“Yeah, that's us,” Crelyos responded.
“You did it all by yourselves? You took on his compound alone? That's insane. Where is your backup?” Samson's brown eyes widened to the size of electrocapacitor plates; he gestured behind him to the many men lining the dune buggies which they no doubt pilfered from Raze's warehouse and filled with his stores of sludge. The lights dimmed with Samson's signal.
“Backup? Hah. That's a laugh. We're all the backup we've got. Although this one doesn't do much,” Crelyos gestured to Oswald, “You look pretty fierce. You want to replace him?”
“If you fought as well as you ran your mouth, Ihlia might not be on the verge of death. She's always pulling your weight,” Oswald snuffed and shook his head. I thought I even heard him click his tongue.
“Oh? And I suppose you're just burstin' with helpful combat maneuvers. If we ever encounter an enemy who can be talked to death, we'll throw you right on the front line, Fancypants,” Crelyos boisterously laughed.
“You guys are… unbelievable. Men! Quick, load up the prisoners and the wounded mercenaries. Next we're going to go put an end to the thugs in Loftsborough and take back our city!” Samson called back with his hands cupped over his mouth. His fellow former captives raised their firearms in unison and unleashed a morale boosting cry.
“Ah, you see, we've already handled that affair as well. My associates and I dispatched the guard occupying Loftsborough before we arrived here to deal with Raze,” Oswald puffed out his chest and nodded matter-of-factly.
“Wh..what?” Samson's eyes lit up like an ancient fireworks display. His relieved chuckles flooded my ears. With a quick spin on his heel, the resident of Loftsborough turned to his companions and raised his hands into the air, “They've liberated Loftsborough as well! Men, we can go home to our wives! To our children! This lot are heroes!” A few men dropped to their knees and wept, others leapt into the air with overjoyed screams, while still others marveled at the idea that we accomplished the feat we claimed without aid.
“No… please… not heroes,” I whined softly. Heroes meant interacting with unknown people. It meant attention and inconvenience. Samson simply laughed as though I jested.
“Haha, let us take you back to town! You look like you could use a good rest!” Samson extended his hand toward Crelyos, who reached out with his cybernetic prosthetic and shamelessly shook it.
“Actually, if you could just drop us off at our buggy up the road,” Crelyos pointed, “we'll just follow you back ourselves.”
“That can certainly be arranged! Anything for you lot!” Samson laughed and led us to one of the procured buggies separate from Raze and his men. As the citizens loaded the prisoners into a heavily guarded buggy near the far end, Raze stopped in front of Crelyos and me. His gaze remained forward toward the dim prospects of his future. If Loftsborough decided not to outright execute him and his men, he would likely spend most of his remaining life in some holding cell or sold into slavery. That was assuming that Bradich's organization did not come after him in the meantime.
“Crelyos, She-wolf,” Raze's voice trailed off in a somber tone, “if there's anyone that belongs in that world of monsters, if there's anyone that can stop what they're planning to do, it's you two.” With those words, one of Samson's allies brutally hammered Raze in the back with the stock of his rifle. The harsh words, “Get a move on, thug!” escaped the lips of the nameless townsman. Still leaning against Crelyos' broad shoulder, I sluggishly lifted my gaze to his face. His eyes held a seemingly endless void of convoluted thoughts and emotions.
Perhaps he felt that if he had spoken up in regard to Raze's sexual preferences during their military days, the events might have turned out differently. Perhaps he believed that Smiles still resided somewhere deep inside the brigand's twisted personality and he longed to travel with him again or to offer him another chance. After a few moments, I nudged him to gain his attention. He looked down at me and replaced his conflicted expression with a dopey grin.
As we neared the gaudy paint and steel of one of Raze's vehicles, I stopped. An overwhelming chill crept up the base of my spine and settled against the back of my neck. I twisted as quickly as my condition allowed and glared toward the mountain ridges decorating the horizon beyond Raze's fortress. The dark clouds perpetually rolling across the cold wastelands faintly lit up as the hidden sun rose over the mountains behind the curtain of gray fallout. The dim light cast across the frigid, decrepit landscape failed to provide enough visibility to discern anything other than the jagged rocks shrouded in shadow.
“What's wrong, Ihlia?” Crelyos asked with a tilt of his head.
“I feel like… someone's watching us,” I responded quietly.
“Like, right now?” Crelyos turned his gaze toward the same area as I. He squinted hard, trying to make out anything other than stone formations but to no avail.
“Yeah…” I replied reluctantly.
“Yeah…” He mocked me, “… that's quite enough danger and blood loss for you for one day. You're getting weird on me. Time for you to get some rest. Lots of it.” Crelyos planted his palm between my shoulder blades and shoved me into my seat in the dune buggy.
The concept of rest sank in like a double-edged sword. I craved nothing more than to traverse the landscape to old Colorado as swiftly as possible, but with my lids growing heavier with each passing moment and the burning pain tearing through my body, rest sounded like a viable alternative plan.
File 20: The Next Breadcrumb
My eyelids fluttered open to the golden hue of sunlight streaming beautifully through a nearby window. I pulled back the warm blanket and stepped from the soft bed. The freezing air immediately assaulted my bare skin; it reminded me that everything from the artificial light filtering through the tattered curtains to the synthetic bed and its blankets used to warm my body only imitated a long forgotten time of comfort and abundance. The reality, more frigid than the blistering breeze that penetrated Loftsborough's protective shell, was that our world all but perished during the Titan Crisis ten years ago. Three days had passed since the assault on Raze's desert fortress. Oswald, the old codger, had declared that he refused to budge from the city.
“For the last time, Panacea is no miracle. You need time for your accumulated deep tissue wounds and organ trauma to fully recover. Five days, minimum, and only after a thorough checkup,” he had said. The citizens of Loftsborough kindly offered us Eugene's former domicile for the duration of our stay, but I already felt antsy.
I sauntered to the cracked, rusty-framed mirror in the corner of the room. My obsidian hair, long but haphazard, ended at the small bump of my spine a few inches above my rear. Singed frays tipped several strands, frays acquired from a snap of Raze's fingers. I lifted my bandaged left hand and slid aside the bangs shadowing my jade eyes. Aside from the tight, makeshift sports bra supporting the faint swell of my breasts, the practical, unremarkable undergarment hugging the slender curve of my hips, and the plethora of bandages encircling most of the rest of my flesh, I stood exposed in front of my murky reflection.
Wounds still busily healing and battle scars long since healed covered my sleek, athletic body; they remained testimonies to the doctor's passionate warnings regarding Panacea's lack of omnipotence. The scars decorated flesh that might otherwise have grown into immaculate, dainty skin if a different fate befell me than the path of war and combat. My mind, riddled with memories of death, violence, and loss, might have filled to the brim with recollections of life, laughter, and normality if not for that day of destiny in Yordleton when I was but thirteen.
And my heart, devoid of any deep emotions save burning hatred and the desire for vengeance, might have understood joy, camaraderie, and the inexplicable depth of love if not for the inevitable betrayal of my former leader, Bradich. I flattened my palm against its twin in the decrepit mirror. “I wouldn't change a thing,” I tho
ught to myself with bittersweet reminiscence.
Shrill, excited cries echoed from the streets outside the room's single window framed with ripped curtains. I stepped to the baby blue rags and slid them aside enough to peer outside. From the second story of Eugene's home, I gazed across the city's central square. Once a barren metal plain with a giant stone crucifix glaring from its center, the open space had filled with the daily activities common among the cities sprinkled throughout our once great country.
Men and women exchanged goods and services along the perimeter of the imaginary circle forming the market; other citizens worked in the synthetic food processing plants tucked away in one corner of Loftsborough, and the children, the source of the shrill cries, pranced about in the streets while their parents worked. Those children not giggling and making merry remained indoors studying with one of their parents.
For whatever reason, some people believed keeping archaic knowledge alive would ultimately benefit humanity. Mathematics, engineering, philosophy, religion, literature, writing, and many other facets of education passed to America's youth only through the direct guidance of those parents who still valued academics. Most of the world, myself included, felt that the more pressing issue of survival far outweighed grade point averages.
Those trades still useful to human perseverance, namely nanite surgery, synthetic food production, scavenging, architecture, and combat, were far more easily shown than taught. Due to certain… hazards, many children would reach their early teenage years before tagging along with mommy or daddy to the production plants or on a scavenging mission. For better or worse, society functioned in such a manner.
A smile crept across my lips when I noticed Crelyos among the jovial children; they swarmed about him as though he was an enormous tree jutting from the city's metal saucer. His muscular arms outstretched, they served as massive limbs for a boy and girl to cling like monkeys to his right and left appendages respectively. Oswald had reapplied the synthetic flesh concealing his cybernetic arm's tubes and circuitry the day after our return to Loftsborough. Apparently, the latex material commonly served doctors such as the old codger in case of “oops” moments, so he kept plenty of the spray-on concoction available in his trailer.
The gaping grin on Crelyos' face suggested he possessed not a care in the world save the tykes clambering up and down his bulky physique. When he spun around, roaring playfully, the children shrieked and giggled, clinging to his body parts for what seemed like dear life. I unlatched the window and, with a gentle push, shoved it open to lean against the sill. My chin dropped against the flat of my palm and I planted my elbow on the frame.
I grinned at the spectacle of the lumbering blond mercenary; he pretended to double over from the weight of the children who took the opportunity to leap atop him with high-pitched shouts of, “get him!” or, “scrap pile!” The last one elicited a chuckle since most of those children had never heard of a “dog,” much less seen one, but the myriad of scrap piles decorating cities and their outskirts caused the birth of a slightly altered form of the nostalgic slang, “dog pile.”
I retreated into the dim room and adorned my outfit. Not one for much variety, I pulled on a new black tank top; tugged up a pair of multi-pocketed black cargo pants; slid my feet into a pair of black combat boots; and draped a fresh black trench coat of synthetic leather over my bandages. I flipped my hair over the collar of the coat, allowing it to spill across my back before reaching over to fasten my rifle strap across my shoulders and my dagger belt around my waist.
I rushed down the stairs as best as my injured body would allow; the faint thud of my feet against the stone stairs resounded until I reached the first floor dining area. Atop the table, a starch bar sat next to a small pile of vitamin and mineral pills resting atop a half-opened can of tuna. Next to the grandiose meal, a steel water canteen pinned a coarse piece of paper to the table. I lifted the paper, fashioned from a man-made material the molecular structure of which resembled old hemp plants, and glanced at the black sludge-based ink scribbled across it.
“Dear child, I cannot begin to illustrate the consequence of refusing to consume everything you see before you. Suffice to say the word ‘ unpleasant’ fails to do it justice.” I smiled and shook my head; in smaller, far uglier handwriting on the corner of the paper beneath Oswald's obvious warning, another message was written, “Yeah, girly. What Fancypants said.” I chuckled.
As I consumed my tenderly prepared breakfast in silence, I reflected on Raze's words after his defeat during the fortress raid. “I'm the lowest on the totem pole, both in strength and influence,” he said.
I furrowed my brows at the thought of my own meekness. Individuals with abilities as potent as Raze's gathering at the feet of my former mercenary commander, I expected. More powerful individuals of high military rank, exceeding skill, and more potent augments flocking to my former mercenary commander, I did not. The very concept forced my lip beneath the clench of my teeth as I pondered the true depth of Bradich's capabilities, my limited understanding of them, and the goals he pursued.
Why? Why all the trouble, the ruse, the betrayal, the destruction of the world, and the formation of his organization? I sighed and downed the pills Oswald provided with the water housed in the canteen. As I stood, I sternly resolved myself. I refused to be disheartened by the staggering odds or my limited knowledge. If the odds stacked against me, I would cut them down. If the knowledge eluded me, I would wrangle it from Bradich's lackeys. If it cost me my life, I would avenge Donovan. If it took my last breath, I would drag Bradich into Death's black embrace with me.
I emerged from Eugene's home and purposefully moved through the crowds toward the town center. I simply followed the angelic laughs and melodious screams until I stumbled upon the squad of kids using Crelyos as a climbing post. I cocked to one side and placed my right hand atop my hip's curved swell. With an arched brow, I watched the former soldier until he noticed me, at which point he lifted a finger and cried, “Quick, munchkins, attack!”
The little ones paused in their frolicking to stare at me. With little hesitation, the small group of children scampered behind Crelyos with an orchestra of squeaks and whimpers. One child remained fearfully frozen in front of me; she stared at me with quivering knees as I knelt down in front of her. Our eyes locked, and I reached my hand toward her head to offer it a light pat. Tears instantly flooded the corners of her eyes, and she began sniffling. I jerked my hand away from her; sufficiently annoyed by her display, I stood and walked passed my ally with a brisk gait.
Behind me, I heard him offer the small girl words of reassurance, and with hands far gentler than mine, he ushered the children off to go play among themselves. My stride brought me to rest in front of the gaping charcoal hole driven into Loftsborough's town square. Though Samson and the others removed it, the barbed wire wrapped concrete pillar that toted the skeletal remains of Eugene still haunted my memories. As I stared at the empty space, a large hand found its way to my shoulder.
“Hey…” Crelyos' voice drifted from behind me.
“Even in Junction City, they never really liked me, so it's not that surprising,” I responded without hesitation.
“You mean children? Haha, I guess it's those eyes of yours. You're not all that hard to read. Just lace every thought you might have with ‘Kill Bradich' and it pretty much sums you up. Kids, especially, pick up on those scary vibes pretty easy,” Crelyos sighed and stepped forward next to me; his eyes focused on the same area that haunted my memories. They must have haunted his as well.
“I suppose. It means everything to me, after all. Donovan wasn't just someone I loved; he was someone I was supposed to protect. And he was good to us - not just me, but all of us. Especially his brother Bradich. Why would you take away something so wonderful?” I clenched my fists at my sides and shook my head.
“Sometimes the beautiful and good things are the ones we
want to hurt the most. When somethin' in front of you is good or beautiful, it sometimes makes you face all the bad and ugly in yourself. Some people can handle it. Other people can't and want to get rid of that beautiful thing no matter what.” Crelyos' explanation seemed convoluted, but more twisted was the fact that a large part of me understood the logic behind it.
“I've been meaning to ask you,” I interjected, “why did you not want to avenge Eugene? You were so angry when you found out Raze killed him. I thought I was going to have to hold you back long enough to get information out of him. Instead, you stopped me from putting an end to him. I just don't get it.”
Crelyos turned his gaze to the imitation sun gleaming from the center of Loftsborough's upper plate. A soft smile pulled up the corners of his lips, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders in a confused shrug.
“It's hard to explain,” he said sadly, “Eugene was my friend, sure enough. But at one time, so was Raze. He turned rotten and sour and was the only one diggin' his own pit of despair without even realizin' it. But would killin' him bring back Eugene? Wherever Eugene is now, would it somehow make him happy? I dunno. I do know that the Raze I once knew, Smiles, is somewhere inside that idiot we captured. If there was a way to kill Raze without killin' Smiles, I'd be all for it. But if he dies, I lose two friends instead of just one. Haha, I've thought that for a while but actually sayin' it sounded really stupid, huh?” Crelyos laughed heartily and tipped his head in my direction.
“A little. It's idealism at its finest. You don't exact revenge to calm the dead, you do it to calm yourself,” I pointed out with an almost vehement grunt.
“Really? Killin' people doesn't really calm me. In fact, I hate doin' it. Even those nameless thugs; thinkin' about it makes me sick.” Crelyos lifted his right hand and stared at his open palm. I arched a brow at his statement.
NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire Page 23