Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #26: Blindsided in the Back. I know this is like five or six days early - it has been a long time since I've ever posted ahead of schedule - but I have to say that this chapter just had to be written and I could not stand still. It is just as long as the ending chapter of Arc 2, meaning shit it about to go down. Last chapter dealt with Shulk getting one last conversation in with Fiora, a calm before the storm if you will, and a chapter that brought me to tears quite frankly. I'm afraid that this holds up here too... time to see if any predictions come true. Review replies!
Guest- When I had first read the first line of your review, I thought you were saying you didn't like the chapter! xD I got upset a little bit, because I thought I pulled out all the stops with this one, but I was reassured. Thank you so much for your kind words! When I write this story, I can literally be having the worst day, and just thinking about what happens later on in this piece gets me amped up even further. Expressing the characters thoughts is why I love 3rd person present tense so much, it does just that. Hold onto that guess!
Metroid-Killer- That's a thing indeed. And thank you, I'm glad for the compliment. There's a bit of action in this chapter that makes me quite nervous for how it'll be received, but I'm sure I did pretty good. Every character pretty much does have a negative backstory. The only ones we know either a little or nothing about are Lucas (he can't have a tragic backstory, he simply isn't tragic to begin with), Cloud, Pit, Ness, and, truth be told, Snake. The external influence... it's gonna be a doozy.
Mr. Squirtle6- I love your reviews. Just, thank you. Robin isn't necessarily f'd up, because she is perhaps the sanest one of them all. Everything that happened in the ballroom was all in her head, but the significance of what happened is something that won't be revealed until much later. Thank you for the compliment; part of my reason why I love this story so much is the characters through and through. While they may be tragic and depressing, there is something sincere and enjoyable with them that I cannot drift away from. Shulk and Fiora had me crying too, the mechanics of that was quite difficult to vocalize. Good to hear that #25 was your favorite, but I think this one here, #26, and pretty much all of Arc 4 will dethrone #25.
Thanks for the reviews guys! Keep them coming! Enjoy Chapter #26: Blindsided in the Back.
Sheik brings the warm cup of cocoa up to her lips, savoring in the clash of bitter and sweet flavor, the liquid being quite hot. She curses, almost dropping the coffee cup on the table, eliciting a few awkward stare from the other patrons in the lobby of the hotel. She doesn't mind them, instead stirring it some more with her spoon, adding a few more sugar packets in. Her gaze is transfixed on a television screen in the corner, hoisted on one of the walls in the corner. She's mad at herself for sleeping in, as today is the day she makes history; she'll make her name known across the country and around the world. There's been whispers circulating the hotel as she's heard a few guests at the pool or walking back to their room speaking of this 'amazing' gift being given from the silver snake herself.
The rebel can only think of one thing; a Syrenet branch is being implemented sometime soon. She needs to act, and act fast unless the opportunity goes slipping through her fingers. She wants to stand in front of her father and put her hands on her hips to proudly declare that she's done a great service to her country. Rooting the enemy out root and stem is what she's been told to do all her life. What does it matter if it happens to the be the president? A single penny in her cup.
She takes a bite of her waffle, the butter giving the golden pastry a shimmering gloss of fluorescent yellow, and if she aligns it just right under one of the lights, it's the same color as her hair. Just adding a few extra thousand milligrams of sodium and caloric uptake through the high heaven, and she's good. As crumbs spray everywhere from her latest bite, the news channel on the TV screen switches stories.
The anchor is a man, but Sheik doesn't really care about the new face, but rather what's under it. In big, acrylic white letters for a headline, a statement is written. Syrenet dedication today at noon, in front of the Town Square. The president, vice president, director of the FBI, and numerous employees of the Syrenet corporation shall be at the event.
It as if a wire is triggered somewhere inside Sheik's brain. She sits back in her chair, hands gripping the edge of the table, unsure of what to do... how to move. She bites on the outer rim of her lip. Is there enough time to make preparations? A few of her cohorts are currently licking their wounds in another part of the city after their failed attack the night most of the Syrenet group went drinking.
Her hands are elevated, stuck in the air, unsure of what to do. A noise hits her ears from far off, dull and quiet, a slow rumble that buzzes up and down her left side. Sheik is slow to realize that it's her phone that's going off like berserk. She fumbles for it like she had with the coffee cup, pulling it out as fast as she could. The caller ID reads: Amber.
Sheik's heart soars. Amber. Amber can fix this. She hits 'accept' and puts the device up to her ear. There is so much energy wrapped in the blonde's body that she's bobbing up and down on her heels like an excited little child, eager to get ready and get the show on the road.
"Amber?" she says excitedly. "Amber?"
"I take it that you just saw the news?"
"Yes!" Sheik almost shouts, once more gaining awkward stares with a few glares mixed in. She wants to pull out her pistol and shoot them all dead if it gave her peace and quiet. An opportunity is here and she's not about to let it slip through her fingers like sand; a failed sandcastle will not be the sum of her ambitions and all the hard work she's endured since the beginning. It's her that is staying up till the wee hours of the morning with sketches of city plans, summaries of Syrenet's 'goals', contact numbers for associates around the country, arguing - oh the arguing - for weapons, the training, and the moment when she puts her plans into action. No one has done as much as she had, and no one will do as much as she has done after she passes into the soft ground. There's been a few bumps along the way, but that isn't something she catches herself up with.
"Then take my word of advice," Amber's tone is almost motherly. Sheik snorts. Amber is not fit to be a mother. "Don't."
That brings the party train to a halt. Sheik feels like she slammed into a wall going a hundred miles an hour, with copper filling her mouth, a bitterness far worse than stale coffee sitting on her tongue. The lines in her vision blur, the sound becomes distorted, and she's looking at the phone as if it's radioactive. Did she just say what she thought she just heard? No? No? How dare she! After all the two have been through!
"No?" Sheik hisses. "No?"
"No," Amber says it again, this time firm and final. "Don't threaten me, Sheik. Even in an inebriated state I could kick your ass."
The blonde leans into her phone to avoid the steely looks and the conspicuousness flowing her way. "I am not letting this opportunity go to waste!"
"An opportunity to do what? Kill all of them?"
"If it comes down to that."
"What happened to not killing anyone?"
"It's war."
"This isn't war, Sheik. You're just a little girl playing at one."
That is a slap to the face. Sheik reels back in her chair from that, white rage flooding her vision. Underneath, a volcano begins to boil in her stomach, billowing, burning, raging, and all for one particularly nasty woman. Sheik has never heard Amber be so against her plans, and she's unsure exactly why she's starting now. This hasn't happened between them in a long time, not since they met if the blonde recalls correctly.
"I will pretend that you did not just hear you say that."
"Pretend away," Amber dismisses Sheik's scorn with the wave of her hand; the rebel can practically feel the sarcasm oozing out of every pore. "It won't make a difference."
"When this is over, I am so going to-"
"Going to what?" the other woman interrupts her. "Kill me? You very well know you can't do that. You need me. I'm the angel on your shoulder. I die, you lose every credible sense of morality and goodness in you."
Sheik's hands envision strangling Amber. Pale hands wrapping around an olive-green complexion, scarlet hair spilling around her fingertips, the hair color matching the bruises and splotches marking Amber's neck as Sheik squeezes and squeezes. Life begins to drain out of the emerald stare, and Amber's clawing at the blonde's body, but she's unrelenting in her fury. I am the storm. You are the shipwreck. When a storm encounters a ship, it is destroyed and wrecked, and that is what I have become to you. I am unhinged. I am as dark as the night. I am Syrenet's worst nightmare.
"Maybe I want you gone."
"Even you aren't that foolish for that," Amber laughs bitterly. "I've never even got to ask you. This whole 'war' of attrition... what exactly are you fighting against?"
"Syrenet," Sheik replies, her words as smooth as cream.
"That's great, but you never directly stated anything," the rebel goes to interrupt, but Amber has make a stuttered cluck with her tongue. "Syrenet hasn't been able to launch one successful branch here in the States. Why? Because of groups like you and the West coast who simply won't give them a chance. Hell, I've had inside cover for weeks and I still don't know what's up! So, tell me Miss Rebel Queen, what exactly are you fighting against, concerning Syrenet."
"We've been over this before."
"No, we haven't."
"Something just seems off about it," Sheik elaborates, rolling her eyes. While she's here debating the morality of pushing an all-out attack against these corrupt villains of the state, those same corrupt enemies are digging their stake deeper into the Midwest territory, marking up the soil with the mark of the beast and the smell of greed and vileness pouring from every crevice there is to be found. "Free technology. Free suits of armor for the police and coast guard and state militias... it has to have a catch!"
"And what do you think this catch is?"
"Mind control!"
Amber laughs, but it comes out more like a mixture of a snarky bark. "Mind control? Mind control? Jesus! Sheik, do you even hear yourself?"
"Don't laugh at me!" Sheik yells back into the phone. "I'm serious!"
"I hope you were on meds before, and simply you've just lost them."
"I'm going ahead with my plan."
"And pray tell what is it?"
"As if I'm going to share it with you."
"Thousands could die."
"Thousands die all over the world," Sheik spits, her voice full of venom; she's seen the photos of malnourished children with their bowl-like stomachs, the ribs jutting out like mountain ranges, the hunger evident in their eyes as they cry and sob, yet no crops are produced from the rain of their tears; fake promises given by the leaders of the world... and if her fabled hero country, the United States of America, allows world hunger, who's say to total domination is not that far off? "Sometimes innocents act as collateral for good things."
"Good things doesn't include dismantling what could be our country's saving grace."
"If any more words like that come out of your mouth, I'm hanging up."
"You're crazy," Amber stutters a chuckle, her voice breaking into an airy peal of laughter. "I never really thought about it, but Sheik Braring, you're fucking crazy."
Sheik smirks at the phone. "I'll embrace my craziness, thank you very much."
"I'll be in the area. For the meeting. I see you or any of your posse friends, I'm ending the operation where it stands."
"I'd like to see you try."
The blonde is met with the buzz of static. Sheik sets her phone down on the table, looking back up at the TV screen. The news station had moved on by now to a different story, but she's heard all that she's needed to hear. She pictures him - Sheik's father - on a hill, and although he's not dead, he's dressed all in white like an angel. She goes running up the hill, embracing him like she once did as a child, and he swings her up and around with vigor, vitality pouring out of his muscles. They'll hug, and he'll break into a grin that causes Sheik to smile. I'm proud of you, my darling. I'm so, so proud of you! Your mother is too.
Sheik downs the rest of her coffee, gasping in exhilaration as the last murky drop vanishes behind porcelain lips, and she's standing up, pushing her chair in. She grabs her phone, flipping it back open. Putting on a pair of shades, a pair that had been nestled in the opening of her shirt, she simply nods at the man sitting - rather, he's sleeping - behind the concierge desk.
She walks through the sliding glass doors, feeling the warmth of the sun soak into her skin, the beautiful feeling of love and a new era rushing headlong to meet her. The blonde dials another number into her phone, putting it up to her ear to hear the melodious ringing, and the voice of a confidant, her confidant, and a man who will never fail her.
"Zant? It's Sheik. Good, good, glad to see you're up. Meet me a few blocks behind the town square, downtown Chicago. See the news. A Syrenet meeting. It's time, Zant. It's finally time. And dammit, we're gonna win this thing!"
Sheik finishes her call, smiles, and places one hand on the butt of her pistol, the weapon hidden behind the covering of her jacket.
She's going to enjoy putting a bullet between Corrin Etch's eyes, and it'll be a joy that she cannot wait to experience, even if it kills her.
There's too much noise fluttering around the complex. Marth deduces it to himself as he's sitting on the floor in the foyer, waiting for the rest of the group to finish getting ready. Amicable noise floats from the hallways, out of the bathrooms, it spirals out of the kitchen and from the floorboards. Why is the world so damn happy? He's certainly not. An evident lack of sleep is apparent on his face, from the slightly worn out bags of shadows under his eyes, or the fact his hair hasn't even been run through with a comb.
He's wasted all of his time getting into his Syrenet suit, a piece of metallic junk that he hasn't seen in what's felt like eons. When he's in his bedroom holding the helmet that goes with it in his hands, he flips the visor up and down to get a look at his reflection. He isn't exactly thrilled by what he sees; dryness and a lack of life stirring from within, eyes that gaze but do not emote, a forever creased brow to exemplify his worry, and hidden from the visor view, an insurmountable weight of the world. As the leading commander of the mission, he's the one who organized the perimeter, he's the one who has to be the first person to jump into the fray should anything go wrong... he'll be the first one who goes running when the copper is spilled, he'll be the first to scream in terror as a vigilante comes running full speed at him with a knife. He'll be the first one to call it quits, to drop his suit in a fit of fury. He's waiting for the onset of a panic attack, but nothing is coming up or rising from deep within. Yet. There's always a yet.
Marth's clutching a wooden totem in his hands, having taken it from one of the board games Pit packed the night before. His book is stuck in a backpack that's nestled in one of the crooks of his room. The story has been quite engaging, a much better medieval fantasy of a foreign knight from a faraway land striking a deal with a native queen, their story of falling tragically in love, and the war that bequeaths the continent from the queen's blatant stupidity at being incapable of seeing when her friends are no longer her friends anymore. The reason why he grabs the totem is that since there's no time to get delved back into his book without being jarred out of it, his hands need something to do.
Resting against his leg is his AI Unit's disk. He could turn it on, but he chooses not to. He doesn't want to hear his AI Unit's nagging voice in his head. In truth, Marth has one of the most supportive digital pieces of technology ever created in Syrenet's history, aside from Lucas. Her name is Lucina, modeled to be a somewhat spitting image of him with the blue hair, blue eyes, and an outfit decked entirely out in an azure color. He smirks to himself, a slight upturn of one of the corners of his mouth, all because Lucina fills his head with confidence and bravado, but the moment he turns his head away from her, it's filled with shallow thoughts. You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough. All Corrin thinks of you is that you're a failure. Ike really doesn't like you, it's just a ruse to earn your trust...
A shadow looms over Marth's form, and it causes the bluenette to look up. He's half expecting to see Ike staring down at him with a frown, because it seems to be the same ole, same ole clinical depression that runs the circuit, but Marth's surprised to see that it's Mac of all people. He hasn't really spoken all that much to the secret service agent, for Mac has this façade of being one of those tried and true men, a manly man who doesn't take no for an answer and would find Marth's weakness and depression to be the ruining of him.
However, Mac's awed face is not what he expects as the beginning of the conversation.
"What is it?" Marth asks.
"I haven't gotten to see a suit yet. It looks... it looks... cool." Mac's eyes are wide, scrutinizing over every inch of Pit's handiwork like a kid in a candy store.
"Yeah, they're quite cool. Pit worked hard on them," the commander agrees.
On the simplest basis on describing a Syrenet suit, it is fashioned after a piece of armor, but looks quite no different from a tuxedo that has a glossy sheen to it. The pockets are lined like a utility belt, full of grenades, pistols, knives, and other firearms that could be the difference between dead and alive. Putting on the helmet and visor allows for the AI Unit to get inside the suit, attaching the disc to the spot provided by the left temple. Lowering the visor gives the AI Unit a workspace to program other functions in the Syrenet suit, like shoot missiles, have a bird's-eye view of the battlefield, scan for incoming enemies and weapons, and act as a metaphorical guy on their six. On the current mission, only Shulk, Ike, and Marth have suits of their own, while Roy's is almost like a fish out of water without having an AI Unit in his head to help direct him.
Marth wonders where Roy's AI Unit went. He scours over the names in his head. Lucina. Lyn. Lucas. Kuro. Dedede. Lucario. It's quite laughable how many of the names begin with the letter 'L', but Marth digresses his train of thought. Ness, Marth remembers. Roy's AI Unit's name had been Ness, and all the bluenette remembers is Shulk muttering that the poor fellow had to be put out of commission for faulty programming. Lucas's heartbroken face shall forever be engraved in the commander's face, but it any time Marth finds himself thinking about it, he frowns.
He's been working with Syrenet for years and never once has heard of faulty programming. What is destitute as faulty programming? Who's fault would it be, Pit's or the AI's? As Shulk puts it when pressed for an answer that doesn't sound so fake, the reason is that Ness obtains access for a file he's not supposed to see, accidentally leaked it, and is put out of his misery for the error.
"A grave error," Marth intones darkly. "Anything we do is grave."
The bluenette has been so wrapped up in his own thinking that he doesn't see Mac shuffling his hands, standing in a different corner over by the wall. The secret service agent tosses a glance back at the commander, then to his shoes, commander, shoes, and does this several more times, thinking that Marth doesn't see it. After a few more minutes of this, it finally sets an uneasy feel over the bluenette's skin.
"What's wrong?" he asks again.
"I shouldn't say," Mac apologizes, his face flushing.
"You've been looking at me for the past three minutes. Something's up."
"I've just been thinking..."
"About?" Marth raises an eyebrow.
"It's- it's inappropriate..." Mac looks ashamedly down at his feet, shuffling them on the tiled floor.
Marth looks at the secret service agent in confusion, but half of him goes through a cycle of remembrance. When he looks at the ex-boxer, the ex-Wal-Mart security guard, the ex-alcoholic, and now the new leader of the secret service personnel, he sees himself. A youthful man, although if Marth does the math correctly, Mac is older than him. A youthful man dropped into a cage of lions, with nowhere to turn to, and getting thrust into his hands a lot of information to take in. When someone's arms overflow with items and pieces that they have no use for, the pile becomes dead weight, heavy weight, and a weight that sits on your mind for eons to come. A lasting impression that you're somehow failing at keeping people safe, that the president is never happy for you, and that no matter what you do, it's never right.
There's a connection between them, Marth realizes, but how so is quite hard to articulate. He doesn't have the jealousy issues that Mac has, as the bluenette is not blind at seeing how Mac flashes glares at Roy whenever the redhead is fixed at something else, or the possessiveness that creeps up in the secret service agent's voice whenever he's talking with Midna, and how he ignores or misses Midna's gazes back at Roy with a bit lip and a look of worry plastered in her eyes. Mac is always, always apologizing to his superiors, in a way that it becomes annoying more than endearing. Worrying that things are always going wrong, worrying that Corrin will never be happy. Worried that the jaw of the leviathan that it is Washington D.C and the political schemes that surround it are shutting you in till there's no light, no air, and no hope.
An emotion that surges between those involved in the Etch administration is the feeling of being heartbroken, knowing that things are not going your way and that they'll perhaps never go your way. Marth concludes on the fifth day on the job as a new Syrenet commander that the pressure involved in making sure the cogs run right and are well-oiled is harder than it sounds, with seventy people trying to murder you each day, or employees that compromise themselves willingly to fault a mission as their heart is no longer in it. A few of his old bullies' faces flash as Marth thinks this, and he wonders about their fates. Are the beggars on the side of the road? Do they hold out a pitiful cup that is stalwart gray, representing their hopes and dreams that died and were spout up like a whale? Marth thought that would be what he'd turn into should he fail, but his thoughts shift, and they've shifted far to a place that is darker than before.
If Marth fails, he dies, and if he dies, then there's nothing left for him to do.
An itch begins to pester him on the back of his neck, a curiosity in him that is insatiable, and he has to ask.
"I've heard worse. What is it?"
Mac looks at Marth, and all the light in his eyes is gone, but there's no tears, no reflective substance other than a lack of empathy. "I've-" Mac swallows hard, and the bluenette can hear the moving of his throat all the way from his spot. "I've been thinking about Oklahoma," Blood roars in Marth's ears. "I only heard bits and pieces... but it happened on one of these days, didn't it? When the rebels attacked the town hall?"
It's Marth's turn to swallow the coarse rock that is his Adam's apple. He nods solemnly. "You're right. Ike and I both lost a lot of good, good men that day. We were overwhelmed, and we had misinterpreted the situation. A simple riot, and none of us thought it was any different from those we encountered before. Then this girl emerges from the crowd," as Marth is retelling the incident, the sounds play off in his head. A ferocious head of blonde hair, haunting blue eyes, a piercing gaze. A burning flag, copper running down his hands, Ike's voice screaming in his ear, the explosion of gravel, blood filling his mouth, and wide eyes staring at nothing. His eyes aglow when he speaks of Sheik, like a fire has taken ahold of him. "She possessed this spirit of carnal energy, belief flowing from her words. Conviction," he locks eyes with Mac, who shudders from his steely gaze. "I hadn't seen something like this before, on that grand of a scale. A weakness of ours was exposed, and then they fell upon us like raindrops. Outgunned, outnumbered... it was a losing fight, yet Ike and I stayed behind to see it through to the bitter end. I'd do it all over again and die if I had to if got us rid of that girl who started it all, mark my words."
The secret service agent breaks the gaze first. "Do you think something is going to happen today?"
Marth shrugs. "There's a possibility. There's always a possibility. One of the things you need to learn in Syrenet is to expect the worst, and actually have it happen."
"And if we're attacked by rebels?"
"We kill them all."
"Would they seriously try something again? We've already exposed them that night we went out-"
"By the skin of our teeth," Marth nods. He had been knocked unconscious, his details of the story filled in by Ike and Roy who tell it with heavy hearts; Marth is filled with a sadness, an irrevocable sadness that he once again sits on for his uselessness. "Snake called them out, and I figure they'd rather not be seen as cowards if they can help it. Hell's fury is quite scorning."
"Thinking about it fills me with rage," Mac says through gritted teeth, hands clenching into fists.
"Good," Marth says with a smile. "Use that rage to protect Corrin and Robin, and there'll be no issues."
He gets up, his bones protesting, creaking, and groaning through a range of motions. Marth feels like an old tin man, who instead of having a missing heart, there's a gap where his confidence should be. A hole, a gaping hole with gusts of air that blow through it. Mac bites his lip, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh.
"I just don't want anything to go wrong. I'm worried."
"Well, try not to worry," Marth provides support, knowing in the back of his mind that what he just said has to qualify as the single worst piece of advice he's ever given a person, but he can be billed. He claps Mac on the shoulder, several inches taller than the man now that he has a better look. "We'll be fine. Nothing's going to go wrong."
He walks back to his old perch, grabbing his helmet and Lucina's AI disk in his hand. Turning to Mac, he smirks once, putting the helmet over his head. Flicking the visor down, the normal world of color is doused in a halcyon glow that spins him round and round on a champagne trip. He presses the AI disk into the allocated slot, hearing the mechanical whirs and gears spinning into place. A musical flourish indicates that Lucina is in place, and if he calls on her, she'll be responding inside the helmet within a fraction of a second.
Mac settles his shoulders back, dressed handsomely in his suit and tux, straightening out the edges. "I trust you. Let's do this."
"Glad to hear it," Marth smiles.
Inside his head, without Lucina's confidence to bolster himself, the man's will crumbles. He pities Mac.
Trusting Marth has to be the worst decision he'll ever make in his life.
It's unbearably hot.
That's Mac's first thought as he stands underneath the hot sun, the stone partition that the separate members of Syrenet were standing on distanced partially away from Robin, Corrin, and Snake. The other members - Mac, Midna, Roy, Ike, Marth, Pit, Shulk, and their respective AI Units - cram themselves onto the second floor of one of the restaurants next to the three most important people in the entire country. Mac's unsure whether or not he's more bugged by the heat or that, given his title as a Secret Service agent, he's relegated - demoted, rather - to stand with the has-beens of the U.S government, and not actually protecting who's he ordered to protect.
There's also the little, itty bitty factor that he's wearing one of those black suit and tie tuxedos, as he always needs to look the part. Being in ninety-five degree heat definitely gets him a ragged look, one of disheveled appearances with sweaty hair matting his head, beads dripping down his face like condensation off of a water bottle, and the tired look in his eyes.
He does find the Syrenet suits quite cool; the visors are the neatest aspect to them. Something warm flutters in his heart at noting how the suits themselves are designed towards the wearer. Marth's visor is a crisscross between turquoise and cerulean, while Ike's is a deeper blue, almost violet color. Roy's is naturally the color of his hair, glistening like fresh bronze or rust. Shulk's is the color of fresh sunlight rays, which highlights his eyes quite nicely. Mac notes that Shulk's disposition has been generally happier since whatever transpired this morning, and it's a welcoming change. He's sick of the constant brooding of the entire bunch - of which he adds a bit, Mac will admit - and the constant depressive feel the looms over the gang. Maybe today will prove to be a different spin on an old and tried truth.
Buzzing floats around Mac's head, and he absentmindedly swats his hand at the disturbance.
"No!" Pit cries suddenly, from his perch over by the far side of the porch. "Don't!"
Ah, that's right. Mac remembers - this'll take some getting used to, he figures - that Corrin gives special permission for the Automatic Army drones that the technician and vice president made to be used as the eyes in the sky. It's Pit's job for the entire announcement and press conference, that his children will take flight and observe the world from above. An AI Unit could be a good source of intel, but Corrin's paranoia causes her to take triple precautionary measures to ensure this goes off without a hitch.
"Sorry!" Mac calls back, glad he didn't go in a wide arc with his hand, otherwise it'd be red and swollen from having smacked the machine dead-on.
"Anything suspicious yet?" Ike asks, peering over Pit's shoulder, a complicated wireless computer set constructed a few hours before that grants him a constant view of the town square.
"Nothing yet, but who knows," Pit replies cheerfully, shrugging his shoulders. "I mean, I hope nothing happens."
Mac agrees whole heartedly with that statement. He wants to go home. He misses D.C. He never thought he'd be saying that, but it's true. Something about the familiar walls of the White House, or the familiar monuments that loom over Pennsylvania Avenue screams comfort and warmth, something he's noticed that is lacking in the stalwart city of Chicago. An uneasy air filters over him, as if they're not wanted, but he cannot pinpoint a reason why. From all of Corrin's talk, it is all good things be given to cities in states that need a little bolster. It's like a subsidy for a corporation, except that this subsidy is larger than anything else ever given to the populace; a grant doesn't cut it either.
He stands a little off from everyone, as the five Syrenet men are involved in a conversation about something technological that he is uninterested to listen to. Mainly it is Roy's concerns on not having an AI Unit inside his own head, but the secret service agent tunes that out purely because he hates listening to the redhead's voice. It isn't necessarily nasally or harsh on the ears, but his skin crawls whenever the recruit opens his mouth to speak. Mac knows that Midna spent last evening up on the roof with Roy. Why? He has no idea. Part of him wants to not care, to simply brush it off and view it as nothing. However, he's wrapped up in bitterness and scorn. He does not appreciate his heart being toyed with, especially by someone so beautiful as Midna is herself. She likes him, he can clearly tell that, but he is uncertain or not whether she loves him.
His heart has been stamped on too many times for him to be simply turned away by the backslap of a hand.
"Not today Satan," he thinks to himself. "Not today."
Midna notices that he's being stand-offish and moves over from her position to his side. She mirrors his body language, akin to that of a pouting child with crossed arms and a glum expression. There's silence between them, as the event hasn't started yet, and only a few stragglers are appearing in the square. Robin, Snake, and Corrin are inside in the City Hall building getting microphones situated and a last touchup of makeup.
"Y'know," Midna says to Mac after a few moments of quietness, "You complained to me last night about how no one here feels like your friend. Perhaps if you were to talk to them every once in awhile you'd strike a relationship! Doesn't that sound exciting?"
"I don't need your lectures."
"You're in a foul mood today," she sniffs.
"And right now you aren't making it any better," Mac snaps. He instantly regrets this as Midna's wounded expression hurts him more than any bullet ever will. Her eyebrows furrow together, her eyes soften with the emotion of confusion, and her nose slightly turns upward.
"Sorry," to which her tone sounds like the redhead truly is anything other than sorry, but that does not matter. "I didn't mean to piss in your cornflakes."
"Why were you speaking with Roy last night?" he asks suddenly, turning to her, a ferocious look in his eyes.
Midna looks at her boyfriend quite alarmingly, though the expression is replaced with one more of disbelief. She stutters out a nervous laugh. "Excuse me? You're going to dictate who I can and cannot speak to? You have a loose screw in there?"
"You know Roy is totally smitten with you!"
"Funny," she places a finger up against her chin. "I recall you telling me on the plane ride here that you thought Roy wouldn't go near me for a thousand miles," Midna's smugness falters somewhat. "I was bored and you were asleep. I didn't feel tired, so I went to the roof. He was up there and had some things to get off of his chest. I like to think I'm a good person so I listened to him and let him cry. Is there a problem?"
"You didn't kiss?"
"No, Mac, we did not kiss," she rolls her eyes. "You sound like you're five."
"I've had bad experiences with romance."
"You picked the literally worst gal to have a relationship with, if that's the case," Midna smirks.
Mac's heart skips a beat. He knows she's joking - she has to be joking, there's no way she's actually being serious, because he can tell when she's serious, and this isn't one of those times - but something inside still winces in pain at the revelation. He's hated being the gullible child, when he falls for the dove-eyed look from the girl across the courtyard, but then she proves to only want his money, prestige, or power. Looks are deceiving, and yet Mac has his life run by his heart and not in the other way around.
It's been so long that he's forgotten her name - in actuality, it's only been ten or so years, there's no way she'd be out of his life by then - yet her face remains in his mind like a fresh impacted seal. Glimmering flaxen hair, a beautiful smile with precious diamond eyes, a laugh that'd make the trees melt, and hands that could work the wildest cog yet make any animal come to heel. He's smitten by her, the proclivity from the way she dressed with perhaps a little bit too much cleavage, or the way her hands knew how to lace up Mac's pants... and then he's stabbed in the back, left for dead in a ditch, and wishes that he had filed for a divorce instead.
"She betrayed me," Mac says cryptically.
"Who?"
"My old... flame," he hesitates to find the right word, as it could make the sentence entirely pitiful or a broadening experience depending on how he played his cards.
Midna frowns. "I'm not a bitch," she says with finality. "At least not in that way. If I don't like you, I'll tell you straight to your face. Trust me."
From the time Mac and Midna's conversation began, he doesn't realize that time has wound down and people started to fill the square. Peering over the side of the porch, Mac counts a sizeable crowd of two hundred people at least, and not counting what he can see faraway. Midna vanishes to him, as his heart lumps in his throat. There are simply way too many people. Should something go awry...
He shudders. This is a thought he does not wish to be thinking at a time like this.
The doors to the city hall open up and Mac looks at the opening doors for a quick glance. He gives it no extra thought, until he does, and his head is whipping around to get a full view of Corrin. He'll admit - perhaps he has to loosen a corset before he openly says this to anyone, off the record or not - that when he had been in his youth, Mac does not find the president all that attractive when she began her political career. He does not see why Cloud Gladwell - who, Mac will recognize having been quite the attractive fellow who could snag any female he wished - picks the single nobody from some Western state that Mac forgets because he slept through his United States history class.
Now, however, he happily eats crow. Corrin is dressed in a tasteful, glimmering silver dress. Although the style is somewhat out of place for it being only about midday, it hugs her lithe form quite well. Her silverette hair is drawn back to bring out the appeal of her eyes, with are swathed in a catching blue eye shadow. She's a raging snowstorm, a vicious blizzard that'll take no victims, and Mac is being roped in by strong winds and nail biting cold temperatures. Since he has been part of her entourage for nearly a month now, he has seen the stress lines that coat her face, the furrows that are so deep he could plant seeds in her brow, and the general old look that dampens the glitz and glamour that is President Corrin Etch.
Robin is dressed a little bit more conservative, with a simple outfit picked from her White House wardrobe on daily house calls. Sunflower yellow, slightly floral... the contrast is heavy between the two women, and it is clear who is the superior in this instance. Snake has returned to more stealthy roots, with an outfit similar to Mac's with an earpiece, shades... the whole nine yards.
Corrin walks up to the microphone, looking as if she's been born to the stage.
"Good afternoon Chicago!" she calls out. Mac always found her to be an excellent spokesperson, whether her words were full of fakery or genuinely moving.
Her statement is met with the reward of the cheering crowd. They're starting to pile up, more than five hundred at least with a good four hundred of those people standing up, to where the rest are out on the skirts, the outside looking in through window panes and glassy stares.
Midna exhales a breath next to Mac, one dripping with worry and nervousness. "Here goes nothing..." she whispers, clenching Mac's wrist.
He nods solemnly, focusing on her speech.
"I personally want to say thank you, the city of Chicago, for the warm invite and stay that we have been experiencing here," Corrin begins, hands folded together by the separation of her legs, the president leaning forward and beaming with every word. Light applause floods back in a gratuitous tide. "We are grateful that our stay has been so well received, and that we hope this means there is much more destined to come. Though it perhaps may be redundant, I am Corrin Etch, president of the United States. With me is Robin Wyndel, my vice president," Robin dutifully nods, "and Snake Karlo, the head director of the FBI."
"Nothing gone wrong yet..." Mac thinks, almost smirking. It's been a minute and no one has died yet.
"Also with us is a coalition of members from Syrenet and the FBI to make sure this transition is smooth and as effortless as possible," Corrin grabs the microphone from the stand, starting to walk around the stage provided given the ample room. Mac sees that she's not wearing heels, which is surprising given her getup, but wedges that only raise a little bit off the ground. "For those of you who do not know, Syrenet is a governmental institution that provides accessible and easily affordable technological devices that you generally do not find in stores. Also implemented by the Syrenet bill is that it also acts a militant force used for overt and covert missions abroad and within the country itself. Recently we cracked down on a mob boss and arms dealer in Boston by the name of Link Collins who tried to sell weapons to enemies of this administration. Syrenet effectively dealt and eliminated this threat."
Mac gives a wary glance over at Roy, who seems to not be noticing what's going on; the redhead is turned away and focused on other parts going on around him than the voice of the president in his ears. Midna has told the secret service agent enough about the mission - her word of mouth, the televised news, and what has been written in the papers - to where he knows it did not end well and that Roy, for being the new recruit, harbors some wounds that have healed, and ones that never will even with the most proper treatment.
Corrin's words are met with another thunderous roar of applause, to which she smiles gaily because of it. Mac can tell she is loving it, living in every sound byte and echo of clapped hands.
"What my administration and I are hoping and planning to do is instill a Syrenet branch here locally in Chicago. What that entails is hiring a group of engineers who'd design prototypes of Syrenetic technology, such as mechanical suits for state police forces, or personal Artificial Intelligence units, classified as AI Units, that can be used around the house to make keeping your world running clean. Syrenet's military force is divided into 26 squadrons based on the letters of the alphabet, and one of these squadrons is going to oversee the building of the Syrenet facility and act as its caretakers."
The secret service agent begins to drone out from Corrin's speech, as the president goes into a long drawl about what AI Units can do, which essentially entails any and everything electronic in a home, to driving a car, yet he notices how the price seems to be an evaded topic. For something that is designed and advertised as easily consumer accessible, including a price tag is perhaps a good strategy. He frowns, however, from his staring to notice that there are way too many people crowded into the square. Is it their job to help dispel people to properly view the meeting?
A man in the back of the crowd stumbles into a park bench, and Mac's eyes seize him immediately. Fire burns in his veins, yet, from his trained eye there seems to be nothing dangerous from the man than perhaps a sharp tongue.
"President!" he shouts over Corrin's voice, which is booming through the park because of the microphone.
"Shit..." Ike swears, placing a hand on his gun. "This is not the time to be dealing with this crap..."
To Corrin's chagrin, she continues steamrolling the rest of her speech. "It is adorable to name your AI Unit should you wish it to become part of your family..."
"Your mother is a slut!" the man screams again, and this time Corrin breaks her concentration. Her head wildly searches the crowd, eyes narrowing in akin to a viper's when she spots him. "You screw your vice president because you like her wet vagina! Syrenet is a bunch of bullshit, man!"
The man is obviously drunk.
"I'll be right back..." Ike mutters under his breath, stomping over to the staircase by the side of the porch.
Mac watches the bluenette mesh into the crowd with a few 'excuse me' and 'pardon me sir' thrown in there. Ike grips the drunkard's elbow forcefully, pulling him along away from the congregation, all the while the man shouts obscenities. Corrin's composure wavers slightly, but she is beginning to introduce Robin, who is to detail her Automatic Army that had been brought along for the ride.
The secret service agent's skin begins to crawl. Unless his eyes deceive him, where did all these people come from?
"Midna..." he whispers.
"What?"
"Something's wrong..."
Shouldn't Ike be back yet? The man hadn't been that far away from the crowd for Ike to remove him and walk back and join them. He - Mac - looks over at Pit, the technician's eyes widening at the screen every second.
"Wait a second... what's with all the... dots?" Pit furrows his eyebrows together.
Where the bloody hell is Ike? He should be back by now.
Mac catches something move out of the corner of his eye. The porch that the seven Syrenet members are standing on belongs to a little restaurant-like coffee shop that is closed off to the public for this specific occasion. Inside, there are stairs from the lower floor to walk up to the second floor and out onto the porch through a door. But the door is locked, because it is closed off. Mac is certain that the door is what moved.
He pulls at his collar. There are a lot of people congregated here today. Corrin's voice warps loudly on the wind, matching Robin's, and Mac immediately knows something's wrong.
Mac turns, and freezes.
When did this... man get here?
The man in question is a fellow standing a good six feet tall or so, simply looming over in the back shadow of the closed door, to which Roy, Shulk, Pit, and Marth have paid no mind to as they didn't hear or see the door open and close.
Pit scrambles back from the monitor where his drone is flying, and Mac sees one hovering in the crowd plummet. "Guys! Those dots aren't birds! They're peop-" he whirls around, seeing the stranger in full view too.
The man reaches inside his jacket pocket, pulling out something indiscernible to Mac's eye.
A gun.
Currently pointed at Marth's back.
Time slows.
"Marth!" Mac screams, vaulting forward, knocking Midna to the ground, Pit's voice warping into a terrified yell. Shulk and Roy turn, but the bluenette himself is too late to even hear the warning cry.
The stranger fires his gun. A deafening explosion rocks the porch, causing Mac to stumble to one knee. Robin and Corrin's voices both dissipate over the gunshot, the crowd silencing in the matter of seconds. A crag of steel, slate, and fire erupts from the barrel of the gun. There's a blinding flash of light, a peal of silver, and the gun ricochets back. The man's eyes glow in triumph.
Marth's body careens forward, his form arching into a 'c'. He screams a guttural yell, his voice surging with pain and agony. Another burst of sulfur explodes out of the middle of Marth's back, followed by a tide of crimson, white bone, and the snips of flesh.
The Midwestern rebels are on the group faster than anything Shulk has ever seen in his entire life, and he's seen a many things. One second, the entire meeting is going fine where Corrin is sweet-talking the congregated citizens of Chicago, the moment is being televised, and everyone looks great. A single drunkard stumbles out of line, and yet Shulk is not necessarily alarmed by this proceeding. Things happen all the time like this, it's normal. It's completely fine. Then... Ike vanishes, Pit's voice changes from confused to terrified, Mac screams, Marth screams, and then there's a flurry of confusion and terror.
People seem to pour out of every crevice they can find. Shulk's eyes nearly turn to mud at the sight as rebels - clearly given that they're literally screaming, The Rebel Cause - leap over the roof of the shop that they're standing reconnaissance for. Pit is scrambling back on all fours, clutching a pistol in his hand, pointing it wildly at anything that moves, has a pulse, or breathes. Roy is focused on dragging Marth has far away from the action as he can, all the while the bluenette is screaming, screaming in pain that he can no longer feel the lower half of his body, and oh where is his gun? Mac decides to drop the gun and use his fists instead, going full swing boxer on anyone who dares get close to him, Midna, or the rest of the gang.
Shulk watches Midna race forward, seeming to eye one person out of the crowd. The redhead tackles into a woman with electric blonde hair, almost as blonde as the Alpha commander's hair, and she goes away, trying to hail a punch left and right.
"Protect Corrin!" Shulk screams out to any member who can hear him. "Protect Marth! And please, do not fucking die!" He slaps the side of his visor, the glass sliding down, and Lucas's AI Unit boots up.
"Something wrong?"
"Everything's wrong! We're under attack! Scan for the fifty closest life forms and what weapons they may have on them. I'll need a rocket or two."
Shulk's fist connects with the side of a rebel's jaw, hearing a satisfying crunch as he wallops the man into next week. Midna is up on her feet, dancing around the blonde woman, exchanging blows. Roy is on one knee, protecting Marth and Pit both with his rifle. Shulk brings his foot down on the current rebel's face, the man's breath expelling with one final push as he's knocked unconsciousness.
Removing a gun from the waistband of his pants, he fires off a bullet into one man's throat, the person having try to run up behind Mac.
"Missiles ready," Lucas announces.
"Good."
A cannon builds itself from the left wrist of Shulk's Syrenet suit. He tosses a glance behind him, seeing that for now the blonde woman had retreated, and among her many of the woman's forces; the porch is clear for now. There is absolute chaos down below in the square. Ike is surrounded in a sea of rebel camo green and Chicago city police blue. Shulk locks and loads a rocket, taking aim for a patch a few hundred yards away from the commander.
"Fire." he commands.
The rocket expels from the launcher, soaring and screaming into the azure sky. It hails down like a hornet, embedding into the emerald green lawn before exploding in a flurry of dirt, dust, flesh, blood, sulfur, and smoke. The sounds of the dying fill his ears, causing Shulk to wince. The cannon breaks down into the suit, and he leaps off the porch, diving onto a rebel trying to stab a police officer in the back.
"Give me cover!" he shouts at the officer, holding his pistol out. He ducks his head low, sprinting along the grass of the park. He fires off a clip into one man who seemed to have dirt filling his brain. Shulk realizes that the person charging him is wearing a bulletproof vest, and it takes an entire round to down the man for the count. Looking back, Mac, Midna, and Roy jump down from the porch to join the fray. Shulk scans the park wildly, saddened to see that Snake is not among the fighters trying to expel the rebel force back. His concern is with the president and vice president, who are prime top priority, but once they're safe and secure, they're going to need him.
Shulk sees one rebel fighter get down on knee, hoisting a piece of heavy equipment on his shoulder.
"RPG! Get down!" Shulk screams.
The missile fires, tagging onto an unlucky officer that does not hear his warning in time. The officer goes careening before the RPG explodes, a supernova of fire roaring through several rows of fighters, rebels and Chicago policemen roasted alive in the inferno. Shulk is partially stunned, recovering to slam his fist upwards into the nose of a rebel running by.
He loads another clip into his pistol, racing over to Midna, who has barricaded herself behind a few trash cans.
"Where the hell did they come from?" she yells at him, trying to be overheard against the roaring wind, the sound of gun fire, and the pleas of the dying.
"I don't know! We were caught by surprise! It's like the entire Midwest is here!"
"Are Corrin and Robin safe?"
"I don't know!"
"We need to push them back!" Midna takes a shot between the opening in the cans. The barrel of her gun is smoking, and she curses. "Dammit! That was my last bullet." She searches along the ground for any dropped shells, and a bullet embeds in her right shoulder. She gasps in pain, falling back against a park bench. Shulk looks at her, scooting over. The flesh is only slightly touched, but she'll need stitches all the same.
She hisses in pain, looking at the wound in her shoulder with a ferociousness that he's never seen. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine," Midna says through gritted teeth.
"You need to get to cover."
"I am fighting," the hisses again, her eyes burning. "I do not quit because of a silly bullet wound!"
Shulk nods at her, giving her his pistol. "Here. Take this, and try to get to Pit and Marth if you can! They're back up on the porch. You need that gun more than I do."
She takes it, and he's wasting no time, pulling out the knife from his left side. He's racing across the lawn, diving into a unsuspecting rebel. Although the man cries mercy, Shulk rips the blade across his exposed neck, getting showered in a cardinal tide. He gets up, stabbing the blade between another rebel's back, slitting their throat all the same. None of these fighters deserve to be left alive if he has anything to say about it. They're disrupting the life and tranquility of an innocent plan, and most importantly, the people of Chicago.
"Lucas, contact Lyn."
"Why?"
"Just do it! Tell her to tell Ike that Midna needs a medic."
"Now?"
"NOW, Lucas! Now means fucking now!" Shulk roars in his thoughts.
The blonde commander looks over, and his heart wells in his throat. Roy is locked in a frenzied dance of brute strength and agility with a foe at least two times his size. The fighter is dressed all in black, holding a knife that has a blade curved in a sickening 'j' shape. Shulk remembers the man from the first night the Syrenet group arrived in Chicago. Zant. Roy is fighting Zant.
The redhead ducks under a swipe of the blade, tucking his head in low and colliding with Zant. The two collapse onto the sidewalk, and Roy lets the man have no mercy, punching and punching until his knuckles go red. Zant, somehow, mayhaps by the unfortunate grace of god, is still fighting. Zant head butts Roy, the redhead crying out in pain, dancing back on his feet. The rebel goes wide with the knife, the blade catching the outer tip of Roy's elbow. He goes down, hissing in pain. Shulk widens his eyes, grabbing at the waistband for something. A grenade. Anything. He's not watching his protégé go down, not like this.
As Shulk begins racing forward, Zant advances on Roy, his gaze hungry and murderous. Zant brings the blade down in a shining silver arc, and a cry of desperation bubbles in the blonde's throat. Thinking fast, Roy reaches behind, grabbing a stick. He slams the stick down onto Zant's foot, and Shulk is sure it breaks through the leather of the shoe and into the man's foot. Zant howls in pain, a growl spewing from his lips. Roy uses this to his leverage, reaching up and grabbing the blade out of Zant's hand.
There's no mercy in this fight, as Roy draws the blade fast against Zant's neck, nearly taking the head clean off. The rebel's body falls to the ground, lifeless, with a pool of crimson spilling out around him. The commander and Roy lock eyes, and all Shulk can hear is the roar of blood in his ears, and the sound of Roy's ragged breathing with the rise and fall of his chest.
A little bit away from the Zant and Roy fight, Mac equips a pair of brass knuckles onto his hands, cleanly undercutting a man who slumps against a park bench. Midna stands woozily from her bullet wound, clutching her shoulder that has now stained her shirt a putrid crimson. There's too much blood. Fiora's blood. Midna's blood. My blood. There is too much blood, she's dying, Midna's dying, I'm dying, we're all dying, that is Fiora's blood on my hands.
Dead bodies litter the ground everywhere, but it seems the rebels have fled now that Zant is dead, and that their blonde haired leader has vanished to lick her wounds.
"Who was the blonde woman?" Shulk asks.
"Her name is Sheik Braring," Midna spits. "She's the leader of the Midwestern rebels."
The grass is stained a foul crimson, and the weak cries of the wounded circle the air. The smell of flesh, and burnt flesh, and smoke, and sulfur, and fire clogs Shulk's nostrils, causing eyes to water.
"Ambulances are being called," Lucas assures him. "Corrin and Robin are safe with Snake at a second disclosed location. Headquarters is too unsafe."
Shulk sees Ike from across the park, standing around a ringlet of bodies, and the blonde is unsure whether or not if they are all Ike's kills... or from other means.
"Are- are you okay?" Shulk asks, putting a hand on the bluenette's shoulder.
"I'm- I'm fine..." Ike answers, shrugging off the hand. He looks around the park, his eyes searching, his face creased in worry. As if he's concerned about something. "Where's Marth?"
Mac rejoins the group, ragged and worse for wear, but breathing. "Guys..." he exhales breathlessly.
The conjoined team of Shulk, Roy, Midna, Ike, and Mac all look to their left, and time comes to an immediate stand still.
"Marth..." Ike says, but his voice cracks, barely above a whisper.
Pit looks up, his hands bloody, his neck and face bloody, his eyes filled to the brim with tears that are staining his cheeks. His wings are crumpled and torn, a pistol still hung in his pocket, but it looks as if it hadn't been fired. In his arms is Marth, blood caking his face, and all seems to go in slow motion. Marth's hair is dirty, his body limp, and a constant trickling of blood seeping through the technician's hands, which is spilling out of a quarter sized hole in Marth's back.
"Pit..." Shulk takes a step forward, but something holds him at bay.
The angel can barely look up, and his voice rises hardly above even that of a voice crack.
"Marth, I- Shulk I... I think Marth's gone..."
With a raise of hands, who thinks Marth is dead? *raises hand* I was hella pumped, and HELLA nervous putting this out there, because Marth has been through crap, and then... this. I have to say that the section leading up to this big fight has been my favorite part of the chapter, but there is one more moment of this arc left that will dethrone this by a mile, I can already tell. Let's take this one step at a time.
In my planning, I initially hadn't designed Sheik to be this power-hungry, revenge obsessed person with Syrenet, but just someone wanting to fix a wrong into a right. What do you think is the reason behind Sheik's vitriol towards the governmental agency, and a possible reason why she and Amber have a falling out? Her P.O.V is always fun to write, but she is no longer in the rest of this arc and will not be back till Arc 4.
Marth and Mac were not a scene I originally wanted, as it was going to skip straight to Mac's perspective, but I needed to talk about the suits, which we finally see! They're a downgraded version of Iron Man's, and having the Jarvis/Cortana AI Unit inside the person's head helps make that a reality; a portable suit of armor that is easy and comfortable to wear. Like a Snuggie! Mac voices a few good questions, and if you are to follow the rest of his characterization for the arc, you can probably guess the ending of this arc well enough.
That section of the tension rising up in Mac's blood about how something didn't feel right... I will say again, is my favorite part of the entire story hands down. And the fight. My god, the fight. For those who didn't catch on, Marth got shot right in his spinal cord. Midna got shot in the shoulder, Corrin and Robin were ushered to safety, and most importantly, Roy killed Zant! A criticism I got from my original draft is that nothing sets Roy out from the crowd at all, and here he is tackling quite a formidable foe, thinking fast, and winning because of it.
For some speculation, since this was the climax of the arc, what do you suspect is going to happen for Chapters 29 and 30? I'm interested in hearing what you have to say, because if you know me, something worse is on the horizon, and it's something dreadful. Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you thought! This is now the longest chapter in the story, amen to that. Sometime next week I'll probably begin editing and finalizing Chapter #27: Pit's Initiation. I love you all. Have an amazing day! Bye!
~ Paradigm