Cold sweat drips down my brow as I stare into the eerie, impassive gazes of the ten figures before me. They slowly pull out an array of flame throwers, molotovs, and incendiary grenades, the glinting metal of the weapons, a sharp contrast to the dull, suffocating atmosphere of the room. My heart thunders against my ribs, the haunting nursery rhyme still lingering in the air, intertwining with a sudden, tangible silence.
In a burst of frenetic energy, the silence shatters as they engage their fire weapons, searing streaks of flame arcing toward me. The air immediately fills with an oppressive heat, and the tang of burning materials invades my nostrils.
Gripping my shotgun tightly, I fire off a round, the sharp retort of the weapon slicing through the chaos. But they move with an unnatural fluidity, dodging the pellets with ease. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps as I navigate through the flaming onslaught, trying to put distance between me and them.
Desperation seizes my every movement as another flurry of fire lashes toward me, contorting the air with its blistering heat. I duck behind an overturned couch, using it as a temporary shield while flames hungrily lick at its sides. Every breath is a battle, the acrid smoke trying to choke my resolve. My thoughts spin, trying to stitch together a plan amidst the chaos.
With a grim resolve, I peek from behind the smouldering barrier, aiming my shotgun at the nearest propane tank I spot near the figures. My finger squeezes the trigger, releasing a volley of shots that pierces through the air. The tank miraculously avoids perforation, and my heart plummets as their heads simultaneously tilt in my direction, their motions an unsettling symphony of coordination.
Unfazed, the flames persist, seemingly emboldened by my failed attempt to halt their advance. Their masks render their faces unreadable, but something in their posture whispers of an eerie delight, a sadistic enjoyment in the terror they wield.
Tucking my body into a tight coil, I spring to my feet and sprint toward the adjacent room, dodging another onslaught of fiery destruction. The roaring fire is close on my heels, an insatiable beast hungry for desolation. My eyes, streaming from the smoke, barely make out the silhouette of CHIRO, still motionless amidst the inferno.
I make a desperate dash for a nearby table, flinging it sideways to create a makeshift barrier against the oncoming flames. An intense heat presses against it, singeing the wood as I shoot again, aiming for their weapons this time. But it’s like trying to hit phantoms—there’s a surreal, ethereal quality to their movements that belies the gravity of the situation.
Suddenly, a bright spark catches my eye; a molotov cocktail sails through the air, shattering against the wall behind me and exploding into an angry inferno. My heart leaps into my throat as the fire roars, threatening to envelop everything in its path.
I scramble towards CHIRO, desperation fuelling my movements as I haul him over my shoulder.
Leaning heavily against the wall, I fumble blindly, my fingers scraping against a window latch. With a herculean effort, I shove it open and a gust of wind sweeps in, momentarily dispersing the thick, acrid smoke that had begun to choke me.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I heave CHIRO and myself out of the window, our bodies plummeting towards the alley below. We hit the rain-soaked ground hard, pain lancing through me, but I push it aside, focusing only on the urgent need to escape.
The haunting melody still seems to seep through the walls, the words intertwining with my frenzied thoughts as I half-drag, half-carry CHIRO’s limp body through the relentless rain. His blood, mingling with the crimson rivulets cascading down from the alley above, sends an additional shiver of dread through me. Every echoing footstep behind me signals doom, and I can almost feel the stares of the ten figures, their unnerving presence lingering long after our desperate escape. The figures do not pursue us; they simply watch, expressionless, as we retreat into the shadowy embrace of the rain.
Gulping in lungfuls of the damp air, I press onward, the relentless downpour.
The eerie stillness envelops the underground parking lot, a dark sanctuary of spectral illusions shattered by my defiant proclamations. The Major, bewildered, struggles to regain his unassailable demeanour, but something has irrevocably shifted in the precarious balance between us. We are no longer puppet and puppeteer; a new strength courses through my veins, untainted by manipulation and coercion.
Out of the tense silence, an incongruent, discordant noise shatters the poised tableau—the sound of desperate, unsteady footsteps against the cold, harsh concrete. The stillness of the moment, however fractured, crumbles in the face of chaos as a new figure stumbles into view.
He emerges from the shadows, panting, his clothes soaked in a disturbingly vivid crimson, yet his stride remarkably unyielding despite the severity of his apparent injuries. A second figure is slung haphazardly over his shoulders, lifeless and battered.
I recognize him as DARIUS, the man I had encountered once before in circumstances far less dire. His normally composed, placid demeanour is nowhere in sight, replaced by the erratic, wild-eyed terror that now permeates his every move. His gaze snaps to mine, but it’s clear he doesn’t recognize me, or if he does, it’s clouded by the immediacy of his panic.
He dumps the limp form at his feet with an ungentle haste, rasping out breathless warnings that fragment through his laboured breaths. “They … they got Milo, we … we need to go … now.”
Confusion veils my thoughts. His terror, so infectious, so stark, muddles my understanding, and my mind struggles to piece together the disarrayed puzzle presented before me, the unconscious figure splayed at DARIUS’ feet, is unknown to me, yet something resonates—a familiarity in his wounds, the meticulous, savage precision in every cut and bruise. Boginya.
My eyes flicker to the Major, observing as his countenance morphs from imperious wrath to a calculated, simmering fury interlaced with trepidation. He steps forward, a veneer of control glossing his voice. “DARIUS, calm yourself and explain.”
“They got Milo!” DARIUS screeches, an edge of deranged hysteria to his tone, completely bypassing the Major’s demand. His eyes, a tumult of fear and warning, dart sporadically among us.
The Major’s frustration is palpable, his fingers clenching into a taut fist. “Did they follow you?” His voice, though steady, reveals a sliver of his internal unrest.
DARIUS, his gaze locked on the lifeless form at his feet, responds not with words, but with an evasive, hollow laugh, choked by a sob.
The Major, now visibly unmoored, wheels around, barking orders to the cluster of mercenaries scattered around us. “Prepare for a siege! Secure the perimeters, now!”
As the mercenaries scatter, an unsettled murmur ripples through them, uncertainty pervading the atmosphere like a noxious fume. My eyes trace back to DARIUS, a man seemingly on the precipice of unravelling yet clinging to shreds of a fractured resolve.
DARIUS’ eyes meet mine, a maelstrom of pain, pleading, and apologetic sorrow swirling within them. He crumples, hands trembling as they ghost over the unconscious man’s wounds.
The air, already thick with frenetic tension, now pulsates with an undercurrent of imminent catastrophe, sending shivers crawling up my spine. The hustle of mercenaries scrambling into defensive positions fills the cavernous space with an erratic symphony of hurried footsteps and muttered curses, their expressions painted with trepidation beneath a thin veneer of stoicism.
The Major’s eyes dart around, scrutinizing, calculating, as his taut nerves vibrate visibly beneath his skin. They’re all perched on the precipice, teetering on the brink of chaos, the looming onslaught a dark cloud overshadowing every thought, word, and movement.
Without warning, a voice punctures through the dissonant harmony of preparation, a harbinger of further turmoil. “Major!” a mercenary pants, skidding into the barely-held-together semblance of control in our corner of the parking lot. “We’re under attack from the rooftop! They’ve got us pinned!”
Every muscle in my body tenses, an instinctual response to the fresh wave of peril crashing over us. The Major, his face gaunt with the stark reality of their predicament, struggles to maintain his composed façade. His voice barely steadies as it slices through the atmosphere, ripe with alarm. “Are they all down? S1 too?”
His query hangs, unanswered, in the tense air, until an unexpected sound—steady, confident footfalls—intrudes upon the disquiet. A nonchalant, yet piercingly clear voice answers from the direction of the staircase. “Nope, I’m here.”
All eyes pivot, converging on the newcomer who emerges from the shadowed stairwell with an almost disarmingly serene demeanour. A young girl, with traits that stir an unsettling familiarity within me, steps into the dim, flickering light of the parking lot, followed closely by another girl who, with her extravagant appearance, seems to have leapt straight out of one of Boginya or Abhi’s beloved anime series. The surrealism of her presence juxtaposes starkly against our harsh, gritty reality, casting a bizarre, almost unreal haze over the scene.
My breath hitches in my throat when a familiar figure appears behind them, bound, his eyes reflecting a mix of defiance and fear. Abhi himself.
My feet start moving before my brain fully processes the situation, my hands balling into fists at my sides. Anguish and fury intertwine, coiling in my stomach, but I force my voice to remain even, my stance unyielding, as I address the young girl, S1. “What do you think you’re doing?”
A sly, self-assured smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. “Ensuring our survival, of course,” she replies, her voice chillingly casual, contrasting starkly with the precariousness of the situation. She presses a handgun against Abhi’s temple. “The agency can’t proceed further, not unless they wish to endanger a tiban.”
Descending the dank, dimly lit staircase, a shiver of anticipation courses through me. The walls seem to close in, the tight space a stark contrast to the expansive rooftop we’ve just left. My left hand throbs in time with my rapidly beating heart, but I grit my teeth, determined to push through.
A muffled grunt echoes from below. GON, eyes narrowed, carefully unsheathes her iaito, but the confined space restricts her movements, the wide arcs she usually employs now impractical.
NANAYA’s fingers wrap tightly around his knife, knuckles white with tension. His gaze is steely, but beneath it, I catch a flicker of concern as his eyes dart to my hastily bandaged hand. I offer a brief, reassuring nod, but my focus quickly shifts as the sounds of boots ascending the stairs reach our ears.
The first mercenary appears, weapon raised, but we have the advantage of expectation. NANAYA lunges, his knife slicing through the air, but the mercenary is trained, parrying with the butt of his rifle and retaliating with a swift, vicious jab. It’s a tight, brutal ballet in the constricted space, each movement precise, every slip a potential misstep into the abyss.
GON attempts to engage, but the walls encroach, stifling her effectiveness. Her usual grace, tempered by the sweeping, deadly elegance of her blade, is all but nullified here. Frustration paints her features, her strikes becoming more forceful, yet the enclosed staircase continually thwarts her efforts.
I fight through the pain, my right hand tightly gripping the knife as I enter the fray, adrenaline dulling the searing in my left. My movements are aiming to exploit any vulnerability exposed in the skirmish between NANAYA and the mercenary.
A well-aimed stab finds its mark, my knife slipping between the ribs of our adversary. He crumples silently, but there’s no respite as another immediately takes his place, the determined glint of retribution in his eyes.
We battle, step by step, down the claustrophobic descent, each encounter a struggle for survival. The mercenaries are relentless, their training evident in their disciplined strikes and tactical engagement, even as their numbers dwindle.
GON, despite her hindered combat, manages to adapt, employing shorter, more stabbing motions with her iaito, exploiting gaps in armour and catching limbs in vicious, albeit less theatrical, swipes.
NANAYA fights with a fury, his strikes a blend of finesse and brutality, every movement economized for the maximum impact.
My hand screams in protest with each clash, each moment of impact, but I push through, our trio inexorably weaving a path of desperation and resolve towards our objective.
Finally, the echoes of conflict recede, the staircase stretching ominously empty before us. Our breaths come in ragged unison, bodies smeared with the evidence of the violent descent.
“We need to move,” I mutter, voice low, casting a backward glance toward the path we’ve carved. “Before reinforcements come.”
