Months wrapped in years' clothing would pass by. Every day brought fire burning into his skin, rending his flesh and ripping him to pieces from within. Each time the body recovered, but mind had surrendered long before body. Help would soon come, the broken, scarred little boy would remind himself. Even when help never came, even as his howls of indignation turned to screams and whimpering...
But you persevered through it all – and the harrowing came as you promised to yourself.
The asteroid world would become swathed by a great chiropteran shadow, the overhead sun eclipsed by the wings of a titanic saviour. Plasmatic magenta meteors would crash into the surrounding edifices, bathing the cosmic landscape in holy fire. Tormentors would meet their judgement by these righteous flames. Angels would land in power armour suits machined worlds away, cradling plasma rifles, clad in purple to traverse fields of crystalline glass. Bars would not stop the irruption of these metal giants as they slaughtered sinners by the hundred.
The righteous onslaught would be spearheaded by the greatest angel of them all. An archangel armed with an arresting amethyst gaze beneath her aquiline winged helmet, every step of her sabatons like resonant thunder. The Broken Angel, dressed in platinum armour behind a gilded cloak of imperial purple. At her left side, arm in arm with the plasmacaster held in her right hand, was clutched a greatsword draped in cerulescent lightning, each crackle of her skull-pommelled blade like icy flame. Trailing in her wake lay the dark blue corporate dead, melted to ash or cleaved in twain. She was now in the solitary confinement wing of the prison, marching upon the sole closed door of the wing. Sheathing her energy blaster and gripping her sword with both armoured hands, she plunged it into the door. The metal turned as malleable as butter, before running to the floor like glimmering milk as the energetic blade cut through the hinges and then the lock itself.
The moment the door gave way, wrenched outward at the Broken Angel's behest, the emaciated figure inside recoiled in panic. Naked and scarred, the tormented figure looked upon the armoured giantess through his hands. The metal warrior who entered this wretched excuse for a cell stopped, noticing how the broken figure expected yet another display of the Warden's chronic and spectacular cruelty.
When I found you that day, I never planned to let any of those who had done this to you live.
The Broken Angel's beaked helmet parted, sliding open like the maw of a bird of death. From within the armour's metal throat stared the sad countenance of a youthful woman, forged from synthetic flesh as white as a corpse bride's, with full lips coloured as quasi-black purple as an obsidian night. Her amethyst eyes, engineered from the most sophisticated of Martian prostheses, were surrounded by gunmetal-grey eyeliner, tailored to match the shape of the feathered wings of a hawk. To the broken man beneath her, she extended her taloned armoured gauntlet as the sword clasped in the other rolled its magmatic tempest.
The warden didn't have any use to me. I could have let her run with her tail between her legs, and it would have made no difference to me whatsoever.
Ryan took hold of the gauntlet extended to him.
And yet, her fate was as much my business as it was yours.
The next place the Warden would find herself was in the grasp of two armoured men, her battered, tattered self tossed into a cell of indeterminate dimensions as the door slammed behind her. Pure white walls stood around her, with corners coloured with such perfection as to elude any efforts to decipher the room's size. Much to her great discomfort, this new chamber was not too dissimilar to the playpen she kept at the correction facility on Vesta.
It was as she was scanning the room that she quickly determined that there was one other soul locked in with her.
Do you remember what I told you to do?
Yes, my lady.
"Do you recognise this?" asked Ryan, twirling a blade by the pommel loop in his finger.
"That's my knife..." spoke the Warden.
"Good," said Ryan.
I taught her to sing.
"What are you – AAAIIEEAGH!" protested the Warden, only to shriek as the blade slammed into her hand with a metallic whack. Pinned to the floor with her own knife, all she could do was scream in agony and shock.
It was a wondrous symphony.
"You son of a bitch!" the Warden snarled. "I should have killed you in your cell!"
A cruel smirk pulled Ryan's face. "You should."
The blade turned with a crunch, subsuming the Warden's bloody fury under a mountain of horrible pain.
A fanfare to celebrate the first time in my life I was able to do something to make this world a little less harsh.
"When I get out of this cell, I'm gonna tear you to pieces!" the Warden screamed. "You hear me, you little fucker?! You hear me?! I'll fucking kill you!"
"Back up a moment – when you get out of this cell?" Ryan laughed at her. "Nobody said anything about letting you go. Oh no. How am I supposed to entertain myself without you to keep me company?"
Do you remember much of your mother?
Yes, my lady.
Tell me about her. I don't believe I ever asked.
She had her issues.
Months in the guise of years strolled by without any cessation to the Warden's torture. The vengeful boy would spend an average of two hours in this chamber once a week as a reward for his devotion to the ways and laws of the Order of Iron. The Warden herself noticed how her former plaything was changing with every session. In the first few encounters after their roles were switched, he seemed almost hesitant. It all started with beatings and mockery, such as driving the same knife into her hand and repeating the same whipping sessions she herself had dealt to her own playthings.
Issues?
With drugs, alcohol... I thought she got it from her mother, my grandmother, who drank herself to death ten years before her. I never got why she did it all to herself. To my family. I wanted answers. That was all I ever wanted.
Then as more and more metal came grafted to his skin, the torments would change. When he acquired the arm augments, he used the same knife he took from her to peel off her toenails, one by one, followed by her even more sensitive fingernails. When his new legs were fitted, he would regularly skin strips off of her thighs, leaving her shouting and screaming curses as she bled. By the time those blood-red optic sensors had been stitched into his face, he had come to stop regarding the tortures as mere instruction. Now he seemed to truly enjoy the business, a murderous grin settling on his lips every time he entered the chamber.
Is that why you directed your levies to assault Port Royal's city hall? Why you left brother Strachen to die?
Yes, my lady. That was where they kept the records. I thought they may have had something about her in there. Strachen was never interested in the greater picture I sought to paint. All he cared about was the mission. I knew I was never going to get another chance to search for the answers I so badly desired. Not with him to get in my way.
I see.
Time was now all but lost to the Warden. It could now be weeks, days or even hours between sessions. She would never be fed at any regular interval. No clock, or watch, or any other timepiece could be found in the room. But whatever came through that door would bring her agony, Ryan – or 'the Hound', as he now started calling himself – torturing her until she passed into unconsciousness, the torments growing increasingly devious and vicious. Now she was starting to believe that she had died, murdered by the Hound some time ago, and transported to hell for her crimes.
What did your levies find in the city hall?
The answers I sought.
What answers did you seek?
I knew she was tormented, but I never realised she'd gone through such abuse at her stepfather's hand.
What did he do?
He abused her. Raped her. Plied her with drugs, that's how she picked up the habit. He continued to send her letters from prison. I saw some of the letters they had on record. I swore to myself I'd have him killed if I ever saw him with
my own two eyes.
Where is he?
Alcatraz Island. On Earth. He's serving a life sentence. They've cooped him up into a cage to eke out his days in solitude, just for me... I can't wait until we get to Earth.
When the Twilight comes, your sword will pierce the enemy's black heart. Your step-grandfather will be yours to torment at your leisure, just like you did to the warden who tormented you.
Thank you, my lady.
Once again the door swung open without a noise to its name, the Warden trembling into the corner. As light filled the chamber, the doorway silhouetted by the red-eyed tormentor, she recoiled and curled into herself. Whether it was the boy she had once tormented herself, or the far more terrifying amethyst-eyed angel of vengeance bearing depredations that transcended even her own wretched imagination, anything to came through the doorway into her prison would bring terrible pain. The hulking, cybernetic myofibre muscle-bound, laser-eyed behemoth who now only resembled her ex-victim in the vaguest of terms was no exception.
"Please, no more..." she begged Ryan as she always did. "If there's any decency or soul left in you, have mercy..."
Have you ever noticed how evil people are always overcome with terror when a credible threat finds them?
I have, my lady. "Blessed are the merciless, for they may demand no mercy in return". Those are words I have lived by ever since the day of my first kill.
A wise counsel. Who spoke them to you?
I adapted them from words my father told me, when you asked me to make my Beatitudes.
I see.
"No, God no, please!" the Warden pleaded with a desperate gaze as the blade hung in Ryan's baleful hand.
Why did your father hate you so?
He blamed me for my mother's death. He told me, "You killed her". He told me I was a murderer.
What did you do? Did you kill her?
No. At least, not directly...
How did she die?
Every few months or so she'd go to the Casino Oceanic in Port Royal. There she'd have a big blowout – buy enough drugs for a party. Cocaine, heroin, crack, crocodile – I even remember a few combat stims she brought. She'd bring a few friends with her to these blowouts, and they would all get wasted. I'd stay with her to make sure she was alright. But then she brought with her some sort of synthetic drug. I don't remember the name of it, but I read it was created to replicate the effects of intoxication without the dangers of overdosing to death. My mum's batch was made in a drug den though, rather than a Sparrow pharmaceutical. It didn't work as it was supposed to.
And it killed her?
She died in my arms. I didn't know how to resuscitate her... I thought I could, but I just locked up in panic. I thought I could help her, but she just died in my arms, blood pouring out her nose... My own mother! And the man I trusted to look out for me from the day I left her womb told me it was all my fault! He threw me out! I had to steal to survive! But of all the disgusting, vile fucking scumbags those pieces of shit in the security division could have dragged up from the street, they took me! They forced me into a death camp where I'd eke out the rest of my worthless, meaningless existence! I hated them all, I wanted to butcher the lot of them like the animals they were!
"I'll do anything!" screamed the Warden. "I'll do anything you want! I'll let you do anything to me! Just not the knife again! Please not the knife..."
And yet you have found solace and justice for your suffering.
Or rather it found me. I never found anything. Without you I'd have lost everything. My hope, the future that now awaits me, my very life...
But it was not I who delivered the final blow to the Warden, was it? You tortured her, you poured all of your anger and hatred into reducing her to the same level she did to you. Can you remember what the point of that lesson was?
I can, my lady.
What was it?
Ryan shushed the cowering Warden, kneeling down low to her side as she grovelled for her life, cheeks turned into rivers of tears cried in terror. With his hand, he wiped the tears away.
The torture was all pointless. Revenge, vengeance – it's just a disease. There's no point to it. Any of it. You can't cure a disease by spreading it around. The only way to destroy it is to stamp it out in its entirety. I tortured the Warden, I made her beg for her miserable life. But I didn't feel any better, no matter how much I tried to force it. There was nothing. I continued to hate her. She continued to scream at me. Nothing changed. Those months I could have spent bettering myself, practicing my shooting, tactics and sword fighting, instead went to waste on a pathetic endeavour.
Were she alive today, your mother would be proud to know that her son has become so enlightened. You have become far greater than herself, and that is all she would have ever wanted – if there is a Heaven, she will take pride in knowing that her sacrifice was not for naught. In light of your infinitely monumental accolade, I hereby declare you to be absolved of all your past sins, all wretched heresies that you believe yourself to have committed. Today you are redeemed, child.
"Today you are redeemed, child," spoke Ryan.
The Warden's tears of terror were stopped in an instant when the knife blade crossed her throat. As warm blood poured forth like a waterfall from a wound ripped open like a packet of crisps, her face too blossomed like a flower. No more fear on her face; no more anger, or pain, or hatred – only the everlasting gaze of death. A countenance purified of all expression.
You have forged your own justice, as all Knights who take the Iron Banner must. And this I promise you: we will conquer this wretched solar system. All who would ever do the innocent harm will burn. We will forge a new world together.
~
Friday, 30 April.
Present day.
I was treated like a Dog. I roamed the streets for food and shelter like a Stray. The Warden and her thugs called me Bitch. Sokolova took me in, taught me new tricks, showed me how to harry and hunt our enemies. And so I became her Hound.
A metallic rapping on the door interrupted Ryan from his meditations.
"May I enter, my lord?"
One of his retainers.
"Yes." Ryan's answer was brisk and sharp. The sliding door parted with a clank, bidding entry to a cyborg in a crimson habit.
The peaceful aroma of incense filled the chamber, its source mounted on a rack over his metal desk. Ryan himself was sat in a real-leather armchair, a gift to him from his mistress. His signature power armour suit stood mounted beside the doorway; a freshly forged and painted helmet to replace the one that he lost on Hygiea rested on the desk below the incense holder.
Ryan's chair rotated to face the man who had dared to interrupt his meditation, his scarred face covered by a half-scowl.
"Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but I have word from the Bellator," the retainer informed his master. "Lady Sokolova has summoned you back to her warship."
A bitter, rueful sigh escaped Ryan's mouth as he stood to his feet.
"Just as I expected," he remarked. "Tell the crew to set a course for the rendezvous point in Frontier Space!"
"At once, my lord!" The retainer bowed, before taking leave to relay his master's commands to the bridge. The door clanked shut, leaving Ryan in peace once more. His face was dour and miserable.
The Hound must return to his mistress, yet I bring no stick for her.
~
Tuesday, 25 May.
LOCATION: Upper atmosphere
Neptune, Frontier Space
Close to Apocalypse-class dreadnought Bellator, Annaroza Sokolova's command ship
Day length: 16h 6m
Neptune, the last of the planets in the great solar pantheon. Largely uncharted, the eighth of Sol's planets stood as the penultimate celestial system to have been colonised by man before the lawless Kuiper Belt; the last was the dwarf world Orcus. A system this deep into Frontier Space would be lucrative for colonisation, were it not for the ever-lurking threat of piracy, even after the fleets of Earth and Mar
s sent the worst of the spacefaring marauders into the Kuiper Belt, and the Wild Space that loomed between that and the uninhabited Oort Cloud.
The chief threat from piracy, however, came from the Van Allen belts of radiation. In order to mask their movements from infrared telescopes, a ship could conduct a transfer burn within the belts, activate their heat sinks to hide radiation from their reactors, and then traverse a distance covering many millions of miles without anyone on the other side ever realising that a ship was present.
Today, the cerulean methane sea would be obscured by the chiropteran shadow of a star-faring titan striding overhead.
~
Measuring two thousand five hundred and four metres in breadth, six hundred in height and one thousand one hundred and fifty in length, the Bellator was one of four of its mighty ilk built in the Martian shipyards. More space fortress than warship, it was armed, armoured and shielded to its brim, bearing eight multi-terawatt rated fusion cannons, thirty heavy plasma cannons, hundreds of point defence cannons and missile batteries, and six thousand casaba howitzer-armed guided anti-ship missiles. It was common for the Martians to brag that a single one of these dreadnoughts could annihilate an entire USN carrier group without support, yet such was not the purpose of these warships. Especially not this particular vessel, the domain of the Broken Angel and nerve centre for her legion of fanatics.
Sokolova had customised her personal leviathan, speculated to have been a gift from Strasser, to suit this purpose as best as one could imagine. On the vessel's exterior, the orange V-stripe from wing tip to bow to wing tip had been repainted to match the imperial purple of the Order of Iron. On the interior, the plasma reactor powering the vessel had been retrofitted with a new antimatter-catalysed fusion core, outputting several petawatts more power than the older reactor model. This afforded Sokolova the energy necessary to implement a powerful stealth suite, a feature normally found on warships an order of magnitude smaller than itself, upgrade the fusion cannons to output sufficient power to transmute whole city blocks into plate glass with a single shot from high orbit, and upgrade the four giant artigrav discs to hold the vessel inside an atmosphere with ease. If she so desired it, Sokolova could land the dreadnought on a planet to use as a command centre for a ground assault, or to refuel, rearm and refit the massive ship planet side, and then depart at her leisure.
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