The figure looming over him remained still, frozen, even the malleable flesh that comprised their fully illuminated face seeming to have locked in place. Bubbling silence rang in his ears.
The Corporal pondered, briefly, if this was indeed the tail end of a bizarre dream after all- if the alien image his mind had conjured out from the dark was so impossible it was finally enough to grind the swirling murk of illusion around him to a halt. His body was numb. Fibres taut, coiled and heated; he could feel the stillness as though it were tangible, weaving through the mesh beneath his armor.
The voices which he'd thought were so clear just moments before had swam away into the muted recesses of his helmet. His eyes caught movement in their periphery, but it seemed so sluggish, like it was naturally slipping in with the warping trees. The stillness of the nothing-militiawoman seemed to be mirroring his own, meaningless details displayed with such useless clarity.
Scopelike, except the trigger his finger was wrapped around didn't feel quite right.
-lost yourself then?
'No.'
"They've found him."
The voice returned- Wulfstan? Even the name seemed to sound clearer than the rest. Synapses briefly broke from his eyes, zipped their attention to something beginning to sharpen back into view off to the side. Oddly large, elongated… protrusion of some sort, tapering off to an off-color tip levelled at him. It took a moment to realize that somebody had a lance trained on him.
"Corporal?"
"Tell him to lower his weapon immediately."
"Corporal, stand down."
Stand down? He was already lying down. What threat did he pose to them?
"Hey! Asshole! I said, drop the pistol!"
Pistol?
The wiry, unfamiliar weight of it finally seemed to re-register with his nerveless glove, neural snyapses sparking back to life as he realized that the eyeless orbs of the woman kneeling taut still over him were very much fixated on the twiggy barrel levelled at her forehead.
He dropped the pistol.
A rush of movement ensued immediately, blue uniform cloth, bewildered gazes blurring through his unfocused eyes. There was a light tap of metal on metal as the lancer-militia…woman, he noticed as she came back into view, planted her lance flush against his chestplate.
Seemed a rather questionable gesture; would a detonation at this range not put both her and her companion under the threat of severe, if not fatal, injury as well? He glanced up, finding that the lancer's synapse-orbs- an odd green color standing out amongst the thin film of red cast over his vision- betrayed little in the way of hesitation or reconsideration of the action.
There was a certain… sharpness to the way she held her face of flesh and skin as well. Static, but different, somewhat, from the sort of- listless and blank stillness that radiated over the other woman (Ramona… yes, that was her name).
Whatever it was, it was rather apparent that she didn't mind her proximity to the target of her explosive ordnance; at the same time he didn't imagine she was particularly eager to fire either (he imagined she would've done so already otherwise).
"This discussion's going to be problematic if you're going to hold one of my soldiers at gunpoint."
"He made the threat first. They won't fire unless he gives them further reason to."
The lancer's hair appeared to be a peculiar shade, was hard to discern through the blood on his lenses. It was almost even more jarring than Ramona's appearance, considering the rest of her body was actually amply armored- almost looked as though somebody had stitched her flesh-face onto a perfectly regular soldier's body.
'Stitched'. That didn't sound quite right.
"Wulfstan, who exactly are 'they'?"
"…Linton, and Heitinga."
Who were those? It couldn't be these two, he knew at least one of them wasn't named either 'Linton' or 'Heitinga'.
"Where are they right now?"
"Hold on Welks, I think I can see them- look, just over there!"
There was something familiar about the way their faces were… molded, the gaudy outlandishness of their hair, certainly alien- somewhat doll-like. Not the sort that the Machine sewed together, but the ones floated within the Glass Pedestals, the ones too clean and fleshy-looking to be wrought from mere string and cloth, to be strewn about on the mist-shrouded stone streets and hanging limply from twiggy fingers, to be... 'stitched' onto a body that was not their own.
…
"Hmm. Well I can't say I blame them for being so startled- Alicia, take two men and head over, bring them all back over here. Wulfstan you, err… stay on overwatch, keep me updated. We need to get some answers."
"You can get them without holding one of my soldiers hostage."
"I'm afraid I'm not very inclined to believe that, given the lackluster response I've been provided with thus far."
…
…
Machine, Glass Pedestal… memories, of something. A misty, shrouded mirage of familiarity- was it all merely a dream? Nothing.
He tried to think of the last time he held a real doll within his hands, felt the calloused mesh of it against his gloved palm- it seemed, preposterous, the more he thought of it. Could he even dream of something he had never known?
"Hey! Audrey! Ramona! Uhh… don't shoot! The guy you just found!"
Light flared into his eyes, as the lancer woman craned her neck over to the shouting voice and eased away enough for a pocket of sunlight to break through. He blinked, in response.
"Let's try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing in the middle of Kloden?"
"Boss, uh… you *did* see that guy they just found, right? Whoever they are, I can tell you for a fact they aren't Gallian and they sure as *hell* don't look friendly."
"Yeah, they might as well be asking for a lance to the face walking around anywhere like that- I'm with Largo on this kid, don't think talking's gonna do us much good."
"Well shit. Feels like a while since you've openly agreed with me on something."
"Piss off Potter."
"Rosie, Largo, if you're going to protest against negotiations I would prefer you do so in a manner that doesn't actively undermine them by broadcasting your opinions over the radio."
Machine, Glass Pedestal, stiches and dolls- he could hardly follow those dangling threads of thoughts anymore with all the noise over the radio. Even the Captain's voice, Wulfstan's voice, were lost in the maddeningly bolded swill. It was nauseating. He had to focus.
On what?
On it.
Thundering footsteps. It was all perfectly out of synchronization, thumping beats on the inside of his head growing louder and louder.
"Your… concerns are understandable. But we are not your enemies."
It felt like something eased off his chest- a moment later he realized it was because the lancer-woman had turned away from him.
He breathed, organic lungs contracting and letting a raspy breath slip out of the mouthfilter of the facemask that enclosed him so.
It was… close.
Too close.
'…lost yourself, then?'
'No.'
"You've been consistently avoiding Lieutenant Gunther's questions. Your soldier was fleeing from the battleground when I first saw him and you yourselves refuse to come out from hiding. None of those things are particularly supportive of your claim."
"Exactly. I'm going to give you one chance to thoroughly explain yourself- if you fail to do so, I'm afraid that, given our circumstances, I'll have no choice but to assume that you're hostile."
The two militiawomen disappeared into a shuffling mess of uniforms and faces overtop of him, too many to keep track of anymore. He felt a sudden urge to swipe away the blood that clung to his eyepieces.
"Who the hell is… he? Is he even human?"
"He's not doing anything… you sure he's actually alive?"
"Hell if I know. Hasn't said a damn thing to us for somebody who was staring down a lance for the last minute or so- what're you doing over here anyway?"
"Guys, pipe down. They're still trying to figure this out over the radio. Ted try to… get him talking, or, up, or something."
"Uhh… yeah. Sure."
"We're part of a mercenary unit. We accepted a contract with the Imperial Army, protection detail for a package they were transporting over the country. They turned on us when we were nearing our destination, here in Kloden."
…
…
What?
"Hey… uhh hey?"
That certainly wasn't how he remembered it. Though he didn't remember much to begin with he supposed.
He felt something shift under his eyes, orbs… shifting. Like something was trying to close over them, almost. It helped to sharpen his view ever so slightly, but if anything it just made it more difficult to sort out this conundrum. He could begin to discern the figure in front of him, features swimming amongst a sludge of spotty red.
Mercenaries. He let the word roll about in his head, trying to gauge the appropriateness of it. It felt wrong. Didn't have a place in the rain and rubble, the dust and shrub, blood and dirt.
"That's who we are. That's why we're here."
No. It wasn't.
Command, they following orders from Command. That was what they were doing. That was who they were. That was how it always was.
He breathed a raspy breath, let the pressure gathering in his chest scrape out of his mouth filters.
"Helloo? Anyone awake in there?"
He felt something tap against the scalp of his helmet. He blinked, looked up, tried to focus on the figure kneeling in front of him. No helmet, no mask, just a fleshy face. All the blood was making it hard to see.
So he reached up with his right hand, as the other was still anchored to the pistol and raising it would likely be seen as a hostile action- and dabbed at the viscera-coated lens of his mask.
The uneven paste of red fluid gave little resistance, sliding off of his eyes rather cleanly and leaving only a few raw streaks of crimson behind. They jabbed into his view like little bloody needles.
"That… would certainly explain some things. Do you have any idea why they would turn on you though? The Imperial Army doesn't seem like they'd be particularly stingy or lacking in funds to try and avoid holding up their end of a contract."
"Oh. I, guess you're alright then."
He blinked again, to let his unfocused synapses resynchronize with his eyes- he saw a boy, brown eyeorbs, oddly shaped dark hair that seemed to stand up from his scalp. The flesh warped and contorted freely as he talked away, toothy maw flapping daintily and eyes arching upward in a… disturbing rush of movement. It was difficult to keep track of.
"We haven't really been introduced yet, have we? Where are my manners, heh. I'm Ted. So, you are…?"
He stared back blankly, deafening silence ringing in his ears. The Corporal paused, still… parsing the question.
"We… discovered, exactly what it was we were escorting."
"…and?"
Corporal. The name actually sounded odd in his head, swirling around in his own garbled voice- he never had needed to identify himself to anyone of course, anyone who had needed to address him before already knew everything they needed about him. 'Corporal' was generally what they defaulted to, the most concise and convenient identifier they could attach to him.
Some…thing, suggested that wouldn't be what these people were looking for. Wulfstan, Ramona, Ted- they wanted a name from him.
"They wanted to keep it under wraps, of course. Stopped us in the middle of this forest, couple grunts took the package away on foot- and then left the rest to tie up us 'loose ends'. You can see how that turned out for them."
"What was the package they were transporting?"
"I'm…"
It felt like he could actually hear his own voice for once, reverberating within the carapace of his face for once- almost, echoing, bouncing about in some sort of hollow shell.
His radio transmitter was evidently still off, mask's external speakers on- Ted's face had shifted bogglingly again, eyebrows perking up on edge in what could only logically be deduced as response to his voice.
"…not an enemy."
It felt… about right, to say. For now. It sounded like something the Captain would say at least.
The response he received this time was even more baffling- the boy, after allowing his facial muscles to remain still in a rare moment of reprieve from the unreadable mess of motion, let loose a hesitant chuckle.
"Haha… a joke, then? Whew, glad to see somebody with a sense of humor I guess. Was worried you'd be one of those real downers for a moment there, heh."
That… most certainly wasn't intended to be a joke. But it had apparently served to appease the boy, who was now holding out a fur-gloved hand-
"You, uh, need some help getting up?"
-So he supposed that it had been close enough to a correct response.
Status is green.
"No."
"Oh. Well okay, I know we didn't all exactly get off on the right foot, but you can get up now- I mean, unless you really need a dirt nap right now. Although even if that were the case they kinda ordered me to get you up and walking, heh."
He glanced up at the other militiamen- women- all of them female- to gauge their reaction, see if they too were as… satisfied with the situation- but they all had their backs turned to him, huddled around a single radio receiver.
For people who had just earlier been wary of his presence they certainly weren't being very cautious anymore. They were still hanging on the end of the Captain's radio silence it seemed.
He was as well. 'Lay low', was all he was told- no instruction as to what to do in the case of discovery.
The pistol's weight in his left hand suddenly re-registered. Where was his rifle?
He looked back to Ted, but the boy had done little more than remain kneeling there and staring at him- expectantly, perhaps?
"We were escorting a canister of Ragnite Gas."
"Ragnite Gas? Son of a bitch. Guess those radio reports about Ghirlandaio weren't bullshit after all."
"They must have been trying to take it to their supply base here… and you say they got away with it?"
"Affirmative."
The boy's eye orbs- a dark and... solid, shade of brown- seemed to phase in and out every so often, fleshy eyelids closing down upon them in intervals with such speed it was barely noticeable. The sort of thing one would miss if they blinked-
-blinking. Ted was blinking.
"And so you're stranded here, with no employer and no reason to be in Gallia."
"…that would be an accurate summary of our situation, yes. We owe no allegiance to the Imperial Army and have no reason to be hostile to Gallian forces. I would request that you allow us to part ways without… further incident."
There was shift in the ground, rustling leaves. He glanced up as the four other militiawomen turned to face him now, their weapons held level by their waists. He stiffened somewhat as he noticed one pair of gloves- a deep black leather as opposed to the brown furs of the others- awkwardly clutched the length of his rifle. It was easy to distinguish from the others, mechanically carved and dark as opposed to the worn wooden frames of the Gallian weapons. They held it at a strange angle, the hard geometric edges resting uneasily in their right-handed grip.
His gaze trailed upwards of its own accord, to see exactly who it was that was so unnaturally hefting his weapon- he saw a familiar shock of orange hair, a blankly staring set of blue eye orbs. 'Ramona'. She must've picked the rifle off the ground without him knowing in all the commotion.
"I'm afraid I can't just let you go that easily and trust in your good word."
"The alternative would be an undoubtedly bloody engagement for both of us."
"Perhaps- but if you were willing to give yourselves up, we could take this discussion to an, at least, more secure location. If you're really mercenaries as you say- thenthe Gallian militia may even have some use for your talents."
"…are you offering us a contract?"
"Maybe. We still need to make sure you're telling the whole truth- and even then, this is the sort of thing my Captain would handle. But as you said, the alternative would be an undoubtedly bloody engagement. Surrender, and perhaps we can all benefit out of this."
"I dunno about this Boss. Something about them don't sit right with me."
A moment of stillness hung in the blood-tinged forest air- his hand tensed ever so slightly around his pistol. None of the militiawomen made a move to level their rifles at him yet, but Ted was starting to subtly inch away from him now- and Wulfstan was still watching him.
If it did come to a firefight, there wouldn't be much he could do. And even he could understand that the Captain was in no position to bargain.
He could feel his gaze trailing towards his own rifle again.
"Very well. We're coming out from the rocks at the bottom of the depression, hold your fire."
"Copy that. Group leaders, fingers off the trigger, get down there and escort them back to us. Keep it in formation, let's not linger too long in these woods."
"Hey Blood Money, how many you got with you?"
"Two others."
"Alright. Just hand over your weapons, don't try anything funny."
"Copy that. Over and out."
And that was that. The Captain gave no further direction to him- and so the Corporal complied with their last directives over the radio, offering his pistol handle-first to Ted.
After a moment's hesitation, the boy took the weapon from his hands.
A strange feeling of weightlessness washed over the Corporal.
Somebody else spoke, the voice's high pitch meshing poorly with the firmness it tried to address him with. He didn't even bother trying to discern which of the four militiawomen it came from.
"Alright, get off the ground. You're coming with us."
He got off the ground, and went with them.
