by M. T. Miller
The last third of Juicers fled for their lives. If things were different, that would have been a potential problem. However, it was unclear how capable, if at all, they were at making or getting more chemicals without a leader. If they still posed a threat, it was a minimal one at worst.
A resounding cheer came from the throat of every noncombatant once the army rode into the camp. Moving at the forefront, the Nameless looked neither left nor right. If his interest was low before, now it was nonexistent.
Minutes passed, and he was soon met by the welcoming committee. Composed of David, Wallace, Lydia, and Tarantula, they stood in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by the few military men who’d stayed behind as security. All four gave him a look he never thought he’d see again: that of admiration. You’ve done well, he read from their stares.
Were it not for Lydia, the Nameless would have ridden right by. As it was, he stopped his horse before her and dismounted.
“My he—“ she tried to say when he grabbed her by the forearm. He led her away from the others without giving them as much as a side-glance.
“Wh—what are you doing?” she asked.
The Nameless didn’t answer.
He led her inside their tent. At the very moment the curtains fell, he lifted her up and carried her on to the bed. Initially shocked, Lydia’s expression soon became one of elation.
“So that’s what this is about,” she purred as he ripped her chest-piece off. He wouldn’t stop there.
Lydia wasn’t the only one who needed something.
***
For three days the Nameless only left his tent when he had to. He answered no summons, allowed no one in, and responded to attempted communication with thinly veiled threats.
Much to his disappointment, completely separating himself from the celebrations that still went on in the camp proved impossible. Day and night, the men of Babylon’s army drank, cheered, and otherwise made enough racket to make sleep difficult-to-impossible. Most of the time, he eased his frustrations by talking Lydia. Today that didn’t seem to help, so he spent the afternoon sitting on the bed and staring at the carpet.
“Baby?” Lydia prowled the surface of the bed on all fours, then embraced him from behind. “You’re not talking again. We promised each other we wouldn’t do that, remember?”
To be honest, the Nameless didn’t remember. Whether or not he’d actually agreed on anything of the sort, he didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he put his hand over one of hers, and said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Come on, Nameless, it’s me!” She came in closer, pressing herself against his back. “I don’t know everything that goes on inside that head of yours, but I know enough. You’ve killed the woman you remember as important. I can’t imagine what that might feel like. You’re not well, and that’s okay. Let me help.”
“That is not the whole problem,” said the Nameless. It was most of the problem, but Lydia didn’t need to know that. “Tarantula thinks the life I remember was in fact a series of visions. That those I remember as dead are, in her words, likely to die in the future.” He looked at her grimly. “Unless I play my cards right.”
The warmth in Lydia’s gaze turned to worry. “And you think I will…?”
“Yes, Lydia,” he said. “You, Tarantula, Torres, the General, and pretty much everyone whose name I can recall; your lives are in my hands.” He resumed staring at the carpet. “If only I knew what game is being played. Or if there even is a game.”
Lydia squeezed tighter. Compared to Rush’s grip, hers was negligible. “But we’re making headway, right? I mean there’s only two more gangs left, and then no one will be able to stop you.”
“And even if I do this whole thing properly,” he said. “What then? Despite what all this might look like, Lydia, I am not in it for the power.”
“I know that!” she said. “Everyone does. It’s the biggest part of the reason everyone stands with you. Aside from your skills, and whatever it is you can do now, you’ve promised us a chance to rebuild the world we once knew. Not under the fanaticism of the Church or the rotting corpses of the Movement; not under the casual disregard for human life of the Skull Kingdom or the insanity of the Juicers. Nameless, my love, this will be our thing! An actual society of sane, normal people! Everybody misses it, and you promised to bring it back! Well, the old you, anyway.”
“I will make good on that promise,” he said, again looking her in the eyes. “Unless we all die in the meantime. After all, my vision-life ended with my own death.”
“That won’t happen.” She grinned. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to not die.”
It was faint, but the Nameless smiled as well.
“Now…” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Can we go out a bit? Please? Not that I’m not enjoying our… fun times, but I’m getting a little bit claustrophobic in here.”
The Nameless sighed. He looked toward the tent flap. There was no way back. It wouldn’t lead into the world he remembered, because that world had never existed. For better or worse, this was his life. I might as well make the most of it.
“Why not?” he said with resignation.
The way Lydia smiled almost made his apathy disappear.
***
All heads turned their way as they exited the tent. The Nameless was in his usual uniform, while Lydia wore a getup similar to the one he’d ripped apart. It was black and red, the colors vertically and cleanly separated at the middle. Even if he was not with her, she’d have drawn attention.
“My Lord!” The men saluted one by one. More than a few were drunk, but they nevertheless forced themselves into some semblance of an upright posture.
“As you were,” the Nameless grumbled.
They kept on saluting anyway.
“Do you have anything in mind, or are we to keep parading like this?” he asked Lydia.
“Of course I do!” she said as she clung to his arm. “There’s an actual celebration around the command tent. That’s where we’re going. Unless you don’t want to.”
“We are outside already,” he said. “So we might as well.”
More people saluted them on the way than the Nameless cared to count. Men of all backgrounds, ages and states of sobriety cheered at the very sight of their god and his woman. He’d never received such adoration, even while the Cult of the Nameless was at its peak. And the crowd kept thickening as the pair approached the center of the encampment.
“Lord Nameless is here!” someone shouted. “Clear the way and let him pass!”
The mass separated within seconds, and the Nameless and Lydia kept moving. With their sight no longer obscured, their destination became apparent: the large, round table that was now set up before the command tent.
“There he is!” David shouted at first sight of the Nameless. He rose immediately, raising his cup. Everyone present followed his example. “Nameless, the Warlord of Babylon! The Savior of the Wastes! The bringer of our victory!”
The men’s cheering grew louder. Rhythmically, they chanted his titles one by one, not stopping even after he and Lydia reached the table.
“Your spot, my Lord.” A captain pointed to a pair of vacant seats to the left of David. The Nameless and Lydia moved there. He would have pulled out a chair for her, but an officer did it instead.
“You really came through for us,” David told the Nameless as they both sat. “I must admit, I thought you’d mess everything up, given how messed up you yourself were. I even placed a bet with the general here.” He pointed at Wallace, who quickly flashed a handful of currency chips.
Someone poured wine into both the Nameless’ and Lydia’s glasses.
David continued: “But I guess the joke’s on me. You pulled this off even better than the old you—pardon the expression—would’ve done.” He raised his cup again. “For Lord Nameless, I say! And to victory!”
“For our Lord! To victory!” everyone chanted. The Nameless was the only one to take a sip in sile
nce. He noticed Tarantula only after he lowered his glass. She sat exactly opposite him, chuckling as always at something only she knew.
SIM is still nowhere in sight, he thought as he turned back to David. “What of the other factions? I expect they will be on the move soon.”
“Oh, you can expect that without a doubt,” David said. “Not only are we still the most powerful faction in the Wastes, we’re also down not one but two others at this point. The Church and the Movement must realize that unless they act soon, they’ll have to either surrender or get conquered. And the news keeps spreading along the minor settlements—the ones still existing, anyway. Our ranks keep swelling. The more time passes, the stronger we’ll become!
“But hey, one thing at a time, right? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, I say we take ten. Ten months preferably, but nothing is certain in this day and age, I guess.”
“Agreed,” the Nameless said. He caught quick glimpses of both Lydia and Tarantula, seeing that they were both looking at him with amusement, then turned back to David. “I have noticed a complete absence of Juicers along the way here. Am I to assume they are being held captive for the time being?”
Instead of David, Wallace spoke. “Yes, my Lord. They’ve been spread across five of our biggest POW camps. Granted, we’ve had to upgrade a bit since we never took many prisoners before, but eventually they all fit.”
“Were they not promised membership in our army?” the Nameless asked.
“And they’ll get it,” Wallace said. “As soon as withdrawal passes. Assuming they’re still alive and capable afterward.”
Of course. Among everything that had been going through his head, the Nameless had forgotten about that detail. However…
“As far as I know,” he said, “and for whatever little that is worth, there is no surviving this withdrawal.”
“For some, there probably won’t be,” Wallace said. “Their late leader, the lieutenants, and some more elite forces. But the majority of the Juicers seem to have been on a stripped and watered-down version of the drug. What’ll happen to them, I guess time will tell.”
“I see,” the Nameless said. His plate caught his attention. A waiter had put a large piece of beef in front of him. It was freshly cooked, and not by any means over-spiced. Completely unlike what he’d had in the Babylon of his memory.
This is not too bad, he thought as he cut off a piece and put it in his mouth. Not bad at all, in fact.
“Like that?” Torres asked. “Not for every occasion, but hey, today’s the day we go big!”
The Nameless could only nod. His mouth was busy with his meal. It was, without a doubt, the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Why not? he asked himself as he kept chewing. I could learn to enjoy this life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Both he and Lydia were tipsy by the time they went to bed. The Nameless was, perhaps for the first time after setting foot in this world, relaxed.
That changed the very moment sleep took him in its embrace.
He was back in the cave, as tense and irate as he was the last time he visited. Around him were the same rough, black walls. The air he breathed had the same heavy and stale quality. And the figure that stood before him radiated the same amount of malice.
“Why do you keep hesitating?” the Nameless shouted with fury. While this whole scene was as unnerving to him as ever, he had nothing left to lose. “I am here, you are here. Either finish what you came here to do, or leave me alone!”
With eyes so black they made everything else seem bright, the figure maintained its unblinking stare. Then, with movements more akin to a windup doll, it stepped forward, not making a single sound.
Yes! The Nameless breathed in and tensed his muscles. This was it. As far as he knew, the figure might have even been SIM. To be honest, he didn’t care by this point. No one invades my dreams and lives to tell the tale!
His combat focus was interrupted by the sound of Lydia screaming. Surprised, the Nameless turned to his right, realizing that he’d been standing on their bed this whole time. Simultaneously relieved and disappointed that he was awake, he crouched to see if he’d accidentally stepped on her.
“What’s that thing?” she shouted, and the Nameless’ instinct took over. He pushed her over by the bed, leapt over, and covered her with his body. At that moment, a series of projectiles pierced the side of the tent where their heads would’ve been.
“Hide under,” he told Lydia as he rolled up onto his feet, facing the direction the arrows came from. His sense of disbelief, already taxed, was acting up again.
There was a hole in the wall before him. However, somehow, contrary to everything his mind knew would make sense, it didn’t lead out into the camp. Instead, it extended into the cave of his nightmares, wherein the black-clad figure stood. It remained in sight for as little as a second, disappearing into the ground as if it were a mass of liquid ink.
When it reappeared a moment later, it was right next to the Nameless.
Having seemingly sprouted from the ground itself, the figure swung a sharp blade of disturbing whiteness. The Nameless let it pierce his leg. Unlike the potential pain of having it tear through his groin, he could handle this. Not giving his opponent a chance to pull it out and do more damage, he punched the figure in the forehead with all the strength he had. The figure stumbled, letting go of the blade still lodged in his leg, and once again melted back into the floor.
Best leave it in, the Nameless thought as he grabbed into the faith-stuff of the ground and made himself a pair of short swords. He wasn’t keen on bleeding out faster. Interestingly, even though it disappeared downward, the figure wasn’t visible via his second sight, at least not initially.
Something shuffled behind him. He leapt forward momentarily, and the blade only grazed his back. He turned around as soon as he was able, only to witness the figure disappear back into the space between a pair of statues. It moves through the shadows! He turned around several times, trying to plan out a counterattack for each direction he could be attacked from.
No use. He opened his unseen eye again. The figure didn’t play by reality’s rules, so there was no reason why he should.
When the figure attacked next, he was ready. As it tried to emerge from the Nameless’ own shadow, he made the ground around it sprout a jagged ribcage. Had the figure passed through, it would’ve been sliced to ribbons.
The Nameless wouldn’t let it retreat easily. He plunged forward, willing the cage to separate as he stabbed at the already-melting figure. The blade he pulled back dripped something black and viscous, but his opponent was nowhere in sight.
Lydia! He turned to the bed. She is surrounded by shadows! He leapt forward. The woman’s muffled screams told him he had the right idea.
He let go of one blade and grabbed the bed, making its essence turn red. The figure was right underneath, its arm pressed over Lydia’s mouth as it dragged them both into who-knows-where. The Nameless would put a stop to it right then and there.
But what will happen to her if I interrupt their shadow-travel? he wondered for a brief moment. He concluded, Nothing worse than what this thing would do.
Now acting under his will, the bed’s insides turned into a curved, sharp spike. As the figure slid into its shadow with Lydia in her grasp, this spike pierced out from above them, not stopping until it exited out the back of the figure’s head. A single crack ran down the length of its face, followed by a trickle of black blood.
Move! The Nameless swung the bed aside. It moved mostly under its own power, ripping the mask off the intruder and making its fingers twitch one last time.
“Help me!” Lydia shouted as she grabbed the Nameless’ hand.
He pulled on her without a hint of restraint, expecting resistance. Instead, she slid out of the shadow-muck with relative ease. Sticky and dirty, she clung to him as firmly as she could, and almost made the blade go even deeper into his leg.
Out with you, now. He le
t go of Lydia and reached for his leg.
“One moment,” he said with gritted teeth. “This…” he pointed to what was left of the figure. “And that, they need to come out.”
“No, they don’t!” She went for a piece of the décor, a golden scepter with the head of a feathered serpent. She pressed it against the figure’s head and started pushing it into the muck.
“What are you doing?” He instantly swiped the scepter from her hand. “I need to see what that is.” He tried looking at the face, but half of it was in the goo “Who that is.”
The Nameless had seen his share of sad stares. The one Lydia gave him was among the worst of the bunch.
“You don’t have to, you know?”
“I do,” he said. He turned away from her, stepped into the muck, and grabbed the figure by the forearms. The stuff was slowly coagulating, but was still pliable enough. With a series of heaves, both the Nameless and the corpse were out.
Now to see. He pulled his hand over the blackened side of the figure’s face, but failed to wipe the stuff away. He then took the still-clinging side of the mask, and pulled it off. His jaw nearly hit the floor.
There were a couple of old scars, and the eyes were as black as coal, but he would know that face anywhere: Divine, the woman he’d left in the Dark Side, had come back for revenge.
Impossible! That happened in a vision. It wasn’t real—was it?
He felt down the length of her body, looking for her right leg. As he did, Lydia slowly lowered a hand on his shoulder. She was shivering.
“Don’t do it,” she said. “Isn’t this life nice? Aren’t I good enough?” Judging by the tone of her voice, she was crying.
It is. Yes, you are, the Nameless thought. He touched the figure’s shin anyway. It had been broken before. Twice, to be exact.
“None of this is real,” he said, looking into Lydia’s eyes as he rose. For the first time in a while, there was no doubt that he was right.