One of the guards was on the ground, the old one shoved a finger towards Scirocco. No, he realised, towards Antonio. The moron had gotten himself hit too, a hole punched in the tread plate over his chest. He managed to properly spit this time.
“Hey! Fucken’ help us!” One of the other bums spat. Scirocco glared down at them, then Tonio, then towards Soune. She was slowly walking towards the group, hands slightly raised to her sides in innocence. The guard and Splinter trailed behind her several steps. Scirocco noticed the guard had holstered her weapon, and the Splinter was injured. An idea cut in, sharp and cunning. He’d call it a long shot, but tonight was already a win-win.
“Yeah sorry, sure, what can I do?” He said with a forced smile, crouching at Antonio’s stomach.
“This armour, how do we get it off?” He barely paid attention to them, eyeing the approaching Splinter instead. “The straps are bloody tough…can’t cut them.” They continued on.
“Uh yeah they’re…reinforced or something, the clasps have a trick, look ask her!” Scirocco pointed to Soune, turning their heads. He used the chance to take the pistol in hand, cocking the hammer and tucking it in the shadowy space between his knees and the barely conscious Antonio.
“There's circular clasp things, twist them opposite ways and pull, here-” Soune fell to her knees on the opposite side of Antonio, demonstrating the unlocking mechanism. Scirocco mirrored it, and together they peeled off the chest piece. Strings of blood clung between it and his chest before snapping off. A heaving, choking breath showed a sign of life from Antonio.
“Oh… you’re alive…” Soune said by way of greeting to Scirocco, wincing at the gash in his head. He scoffed in response.
“The wound’s shallow, right in the sternum though…” One of the nonames added, getting hums of agreement. “We need to get him into town, same as the others…”
“Here! Lean him up against me, I’m stronger than I look.” Scirocco piped up with peak confidence. He closely watched the slowly approaching, hunched Splinter. “Come on, hurry up, he's dying!” He cut in again before the incredulous Soune could say anything, and before the idiot stock could question his plan.
The townsfolk worked to roll Antonio over, Scirocco braced under him, letting them lean the man against him as he faux-grunted in effort. “Come on, come on you fat fuck.” He whispered in Antonio’s ear. “Bad enough you’re bleeding on my shirt, at least make yourself useful.”
Gress had gotten closer, Soune moved to the side, working to release the heavy arm guards.
“Grughh, Rohc, Rocco?” Antonio grumbled against his ear, eyes flickering open. “Razsh, where’s Raz?”
Scirocco shushed in his ear.
“Shh, it’s alright, they’re fine, just go back to sleep Tiny.” Hidden by the bulk of the man, Scirocco wrapped his hand around Raz’ pistol, eyeing the Splinter, only a few metres away now. Whether it was curiosity or concern that brought him closer, Scirocco didn’t mind. The table was set, the wager put down, and the bet hedged. “Just close your eyes, and hope I’m right.”
“Wha-what?”
Scirocco’s arm shot up under Antonio’s, he took quick, rough aim towards Gress and tucked his head down, completely covered by Antonio.
“He’s got a-!” One of the lowlifes started, too late.
Crack-Crack-Crack-Click!
Click, click.
Three shots.
Three, heavy shots towards the injured Splinter.
Surely, hopefully, whatever otherworldly protection the demon used had run dry. It had to have, and if not, well. Another one down. Soft thuds and empty groans from the large man against him didn’t inspire confidence. Scirocco tensed up, praying to whatever would listen that the gambit paid off.
A roar, a tumultuous, echoing roar, cracking the air around them. It cut over the ringing of the pistol shots, cut over the panicked shouts of the townsfolk, over the damning swears of Soune.
“SCIROCCO!” Gress bellowed.
The wiry man had no sooner peeked over Antonio’s shoulder as the growing, warped claw wrapped around his head, ripping him out from under Antonio. Scirocco caught a glimpse of fury from Soune, of disgusted shock from the townsfolk, and a flash of primal, burning, bestial wrath from the Splinter. His face had changed, an echo of something otherworldly flashing over his being. Gress wasn’t smiling, but it was.
He was dragged up to the Splinters face, pinned there by unexpected strength and digging claws.
“Why? What the hell is wrong with you?! You knew what'd happen!” Gress roared, the deep bellowing layered with shrill and piercing tones from unreality leaking in.
Blood leaked through the vice grip on his skull, a woozy, dumb smile spread across his features.
“...damn.” Was all he could manage to grimace out.
Scirocco remembered cutting pain where the talons cut into his skull, and dense pressure from the unnatural strength of it. Then, the rush of his head being pushed downwards, fast and hard. It shot through his skull, ringing it with dense, cracking pain. He gasped and sputtered against the palm locked against his face, his head was raised up, then slammed down. Shattering pain, then a wet squelch..
Nothingness.
Gress didn’t stop at one slam, or two. He didn’t stop at all. Scirocco’s limp body was in his grasp, the corrupted arm bubbling and crackling. His claws grew longer, digging deeper in the flesh, scraping against bone. Each time the back of the man's head was dashed against the rocks a new pang of satisfied pleasure ran through Gress. A foreign warmth wrapped around his spine; affirmation, affection, acceptance, his cravings sated with each brutalisation.
Good. Each strike left more red on the ground.
This was good. Splinters of bone started to speckle the puddle of blood mud.
This was right. The arms wrapping around him meant nothing.
He was doing the right thing. Pleads and cries, they didn’t understand.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was killing one.
Good.
That’s good.
Hurt him more.
I’ll give you more of me.
So give me more of you.
Someone stronger pulled him away, new teeth flickered between the splitting marks. A crackling chuckle slipped between them, hushed by the flash of white that came before the blackout.
Soune huffed, looking at her torn knuckles,no idea where the teeth that cut them came from. She looked down at Scirocco, still and quiet. Then Antonio, twitching and jerking, bleeding from his back.
Then there was Gress, frozen unconscious in a delighted smile. The mouth that had opened and spread wide sealing itself back shut along the straight marks. The arm that had so savagely beaten Scirocco was warbling and shrinking. She could swear she heard it, not like the whistling or crackling of the holes it opened. But a faint, breathy, satisfied laugh carried on the wind away from the ordeal.
The old woman came up to her.
“...The other’s will be taken to the doctor’s surgery, though it only has two beds…I’m not sure about the matchstick, but you’ll have to come with me.”
Soune snapped out of her haze, but didn’t take her eyes off the shifting body of the Splinter.
“Yeah, yeah. Fair…” She held her wrists out, expecting handcuffs, the old woman just shook her head and led her by the shoulder away.
“If you didn’t do that…well. It’s better this way.” The tightness on Eleanor’s face cut off any further questions.
Soune looked around as she was guided away. The field had gratefully turned from a slaughterhouse to a field hospital. After Scirocco’s act, she didn’t have much hope for Antonio, it made a pit open in her chest, filled only slightly by knowing Scirocco was rapidly punished for it. Raz and Kirche though, they were both being attended to. Raz, worryingly, moreso.
“Will they make it?” She asked weakly. Eleanor sighed, looking around at the situation. It took an uncomfortably long time for her to answer.
“The doc’s pretty good…”
It was the best response she had.
“What about the Splinter?” Soune added.
Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by booming horns echoing from the distance. Twin lights started to peek over the hills, accompanied by another boom of the klaxons. Closer, louder, chest shaking horn blasts. It distracted many of the townsfolk from checking the injured, it took the sour-faced doctor screaming at them over the horns to get them focused again, at least for a few long seconds before another warning blare.
Soune winced at each one, wanting to clutch her aching chest as it reverberated from each blast.
“C2…” Eleanor hushed beside her, wisened eyes staring up at the carrier. A curved, box-like body flanked by sweeping wings. Thruster arrays spat out rings of wobbling flames, deftly repositioning themselves to keep the aircraft steady on its slight angle. The bay doors of the side were already open, large silhouettes leaning out from them. One of the searchlights swapped displays with a heavy clunk, now projecting a sharp, bright rectangle over Scirocco’s body.
Another stomach-churning blare, followed by screeching feedback.
“Clear the designated area.” The bellowing speakers demanded.
It scattered dust up in its wake, into open wounds and eyes of nursing townsfolk. They baulked and barked as gravel cut into their skin.
“Clear the designated area.” Blaring, echoing pain.
Several of them broke away from the lit area, dragging Antonio and Gress with them.
It banked and tilted over Scirocco’s body. The array of propulsion units flaring and twisting to keep it stable. Two massive bodies jumped out first, their descent slowed by spitting backpacks, MDDs and thrusters working together to soften the fall. They landed audibly against the ground, rising in perfect sync. Eight-foot tall, broad humanoids covered in white composite armour, marked with unique designators and decals. Blank, visorless helmets blinked with electronic sensors.
Vassals*
They snapped heavy carbines up, tightly aiming at the crowd, covering the descent of three armoured humans. Two of them hit the ground first, quickly taking their positions kneeled beneath the Vassals' cover and scanning the crowd with their own weapons. Though differed by bespoke proportions and reflective visors that warped and reflected the Ingram crowd, their armour closely matched the giants, down to personal marks and effects. Each pair uniquely their own, a Vassal and their Lord**
The third hit the ground slower, sliding into a kneel next to Scirocco while unlatching a bag from their belt. Red crosses and lines on their armour marked them as a paramedic. They didn’t hesitate in the slightest, administering auto-syringes while they investigated the injuries.
Above them all was the last member leaning out of the tilted carrier. Its dark blue armour was nearly invisible in the shadow of the vehicle's belly, only given away by the blinking sensors and light reflecting off a uniquely golden visor. It scanned the scene, holding a bit too long on Soune.
The slender, sour-faced doctor shouldered through the crowd towards the ordeal, not so much as blinking at the rifle barrels snapping towards him while he stormed to the edge of the lit area. The armoured officers exchanged encrypted barks of static between each other, some of the closer townsfolk held their ears against the noise. The Doctor ignored them, craning his neck up towards the hovering carrier.
“I know you’re there, Pugil, come down!” He screamed above the shrill jets. The shadow in the carrier didn’t move.
“It is against protocol for C2 Agents to identify themselves. Step away!” One of the ground officers stated, enhanced to a chest-shaking boom by the helmet.
“Don’t speak of protocol to me, I damn well helped write it!” The dirty white coat of the doctor flaring in the jet wake accentuated his anger, both the Lord and his Vassal seemed to falter. A bolt of static from above answered the concerns of his officers, the commanding Lord released his grip on the side of the carrier and stepped out alongside his own Vassal. The dark-blue pair landed in sync in front of the Doctor, straightening to stare downwards at him.
The Doctor’s scowl softened slightly.
“Too high and mighty to chat with an old friend?” The old man bit, threatening a smirk. The Lord turned away from him in response, sending short bursts of static to the paramedic instead. Shrill responses came back, packets of information deciphered by blinking helmets.
“I have critical patients here.” The doctor started, speaking over the loud barks of noise. “I don’t have the supplies for them, I understand if you can’t help them but please spare me something. They’re dying.” Still no response from the Lord. “Have you nothing to say, Pugil?”
“They are not covered.” The commander said flatly. Though he still refused to turn, the Vassal at his side maintained its blank-stare towards the Doctor and the scene behind him.
“Have they truly gotten you that obedient? Turn and look at them!” The plain-armours stirred, uncomfortable at the treatment of their commander. To his credit, the leader turned and scanned over the situation. The townsfolk, having overheard the doctor’s yelling, had stepped aside to allow a clear view of the bodies.
Silence followed for a painfully drawn out moment, the chrome visor catching sight of Soune in the distance, both her and Eleanor had paused to watch the ordeal.
“...They are not covered. This one is.” Was the Lord's response, his Vassal nodded his head slightly towards Scirocco. Behind them, the antennae of the medic turned upwards on his helmet, sending silent signals to the carrier above; in the bay his Vassal began loading a stretcher with the requested braces and straps for Scirocco.
“Was, damn you, he was! He’s already dead, help me help the others!” The Doctor pleaded, leaning forward. “The C2 I knew, the Harris Pugil I knew! - Had no qualms over bending the rules to help those who needed it.” The swept back, twin antennae of the blue Lord’s helmet shot upwards, lights rapidly blinking in sync with his team. A rattling of heavy steps on metal came from above them. Another shadowed Vassal began moving heavy supplies around.
The commander reached up and disengaged the lock on his helmet, the seal broke with a hiss and internal alarms.
“Commander Pugil?” One of the white-armours piped up. Harris freed himself with a groan, looking over his shoulder to scowl at his subordinate. A finger raised to his lips gave a silent order. He tucked the helmet under his arm and stared back at the old Doctor.
“I’d say you’re looking well but…” Bedan started, changing his tone to a slither. Despite being several decades younger, the Commander's face seemed more aged and worn than the Doctor. A mostly absent cheek didn’t help the middle-aged soldier's appearance, exposing the side of his jaw and causing him to speak with a noticeable hiss. His head of short-cropped hair failed to hide the laurel of cybernetics built into his scalp.
“Is now the time to try and piss me off?” A stern, cold question.
Bedan coughed and changed the subject, seeing the lack of amusement on the man's damaged face. He looked past him to the other pair, blank armoured and faultlessly still, Initiates.
“Have you on teaching duties, do they? A good way to keep you on your best behaviour…and a reason to listen in on communications.” Bedan looked down his nose at the commander. “They’ve got you on a tight leash, don’t they?”
The man’s face trembled with frustration, all the defences of C2 he wanted to spit out were caught in his throat.
“Harris, I need help. These people need help. Are you so tamed that you’ll let them die for nothing?” Bedan pushed him, knowingly preying on the man's frustration.
“They’re not covered.” A wrinkled, old hand slapped across Pugil’s intact cheek. Rifles all snapped onto the frail Doctor, halted by Harris’ upheld hand.
Bedan spat at his feet. “The words of a corporate dog! Have they got you that broken?!”
Harris stared coldly at the Doctor.
“Answer me!” The Doctor ordered, swinging another, harder slap at the man's bad cheek. An armoured hand caught it, firmly but not painfully.
“...They. Are. Not. Covered.” He carefully hissed, gesturing to the stretcher descending behind him. “That one is.” Bedan noticed the abundance of supplies on the cloth, far more than necessary for even as critical a patient as Scirocco. Bedan took a step back, nodding in acknowledgement.
“...I see.” A single, rare nod of approval from the old man. “That’s…thank you.”
Another armoured Vassal dropped down from the carrier, matching Harris’ armour, it took two large cases from the stretcher and brought them beside its Lord.
The paramedic looked up from Scirocco, incredulous complaints and comments encrypted into screeches barked out to Harris, who turned with a snarl and a harsh, quieting motion across his neck. The medic shook his head, returning to securing Scirocco to the stretcher.
“...I’ll not dredge up old arguments. I’ll only ask if you’re happy with your decisions, old friend.” A rare softness dulled the cutting tone of Bedan.
Harris didn’t answer at first, instead turning back to look past Bedan. He saw the messy, dirty townsfolk. The scattered blood and weapons, and the white haired woman in the distance who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“...Yes.” The vassal placed the cases on the ground, then slid them out of the illuminated area. “Yes I am.”
Bedan solemnly nodded, and extended his hand to the Lord.
“Overlord Pugil.” A heavy, gloved hand took the gesture.
“Surgeon General Bedan.” They broke away with a respectful nod, Harris hid himself back under the helmet, sending orders to his company to begin extraction.
In three batches they went up on winch lines, the medic and Scirocco first, Harris and his pair of Vassals last to see the Doctor off with a small nod.
No more shockingly fast than it had appeared, the C2 carrier disappeared behind the hills it came from, leaving the scattered people in shock and awe.
“Can’t fault the response times…” Bedan sighed to himself, heaving up the heavy case. “What are you waiting for? Take this and get them inside! I’ll deal with Gress.” One of them rushed to take the case and catch up with the convoy of stretchers. Bedan hobbled over next to the unconscious Splinter, a few basic supplies left by his side but nobody willing to stick around to check on him. Bedan poked Gress’ cheek with his shoe, peeling back his lips slightly. No fangs, no extra, grinning teeth. Just an uncomfortable groan from below. “Putting yourself back together quicker these days…”
The entire interaction hadn’t lasted more than a couple minutes, a couple critical minutes for the injured, but traded for live-saving materials. If not for them, then for the people of Ingram.
Beside Eleanor, Soune trembled slightly, biting the inside of her lip.
“Are you alright?” She wasn’t expecting the old, armed woman to sound so soft, or the wrinkled hand on her shoulder to be so assuring.
“Yes.” A tight, gritted response.
“Then, let’s move on. Ms… I didn’t catch your name.”
“Argent.” Soune replied tersely, the hand on her shoulder stiffened slightly.
“Hmm, well Ms. Argent. There’s no better way to say it. You’re under arrest.”
Soune groaned. One of her most hated phrases, how ironic it didn’t come from the C2 agent that was there only moments ago.
Soune was humming slightly to herself, thumbing through the yellow magazine about nothing in particular Eleanor had left her while she went to check on the ever so mysterious something. The small beat station was about as cosy and quaint as the rest of the town, and a thin layer of dust on everything gave away how frequently it was used. Eleanor had to leave Soune in the waiting room under a promise she wouldn’t run for it while she cleared out the interview room of old storage. She’d even taken the time to clean and bandage the cuts from Gress.
The entire place was so bizarre. On the fringe of King’s territory, where his so-called capital had housing options of empty tents or rented cubicles of a factory, this small little town seemed completely untouched. Decaying mortar, rusted sheet metal, cracking roads. At a glance, it’d seem abandoned, evacuated years ago during the Scouring. But when you look closer, it housed this tight knit, comfortable community. In the age of corporate expansion it was baffling it hadn’t either been bulldozed or inhabited and gentrified.
Her hands dug into the magazine, crumpling and tearing the pages as she remembered why she was here. To be an instrument in ruining the bizarre, yet beautiful town.
Eleanor shuffled back into the room, placing a steaming paper cup in front of Soune before sitting across from her on the metal table. It occurred to Soune that she could just leave, she wasn’t restrained, hell the woman had just put a weapon in front of her. Burn her and run, take her things, get to the mover and run back home. She picked up the coffee and sipped it instead, grimacing at the intensely bitter drink.
“Not a fan?” Eleanor asked, not looking up from her sheet of paper, a hand-written list of notes on it.
“How strong do you make it here?” Soune swirled the drink slightly, it was damned thick. Eleanor chuckled.
“It’s a bad habit, going from draft days to an office job, too many night shifts for too many years.”
“Draft days?” Soune noted.
“Oceanic war, one of the sides that lost-” Eleanor gestured to the dilapidated building they were in. “-clearly. I stuck to desk-jobs after that.”
“Not sure what I'm more impressed you survive, war, or decades of this.” Soune slid the cup away to prove her point. Even she found herself smiling at that, making the entire situation that much weirder to her. The blase nature of the town even extended to her arrest, comfortable enough to joke in it. Both of them shared a light chuckle.
“Sorry, I could go and ask for milk and sugar if you’d like.”
“It’s fine, probably better I sleep tonight anyway.” Eleanor shrugged in response.
“I’ll get through this quickly then, and let you get some rest. Davey’s already cleared the holding cell for the night.” Eleanor clicked the pen in her hand. “He made such a fuss about a little through-and-through bullet.”
Soune chuckled again, in another situation, she thought her and the old woman would make damn good friends.
“Alright, if I could get your names, that’d be a good start.” Soune’s mouth turned tight. That was the key difference, in another situation. She didn’t respond to the question, staring at her warped reflection in the sludgy liquid.
“...Ms. Argent, I’ve been very courteous to you, I’d appreciate it if you could return the favour.” Eleanor added an edge to her tone. It made Soune swallow and relent. Listing the names of her and her team, wincing each time she revealed them. The discomfort continued as she identified who owned what of the retrieved items. Down to the packs from the vehicle.
“I think we can wrap this up with one final question. Why did you come here, Soune?” At some point El had swapped to a first name basis.
“We were contracted by King to investigate a disturbance in the town.” She felt bad about admitting her team's information, but had to knuckle down about not giving anything more than the key details about King and their Contract.
“And that’s it? Investigate a ‘disturbance’? After Mr. Reyar had already been here with Seere agents and had an…incident with Gress?”
“The rest of us weren’t aware of Scirocco’s affiliation with Seere…” Soune flashed back to seeing him get mauled, having his head smashed against the gravel. “Not that that really matters now…” She added under her breath.
“Well, I think that about wraps it up then.” Eleanor said, marking off the last of her sheet. She hid a smirk, all of it was good evidence for Am-Ray, they could put the pressure on King and Seere, use their ‘aggravated investigation’ to further their relationship with the non-developmental parties.
“What’s going to happen to us then? This place doesn’t really seem fit for long term imprisonment.” Soune added, resting her chin in her hand.
“Oh, you’re free to go after tomorrow. We don’t really have any reason to keep you around… Though you’ll have to take your belongings on the way out. The weapons, anyway.” Soune perked up, baffled yet again.
“But the holding cell?” She started. Eleanor just shrugged.
“A formality, and we don’t really have any other beds at short notice. The freedom to leave applies to your friends as well, by the way, if they…” El pursed her lips, seeing the flash of worry on the younger woman’s face. “When they wake up.”
“Have you heard anything about them?” Soune asked in a hurry before realising the stupidity of the question. Eleanor just shook her head slowly.
“Been here with you the entire time, dear. Best guess… not sure. Sorry, Soune.” Eleanor stood on shaky legs. Smiling to lighten the mood again. “Big day for and old girl like me, I’ll show you to your room.” Soune stood, but hesitated to follow her.
“Can I have my scarf back? Just the scarf.”
“You’re not planning on strangling somebody with it, right?”
Soune barked an uncomfortable laugh at the woman’s joke, before realising El’s stone face wasn’t smirking.
“...No, I’d just prefer to keep it close.”
“...I’ll bring it to you in the cell, come on.”
* Vassals - An artificial human subspecies, the creation process of which is an exclusive secret to C2. Prone to extreme mental instability if not precisely limited in its mental development early in the creation stage, they rely upon the mental link with their Lords for commands. To compensate, prospective Lords require both overwhelming physical and mental capabilities along with specific enhancements to link with and command a Vassal, a process referred to as Bonding.
** Lords - A special, but core role in C2. Prospects are either volunteers, scouted through recruitment programs or commissioned, all most likely finding viable prospects through Military groups. Recruits undergo a rigorous training period combined with a series of cybernetic enhancements, finalised with the required neural-links to connect with a Vassal. The success rate for this program is roughly 15%, with drop outs along the way being assigned to lesser combat roles in C2.
If they succeed they are declared a Lord, are Bonded to a Vassal tuned and developed personally for them, and deployed under a senior Lord to develop individual talents. A fully realised Lord is considered just as superhuman as its Vassal partner.
Truly exceptional individuals who are capable of undertaking the mental strain of Bonding to two or potentially more Vassals are referred to as Overlords and often find themselves in high ranking positions within C2.
