Xeena panted, the twitching form of Zafar leaking blood onto the floor. Groaning, her nerves regenerating, she heaved herself onto her knees.
“Titus, are you ok?” She took a moment to spit out some of the dead man’s viscera still in her tendril. Eugh.
Titus nodded, his form crumbled and twisted. Slowly, he raised his one good limb to produce a weak thumbs up. “I’ll… live. Please see to Stannock.”
Obeying the analyst, Xeena rushed over to the Stannocks, the Cambiar one hunched over the man, who groaned in pain. His legs had been snapped from hitting the wall and one arm was clearly dislocated. Yet, he was still conscious.
“Did… did we win?” Stannock murmured.
“Yeah Stan. We won.” Big Stannock patted his friend on the back. Likely aflush with pain, the injured man let out a weak moan before collapsing. The Tenau lifted his partner on his back, ready to take his partner away.
“I’ll take him down to the medbay, get him all fixed up,” Big Stannock said. “What are you guys going to do?”
Xeena scratched her neck, shrugging. Pulling Titus to a wall so he could support himself enough to lean up, she went over to a monitoring console to check on the ship. The earlier threat of Paradise’s ‘journey’ still loomed over the entire ship, or maybe even the whole fleet based on Erohin’s words. Xeena couldn’t trust what the madman said was true, but she didn’t want to leave it to chance. Flicking through the monitors, she could see that the power levels for both salvaged engines from Ruby Eye had been decreased, the risk of overload dissipated. Clenching a fist in victory, she used the cameras to search across the ship.
From the screens, she could see groups of Heaven’s Doctrine soldiers being rounded up and arrested by the hordes of Cambiar that had begun boarding the ship. It seemed that Zeentach and his forces could work fast once they put their minds to it. Many Paradisians refused to give in, instead fighting to the last man, with many choosing suicide over captivity. Xeena thought it was a sad fate for those who couldn’t even choose their circumstances of birth.
She came across a view of the S-Drive, a solitary figure sitting cross-legged. Keeper Thomas was slowly disconnecting himself from the device, retracting plugs and cords back into his robotic spine. He looked unsteady, like a man hungover. Stumbling to his feet, Thomas made his way to the door. Next, Xeena checked the hallways and corridors towards the hanger. The cameras inside the hanger had been disabled, but the surrounding areas leading to it showed many groups of allied troops converging, human militia and Cambiar soldiers moving as one.
The next people she recognized as she continued to flick through the next passageways were some of the Torchers – Xin, Dusty, Marcus and their alien partners. Almost as if one of his posters had come to live, Dusty was piloting one of the mechanized armour frames taken from Ruby Eye’s salvaged cargo. Ahead of the group of Torchers stood a singular pale man, white hair trailing down his back. He stood in an aloof stance, hands relaxed as he raised them in mock surrender.
Seeing that they likely had the situation under control, she adjusted her view to that of the fusion engine. Her throat seized up.
“Please, no.” Xeena could barely breath.
“Xeena?” Titus asked, trying to heave himself off the floor. “What’s wrong?”
A massacre had taken place. A battered Abel was distinctly the only one breathing amongst the bodies, lying on the floor covered in wounds. In a new view, one meant to look down on the core and control station from above, she could see a sight that collapsed her gut into a black hole.
The entire control section of the room had fallen and rotated, a twisted mess of steel and shrapnel barely hanging by a few cables. And, dangling at the bottom, legs whirling above the blue abyss, was Sal.
Xeena moved like she had never moved before, jumping through the bridge’s entrance and sprinting down the staircase, each step traversing a whole floor.
Please Sal, hold on.
<hr>
Dustin’s hand gripped the joysticks of the Durand Combat Mech’s controls as he attempted to realign the digital crosshairs on the man ahead of him. The odd looking man turned, swivelling on one foot to face them as the young engineer placed his unsteady fingers on the triggers, mentally preparing to squeeze them down hard. Outside the mech, Xin’s foot tapped anxiously as Marcus’ hand gripped the chassis, holding himself back from charging the figure. It was just their luck that the team had run into the one of the only men on the ship who could put the fear of god into them, even armed with a high-end mech. Dustin had definitely not expected to see a living legend in the flesh today, especially one as deadly as Mikhail ‘One-Shot’ Olegovich of the Broken Fang.
He had a slim figure and was decked from neck to toe in a black, one-piece bodysuit. It was the many mechanical armatures and blades projecting from his back and arms, as well as the multiple splatters of scarlet across his body that broke the idea that this man was anything but harmless. Slowly, one by one, the steel limbs retracted inside his body, folding into compact layers below his skin, as he held the uncaring posture of mock surrender. His right hand flexed as if motioning towards the mechanical sheath at his hip.
“Oh. Hey guys. How’s it going?” The clan prince asked like it was the start of a work shift following the weekend.
“Shut up, you Doctrine bastard!” Marcus snarled. “You monster! You’ve killed god knows how many people. Why shouldn’t I let Dustin here unload on you, turn you to a Heavenly mess?”
“Oh please. I haven’t killed any crew you would care for… yet. I’ve got my own code of honour, and plans that go beyond mass slaughter, thank you very much. Didn’t Sal tell you as much?”
Dustin stammered, “B-be quiet! How could we trust you? You’re a dangerous lunatic – no matter what sort of code you follow.” His weak voice was jagged glass shattered in his throat.
Even with a team of six armed people, including a Delkar and a powerful mech, something inside Dustin told him that they couldn’t take the man in a fight. The myths surrounding the warrior were beyond belief – entire stations singlehandedly taken over, winning all of the Doctrine Tournaments of Strength he had participated in with barely any effort, and wiping out lesser clans with almost no reinforcements were some of the lesser feats he was known for.
And now, Mikhail stood there, smirking. “Come now, I’m not your enemy. These idiots - cultists and mindless killers both – are the ones you should be shooting at.”
“And why don’t you fit into the latter, huh?” Marcus growled.
“Because…” Mikhail twirled a hand around thinking before he seemingly gave up on the idea. “Ok, look I’ll show you, but it’s best I can drop my arms. This pose is killing me.”
If he actually showed any sign of exhaustion, it wasn’t apparent. Dustin thought his black, fish-like eyes were akin to those of a barracuda, seconds from biting down on some weak prey.
“I haven’t had a good arm workout since I first pretended to be Michaels.”
Without waiting for confirmation, he slumped his arms down. Whistling, the silver haired man flicked out a comm-device from a pocket, wired up with attachments that jutted out at strange angles, and raised it to his ear.
As Dustin kept his fingers on the triggers, sweat slicking them once again, Xin caught his eye and nodded towards the attachments. Even as the junior-most member of the team, he could recognise some of the add-ons as range boosters and wide-band frequency strengtheners.
“Dusty, if he even thinks about calling for reinforcements, you light him up, ok?” Xin said, voice cold as death.
“O-ok.” Dustin was uncertain he could do it, lacking both the mental wherewithal and the physical capability, based on the warrior’s legendary tales.
Clearing his throat, Mikhail announced. “Attention all of those in the HL7628, or New Horizons, as it has come to be known, I have news. Whether you be Henry and Huell corpos, Heaven’s Doctrine clans, or you silly little buggers in Paradise, listen. This is Mikhail Olegovich. I, blood-heir third in line to the Broken Fang, am hereby declaring a soma-curse on the Jade Emperor Yuan Xia, cursed be his name, of Heaven’s Doctrine.”
Dustin couldn’t believe it. A soma-curse was a rare part of clan culture, rarely used by most clans, including the Emperor’s own personal holdings. It was the worst form of insult a clanlord could deliver but required specific criteria for it to be considered a valid curse, one that would haunt the target for the rest of their life. Dustin was far from an expert on Doctrine lore, but he had heard the rumours of the occasional backstabber staining a former leader or ally with a soma-curse. The main criteria were that the curser must have personally met their target, not through long-ranged or electronic communications, and to have gained a high level of their trust. Though the exact requirements varied, if Mikhail had indeed met the Emperor in person, a claim few in the galaxy could make, he would certainly qualify for both aspects.
“If you doubt the veracity of my claim, you can confirm it with the Dragon Guard – some eight months ago, my personal craft White Gold personally docked with his personal ship, Great Dragon. The docking codes and personal summons I received by them have been attached to this message. And so, I strike it thus – Jade Emperor. Your rotten, fetid hide will die by my hand one day. Let your clans run wild, it will be for naught. When the stars burn cold, even then my hatred for you and your weak heart will live on. The Broken Fang is no more. Now, Dawn’s Fang steps into the future.” He paused for a second, thinking. “Oh, and if anyone’s wondering, I can personally attest he is far from the demigod you may think he is. Whatever Evergreen or other alternative he is using is certainly not working. Good luck on putting the ‘corpse king’ back in the coffin he belongs him everyone. With that, I bid you all adieu!” With a click, he deactivated his comm-device and slipped it away.
The sudden change in tone towards the end of his speech only added to the confusion of those listening in the hallway. Marcus’ mask of hatred had become one of uncertainty, though he still gripped the mech with white knuckles and a hand holding his pistol
“Mikhail, are you sure?” Dustin said. “I mean, I don’t know you, and you seem kind of evil to be honest, but spitting in the face of the Emperor? Is that really a good idea?”
Dusty didn’t have much love to spare for any clanlord, let alone one with a reputation like Mikhail, but even he could see that this move was suicidal. Supposing the chance that all Doctrine forces were apprehended before they could escape, H&H would surely spread his message back in CCH space, recording and all, for the sake of propaganda.
The midnight eyed man shrugged. “Eh, screw it. I was going to go against him one day, and now I’ve got some new friends.”
“Friends?” Xin asked, looking around the tunnel as if she were expecting an ambush.
“Ah yes, the Ten-Tri have taken me on. We’ve got some great plans for the future. Big ideas, full of fun adventures and wonderful celebrations.” He looked down at an in-skin chronometer. “Ah, deepest apologies Torchers, but I must go. Time is fleeing quickly, so I must head for the hanger. Thanks for chatting, maybe we’ll speak in the future!”
Marcus raised his gun, “Hey, wait! We’re not done!” Mikhail made no sign he had heard Marcus’ order, and he instead tucked his hands into his pockets, turning to walk away. “Dusty, shoot him!”
With a jerk, and thrust into action by Marcus’ command, Dusty slammed the triggers down, the joystick controls heavy in his hands. The mech shifted its weight as its twin rotary cannons whirled to life. Automatic targeting systems locked onto the slowly walking assassin and unloaded everything the mech had. Lead filled the air, tracers trailing into the distance as the tunnel’s floor and walls were mangled by the regulated Masslock Rifles that dented and ricocheted the bulkheads ahead of them. And yet, not a single drop of blood from the man was spilt. Like a ghost, Mikhail’s movement became blurred as he dodged at speeds unfathomable, his figure little more than a smudged image in the air ahead. Dancing from side to side, flipping in the air in somersaults, the blur twirled about as bullets passed where he’d been just milliseconds before. When Dusty finally let off the rotary cannons, smoke rising from the red hot barrels, Mikhail came to a stop.
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Brushing off some imaginary dust off a shoulder with one hand and balancing a mushroomed bullet on the tip of a freshly drawn blade with the other, Mikhail looked up.
“That was fun,” He said. “You used mechs before, kid? Surprised you didn’t use the power blades in the forearms, not that they would have done much good.”
Dusty couldn’t respond. He gobsmacked, as were the others.
“Ah, you’re probably just a fan. Loads of kids are. A distant nephew of mine is really into that sort of stuff. Loves both the anime and live-action mecha stuff. Real nice kid. Where was I? Ah, whatever. Oh, before I go, there’s something I really wanted to tell Sal, but I’m sure you’ll pass it on. You guys are nice like that.” Mikhail cleared his throat in preparation.
He spread his arms wide, flourishing, “When I first met him all those months ago, I couldn’t get his name out of my mind. Vigino… Vigino… where had I heard it before? Of course, his background history stood out, surviving such a perilous event on Tartarus Nine and all. Then, it came to me!” He snapped his fingers for effect. “Tell dear old Sal to look into clan Greyalt, the Lost Hunters – there’s a certain someone rising in the ranks there, someone who will probably take over soon. That person who goes by the name Citra Vigino. Might be coincidence, but you never know.” He shrugged and gave an exaggerated bow.
“Now, I must dash off. Ciao!” And with that the pale figure walked away, whistling a tune and flipping his sword all the while, a streak of red light flashing with every movement of the weapon, radiating out from the modified baryplate coating along its spine.
The group gawked for a moment, the whistling fading into the darkness, before Xin could reclaim control of her voice.
“I don’t think we should go that way anymore.”
<hr>
Sal held on for dear life. Legs hanging loosely below him, he could feel the thrum of the fusion engine below. He was barely holding onto a guard rail, the entire control structure around him tipped downwards. During the initial collapse, Sal had lost his balance and grip, nearly falling to his death in an instant. Luckily, he had caught the rail at the last second, his shoulders aching dreadfully from the force. Twisted metal fell from above as the few wires that held the entire construct together vibrated under stress.
This was becoming a rough day for Salvador.
With all his strength, he pulled his torso up and braced against the rail. With enough support, he swung his legs over. Looking up at the crumbling monstrosity above him, Sal sighed. He’d been through too much for one day, and this was the cherry on top of the shit sundae. With slow and steady movements, Sal gripped the grated flooring, now a near vertical wall for him, and started to climb his way upwards.
It was far from the time or place to consider it, but Sal wondered how the others were doing. Abel had been badly beaten, but the man was strong, both in body and mind. Sal prayed that the lovable buffoon could hold on long enough for him to help him. Damn it, he would really have to make it up to him after this. Maybe a matching tooth of his own? Would Xeena give him one?
Gods, Xeena. He could not die now, not without seeing her cute face one more time. If it was the last thing he did, he would let her know how much he loved her, and how she had changed his life. Blue hues shining below, he still remembered the digging in of her claws from the night before, and he longed for her touch once again. Instead of slender fingers, Sal wrapped his digits around the increasingly wobbling metal plates of the catwalk. He had reached the control building when the first cluster of the debris fell down towards him, sharp swarms of death rapidly approaching.
Sal yelled as he was forced to swing to the side, relying entirely on his injured hand to hold his entire weight. Shrapnel the size of his entire body missed him by inches. Breathing still shaky from one more near-death experience that day, Sal continued upwards. His seared skin and bones were rebelling in agony, pleading with him to take a break, maybe even lie down if he could. No, Sal couldn’t give in, not now. The entire structure was not long for the world, and Sal would not go down with it. He had initially planned to circle the outer rim of the building, to climb along the area he had been sitting when it tipped, but the catwalk there had been entirely stripped away, forcing his path through the building itself. Squeezing through a shattered window, glass nicking at his arms, Sal pulled himself inside.
What would Xin think of him now? She had always been trying to worm into his heart, desperate to pry his past open, but Sal had always blown her off. Perhaps it was Xeena’s lack of resemblance to the women that had hurt him before, his mother and sister, that allowed her to stitch his wounded soul together. Still, he had seen in Xin’s eyes the last time they met that her previous fear had been tempered down, collared like a bad pet. Whatever she had gone through, she had tamed her past. If Sal had finally left the mindset Tartarus had scarred him with, maybe Xin could leave her memories of her last day as a pilot behind as well? Remembering Xin reminded him to ask her to remove that one saucy video; Xeena had learnt a little too well from the woman, and he had to curb his alien partner’s bedroom prowess somehow.
Marcus had been furious with Sal, that much was clear. Nevertheless, it was better to face that anger than to have walked away. Though marked in a way that went beyond Sal’s personal strife, the man had stayed strong and stuck by his friends. In that way, Marcus was the far stronger man. Yet, Sal hoped to rival his friend’s capacity for endurance and change, if he could make it out of this hellhole that was. Pushing past a now deadened computer terminal, he stretched towards the door above him, the one that lead to the entrance catwalk.
Stannock had surprised him. Truthfully, Sal had cared less for the man than the others in the group, his selfish nature an unintended stinging reflection of Sal’s own self-reliance. Knowing the two Stannocks had gone to help Xeena actually gave him some hope of success on their part. Mostly because Sal knew that anything that would put Xeena at danger would be a mark against their combined egos. Sal hoped to see them in their usual egocentric ways soon; that would be nice for once.
And Dusty, poor kid. The whole situation was far too much for someone like him. Tartarus Nine had been overwhelming for Salvador, but the loss of his family had prepared him for the unfairness of life. Dusty, however, had never known such horror before this attack. Sal prayed that the young man would overcome what he saw here today and continue to live as his usual self. That was if Titan didn’t break is pelvis after the situation was all cleared up. Sal still had no idea how the two of them fitted - maybe like how an anglerfish did?
Reminiscing on his friends had taken his mind away from his current predicament, but now was the time to focus. Another one of the few cables had snapped, turning the already tilted structure to a completely flat, vertical one. His ragged boots found little purchase against the grated floor; the spaces too small for the tip of his footwear to stick in. With each grab and pull upwards, he wrenched himself higher and higher. A shifting of the metal, and the sound of steel screeching below, signalled the disconnect and collapse of the main control building, crushing against the colossal plating of the core below with a thud. Sal hoped it hadn’t damaged one of the control rods but shook his head. He didn’t have time to consider that - he needed to escape.
The spaces between intact floor grates grew wider and wides, with him needing to stretch his arms wide apart to reach the next section. Biceps aflame, it was not far to the entrance platform he had come from. The throbbing of his heart in his chest deafened all other sounds, the drone of the engine behind him little more than a muffled drumming. One, two. One, two. Sal rhythmically moved, any pause jeopardising his concentration and risking his fall.
Within reach, the secure edge of the baseplate sat. Fingers glancing the edge, a jolt shook the structure. The wires twisted and snapped as the entire catwalk shot downwards by a few feet. Damnit! Sal held for dear life as the wall finally stopped, sitting much lower than before. The wires were at their limit, and the baseplate was out of reach now. Lugging himself onto the top of the catwalk’s edge, he could only stare in disbelief as the edge of the baseplate sat out of reach by a fair margin. Every second that passed wrought a groan of stain from the wire, the very threads of the metal unwinding before his eyes. Too far to jump and wires too weak to climb; Salvador was stuck.
So close, and yet so far.
<hr>
Elijah couldn’t help but stare as the entirety of the Out-Han fleet swarmed in on Fifth Spoke and other nearby ships, snake-like tubes extending from their hulls for boarding. Lighthouse’s near instant destruction at the hands of the fleet dug deeply into Elijah. This whole time the Cambiar wielded such power? For once, he decided to hold back on insulting the strange aliens around him, even as ‘Jeff’ repeatedly failed to insert the external communications board back into the terminal. Stupid thing, just fucking rotate the component, it’s not hard! But no, he held his thoughts to himself, Jeff could learn it in his own time. Instead looking to the side, beyond the debris field growing from Ruby Eye and Lighthouse, Starheart stood proud, the signalling lights and incoming communications confirming that the vessel had been secured.
Trailing away, a stream of ionic gas behind it, Marshstrider flew away. Gaining distance, it had announced that it had secured all the crew it could and would soon prepare for travel back to human space. Good riddance, Elijah thought. As much as he thought the Cambiar were too stupid and annoying for him to like, he could at least appreciate their success when it mattered. Seeing the sheer amount of internal corruption H&H had let into the Seventh Expedition Fleet had truly soured something deep within Elijah. That, and most of the crew were staying, and in Elijah’s eyes, wherever they were was where he was needed. God knows that the crew of the engineering deck would get sloppy without him looming over them.
Striding over to the aliens, he asked about updates on Fifth Spoke, recalling Titus and the others there were still at potential risk even if it sounded like Xeena had somehow killed Zafar, the fat bastard. Nothing had come through about the overall situation there, but increasing chatter from the hanger marked approaching action. That, and the Ten-Tri ship, Hammer of Victory was not docking along the Fifth Spoke’s midsection, but instead directly affixing itself to the hanger bay. What was going on? Were they deploying troops to secure the area, or were they doing something else?
It mattered not. His head was killing him after the strange, almost nauseating feeling and visions had disappeared, and he lacked the energy to do anything more. Sighing, Elijah considered the many people under his command as part of the engineering deck. All those workers, some bright eyed and fresh to the wonders of space, and others cynical and worn down but defiant to go on. Out of all the crew he had known over the years, the ones he thought of the most were the Torchers.
More specifically, how the hell was Sal doing?
<hr>
Sal looked down, a vast fall to a certain death lurking beneath him. Had Sal still been the man who’d just survived Tartarus Nine, knowing nothing but his own certainty, he would have seen such a distant end and embraced it. After all, he had thought that it was better to go out by his own hand than to struggle in the face of fate. But that was then, and times had changed.
Salvador had changed.
Looking up, the ledge high above him, there was only one possible outcome left. Taking one last breath, steeling himself, he crouched. Building as much strength as he could and ignoring the wires fraying all around him, Sal was a tightly wound spring, fit to bursting with all his remaining energy. Sal was ready to make the leap the Salvador of the past never could dream of.
The weaker Sal, one held back by fear and doubt would surrender himself and give in. But the Sal of today would not capitulate to the past. Never.
The tension snapped, and he hurled himself upwards, arms windmilling for a grip. As he left the platform, his last bit of force saw the cables holding the catwalk fall apart. Careening below, it too came to crash onto the core below. He leapt upwards, his mangled hand stretched as far as possible, digits twitching in anticipation.
Despite his injured state, muscles cramped, and skin burnt, he was more alive than ever. With a cry of exertion, he felt his upward momentum slow, fingers brushing against the bottom of the base plate. By a few inches, he was short.
Sal reached the periapsis between him and the ledge as gravity took him. It was the end, but Sal had fought hard. If nothing else, he had at least stopped the fusion core from killing those he loved. He wasn’t at peace, not until he could see Xeena one last time, but he could be satisfied with saving those he cared for. No matter what, Sal was glad he wasn’t on Marshstrider. Perhaps in death Sal could-
A tremor ran through his arm as a clawed hand latched his own, the strength of an industrial crusher on his limb.
“Sal!” Xeena cried, leaning all the way over the ledge, extended tail supporting their combined weight on a nearby rail.
“Xeena!” Sal couldn’t believe his eyes. She had come for him, and not a second to spare.
This was not the end.
Sal wheezed out a shout as he swung his other arm up to grab hers. Their eyes locked, and with a nod, she winched the two of them from the abyss. Inch by inch, they left the cobalt void behind. Finally, pulled to solid ground with a thump, the two laid astride, looking at one another. Panting, gasping, the two were motionless for some time. Xeena was the only thing in the universe Sal could register - the soft outline of her face, the relieved smile of her mouth, the small outcroppings of blue crystals on her head.
Oh, that was new. In fact, she looked rather new in general. Her body was lined with hard armoured plating, and he swore she had gained some height. Looking over, a line of embedded footsteps marked her path towards the ledge, the outlines of footprints clawing into the metal floor. She must have been moving at incredible speed and power, tearing up the ground beneath her.
With great effort, he hoisted himself onto his side, fully exhausted.
“Xeena… I…” Sal needed to say the words, to let her know that that he never gave in, that he loved her. Before he gave out, his weak body pushed beyond its limits ten times over, he needed to say the most important words he could.
Instead, she crawled over and placed a single finger on his lips. “Sal, there’s nothing to say. You came back. I knew you would.” She trailed a hand to his chest as the two of them sat up, supporting each other.
“Does it hurt, still?” she asked.
Sal lowered his own hand to his chest and outlined the scar from Tartarus. Many new ones had been added over the course of the day, not given enough time to heal, but the one that had anchored him down to a lesser life was painless. Closing his eyes and raising his gaze to the heavens, he sighed.
“No. My pain is gone.”
A simple phrase, but it felt the weight of the world on his heart had finally been lifted.
Together, they looked out towards the rest of the room. Senses dulled from the aftermath of his adrenaline rush, Sal only then noticed the chorus of Cambiar and human crews rushing in when he turned to look at them. They checked the bodies from Protheus’ battle as a group of medics sat around a moaning Abel. The injured man spared enough strength to look over at Sal and Xeena and give a thumbs up before the doctors and soldiers lifted him into a stretcher.
Sal thought it was a good idea to follow suit and leant against Xeena. Slowly, his body got what it wanted, and he let exhaustion take him.
“Rest well, Sal. You’ve earned it. Sweet dreams.”
And, having been given permission, Salvador slept.