Re: Petty Squabble [ROUND 1] [Fort Ayers, New Atlantis]
10-22-2011, 01:31 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.
<font color="navy">Firearms. The word was spat, ejected with a measure of distaste.
Ashley learned quickly what he meant. Half a clip of ammunition spent itself ineffectually, deflected by shields of cyan, whereupon she caught on and drew her remaining knife instead. The soldier stopped, seemingly evaluating the threat through the circles of its visor, and she chose the moment to circle-strafe, backing away-
You can’t manage with just one, Ashley.
Betcha I can - plate!
Her attention was distracted momentarily by the sight of the mech above them toppling with a reverberating crash, narrowly missing the RV – awarding her a cyan flechette to the arm for her trouble. A rose of pain blossomed from the cut – no nerves severed but certainly not a shallow wound – and blood seeped. It arose drop by drop from the laceration, flowing over slightly burned skin, but it would heal – the more pressing matter was of the soldier. It came closer, picking up speed, spewing energy like an electrified arrow; it resembled a humanoid splay of live wires hurtling and burning the ground beneath its feet.
It was ridiculously close, yet it was circling her – through the corner of their eye, he saw an cyan blade sparking from one hand- Aaaaahh! To the left!
She ducked under the visored soldier’s feet, skirting between its legs as it jumped and followed through. With pinpoint precision the soldier whirled on one foot, kicking up a cloud of miry dust oiled with blood and grease.
They circled each other warily, Ashley placing herself in between the soldier and the RV. The scene was almost gladiatorial.</font>
Among the chaos in the conjoined COFCA conference came a voice: “I think we’ve waited enough.” In fact, a similarly impatient complaint had arisen every five minutes for the last half hour of operation, while Envoy went about retrieving and utilizing the various contents of the time capsule.
“We’re sitting by while everything else happens!” came the cry from one committee or another. It had flown about when Envoy had flown down to the capsule, had cried out when Private Jerfanderworth had cried out in surprise, and had torn through the air when Envoy had torn through the capsule room’s ceiling. The cries were quelled each time with the fact that if one of the contestants died – “and this is a battlefield; there are dozens of ways to die on a battlefield” a different someone had shouted each time – Envoy would be taken somewhere else and then what use would the time capsule be?
The second contention had been risen by the Parents’ Committee, concerning the suit.
A tuxedo, to be precise. With holes to make room for jetpack and extra sleeves for auxiliary arms. Everyone agreed that the style was impeccable, but the Parents’ Committee had ruled that they were disapproving of a naked protagonist, whether said protagonist was a robot or not. The point was that Envoy had not been wearing clothes, and now it was; therefore if it took said clothes off it would be naked and they simply couldn’t allow that to pollute young minds.
As it was, Envoy was clothed. And all agreed, for once, that it looked good. From its vantage point, Envoy brought its cameras around in a slow pan, and focused on a mech a little ways from the base perimeter, lying on the ground facedown with a strangely damaged knee.
Father and demon hunter made their way back towards the RV, avoiding the stray drones that still circled the fallen mech like flies about a carcass. As they half-ran, half-jogged their way, Tom’s hand brushed against his pocket. He felt again, then checked them both, the look of slight panic emerging in his eyes. “Parsley?”
The demon hunter slowed his pace but kept his crossbow aimed and loaded, covering the area as Tim caught up. “Stein?”
“I uh, dropped my wallet. At the mech, I think.” At Parsley’s blank look, he tried again: “My…wallet. My coinpurse? I left it behind. We haven’t gone far, I could go back-”
“Are ye worryin’ about ye gold now, Stein? This is hardly the time fer it.”
“It’s not like that. There are documents, photos…no, there are memories in it. They’re precious to me.”
Parsley watched the face in front of him. Stein had been his enemy before, but now…now they were working for a common cause, against the demon. And they had felled the walking machine together. That alone made a bond between them of sorts – “I’ll come with ye, then.”
A metal finger tapped Megasenator Whittenberg on the shoulder. “You’ll love this, Megasenator.” A green labcoat emerged from the darkness about the table, revealing within it the gaunt form of one of the temporal engineers. “We’ve been trying to gain access to the battlefield, on a larger scale than just transmitting through radios and suchlike. We’ve broken the mech’s connection to its home communications, and patched our own systems in.” The engineer smiled widely. “You want a show, COFCA? Let’s give them a show.”
You feel your systems coming alive as the mech pushes more Drayton into your system.
You are a permercenary; part of a private army contracted by your employer, a weapons manufacturer. You are piloting a mechanized experimental coredriven humaniform, or colloquially known as a MECH. It handles like a dream under your control. Most of the time.
At the moment you’re having a little trouble. Field testing is tough and your knee joint was disabled earlier, forcing you to keep the mech across the ground and moving as little as possible. You have weapons all on full, of course, and autonomous unmanned aerial defense unit deployment is at 100%. You’re making reasonably good time.
Then you notice alerts and warnings streaming past your HUD; someone is trying to gain access to the system. You try and compensate, shutting down non-essential systems to deny pathways, but they’re absurdly fast. Your vision and data feed go offline as systems begin to go down. Communications go first, then temporal barriers, then environmental – then just before you can react, life support shuts down.
As your Drayton feed cuts out, you remember that you were once someone else.
An electron, wildly blurred, connects a circuit inside your visor. From its spark, a valve opens, instilling killing toxin through your veins. It numbs your heart, your mind, your flesh – you can hear, feel, see yourself shutting down. You die bewildered, confused – unknowing of the world and your place in it, your name forgotten forever.
The last thing you see is the acronym, glowing mockingly: COFCA.
The last thing you hear is the mech, grinding its way back onto its feet, its machinery shattering.
The last thing you feel is hate.
As Tom retraced his steps, searching the ground and dodging the occasional drone, he heard within the mech a serrated grinding – constructs screaming against itself, in a cacophony of stressed joints, tripled gears, misused and mangled machinery making war and peace with the world they sought to control. Parsley followed close behind, keeping watch on the sky for drones.
For some reason it set Tom’s teeth on edge. Perhaps it was the accompaniment of screeching that followed the dying mech’s will. It rose to a crescendo as devices within did their best to reoperate, driving the construct upwards, leaving Tom clinging precariously to the arm he had been clambering over and Parsley hanging on to the torso nearby. Like a miracle – or unholy nightmare – of engineering, the mech stood upright, swaying as it fought to stay so with a knee that shook wildly, unpredictably as if deprived of dopamine.
<font color="#666600">“STEIIIIN!”
Parsley was a bit upset. From where he was standing – hanging on, really – it looked very much as if Stein had been lying about the machine’s functionality. “Would ye care to explain this, Stein?!”
Tom began, “I’m not doing this! I thought it’d been taken down! I-” but was interrupted by an excessively jolly voice.
“Gee! It looks like you’re in a bit of danger!” As Tom clambered to a safer position, he discovered the source of the voice, emanating from a small set of subsidiary speakers built into the mech itself. The joviality didn’t sound put on so much as slathered, even through the tinniness.
Below, Parsley continued to make his way upwards, cursing under his breath.
“My name’s Chester B. Arthur, head of the COFCA Interbattler Relations Committee! I’d like to welcome you as a battler...pass me the file on the Broderburgs…Tom, to enjoy our services of friendly counsel and caring advice! For example; it looks like you’re trying to not die! Might we offer a few suggestions?”
Tom cocked an eyebrow at the overly jovial voice. “You’re not communists, are you?”
“COFCA is an equal opportunity employer, Tom, regardless of race, ethnicity, ancestry, ideology, religion, physical or mental disability, psychological disorders, sexual prowess or skillset!”
“I-”
“Glad to hear it, Tom! Now I think we’re all in agreement that you could use a HERO! A speck rose from the base nearby, and resolved itself quickly into a glittering, robotic shape.
“We’ve undergone exhaustive research on your situation, and we all believe you’d concur that ENVOY! IS! THAT! HERO!” Through the speaker, a generic theme tune emerged hesitantly, sounding tinny and pathetic in the dusty air. Envoy did a loop-de-loop in time with the dismal band, then changed course, stopping in front of the mech’s face. The music rose to a sad crescendo as Envoy threw a few air punches, then struck the mech with all four arms at once, causing it to fall backwards and onto the ground once more.
The fact that it paused noticeably before falling over was of no consequence.
What was of consequence was the fact that Tom and Parsley both went flying.
He saw underneath him the battlefield – he saw Parsley looking at him in disbelief at the ridiculously vertical circumstances they found themselves in, he saw on the ground a ways away that girl who’d cut through the roof of the RV, scuffling with one of those visored soldiers he’d seen earlier, and directly below him he saw the RV coming up fast- </font>
<font color="navy">Keep left! Back! Oh plate plate plate- An extremely unconvincing but still spectacular show echoed at the back of their sensory perception. <font color="red">As the mech struck the ground for the second time, she parried another blow from the soldier before her – don’t get distracted, keep your balance-</font>
I can’t be everywhere at plating once, Ashley- She was leading the fight away from the RV now, ducking and weaving cyan, slashing with knife in hand-
You can plating try! Your movements unpredictable, your actions likewise. The point is to-
<font color="red">Her temper flared at the condescension. Within, anger flurries cut the imaginary air as she slashed at the soldier attacked again- I am not- she leapt back once more, backpedaling, watching the visor track her movements- new- she leapt behind a rock, and felt it judder as the soldier eschewed efficiency for a show of power- to war- and ducked away as the stone buckled and bowed into glowing magma. -darll!
What’s wrong? Are you out of practice? The soldier leapt over the molten rock, he noted – they weren’t invincible.</font>
I’ll give you out of practice, you patronizing sterc!
The soldier set another round of flechettes at her as it approached at speed – she ducked and rolled, feeling a gash open across her left soldier. She gasped in pain, and felt him begin to smirk. Pain turned to fury at his disdain – She would not be beaten; she would not tolerate his arrogance – she knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t have to be reasonable, in any way, shape or form! She was free from his inadequacy, his frustrations, the doubts and disappointments that invariably came with his role. She was free! The rules did not apply to her, because she had none of a man’s honor, valor, chivalry or any other useless male appendage to the true cause of war – and she was trained in war. She was raised on war. She knew its creed and purpose: defeat the enemy. Do it fast. And fast – thoughts, violent but efficient, tactics for tacticians mingled with emotion in the mind so long excluded from their mindspace, flooded like a torrent across the senses, her mind – she twirled the gun in her hand, gripping it by the barrel as the soldier, plunging forward, unleashed a crackling tentacle-whip of energy.
crack
-and the soldier reeled under the impact, the tentacle evaporating. She brought her hand down and clubbed the visor again with the pistol, hard. Her other hand shot, cobra-like, around the soldier’s neck, forcing it into a headlock and she struck again – and heard something snap under the visor’s white façade, so raised her arm high for a final, perhaps finishing, blow.
But too high. The movement threw her off balance, and the soldier took the opportunity to throw her.
Clarice fed Baby Emma, both oblivious to the chaos outside. A second pan of milk stood warming on the stove. The first pan lay in the sink, waiting to be washed. Under the hole in the roof, a pile of sheets and blankets were stacked, attaining what meager drying they could from the weak sun. The domesticity of the scene within contrasted the tumult of the world without.
And then Tom fell into the RV through the hole in the roof, followed closely by Parsley – both landing relatively uninjured. So that was all right too – even if it did give Clarice a nasty shock. Baby Emma was not perturbed in the least - and once Clarice had recovered, she wasn’t either. There was too much to do without having to worry about dying as well.
“Hi, dear. Could you take her for a bit?” Tiredly, she indicated the pan in the sink. “That mech landing knocked all the milk over. Can you believe it?”
Tom was slightly more shaken than his wife, and so just took Emma and wordlessly indicated that yes, he could, and he would be right over here looking out the window if she needed anything.
Baby Emma simply watched out into the warring world beyond, with eyes that saw everything, eyes that spoke volumes if only one would look – but no observer could, would find the mind that housed…what? Secrets, secrets forever. Eyes that would remember. Eyes that saw a scuffle beyond.
<font color="red">Ashley landed roughly on her back, and was forced down once more by the soldier’s boot. You can get out of this. Raise your knife, Ashley.
She opted instead to hack away at the boot instead, slashing open a gash in its leg and rolling away as it recoiled. What? Where do you come off giving me orders? I managed fine, you arrogant military chain-of-command addict-
That soldier nearly fractured your spine, ‘darl’ – Now let me handle this!
No! Not any more of your condescending vinescat! I am just as good as you are, just as trained, just as capable; You had no right – no reason – nothing but incoursing fear in you to shut me plating out! The soldier struck out with its whip, leaving an angry lash across her leg as she scrabbled across the ground-
Ashley winced as the pain registered, the gash trickling more blood into the stained rubble. Look at him! He’s obviously not human! He’s some kind of supersoldier! Desperation tinted the mindscape a navy blue -
Within, Ashley’s voice took red hysteria up a notch – Oh, he’s a ‘fellow super’, then?! So we should make friends! Invite for scones and tea, bring your mates with ya, darll! Is that it? Or is he too busy plating – she pushed herself up against the carcass of a spidertank – killing us?! She dodged once more as a burst of cyan tore apart the world where she had been. I’ll plating show you, you chauvinistic jitmit!
He gasped as pain worked its way through the cortex, gripping tight the imaginary world as she recklessly – insanely flew forward, knife drawn, nimbly hurtling towards the soldier as it had dashed towards her.
“Would you bloody plating care for a cup of hot tea?!” She was screaming now – they were alone on the battlefield, with no one close enough to help or care, it was just them; there was Ashley, Ashley and a knife. A pistol to a cyan death-energy fight, a knife to a gunfight, odds against but skill always beat luck. He could feel her frenzy, her anger and angst, her frustrations, like the days they used to battle on the mindscape, those spars long gone now, translating those conflicts into war, war, broken war, a life of war of pain, training, raining days when time was free, see the tragedy of a single-purpose life, the purpose of war, she slashed at flechettes, the metal of the knife – she never found out how – singing in cyan, a conductive fleece, wire in the metal? They were on lease – It mattered nothing – nothing, in the heart of the matter there was the matter of the heart – did the soldier have a heart, a stabbing target? You don’t even know what you’re plating dealing with-
She ignored him, leaping to the side as the soldier moved back, anticipating each other, then ducked, slipped in close and rose like a dolphin’s leap, like a knife sliding through insubstantial air, already following through as a hand came up to block its ascent -
It won’t work! The shields are energy-based; you’re only returning what he fired at you!</font>
She jabbed a hand at the visor and caught a brief grip before the shields came up. At the same time, energy crackled as knife contacted flesh through a gap in the weakened, diverted shielding, striking unprotected limb. The soldier stumbled for the merest fraction of second, but it was enough.
Ashley looked on; a knee to the soldier’s chest pushed the pair to the ground. She was going to get them killed, with that naiveté, that stubbornness – she hadn’t fought in years, never understanding that a healing factor was not grounds for invincibility, that a shifting a body was not grounds for anonymity – the hard knock lessons of death and taken life were her absentee days; where he had lived she had lounged, free of danger because he – he – sought to keep her safe-
Ashley stabbed and stabbed, the knife catching tendrils of cyan each time – the metal nicking flesh, springing back with each strike, wounds on both parties healing as fast as could be inflicted, a stalemate as far as tactics were concerned. And Ashley’s resolute, supercilious silence, like a parent (a parent! The nerve! They were equals, created equal – if she were not superior) knowing their absolute rightness. It was his fault – his fault that they were transferred to homo sapien corps – his breakdown. His own plating weakness-
Weakness. W-w-w-*time froze for a second, like a weight mistimed in the great gears of time of time of time* as strategy fell into place, fractured solutions slid into their niches and formed wholes like plastic poured into a mold, mass-produced victory in the moment of realization where Time stands still, frightened for fear of losing the thought, daring not to speak-
He saw it too, the veneer of triumph – and he saw the little edge below it like a tantalizing bubble in a laminated sheet, the merest uncertainty, the merest hesitation. He bit his lip as he watched her force the soldier’s head onto its side, and looked on as she stabbed once more where she had heard the visor crack. He felt her curse as the knife glanced off the visor again and again; he saw her look at her other hand, the pistol still bewilderingly held by the barrel, eyes narrowing as she flipped it neatly in her hand. And all the cyan sparked, sparked and burned, sparked and burned and sliced and flamed and crackled with their hate.
The soldier was not infinite; she saw it in its movements its struggle. She brought the gun, point-blank, to its head, seeing that it was tiring, that she could and would outlast – she would outlive it this day –
Whereupon the soldier stabbed her in the stomach, in a paroxysm of irony. That was the last act it made, for her finger tightened on the trigger finger and a bullet forced its deadly way into visor and flesh. In seconds, the body would decompose into a chalky mess as Killtox made its way through unflowing blood, but Ashley didn’t know or care.
Well. Sterc.
Blood was welling. Fast. Too fast to heal over. A million wounds burned and stung and ached and twittered their distress to her brain, and she could not take it all in. What had she accomplished? She had killed a soldier. One soldier. One tough, healing, speedy cyan soldier – one supersoldier. One of her kind, really. Had she killed one of her brethren?
Ashley recoiled as victory came and went, and all that was left was doubt, guilt, second-guesses, pain - I think, he took time to choose his words, I think perhaps-
Because your thinking has always been impeccable.
She staggered to her feet, looking at the carnage of their battle. Surprisingly little, really. She clutched at her abdomen and began shuffling, painfully, back where she had come, towards the RV distant – there seemed to be so much bread on the horizon; Parsley’s work – who had he been? How did he turn things into bread anyhow? It didn’t matter. Maybe later it would be time to Krose down the bakery, but she doubted she would be the one to do it.
You’re dying.
Ya think? She coughed, and blood sprayed – sprayed from between her fingers as she fought to keep the wound closed. Envoy, the robot – and its masters, COFCA – who were they? What part did they have in the Grand Scheme of Things?
A healing factor won’t help you. He tried and failed to keep the sneer out of his voice, just as he tried and failed to hide the anxiety. You’ve got to let me back through.
She didn’t even bother answering, simply staggered, seeking salvation, absolution, help – the Broderburgs. What was their story? What was strange about them? Why were they here?
You’re dying.
She’d briefly seen John Smith. She’d looked in those eyes – what had she seen? Cunning? Wit? Murder? So many questions. Just put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front…maybe she was walking in circles. Where was she? Where was the RV? Where was safety?
For heaven’s sakes, Ashley!
So what? I’m dying. Doesn’t mean…doesn’t mean I’ll die. I can do this. I can live.
She chanced a glance behind, and saw with a start her trail of blood – seemingly more blood than any body could conceivably hold-
Not without shifting. Not without letting me back.
She still gave no answer, musing on her own. What about the others she had seen in the Charlatan’s sitting room, a lifetime ago? She could barely remember their names, she had only seen them that once – just that once –
Perhaps, if she lived, she would find them. Ask them who, how, what, where, when, why, and say who she was in return. Perhaps she would be remembered.
I don’t want to die. Not here, not now.
You have to let me through. Shift then. You can do it. He was cajoling now, beckoning with sweetened words that fed the fire in her heart, that burned with that sickly resentment fostered in the years of limitation; oppression…
But if it means one more moment of life with you- She saw him worry, and she let herself partake of the lightest relish – If it means one more moment of living in fear, of waiting for the next snatch of life you would kindly let me have-
I was keeping you safe!
I didn’t need to be kept safe, Ashley.
Don’t kill us for this! Life is precious; you learn that in a world of war! We have a whole life to live; don’t throw it away over this…petty squabble!
An observer might have seen the bloody footsteps grow shorter in pace, their edges more slurred, more broken. Following the trail, the prints would be seen to merge together, creating one testamental smear for death and pain…
A shattered timeline wisped in the spaces between the multiverses and played its way among the Paradox Shards, buoyed by a never-existent crest of story taken too far, of the collisions of two worlds never meant to meet. Wrought by time, brought by time, the waxen winds took a hope of life, or significant death, away – and each one was just as good as the other. Life and death in their deadly dance, multiplica, profilera, symbiotic swing, lever with a fulcrum misplaced and lost, so sing of winds of fate and winds of time, time and time again come lines of fine signs of sines, crest and trough always opposite one another, never meeting yet changing positions once an hour, the two of them embroiled in their last stand, sand on the beaches of the oceans of delirium eroding the white cliffs, foundation lost, paradise found, islands of coherence in the ever-valley sound, sound foundation, solid construction, chalk and granite, dovercourt road; a world of insanity upon each other sees the other’s anguish, despair, anger and pain, pain pain pain red everywhere leave to brown the last stain on a mortal world, never remembered never there-
Ashley. He pushed aside the breaking, dimming world, eyes plaintive now. Eyes pleading… Ashley. Life’s not what you think. A river split its way through the cliff behind, washing wildly around them, burning, washing the sand away. It’s like water – we let it flow through our hands without thinking. The torrent cracked, whiplike, striking against stone that rose from nowhere – Shut your hands, Ashley, shut them tight and hold it back. We have so much more to live. There are so many things waiting for us – journeys, experiences, relationships, knowledge…happiness.
Happiness…
Just a word, eh?
Her voice came slowly, but flowed, stacked upon each other, a traffic jam of molasses, she spoke, aloud, within and without, for an uncaring, unlistening world to hear. “And what will my happiness be like?” On the mindscape from the stone came a shoot of an improbable tree, the leaves green, fresh and new.
“What kind of happy woman will Ashley grow into?” Roots encompassed the stone, cracking it, crushing it into the soft soil the river left behind. The tree grew tall, straight up between the two of them – tall, strong.
“What base things-” A wound opened in the great tree’s trunk, as if driven by an intangible axe – a wound implied in the bark rather than truly rending the xylem asunder, “-will she have to do, day after day,” the tree juddering with each day with each hour struck of time, “in order to snatch her own little scrap of happiness?” Leaves floated down, carpeting the ground, filling the scape with green, gold and grey-
“Tell me – who will she have to lie to?” A branch shattered high above them, raining sawdust, woodchips, debris of the organic.
“Smile at?” The sea of leaves would not leave, would not drain or depart, and it stretched for infinity. But mind rejected infinity, crushed the ocean together, cracking together cardinals to build an aleph-null, bringing towering waves in all around as imaginary space gave way.
“Sell herself to?” The tree caught fire, and was a torch of licking flame, of bright light and candles and of sheets of leaf-shaped flame.
“Who will she have to avert her eyes to, Ashley, and who will she leave to die?!” The ocean blazed. The seas of leaves of breathing, burning life extinguished, the Moncreiff distinguished, the sons of fictionality and broken blood ties, promises gone and shattered, splintered, ground into dust underneath the finest heels, spiels of a madman, mixtures of poison, destroying a key like the good doctor ordered, perhaps a little more tinge on the side young lady and she caught the world, wrung it and shouted no more. Spillikins sibilant, a rocky ground on which blood flew and broke and dried and left the mark of death of guilt upon their surfaces, surfaces close to fading sight, might right light graying, stage left comes the hair dye, dyeing hair, dying body. Dimly, she recognized that she was lying on the ground, in the other world, the battlefield - bleeding, spent.
“If it means….submitting to you, Ashley, to go back to that hell you created…if it means spending the rest of my life fighting you, watching you living the life that’s by equal..rights…mine, Ashley. I’ll say it…one more time: never!”
The dark encroached from the depths of death, a warming embrace offering relief, offering finality in escape. And Ashley ran, walked, crawled, moved, pulled away from it, fighting death, fighting her, fighting everyone it was just too much too much to handle on a deathbed without a bed, an undug grave; …we can’t die here. This isn’t…right.
“You and your ideas…your ideas of the fairness of the world, of a justice – this is war. This is how people die in war. This is…reality.”
…please.
“…I’d rather die.”
…please…he uttered for the last time, and lay on the mindscape as sweet blessed oblivion devoured and flowed.
“…rather die; darll…”
And she did.</font>
Eyes that knew. Eyes that would remember. Eyes that shed a tear.
<font color="navy">Firearms. The word was spat, ejected with a measure of distaste.
Ashley learned quickly what he meant. Half a clip of ammunition spent itself ineffectually, deflected by shields of cyan, whereupon she caught on and drew her remaining knife instead. The soldier stopped, seemingly evaluating the threat through the circles of its visor, and she chose the moment to circle-strafe, backing away-
You can’t manage with just one, Ashley.
Betcha I can - plate!
Her attention was distracted momentarily by the sight of the mech above them toppling with a reverberating crash, narrowly missing the RV – awarding her a cyan flechette to the arm for her trouble. A rose of pain blossomed from the cut – no nerves severed but certainly not a shallow wound – and blood seeped. It arose drop by drop from the laceration, flowing over slightly burned skin, but it would heal – the more pressing matter was of the soldier. It came closer, picking up speed, spewing energy like an electrified arrow; it resembled a humanoid splay of live wires hurtling and burning the ground beneath its feet.
It was ridiculously close, yet it was circling her – through the corner of their eye, he saw an cyan blade sparking from one hand- Aaaaahh! To the left!
She ducked under the visored soldier’s feet, skirting between its legs as it jumped and followed through. With pinpoint precision the soldier whirled on one foot, kicking up a cloud of miry dust oiled with blood and grease.
They circled each other warily, Ashley placing herself in between the soldier and the RV. The scene was almost gladiatorial.</font>
Among the chaos in the conjoined COFCA conference came a voice: “I think we’ve waited enough.” In fact, a similarly impatient complaint had arisen every five minutes for the last half hour of operation, while Envoy went about retrieving and utilizing the various contents of the time capsule.
“We’re sitting by while everything else happens!” came the cry from one committee or another. It had flown about when Envoy had flown down to the capsule, had cried out when Private Jerfanderworth had cried out in surprise, and had torn through the air when Envoy had torn through the capsule room’s ceiling. The cries were quelled each time with the fact that if one of the contestants died – “and this is a battlefield; there are dozens of ways to die on a battlefield” a different someone had shouted each time – Envoy would be taken somewhere else and then what use would the time capsule be?
The second contention had been risen by the Parents’ Committee, concerning the suit.
A tuxedo, to be precise. With holes to make room for jetpack and extra sleeves for auxiliary arms. Everyone agreed that the style was impeccable, but the Parents’ Committee had ruled that they were disapproving of a naked protagonist, whether said protagonist was a robot or not. The point was that Envoy had not been wearing clothes, and now it was; therefore if it took said clothes off it would be naked and they simply couldn’t allow that to pollute young minds.
As it was, Envoy was clothed. And all agreed, for once, that it looked good. From its vantage point, Envoy brought its cameras around in a slow pan, and focused on a mech a little ways from the base perimeter, lying on the ground facedown with a strangely damaged knee.
Father and demon hunter made their way back towards the RV, avoiding the stray drones that still circled the fallen mech like flies about a carcass. As they half-ran, half-jogged their way, Tom’s hand brushed against his pocket. He felt again, then checked them both, the look of slight panic emerging in his eyes. “Parsley?”
The demon hunter slowed his pace but kept his crossbow aimed and loaded, covering the area as Tim caught up. “Stein?”
“I uh, dropped my wallet. At the mech, I think.” At Parsley’s blank look, he tried again: “My…wallet. My coinpurse? I left it behind. We haven’t gone far, I could go back-”
“Are ye worryin’ about ye gold now, Stein? This is hardly the time fer it.”
“It’s not like that. There are documents, photos…no, there are memories in it. They’re precious to me.”
Parsley watched the face in front of him. Stein had been his enemy before, but now…now they were working for a common cause, against the demon. And they had felled the walking machine together. That alone made a bond between them of sorts – “I’ll come with ye, then.”
A metal finger tapped Megasenator Whittenberg on the shoulder. “You’ll love this, Megasenator.” A green labcoat emerged from the darkness about the table, revealing within it the gaunt form of one of the temporal engineers. “We’ve been trying to gain access to the battlefield, on a larger scale than just transmitting through radios and suchlike. We’ve broken the mech’s connection to its home communications, and patched our own systems in.” The engineer smiled widely. “You want a show, COFCA? Let’s give them a show.”
![[Image: supersoldier01.png]](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/1551024/supersoldier01.png)
![[Image: supersoldier02.png]](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/1551024/supersoldier02.png)
At the moment you’re having a little trouble. Field testing is tough and your knee joint was disabled earlier, forcing you to keep the mech across the ground and moving as little as possible. You have weapons all on full, of course, and autonomous unmanned aerial defense unit deployment is at 100%. You’re making reasonably good time.
![[Image: supersoldier03%28fx%29.gif]](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/1551024/supersoldier03%28fx%29.gif)
As your Drayton feed cuts out, you remember that you were once someone else.
![[Image: supersoldier04.png]](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/1551024/supersoldier04.png)
An electron, wildly blurred, connects a circuit inside your visor. From its spark, a valve opens, instilling killing toxin through your veins. It numbs your heart, your mind, your flesh – you can hear, feel, see yourself shutting down. You die bewildered, confused – unknowing of the world and your place in it, your name forgotten forever.
![[Image: supersoldier05.png]](https://dl.dropbox.com/u/1551024/supersoldier05.png)
The last thing you see is the acronym, glowing mockingly: COFCA.
The last thing you hear is the mech, grinding its way back onto its feet, its machinery shattering.
The last thing you feel is hate.
As Tom retraced his steps, searching the ground and dodging the occasional drone, he heard within the mech a serrated grinding – constructs screaming against itself, in a cacophony of stressed joints, tripled gears, misused and mangled machinery making war and peace with the world they sought to control. Parsley followed close behind, keeping watch on the sky for drones.
For some reason it set Tom’s teeth on edge. Perhaps it was the accompaniment of screeching that followed the dying mech’s will. It rose to a crescendo as devices within did their best to reoperate, driving the construct upwards, leaving Tom clinging precariously to the arm he had been clambering over and Parsley hanging on to the torso nearby. Like a miracle – or unholy nightmare – of engineering, the mech stood upright, swaying as it fought to stay so with a knee that shook wildly, unpredictably as if deprived of dopamine.
<font color="#666600">“STEIIIIN!”
Parsley was a bit upset. From where he was standing – hanging on, really – it looked very much as if Stein had been lying about the machine’s functionality. “Would ye care to explain this, Stein?!”
Tom began, “I’m not doing this! I thought it’d been taken down! I-” but was interrupted by an excessively jolly voice.
“Gee! It looks like you’re in a bit of danger!” As Tom clambered to a safer position, he discovered the source of the voice, emanating from a small set of subsidiary speakers built into the mech itself. The joviality didn’t sound put on so much as slathered, even through the tinniness.
Below, Parsley continued to make his way upwards, cursing under his breath.
“My name’s Chester B. Arthur, head of the COFCA Interbattler Relations Committee! I’d like to welcome you as a battler...pass me the file on the Broderburgs…Tom, to enjoy our services of friendly counsel and caring advice! For example; it looks like you’re trying to not die! Might we offer a few suggestions?”
Tom cocked an eyebrow at the overly jovial voice. “You’re not communists, are you?”
“COFCA is an equal opportunity employer, Tom, regardless of race, ethnicity, ancestry, ideology, religion, physical or mental disability, psychological disorders, sexual prowess or skillset!”
“I-”
“Glad to hear it, Tom! Now I think we’re all in agreement that you could use a HERO! A speck rose from the base nearby, and resolved itself quickly into a glittering, robotic shape.
“We’ve undergone exhaustive research on your situation, and we all believe you’d concur that ENVOY! IS! THAT! HERO!” Through the speaker, a generic theme tune emerged hesitantly, sounding tinny and pathetic in the dusty air. Envoy did a loop-de-loop in time with the dismal band, then changed course, stopping in front of the mech’s face. The music rose to a sad crescendo as Envoy threw a few air punches, then struck the mech with all four arms at once, causing it to fall backwards and onto the ground once more.
The fact that it paused noticeably before falling over was of no consequence.
What was of consequence was the fact that Tom and Parsley both went flying.
He saw underneath him the battlefield – he saw Parsley looking at him in disbelief at the ridiculously vertical circumstances they found themselves in, he saw on the ground a ways away that girl who’d cut through the roof of the RV, scuffling with one of those visored soldiers he’d seen earlier, and directly below him he saw the RV coming up fast- </font>
<font color="navy">Keep left! Back! Oh plate plate plate- An extremely unconvincing but still spectacular show echoed at the back of their sensory perception. <font color="red">As the mech struck the ground for the second time, she parried another blow from the soldier before her – don’t get distracted, keep your balance-</font>
I can’t be everywhere at plating once, Ashley- She was leading the fight away from the RV now, ducking and weaving cyan, slashing with knife in hand-
You can plating try! Your movements unpredictable, your actions likewise. The point is to-
<font color="red">Her temper flared at the condescension. Within, anger flurries cut the imaginary air as she slashed at the soldier attacked again- I am not- she leapt back once more, backpedaling, watching the visor track her movements- new- she leapt behind a rock, and felt it judder as the soldier eschewed efficiency for a show of power- to war- and ducked away as the stone buckled and bowed into glowing magma. -darll!
What’s wrong? Are you out of practice? The soldier leapt over the molten rock, he noted – they weren’t invincible.</font>
I’ll give you out of practice, you patronizing sterc!
The soldier set another round of flechettes at her as it approached at speed – she ducked and rolled, feeling a gash open across her left soldier. She gasped in pain, and felt him begin to smirk. Pain turned to fury at his disdain – She would not be beaten; she would not tolerate his arrogance – she knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t have to be reasonable, in any way, shape or form! She was free from his inadequacy, his frustrations, the doubts and disappointments that invariably came with his role. She was free! The rules did not apply to her, because she had none of a man’s honor, valor, chivalry or any other useless male appendage to the true cause of war – and she was trained in war. She was raised on war. She knew its creed and purpose: defeat the enemy. Do it fast. And fast – thoughts, violent but efficient, tactics for tacticians mingled with emotion in the mind so long excluded from their mindspace, flooded like a torrent across the senses, her mind – she twirled the gun in her hand, gripping it by the barrel as the soldier, plunging forward, unleashed a crackling tentacle-whip of energy.
crack
-and the soldier reeled under the impact, the tentacle evaporating. She brought her hand down and clubbed the visor again with the pistol, hard. Her other hand shot, cobra-like, around the soldier’s neck, forcing it into a headlock and she struck again – and heard something snap under the visor’s white façade, so raised her arm high for a final, perhaps finishing, blow.
But too high. The movement threw her off balance, and the soldier took the opportunity to throw her.
Clarice fed Baby Emma, both oblivious to the chaos outside. A second pan of milk stood warming on the stove. The first pan lay in the sink, waiting to be washed. Under the hole in the roof, a pile of sheets and blankets were stacked, attaining what meager drying they could from the weak sun. The domesticity of the scene within contrasted the tumult of the world without.
And then Tom fell into the RV through the hole in the roof, followed closely by Parsley – both landing relatively uninjured. So that was all right too – even if it did give Clarice a nasty shock. Baby Emma was not perturbed in the least - and once Clarice had recovered, she wasn’t either. There was too much to do without having to worry about dying as well.
“Hi, dear. Could you take her for a bit?” Tiredly, she indicated the pan in the sink. “That mech landing knocked all the milk over. Can you believe it?”
Tom was slightly more shaken than his wife, and so just took Emma and wordlessly indicated that yes, he could, and he would be right over here looking out the window if she needed anything.
Baby Emma simply watched out into the warring world beyond, with eyes that saw everything, eyes that spoke volumes if only one would look – but no observer could, would find the mind that housed…what? Secrets, secrets forever. Eyes that would remember. Eyes that saw a scuffle beyond.
<font color="red">Ashley landed roughly on her back, and was forced down once more by the soldier’s boot. You can get out of this. Raise your knife, Ashley.
She opted instead to hack away at the boot instead, slashing open a gash in its leg and rolling away as it recoiled. What? Where do you come off giving me orders? I managed fine, you arrogant military chain-of-command addict-
That soldier nearly fractured your spine, ‘darl’ – Now let me handle this!
No! Not any more of your condescending vinescat! I am just as good as you are, just as trained, just as capable; You had no right – no reason – nothing but incoursing fear in you to shut me plating out! The soldier struck out with its whip, leaving an angry lash across her leg as she scrabbled across the ground-
Ashley winced as the pain registered, the gash trickling more blood into the stained rubble. Look at him! He’s obviously not human! He’s some kind of supersoldier! Desperation tinted the mindscape a navy blue -
Within, Ashley’s voice took red hysteria up a notch – Oh, he’s a ‘fellow super’, then?! So we should make friends! Invite for scones and tea, bring your mates with ya, darll! Is that it? Or is he too busy plating – she pushed herself up against the carcass of a spidertank – killing us?! She dodged once more as a burst of cyan tore apart the world where she had been. I’ll plating show you, you chauvinistic jitmit!
He gasped as pain worked its way through the cortex, gripping tight the imaginary world as she recklessly – insanely flew forward, knife drawn, nimbly hurtling towards the soldier as it had dashed towards her.
“Would you bloody plating care for a cup of hot tea?!” She was screaming now – they were alone on the battlefield, with no one close enough to help or care, it was just them; there was Ashley, Ashley and a knife. A pistol to a cyan death-energy fight, a knife to a gunfight, odds against but skill always beat luck. He could feel her frenzy, her anger and angst, her frustrations, like the days they used to battle on the mindscape, those spars long gone now, translating those conflicts into war, war, broken war, a life of war of pain, training, raining days when time was free, see the tragedy of a single-purpose life, the purpose of war, she slashed at flechettes, the metal of the knife – she never found out how – singing in cyan, a conductive fleece, wire in the metal? They were on lease – It mattered nothing – nothing, in the heart of the matter there was the matter of the heart – did the soldier have a heart, a stabbing target? You don’t even know what you’re plating dealing with-
She ignored him, leaping to the side as the soldier moved back, anticipating each other, then ducked, slipped in close and rose like a dolphin’s leap, like a knife sliding through insubstantial air, already following through as a hand came up to block its ascent -
It won’t work! The shields are energy-based; you’re only returning what he fired at you!</font>
She jabbed a hand at the visor and caught a brief grip before the shields came up. At the same time, energy crackled as knife contacted flesh through a gap in the weakened, diverted shielding, striking unprotected limb. The soldier stumbled for the merest fraction of second, but it was enough.
Ashley looked on; a knee to the soldier’s chest pushed the pair to the ground. She was going to get them killed, with that naiveté, that stubbornness – she hadn’t fought in years, never understanding that a healing factor was not grounds for invincibility, that a shifting a body was not grounds for anonymity – the hard knock lessons of death and taken life were her absentee days; where he had lived she had lounged, free of danger because he – he – sought to keep her safe-
Ashley stabbed and stabbed, the knife catching tendrils of cyan each time – the metal nicking flesh, springing back with each strike, wounds on both parties healing as fast as could be inflicted, a stalemate as far as tactics were concerned. And Ashley’s resolute, supercilious silence, like a parent (a parent! The nerve! They were equals, created equal – if she were not superior) knowing their absolute rightness. It was his fault – his fault that they were transferred to homo sapien corps – his breakdown. His own plating weakness-
Weakness. W-w-w-*time froze for a second, like a weight mistimed in the great gears of time of time of time* as strategy fell into place, fractured solutions slid into their niches and formed wholes like plastic poured into a mold, mass-produced victory in the moment of realization where Time stands still, frightened for fear of losing the thought, daring not to speak-
He saw it too, the veneer of triumph – and he saw the little edge below it like a tantalizing bubble in a laminated sheet, the merest uncertainty, the merest hesitation. He bit his lip as he watched her force the soldier’s head onto its side, and looked on as she stabbed once more where she had heard the visor crack. He felt her curse as the knife glanced off the visor again and again; he saw her look at her other hand, the pistol still bewilderingly held by the barrel, eyes narrowing as she flipped it neatly in her hand. And all the cyan sparked, sparked and burned, sparked and burned and sliced and flamed and crackled with their hate.
The soldier was not infinite; she saw it in its movements its struggle. She brought the gun, point-blank, to its head, seeing that it was tiring, that she could and would outlast – she would outlive it this day –
Whereupon the soldier stabbed her in the stomach, in a paroxysm of irony. That was the last act it made, for her finger tightened on the trigger finger and a bullet forced its deadly way into visor and flesh. In seconds, the body would decompose into a chalky mess as Killtox made its way through unflowing blood, but Ashley didn’t know or care.
Well. Sterc.
Blood was welling. Fast. Too fast to heal over. A million wounds burned and stung and ached and twittered their distress to her brain, and she could not take it all in. What had she accomplished? She had killed a soldier. One soldier. One tough, healing, speedy cyan soldier – one supersoldier. One of her kind, really. Had she killed one of her brethren?
Ashley recoiled as victory came and went, and all that was left was doubt, guilt, second-guesses, pain - I think, he took time to choose his words, I think perhaps-
Because your thinking has always been impeccable.
She staggered to her feet, looking at the carnage of their battle. Surprisingly little, really. She clutched at her abdomen and began shuffling, painfully, back where she had come, towards the RV distant – there seemed to be so much bread on the horizon; Parsley’s work – who had he been? How did he turn things into bread anyhow? It didn’t matter. Maybe later it would be time to Krose down the bakery, but she doubted she would be the one to do it.
You’re dying.
Ya think? She coughed, and blood sprayed – sprayed from between her fingers as she fought to keep the wound closed. Envoy, the robot – and its masters, COFCA – who were they? What part did they have in the Grand Scheme of Things?
A healing factor won’t help you. He tried and failed to keep the sneer out of his voice, just as he tried and failed to hide the anxiety. You’ve got to let me back through.
She didn’t even bother answering, simply staggered, seeking salvation, absolution, help – the Broderburgs. What was their story? What was strange about them? Why were they here?
You’re dying.
She’d briefly seen John Smith. She’d looked in those eyes – what had she seen? Cunning? Wit? Murder? So many questions. Just put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front…maybe she was walking in circles. Where was she? Where was the RV? Where was safety?
For heaven’s sakes, Ashley!
So what? I’m dying. Doesn’t mean…doesn’t mean I’ll die. I can do this. I can live.
She chanced a glance behind, and saw with a start her trail of blood – seemingly more blood than any body could conceivably hold-
Not without shifting. Not without letting me back.
She still gave no answer, musing on her own. What about the others she had seen in the Charlatan’s sitting room, a lifetime ago? She could barely remember their names, she had only seen them that once – just that once –
Perhaps, if she lived, she would find them. Ask them who, how, what, where, when, why, and say who she was in return. Perhaps she would be remembered.
I don’t want to die. Not here, not now.
You have to let me through. Shift then. You can do it. He was cajoling now, beckoning with sweetened words that fed the fire in her heart, that burned with that sickly resentment fostered in the years of limitation; oppression…
But if it means one more moment of life with you- She saw him worry, and she let herself partake of the lightest relish – If it means one more moment of living in fear, of waiting for the next snatch of life you would kindly let me have-
I was keeping you safe!
I didn’t need to be kept safe, Ashley.
Don’t kill us for this! Life is precious; you learn that in a world of war! We have a whole life to live; don’t throw it away over this…petty squabble!
An observer might have seen the bloody footsteps grow shorter in pace, their edges more slurred, more broken. Following the trail, the prints would be seen to merge together, creating one testamental smear for death and pain…
A shattered timeline wisped in the spaces between the multiverses and played its way among the Paradox Shards, buoyed by a never-existent crest of story taken too far, of the collisions of two worlds never meant to meet. Wrought by time, brought by time, the waxen winds took a hope of life, or significant death, away – and each one was just as good as the other. Life and death in their deadly dance, multiplica, profilera, symbiotic swing, lever with a fulcrum misplaced and lost, so sing of winds of fate and winds of time, time and time again come lines of fine signs of sines, crest and trough always opposite one another, never meeting yet changing positions once an hour, the two of them embroiled in their last stand, sand on the beaches of the oceans of delirium eroding the white cliffs, foundation lost, paradise found, islands of coherence in the ever-valley sound, sound foundation, solid construction, chalk and granite, dovercourt road; a world of insanity upon each other sees the other’s anguish, despair, anger and pain, pain pain pain red everywhere leave to brown the last stain on a mortal world, never remembered never there-
Ashley. He pushed aside the breaking, dimming world, eyes plaintive now. Eyes pleading… Ashley. Life’s not what you think. A river split its way through the cliff behind, washing wildly around them, burning, washing the sand away. It’s like water – we let it flow through our hands without thinking. The torrent cracked, whiplike, striking against stone that rose from nowhere – Shut your hands, Ashley, shut them tight and hold it back. We have so much more to live. There are so many things waiting for us – journeys, experiences, relationships, knowledge…happiness.
Happiness…
Just a word, eh?
Her voice came slowly, but flowed, stacked upon each other, a traffic jam of molasses, she spoke, aloud, within and without, for an uncaring, unlistening world to hear. “And what will my happiness be like?” On the mindscape from the stone came a shoot of an improbable tree, the leaves green, fresh and new.
“What kind of happy woman will Ashley grow into?” Roots encompassed the stone, cracking it, crushing it into the soft soil the river left behind. The tree grew tall, straight up between the two of them – tall, strong.
“What base things-” A wound opened in the great tree’s trunk, as if driven by an intangible axe – a wound implied in the bark rather than truly rending the xylem asunder, “-will she have to do, day after day,” the tree juddering with each day with each hour struck of time, “in order to snatch her own little scrap of happiness?” Leaves floated down, carpeting the ground, filling the scape with green, gold and grey-
“Tell me – who will she have to lie to?” A branch shattered high above them, raining sawdust, woodchips, debris of the organic.
“Smile at?” The sea of leaves would not leave, would not drain or depart, and it stretched for infinity. But mind rejected infinity, crushed the ocean together, cracking together cardinals to build an aleph-null, bringing towering waves in all around as imaginary space gave way.
“Sell herself to?” The tree caught fire, and was a torch of licking flame, of bright light and candles and of sheets of leaf-shaped flame.
“Who will she have to avert her eyes to, Ashley, and who will she leave to die?!” The ocean blazed. The seas of leaves of breathing, burning life extinguished, the Moncreiff distinguished, the sons of fictionality and broken blood ties, promises gone and shattered, splintered, ground into dust underneath the finest heels, spiels of a madman, mixtures of poison, destroying a key like the good doctor ordered, perhaps a little more tinge on the side young lady and she caught the world, wrung it and shouted no more. Spillikins sibilant, a rocky ground on which blood flew and broke and dried and left the mark of death of guilt upon their surfaces, surfaces close to fading sight, might right light graying, stage left comes the hair dye, dyeing hair, dying body. Dimly, she recognized that she was lying on the ground, in the other world, the battlefield - bleeding, spent.
“If it means….submitting to you, Ashley, to go back to that hell you created…if it means spending the rest of my life fighting you, watching you living the life that’s by equal..rights…mine, Ashley. I’ll say it…one more time: never!”
The dark encroached from the depths of death, a warming embrace offering relief, offering finality in escape. And Ashley ran, walked, crawled, moved, pulled away from it, fighting death, fighting her, fighting everyone it was just too much too much to handle on a deathbed without a bed, an undug grave; …we can’t die here. This isn’t…right.
“You and your ideas…your ideas of the fairness of the world, of a justice – this is war. This is how people die in war. This is…reality.”
…please.
“…I’d rather die.”
…please…he uttered for the last time, and lay on the mindscape as sweet blessed oblivion devoured and flowed.
“…rather die; darll…”
And she did.</font>
Eyes that knew. Eyes that would remember. Eyes that shed a tear.
----
So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
----
Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime