Kirche's breathing was shallow and unsteady, the pain from getting beaten and betrayed echoing deep and sore. One step after the other, following her memory back towards the surgery, blind to the concerned onlookers.
“Get out of here!” A woman yelled, a choir of murmurs backed her up.
“Bastard!” Another voice sang out, accompanied by the crack of a small stone hitting her head.
She halted to glare at the source, one of the sparse teenagers of Ingram. He reared to throw another stone but faltered and fled at the complete lack of reaction from the woman.
There were a few other lingering snoops. Some of them muttered concerns to each other, others tried to be stealthy as they ran off to find Eleanor and Bedan. None were brave enough to actually interfere with the shambling woman, desperately hoping thrown debris and spat words would be enough to deter her.
“O’ Presence…I endure in your name…” Kirche murmured to herself, recounting muddled versions of mantras. “Dumo, iga, gemi, iga, ozi, gemima…” The holy numbers that had been scarred into her memory, something to focus on. Each murmured digit lightened the pain.
“Maha, maha, nazma…” Warm words, numbing numbers, the blessings of the Presence.
By the time she reached the surgery she’d regained her composure, only for it to be broken by what she heard.
Voices behind the door, happy and light. Her nails dug hard into her palm at the sounds. Razgrith chuckling, Antonio drawling, a spark of relief at his survival stomped out by betrayal.
The Splinter was in there too, low and gentle toned, casually conversing with her team. They all sounded so comfortable, so happy.
Bile rose in her throat.
The Betrayer had gotten close to her by digging its claws into her companions. Soune’s behaviour was one thing and hopefully unrelated, but for this pair to turn on her too? It sickened her how effective the manipulations of evil were.
She assured herself that she was here to banish the corruption, a just and good action.
She turned away from the ward door towards the back office, a will greater than her own affirming her movements. That same great strength acted through her, closing the door and turning her head to the half empty case of medical supplies.
She shrugged off the sling holding her arm, the soreness of it and her sealed wounds blissfully numbed.
A collection of surgical tools stared at her through their clear packages. She took a handful of the scalpels and a pair of scissors.
Circling around to the packed desk, she dragged her arm along it to clear the space, knocking papers and an open bottle of alcohol to the ground. Kirche fell into the comfortable chair, taking a moment to breathe deep and steady herself. The strong, sour smell of the booze made her regret not turning to it, but sobriety would help with the connection to The Presence.
She plucked one of the scalpels, lips tightening at seeing how keen the edge glinted even though plastic. Knowing the process, and that it was her sacred duty, didn’t make it any more pleasant. If she delayed long enough the guard or doctor would show up and chase her off, save her from what came next.
The blasphemous thought was punished with a tight snapping head pain, Kirche winced and endured it, but a fresh bark of laughter from the other room strengthened her hateful resolve over the edge.
“...Willful traitors!” She hissed, then slammed her arm, already broken and swollen, onto the
desk.
A few slow, deep breaths. “...Gemi, adi, adi, gemi, nazma…” The numbers became unclear as Kirche bit into the plastic. She tore open the sealed scalpel and let it slide onto the desk, then cursed her hand for shaking over the tool.
It steadied again, moving without her intent, Kirche breathed thanks to The Presence as it steadied the point over her flesh.
“O’ Presence. With my flesh as votive I invoke you. I am your vessel, your lance, your will.” Kirche didn’t react to the blade sliding into her skin. “I give all of me to you, burn your strength into my skin…Guide me to smite your foes.”
Unsteady, broken mantras - a chimaera of muddy commands. The result was all that mattered, her blood starting to bubble and spit along the blade. The scalpel retracted with a hiss, moving down to carve another sacred number.
This was right, this was just.
This was her duty.
A vessel of something greater, something good. She could feel it scorching into her, down to fractured bones that were welding themselves back together. The strength she craved, granted through her own will. Each new symbol and number sent a warm wave through her, encouraging her to go further, carve more.
The scalpel started to tear and shred flesh rather than cut, Kirche pulled it from her skin. The blade had dulled and warped from her burning blood. She put it to the side and retrieved another from her pocket, it was blessed now, a weapon to turn against the Betrayer.
She would need more. More weapons, more inscriptions, more blood.
More power.
More.
She dropped the next tarnished scalpel on the table, two of them were bubbling in the thin pool of blood now. Kirche pulled up the heaviest of the packets, a pair of razor-edged scissors. She ripped the packet with her teeth and rushed it to her forearm, stopping with a shaky grip over the swollen flesh.
“Come on…coward…” Kirche gritted to herself, unable to find the will to plunge the scissors down. “O’ Presence, guide my hand in this time of need…” Her hand didn’t move, didn’t steady in the slightest. “Damn you…” Kirche hissed upwards.
She took a deep breath, then another.
With a roar she reared the tool back and slammed it down into her skin, it stopped against bone. Kirche barked out in agony, turning to stifle the sobs in the crook of her other arm. The carved symbols on her skin worked to dull the pain, converting it to a subtle warmth. It would’ve been comforting, if not for the fact she wasn’t done.
Her hand, shaking heavier now than even, grasped the body of the bloody scissors. She stifled another sob, closing her eyes to the world around her.
“...For The Presence.” She grunted, wincing further while she wrenched the scissors down, carving out a line in her radius.
“For myself…” The second line made her bark out, the metal striking something it shouldn’t have, the pain sudden and electric before the other symbols flared to settle it again.
“...For Bell.” The third line, deeper and curved. Kirche stopped, keeping her eyes closed to the ugly, messy wound. Her head was splitting, the sequence she was running over in her mind working to unravel it. Her thoughts and will dragging something arcane and infinite into the reality of her wounds.
She made a final wrench of the blades, finishing the symbol. A loud pop rang through the soft jelly of her mind, echoing as a ringing in her ears and a flash of light in the back of her eyes. In the same moment, searing pain shot through her arm.
The pain started to fade into affirming warmth, she was almost sure she had whited out for a few moments. Her eyes opened to see the red, swollen flesh of her arm turned ruddy and slightly yellowed, a heat haze was ebbing off it.
“Third Choir, Saint Andre’s Consecration*.” She weakly murmured out, the last of her wounds snapping shut in response.
“-And well, here we are then…” Gress finished his summary of the events to the pair. Silence hung between them for a while, the bedridden ones mulling over the details while Gress awkwardly stared at his feet. Antonio groaned to break the silence.
“Damnit… I was hoping my last fight would be a bit more grand than you. ” He grumbled.
“Sorry?” Gress offered.
“Don’t be…I was awake enough to know what really did me in.” Large hands dug into the thin sheets. “So, you got him, huh? Shame, I would've liked to get my hands on him myself…” Antonio struggled to right himself, grunting to mask a tight sob when he failed.
Raz reached a hand over to warmly grasp their partner's wrist, recognising their emotional surge. “I don’t know what to do now…” He admitted while tightening his face.
Gress stepped away from the bench to try and offer some platitudes. “What about cybernetics? Doctor Bedan told me about-” He was interrupted by a sharp glare from Razgrith, who tensely shook their head.
“Way out of our price range…” They looked back towards Antonio. “We’ll make it work, somehow…I was thinking about staying here in Ingram if we can, what do you think, love?”
“I don’t know…You’ve got a better head for figuring those things out…” He looked down to Gress who was sheepishly rubbing his arm, not wanting to bring up the immediate problem with wanting to live here. “Hey, what’s it like here?”
Gress blinked, taken aback for a moment by the question. An affirming nod from Raz encouraged him to answer. “That’s a bit of a hard question. We’re poor, I know that much, there are sometimes weeks where we struggle for food while waiting for shipments. Ramshackle is a generous way to describe the housing. It can also get really bloody boring.”
Gress’ lips shifted into a soft smile.
“But everyone knows everyone, we all have a role to fill and help each other when they need it. It’s quiet too, nice and quiet. Nice… that’s it in a word.”
“Hey…No need to get teary over it, man…” Antonio muttered, Gress wiped his eyes, not noticing how watery they’d become.
“Sorry…” He trailed off, going back to shifting uncomfortably. He was an anxious, troubling sight, something Antonio understood.
“...Come closer.” Antonio ordered, and after a pause Gress obeyed. Antonio looked at his face, the sharp sneering lines that contrasted his tight, trembling frown.
“...How old are you?” Gress stiffened at the question, baffled by the man’s bluntness.
“Twenty-two.” He responded.
“Huh, same.” Raz cut in, Gress raised an eyebrow at them, confused by Antonio’s actions. “Don’t worry, he’s just getting an idea of you…Sounds weird but Tonio’s a good judge of character.”
“Raz seems to think so.” Antonio muttered, turning his head slightly while watching Gress. “Your eyes man…not good.”
Gress stepped back, blinking and wiping at his eyes in confusion. The bedridden pair chuckled.
“Not like that, I mean you’ve seen some shit. You’re like us.” Antonio continued, offering a slight smile to try and comfort the Splinter. “We’re all a bit rougher edged than we should be-” Tonio nodded towards Raz, “-look.”
Gress looked at them, closely and properly. He saw the weak, pained smile of Raz, hiding history that was best-left forgotten. Faint, branching scars on their arms over the bedsheets moved with a gentle wave.
“Raz and I were orphaned from the First Scouring. Only had each other for years before King took us in. I got big quick, made living money from beating and getting beat. Raz picked up electronics, lots of broken stuff needed fixing in between the Scourings.”
“Got paid twice for a lot of them, fixing the same stuff after the Second.” Raz cut in, remembering the easy money days.
“Aye, we did good with that for a bit…Then things got a bit…shaky with King. Too much to cover quick but it turned more into the kind of work that got us-” He stopped to gesture at the ward. “-well here. The beatings turned a bit more…complete.”
“Went from fixing things to fixing things…” Raz swapped in. They both paused, pained and uncomfortable with recent memories. Once again, it was on Antonio to break the silence.
“So, that’s us in a packet, what about you?”
“What about me?” Gress swallowed his anxiety at the question.
“What have you been through, and before you ask what does it matter, I’m just curious.” He offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m a people person, you see?”
Go on, answer him.
What did you do?
Gress looked around, seeing Raz watching him intently. He sighed, they had already opened up, why not let it be out in the open? He let an uncomfortable smile spread, an attempt to lessen the pain of dredging it up.
“...I killed my Uncle when I was five, and stuck around the town with this-” He held up his afflicted arm, ignoring the light chuckling pricking at his consciousness. “-To remind them of it…And they still love-...take care of me.”
He dropped his arm back under the cloak to hide the tremors, his entire body being wracked with unpacked emotions. Tears started flowing past his marks, wicking into his trembling smile.
“And now, I’m too much of a coward to pay them back for doing that…”
“Ouch.” Raz added.
Antonio’s mouth stiffened into a frown.
“...What do you mean pay them back?” He prodded.
“Oh?” Gress trembled from the chill down his spine. “Nothing…Slip of the tongue.” He tried to shrug the question off.
“No. That sorta thing isn’t a slip.”
The Splinter paused to look at the curious pair, what was the harm in telling them at this point?
“I’d have to give myself up to the Red Shoulders…That’s it. I do that, everyone stays here happy, even you two could settle in. Seems fair to me…” He brought up that weak, disarming smile again, trying to desperately convince anyone it wasn’t that big a deal.
“Oh.” Raz started, disgust on their features, that seemed about right to Gress. They were right to be disgusted by him, not just his corruption but his cowardice to not have already taken the deal.
“...Come here.” Antonio ordered. Gress followed, leaning in closer to the man, expecting something to affirm him of the choice. He had someone he loved and cared about, surely he’d understand how simple a choice it really was.
His hand slammed hard into the side of Gress’ head, twisting his head to the side.
“Stupid k’ntva!” Antonio started, Raz glared at him and went ignored. “How fucking arrogant are you? They didn’t give up on you back then, but you’ll give up on yourself now? You think they’d want that?”
The slap had knocked the tears out of Gress’ eyes. He snapped back around to snarl at Antonio. “It’s not like that! Why should I get to live at their expense? It's selfish!”
“Like hell it is! Thinking this entire conflict revolves around you and being able to fix it, that’s selfish!” Antonio had raised himself on his elbows to bellow at the Splinter. “And so what if it is? Be selfish! To take, and want, and live, what’s wrong with that?”
“If it’s at the cost of others? Everything!” Gress barked. Antonio huffed, and fell back on his bed.
“...Shame, I was hoping my last fight wouldn’t be such a coward…” He muttered. Before Gress could spew more shaky affirmations out, Raz cut back in.
“For what it’s worth, Gress. I wouldn’t trust the deal anyway. The Shoulders have proven they aren't the most reliable of people…” Raz offered, their face pulled back in distaste.
“Remember who put us here, you too love, that’s real selfishness.”
Run.
The voice was quick and sharp, snapping Gress from his wallowing, it directed him towards the opening door.
“Me my oh my, what a slanderous song the serpent seductively sings.” Kirche leaned into the room with a sharp smile. She shouldered the door open, hard.
Her jacket was missing, exposing her arms - warbled messes of scar tissue. The right one drew their eyes to it. Its skin had turned an unhealthy, pale yellow and the muscle underneath pulsed.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and I have an issue, Razgrith.”
Either give me control or run. This is dangerous.
“We just might…” Raz snarled back, not hiding their animosity.
“You’re right.” Kirche slammed the door behind her. “...We might.”
“Oi…Think it’s about time to relax, don’t you two think?” Antonio tried to cut in to settle the pair, anxiously looking between them. Gress was stuck staring at Kirche’s arm, sickeningly aware how it was mirroring his own.
What are you doing just standing there?
“Don’t worry beast, I’m not here for you. Yet.” Kirche spat at Gress before turning to Antonio. She was mildly surprised he had lived, though seeing the result of his injuries, it didn’t make much difference. “And you-” She placed a hand on the bed railings. “…I’d say stay out of this but I don’t think you could interfere if you tried. Shut up and stay down.” Antonio’s bed clacked and rattled as it was pulled away from Raz.
“What are you doing, put me back!” Antonio tried to shift the bed with what movement he had, barely moving back and forth on the tiles. Gress still couldn’t move as Kirche shouldered past him towards Raz, standing between the beds.
Raz continued snarling at her, though tried to push themselves away from the prowling Shoulder. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it better stop here.” Their eyes flickered away from Kirche, to the side table with Doctor’s tools still on it.
Kirche followed their eyes and leaned over to flip the table over, scattering Razgrith’s only chance for a weapon onto the tiles.
“It will stop here, if you tell me what I want to know.” Kirche stayed leaning over the bed, casting Razgrith in shadow.
“Kirche, Stop it” Antonio growled, starting to realise her intent.
“I told you to shut up. Now be a good dog before I put you down like one.” Inhuman malice slithered through her tone. There was none of the warmth or saccharine smugness they expected from Kirche, the image the bedridden pair had of her quickly shattering upon exposure to the truth. She didn’t take her eyes off the recoiling Razgrith.
“...Five years ago, did you fake a ledger on a Shekhinist transport?”
“What?” Raz asked, incredulous and fearful. Kirche’s odd hand went over their injured collarbone, then squeezed. The pain was immediate, strong, and deep. Raz couldn’t contain their screams and barks of pain.
“Kirche! Stop! Please stop!” Antonio roared, panicked instantly by Raz in distress. He scrambled to try and reach for the Shoulder.
“Useless.” She scowled at him before turning back to Raz. “I’ll ask again. Five years ago, did you fake a transport ledger.”
Raz didn’t answer, struggling to contain their heaving, unsteady breaths through the crushing pain. Antonio was bellowing, struggling to crawl off the bed towards Kirche.
“Answer me!” Kirche demanded, gripping down harder on Raz’ collar. A dull snap carried through the room, drowned out by the screams that followed.
The painful sound had snapped Gress from his trance, he took a step towards the Shoulder, though every corrupted part of him sharply ached and rebelled against the action.
She’s not after you, don’t get involved.
“No.” Gress hissed to himself, gritting his teeth against the nails digging into his mind.
“I don’t- I don’t know! Maybe?!” Raz screamed out through wails of pain.
“Not good enough!” Kirche gripped harder. Blood was pouring from the reopened wound. Razgrith was wailing, unable to muster any other thought or sound. Antonio had crashed off his bed, crying out at his own uselessness.
“Cut it out!” Gress barked, reaching his claws towards Kirche’s crushing arm. He winced and retracted it, the pain instant and deterring, like brushing against white-hot metal. Kirche huffed a pitiful laugh.
“You had your chance to kill me, beast.” She sneered, releasing Razgrith for a moment to slam her elbow into the soft centre of Gress’ chest. He reeled back, hitting the wall and gasping for breaths.
“After I’m done here-” Kirche drew out more screams with a renewed grip. “-I’ll deal with you.” Kirche turned back to Razgrith to repeat her questioning. “Did you or didn’t you!” She screamed over the sobbing wails.
“Argh! Yes! Yes I did!” Raz forced out in breathless gaps.
“When.” Kirche demanded, loosening her grip slightly.
“Lots of- lots of times… I had to…There were names. Bell, right?” It was all the answer Kirche needed, she released her bloody grip fully. “I’m sorry…”
“Oh Razgrith…I forgive you.” Kirche stroked a bloody hand across their trembling, tear-soaked cheek. “And I thank you for your honesty.” Her other hand rushed upwards, bearing a scalpel and ready to plunge into Razgrith’s neck.
Gress was deaf to it all; to Kirche’s frozen questions, to Razgrith’s weeping answers, to Antonio’s laments. It was all fuzzy and blurred, the only clear voice cutting directly to his mind.
This is your last chance. Leave now, give yourself unto me, or die.
Flat, factual delivery.
Gress refused it.
He ignored the options, ignored the hollow pain in his lungs, and stepped forward. Kirche wasn’t paying attention, too focused on Raz.
Claws wrapped around her arm, Gress gritted through the searing pain, if it was truly burning him, the dark flesh would repair itself anyway.
Kirche looked at him lowly over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes were unsteady, flickering with mental strain.
“You want to die first, then?” She asked.
“Don’t touch them!” Gress spat through locked teeth, he slowly tore her hand down and away from Raz, the black, glassy material popping and hissing where it touched her.
Kirche was taken aback by it for a moment, only a moment. Her other hand flicked a tainted scalpel up from a pocket and into Gress’ side. He baulked and grunted from the scalding pain. He saw the smug, confident smirk on the Shoulder, it drove him to roar and wrench her away from Raz. Kirche blinked in surprise at the show of strength, staggering back into cabinets.
“Are you alright?” Gress asked, not aware of his laboured breathing or the burning injuries, only focused on his friend's pain.
Raz nodded through tears, holding a hand over their opened wound.
On the ground, Antonio crawled towards the stunned Kirche in a rage, dragging disconnected cables behind him.
She recovered in time to press her boot on his head. His guttering bellow snapped Gress’ attention back.
“Fine then, I’ll deal with you first.” Kirche hissed, jerking her head to the door. Close quarters wouldn’t do her favours with Antonio nipping at her heels. “You two make no mistake though, when I’m done with this thing. I’m coming back for you.” She stalked over to the door, crossing her arms and waiting for her opponent.
Gress swallowed trepidation, looking to Razgrith, then Antonio, anyone for instructions on what to do, needing a push. Through wracking tremors, Raz managed to give him a single nod of affirmation.
Gress nodded back, then turned towards Antonio.
“Lie flat if you can, wait for Bedan, please.”
The grounded man nodded towards the exit.
“...Get her.”
“A band of traitors stands against me, I see. Presence as my witness, I’ll bury you all.” Kirche hissed, staring low at the trio before turning to leave. Gress followed, flexing his scalded hand.
As you are, you will not match her.
“Just watch me.” Gress snarled. The voice loosened its grip on his mind, paused by the bitten words.
Name me again, call me, and you may yet live through this.
“I don’t need you.” Pinpricks of pain shot inwards from his arm, defiance punished lightly.
Kirche was waiting for him on the opposite side of the street. The tarnished scalpel in her hand flipped around dexterous fingers.
“...I’ll kill her myself.” Gress shrugged his cloak back, the lines along his skin glinted in the sunlight.
…
This is new.
Resolve? From you?
Curious.
…
Very well.
The voice loosened its grip further, a weight released from Gress’ shoulders, it was a freeing, rare lightness.
Entertain me.
“Just know that you had a chance. So did they. You all had a chance to get out of this, and instead you crossed me.” Kirche spoke with flat animosity, gripping the scalpel in a tight fist.
“O’ Presence, I am your lance, I am your purging flames, I am your will made manifest. I am Sister Kuvie of the Red Shoulders.” Her words flowed awkwardly, driven by her aching, afflicted mind. “Guide my hand and steady my mind, in return I vow to banish this evil from your existence.”
“All that just to say ‘give me a hand’ ?” Gress bit back with a grin, earning a hateful gaze. “And I thought mine was demanding.”
In that moment, glaring at each other in the sharp noon-light, they shared the same thought, marked into their subconscious from ancient beings.
This is the enemy.
Destroy them.
* Saint Andre’s Consecration - One of the earliest Third Choir Invocations taught to Shekhinist’s in both the Red Shoulder and Gentle Eye sects.
Saint Andre was a famed weaponsmith and friend to a nameless Hero of The Presence. This invocation exemplifies the unbreakable bond they shared, reinforcing and repairing the users body where it is inscribed.
Though simple to perform, it is still of the Third Choir, and thus takes a significant mental and physical toll. Nerve damage to the inscribed body part has been noted as a common aftereffect, though this can also prove a blessing to the more zealous warriors of the Presence.
