual. This is not just a job but a show for Ivan Evergrand. I will be on comms with you for the duration of this mission and be watching at every available camera.”

“That’s why you want us, sir,” Pointy commented, pushing his glasses into his mist.

“Yes, Pointy,” Mercy quickly said, not wanting to elaborate further. “Now, I believe Administrator Speaker would like a word with you all.”

Mercy stepped to the side and placed his hands behind his back. Two clops of heels paced forwards and the team tightened their already stiff posture.

“Ill-Favoured Five, Raptor Rank, Group ID: NL1167, this is and will be the most important mission of your career in the Unwanted. There is no room for mistakes or hesitancy. The consequences are unimaginable if you are to fail. Complete this mission and it will be heavily taken into account for your promotion to Guardian Rank. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!” they shouted except for Mute.

Administrator Speaker took a step backwards and Mercy forwards. “You leave in 30 minutes. Prepare and talk tactics. Boseman has altered an HDAV for you today—I hope he has forgiven you for his promotion ceremony.”

A few of the team cracked a smirk under the mist. 

“Dismissed.”