Hi guys! Remember me? It took a helluva long time for this – but for me, the past 1.5 year was draining at every level imaginable. Grad school, personal challenges, family health issues, unyielding job search… It was extremely difficult to find the right headspace to continue writing. Truthfully, most of these still exist today – but I'm committed to finishing this even moreso than before now. At least I'd achieve something, wouldn't I?
Anyhow, I digress. It's the time to celebrate! :) I turned 25 yesterday, and frankly this update is a gift to myself for sticking to my commitment (despite the unreal delay!). It's not my best work by far, and the editing might leave a lot to be desired, but bear with me. I'm rusty AF!
Thanks to all my reviewers – Westcoast Witchdoctor, FloweryNamesLover, kumolonimbus, iceangelmkx, theladyspades, GetCaged, DeathAngel2015 for their reviews to the last update! Additional thanks to Poe's Daughter, the-06 and obelisk of light for directly or indirectly inspiring me to continue writing :')
Without further adieu …
The Takahashi Family Saga
Of Roads to Redemption
III
House of Pekara
Primorski Krai District, USSR,
Winter, 198X.
Drip… drip… drip…
To be reduced to chasing old ghosts, echoes of the past – in hope for sustenance. For life. He could not discern if the trickling of water was real, or if his mind was playing tricks yet again.
'Not much farther now, Kazimir…'
Said a floating, talking sword. Said a hollow phantom. Said the liar, to the lied, and the lied to the liar.
"I don't believe you…"
'Yet you persist…'
"In that case, I don't believe me…" muttered the swordsman, feeling his laboured breathing surround him like solace in the dark, his heart thundering slowly, deeply.
Driven to the brink with pain, exhaustion and starvation, he realized he remembered so little of the troubles that befell him recently. The terror of his lost eyesight, devastating as it was, barely bothered him compared to the ravenous pangs he felt in his stomach. The pain in his crusting, aching eyes paled before the parched sandpaper-throat and bleeding lips. As if jolting out a raw, desecrating dead corpse from the grave with the promise of another life – glitteringly untrue.
How different was he from a corpse now? If Kazimir was dead; then why this prolonged torment? Why was he thrown into hell without judgement, or accountability? If he was alive; then in what world did a corpse live and breathe, feel pain and fear? What motivated these strange, haunting voices to guide him? The questions swirled, incoherent, and illogical, with no answer in sight. Not that he would have had the benefit of anything visibly revealed to him anyway, given his fresh handicap.
Yet the swordsman persevered, dragging his body, guided by trembling caresses to the walls.
If they led to his doom, then Kazimir would welcome it with open arms. At that point, he could only ponder the number of ways he could die alone in this cave. Every prospect brought with it a sense of purpose, a reason to oblige the Sento with every ounce of remaining strength, every bit of his sanity and insanity.
It was at that moment that death became the reason to live; every notion, every iteration, every imagined outcome, more compelling than any fathomable reason to believe in life.
Life and death. Two sides of the same coin. The liar and the lied. The punisher and the tormented. Goals to be achieved; with their own demons, to be slayed, and angels to behold.
His foot finally hit water, cool and comforting, stagnant and pristinely still at first. The days' worth of thirst roared like a rising phoenix in his chest at the touch. Before he knew it, Kazimir was on his knees, ready to cast down his burdens, abandon all sense, and give in to his baser instincts. Hands cupped, and poised, ready to be dipped into the water to take in his fill, when he realized he was looking at himself.
Reflected in the liquid, haggard and dark; wavering, a shadowy silhouette.
But as real, as a towering statue.
Kazimir's hands, empty yet still cupped, as if a pilgrim in supplication, trembled.
"I see me, sword," he uttered barely above a whisper – his voice nothing but a pained groan.
'Indeed, you do.'
Blazing blue eyes, irises undamaged, glancing triumphantly. The phantom of a past not long-forgotten.
"But it's not me, is it?" he murmured, lost in the vision, his voice separated from his own body. "Darkness and now, wishful illusions. Can this punishment be any crueller?"
Kazimir clenched shut his eyes, and turned away – hot tears slipping through his blackened lids and falling into the stream as the wounded heart mourned with grief. His soft cries filled the stillness around him.
'Do not turn away, so - you persevered thus far did you not? Harken on whatever made you resist for so long. Look beyond your shadows.'
The blind man's lip curled in a humorless sneer – mocking the very words in his head. But from his words spilled a teary whisper.
"I can't."
'O foolish kenshi, look again…'
Humouring his illusions, Kazimir complied with a sniffle, dipping his hands into the water, bringing liquid to his parched lips, focusing on the ferocity of the current from the stream instead of the haunting spectre of his former self, as it continued to gaze at him from the murky waters.
And then he merely felt – for all his senses instantly collapsed into a singular consciousness. Particles of life, energy - bumping into one another, secrets of the universe, the spirits of the unseen, humming with a soul of their own, bowing in recognition.
He dropped the cupful in a splash, taken aback, breathing spastically. His mind was a jumble of colours, auras, emotions – as if reeling from the effect of stepping into a world made entirely of kaleidoscopic visions.
From within the madness, he found himself.
And then, Kazimir spent an eternity at the base of the stream, hands and visage grimy and bloodied, torturous thirst unquenched. He would have gladly spent another eternity at the brink, mesmerized as he was when he discovered the unknown, untold secrets, meant only to be seen by the ones who sought, and perceived. The accursed revelling in the blessings of his destined punishment.
Unknown Location,
Siberia
August 2009 -
It had been weeks since that evening in Thailand, yet Takeda had not had the nerve, nor the courage to press his father on the vision he had seen at Suchin's grave. Evidently, the swordsman had been disturbed by the image itself; he had barely spoken a word, unaddressed, since. The silence between them had become even heavier, the words weighing painfully on both their hearts – yet the egos ruled supreme, and none backed down.
Only that it was not a test of egos; but of perseverance, even resilience. This, the Shirai Ryu would find out much later.
Nevertheless, the young Chujin was somewhat refreshed at witnessing his father's apparent vulnerability (or what appeared as such – he remained distrustful). His wretched face had been engraved in his mind, the mask of yearning that almost bore the seed of pity in his heart. But to young Takeda, seeing his father's weakness was a triumph; seeing the illusion of the strong, fearless warrior from his childhood shatter to reveal a flawed, pained and suffering man, as he indubitably deserved.
If Kenshi had any inkling of Takeda's silent gloating, he made no show of it. That, shamefacedly for the younger Takahashi, amplified his underlying curiosity about the swordsman, far more than he would have admitted. Though what concerned him more perhaps, was a strange connection he had been feeling recently to his father. Disjointed from his emotions, yet somehow as tangible, as a limb in itself. As if bound by an invisible rope, like a hidden arm had reached out and grasped another one in support. The heart wavered, the mind stood distrustful, but it almost felt as if he had been stabilized by some unseen, incomprehensible force. In his father's company, Takeda strangely felt himself lulled into a sense of security, without even questioning the veracity and truthfulness of it.
And as they say, trouble often comes in twos. This internal battle between trust and logic was accompanied by an old pain. Takeda's raging migraines from years ago returned – it even did so in the Siberian winterland. Grinding his teeth against the dull throb, the Chujin ignored the pain, and moved on. Thankfully, no visions or voices followed this time; or so he thought.
The duo walked along the hills at the border of Siberia, braving chilly, mournful winds, in search of the contact that would take them to a portal. Wherefrom after that, was as uncertain as the untethered leaves that blew from the force of the winds. Solitary, and desolate – Takeda had never realized how completely alone and cut off they were from wider civilization. Surrounded in a blanket of white and gray, it felt like a different universe entirely – following its own rules of existence, its own methods of destruction. The thought was exhilarating, but fearful all the same. Takeda had a feeling that in order to progress whatever test his father designed for him, making peace with the quiet stillness of solitude was a core requirement.
"Are you cold?"
The question, muffled by the soldier's parka and scarf, and hoarse from being quiet so long, shook Takeda from his thoughts. He had not realized his jaw had become stiff from chattering so violently since the past few minutes, as deep as he had been in his own shallow ponderings.
Takeda breathed out a cloud of vapour, burying his hands under his armpits.
"I'll live."
Wordlessly, the swordsman rolled off his scarf and offered it without as much as a glance back. The peace offering, the first words exchanged out from their own accord in so many days, rendered the simple gesture more meaningful and profound than a treatise.
Accustomed as he was to warmer climates, Takeda begrudgingly accepted, muttering his gratitude as his face burned with embarrassment.
Not a minute had passed by until Kenshi spoke up once again:
"What fueled you, son? Why did you accept?"
The swordsman stopped abruptly as soon as he voiced the question, turning back – his silhouette nothing but sharp lines and harsh angles. He seemed riled behind the blindfold; either from annoyance or anger - without rhyme nor reason.
Takeda hiked an eyebrow, finding himself treading on thin ice. "You'd rather I turned you down?"
"Answer the question, Takeda."
Huffing indignantly, Takeda rolled up the scarf and threw it back at the swordsman, irritated at himself more than his father.
"There's your answer."
And with defiance, he took a few definitive steps, closing the gap between the two, intending to march ahead of his father. A gloved hand grabbed him by his shoulder, stopping him decisively but without force.
"Remove me, and remove yourself from the equation, Takeda. As in all of life, there is nothing out there that cares about us, or exists for us," spoke Kenshi quietly, yet with firmly – the essence of a moment's worth of anger still lingering like the burning embers of a fire in his voice – bitter, scalding yet inviting.
"But… whatever's inside, here," he continued, laying a fist at his heart, "the voices we choose to listen to and which ones we choose to ignore - that make us who we are."
Takeda turned to regard his father at that moment then. Flurries buried at his creases between his eyebrows, the frown lines on his face. His lips were partly blue from the cold itself, yet the sole scarf lay at his feet, unretrieved.
In that moment, Takeda realized that the scarf was merely a distraction, the core question being asked concerned matters far deeper than the banalities of life.
It concerned the matters of the soul.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Takeda asked quietly, testing the waters with his mercurial father.
Kenshi shook his head, holding his son with both hands planted firmly on his shoulders, conveying sincerity in lieu of words that he knew held no meaning for the Shirai Ryu.
"Everything, my son. What motivated you to accept a gesture of kindness, in a place as desolate and unforgiving as this? What fueled you to see beyond yourself, to deny your hate, to embrace…" Kenshi stopped short – the unspoken words hanging between the two like a crystalline dream, at the verge of shattering if realized aloud. Bowing his head in defeat, he let go.
"I chose my path when I was around your age. Listen to yourself, Takeda – in this world, you are your own shepherd, and your own hunter. We always choose what happens to us, even when we think we don't."
Soaring winds briefly interrupted the duo, enveloping them in a cold embrace. But intrigued as he was by his father's words, Takeda did not back down. He had accepted his fate in accompanying the swordsman as part of his training – and somehow, he knew his pursuit of knowledge, his curiosity, would never be rejected by Kenshi. And armed with this intuition, he pressed on:
"All those years ago… What did you see? What did you choose?"
The swordsman turned away, his face morphing into a resigned expression, facing the dark woodlands surrounding the duo, back ramrod straight, alert.
"I chose to forget."
Takeda felt a rage of annoyance run through him, as he saw red momentarily. He grumbled like an irate child: "Oh, that part we all know very well."
His father merely shook his head in response, not dismissive of the teenager's comment, but more so in remembrance of his selective amnesia – the abstractness shrouding his will to survive. To soar; to live.
"What I chose to forget, son, I'll only reveal when the time is right."
'There he is,' thought the Shirai Ryu wearily, as he rolled his lip curled in a sneer. 'The Riddler himself.'
"I will riddle you no longer, now," replied the older telepath, a humourless grin breaking the tension in his face. "The bonds I installed are weakening though; I see it now. It will not be long before you are again overwhelmed by intensity of your mental powers – you will need to be ready by then."
"Be ready for what? Choose what?! I don't get this at all!"
Kenshi continued to walk away without as much as a glance back, the murderous zephyrs of the north piercingly cold even as his heart plunged to icy depths of his own hardened, weary soul.
Takeda stood next to the scarf buried in the snow, puffing out vapours, arms akimbo and mind racing with muted fury. Trembling despite himself, he picked up the scarf, wrapped it around his face, and looked back up sharply, this time in horror.
That singular moment stretched into an eternity; time slowing down with the beat of the heart.
Whispers of fire; blood and ice. Takeda felt their anger long before he saw their bloodied, decapitated bodies. He somehow heard Kenshi's heart skip a beat, before calmness prevailed; all while Takeda's eyes were fixed solely at his father's back.
With a curt move of his hand, the swordsman beckoned spirits from the Sento; the broken talisman sharply darted towards the trees surrounding them, and in a flash, two masked heads fell from the branches.
'How much of you is man, and how much is beast.'
Kenshi's voice rang in Takeda's mind, as the former turned warily, regarding his son from a distance after taking out their pursuers. Blood began to seep into the snowy ground, and a few seconds later, two headless bodies, armed to the teeth, fell between the duo – slumping over like ragdolls, tattered robes blowing in the wind.
The robes caught Takeda's eye – or perhaps, it was the insignia of the Red Dragon itself that called out to him through his mind. In any case, Takeda could have recognized it anywhere.
'An ambush! Prepare yourself, Takeda!'
The Chujin drew his sword, and scanned as adrenaline thundered through his veins. Nodding darkly to his father, he felt a strange source of power roar through his own veins. And then suddenly, he heard it again; the thundering hearts of his approaching enemies, moments before they made themselves visible.
Pain engulfing his entire being now, hatred emanating from the Red Dragon operative seeping into Takeda's own form, yet Takeda felt more alive, readier and hungrier than he had ever felt – every iota of his being quivering with bloodlust so intense, he could taste blood on his lips.
'Let's dance, bastards.'
The moment Takeda had uttered those words, his eye caught the sight of his father at the peripheral of his vision – in visible pain. Both hands clutching his forehead, he cried out in agony – in that moment, utterly powerless.
As the enemies closed in on the Takahashis, numerous and supremely armed, Kenshi collapsed in a heap – witnessed by Takeda in complete horror.
Headquarters,
Outworld Investigation Agency (OIA)
They sat rather uncomfortably, separated by steaming cups of warm beverages on a rickety table – strong black coffee for Sonya, a watery, tasteless excuse for tea for the Captain. It was, ironically, the first time the duo had come face to face – despite terse conversations on the phone between them and/or their peers. Yet another of those impersonal, inconsiderate and forced CBMs – confidence building measures – between the OIA and other participating members to strengthen ties and unite against the outer realms.
Sonya scanned her contemporary. In her thirties, she gave off an air of someone far wiser, if not older, gaze steady, yet quietly critical, assessing her all the while she assessed the foreigner. The cautious silence afforded her a weight that amplified her reputation for no-nonsense even further. Though a Colonel now, Jehan had gained acclaim and laurels during her early days as a mere Captain. That brought Sonya to her other abilities, unexplored, untethered. She healed speedily, but there was nothing to suggest that the wounds did not impact her body. Medical examinations proved Jehan was still impacted by dislocated ligaments, shattered bones, and blood-loss. Even after her feats of bravery, by the time she had reported back to her superiors, she was completely delusional, teetering at the edge of death from the loss of blood, despite no visible wound on her body.
The pain endured in war was of course, every soldier's private tale, as Sonya knew far too well. Nevertheless, her grit and determination were unmatched, even as she served countless missions at home and abroad as a peacekeeper – training regiments in combat, including special ops survival training, as well as negotiating skills, diplomacy being a rather unusual trait in any soldier.
The task at hand, could not have been entrusted to a more worthy soldier.
The Captain took a sip, gritted her jaws, re-crossed her legs and turned away as she died inside a little at the poor taste of her tea. But Sonya had her reservations despite it all, as did Ara.
"Apologies if the tea is… not to your liking, Captain," quietly kipped Sonya, her tone cooler than usual.
The Captain raised an ardent gaze of her own to level hers.
"It's not just the tea that's not to my taste, Major-General. This particular exercise of yours –" she began, linking her fingers thoughtfully, as she weighed her words. "… reeks of nepotism." There was yet another barb right there at the tip of her tongue, but Jehan reigned it in for now.
"But you are still here, aren't you?" Sonya tilted her chin back slightly, assessing the Captain in with barely concealed distrust. Jehan knew the look all too well.
Arrogance; the one consistent factor amongst all cultures and races. Everyone thought they were the best, knew the best, and evidently did the best. Which was exactly why the world had gone to hell. The world-weary soldier had seen it all before; in different skin tones, languages, and genders.
What arrogance indicated to Ara however, was mere, empty posturing that unknowingly betrayed the underlying fear. A façade as flimsy as that would not deter her.
"I've worked all around the world, Major-General, there is no organization that would knowingly participate in such a program where only a few – a special, select few to boot – would have the chance to proceed-"
"Their success is contingent solely and purely on performance, Captain," Sonya replied curtly, betraying the feeling of defeat that was beginning to gnaw at her core. "Which is why it is my decision to remove all personal contacts from this project, except for administrative purposes."
Ara crossed her arms, her golden gaze hard and piercing. She bought none of it.
"In my experience, the administration is where everything goes wrong, Major-General," she replied quietly, but firmly. "When you have the power to manipulate the benchmarks of success, when you effectively determine your children's careers, biases play in. This exercise may just be us setting humanity up for failure. Again."
Sonya shot daggers at Ara's remark, lips pursed in a muted scowl, exhaling sharply from the nose.
"These 'children', as you call them," Sonya started after a pause, "are my soldiers. Even before passing the prelim tests, they had faced far greater odds; kidnapped and taken to the jungles of Outworld, battling Havik's sorcery and blood magik. Spilling blood…" She paused, reflecting briefly.
"I wouldn't call them children, Jehan. They grew up watching their parents bear the burdens of the world – I would say they are more than qualified to participate in this program."
The Captain leaned forward, her face softening: "Every soldier's tale, isn't it?" She sighed before continuing:
"I have been briefed about the participants; in fact, I watched Takahashi Takeda grow before my eyes, Major-General. I've seen him and Hasashi bury their clan, one by one. I am not undermining this younger generation, but raising valid questions regarding the program itself. Can you and I separate ourselves from this program to be unbiased and objective?"
Sonya replaced her cup in the saucer, and let out a low sigh. Truth be told, she had her own fears – a problematic design, propped up more by rhetoric about honouring the veterans of the first Netherrealm conflict within the circles: a new generation of fighters, direct descendants from the very first of Earthrealm champions – bringing together talent from the east and the west, across different cultures and races.
It would always sell well, given their composition, but if the first crop of champions had not prevented the conflict from escalating, what would ensure that the younger generation would succeed? How good were bloodlines anyway, if they were the only factor separating this new group of fighters from their fellow brothers-at-arms, and had failed before?
Ara continued: "I will eventually honour my placement within the OIA, as we are all contracted to," she said with a wave of her hand, "but there is a reason why I am saying all this. I know that you too know, what real sacrifice looks like in our line of work. Which is why I am coming clean, to a fellow-in-arms."
Without Johnny's reassurances, as much as she'd loathe to admit, Sonya now found it much harder to bear the burdens of leading humanity's charge in the battles across the realms. She was now too weary to carry on these battles against people who knew were correct in their assessments.
"Someone once told me, children and wealth are the very roots of trials and tribulations in our lives…"
Jehan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, familiar words and teachings of her religion, being quoted from an American woman, dripping with sincerity. At that moment, Ara realized she was conversing with a mother, rather than a soldier.
"Our children, evidently, must suffer for the mistakes we make, Jehan. They have inherited a difficult place to live from us. And their burdens are even greater – there can be no room for error. Which is why we're bringing you in," she nodded, her words filled with solemn conviction. "With complete control over the mission. To teach them what we could not; hone them into a force worth relying on. To make it all count in war."
The Captain sat up ram-rod straight, feeling the air between them change, the mutual goal in sight and the silent acknowledgement of what drove each of them, forging a bond between the two soldiers - nay, the two women - who had risked and sacrificed loved ones to senseless conflict.
"I will break them apart, each and every one of them," Ara confessed quietly, but determinedly. "I will destroy them. And then put them back together, Ms Blade. You have been warned."
Sonya gave a half-smile, hearing exactly what she needed to at that particular point. She extended her hand, which was immediately grasped in a firm, confirmatory handshake.
"Have a ball, Captain."
Unknown Location,
Siberia
The surge of power was immense, cold, consuming. With adrenaline thundering through his veins, Takeda pulled out an improvised whip, and slashed through the first attacker, watching him go down in a bloody mess on the snowy ground as if warped in time; everything moved in slow motion, the snow falling with grace, the blades flashing in muted sunlight, the blood seeping through the ground.
Apart from the young Chujin – for he was raw, molten energy, mind ablaze, soul frozen, and body moving as if that of an entirely different being.
He slashed forward his sword, locking weapons with an opponent, swiftly kicked him in the stomach, using the bent over body to launch himself onto another attacker behind him. Taking the second down with a slash on the chest, he reeled a third toward him, throwing a flurry of punches on his face that left him a bloodied mess. Within a few more seconds, he had taken down three more of the Red Dragon. There were a lot more than he had anticipated however. But he relished the thought of more challengers, with gleeful delight.
It was perhaps the first time that Takeda did not have to think in battle. So detached was he from his own actions, he might as well have been an outside observer to the bloody madness that befell his blades. But what didn't escape his attention was the ease with which his attackers presented themselves for a takedown. It was as if they feared nearing him, or somehow or the other were stunned into paralysis. The vexation took hold of his mind, even as his limbs moved out of their own accord in a dangerous dance of blades and blood.
He turned to face Kenshi, who was on his back, in pain and bloodied. Though the Red Dragon tried to attack him, he mentally manipulated the Sento, so that the sword, charged with the spirits of the lost Takahashi ancestors, fought a hoard of cultists – the forged talisman leaving behind angry red streaks as it engaged in kombat.
Takeda saw his father struggling, and rushed towards him. Yet all he could think about was of Kenshi's death. The mind whispered seductively; wouldn't it be satisfying if his deadbeat father perished, without honour, in this nameless place by the hand of a low-ranking cultist? Wouldn't it be desirable, to watch his body bloodied and defeated, lifeless? Wasn't that what he had always wanted, abandoned as he was in the Shirai Ryu?
'No, I must protect him!'
It was then, in the heat of battle, blinding and furious, that the Chujin's soul revolted. Inside him, he realized was a bounded light, one that knew the way through all his confusions and frustrations.
And now, in a single moment, it was unleashed.
Takeda felt it swell within his breast, the surge of power now channelled out towards the world instead of his own body – seeking all enemies, mental and physical, who sought to end him and his father.
'ITAMI!'
The Chujin screamed words in ancient script, words he did not know, and in a single second, the four pursuers attacking Kenshi all collapsed, blood sprouting from their noses, bodies convulsing with an onslaught never seen before. The swordsman turned towards his son, awestruck at his power, as the Sento returned to its sheath.
And just like that, it was all over; the vision dissipated, the maddening tenor of war surrounding them died down, sanity returned.
"Are you all-"
Before Takeda could finish his sentence, the swordsman signalled forth his ancestral blade, slicing cleanly through the last attacker who had followed Takeda behind his back. The remaining Red Dragon, wherever they were hidden, retreated after an imminent defeat.
Dazed, the young Chujin collapsed on his knees – only now catching his breath, regaining feeling in his numbed brain. A few seconds passed, as he lay crouched beside the floored Kenshi, who too, was exhausted by the ambush.
"You nearly knocked me out, son," he managed between deep breaths, as he pulled himself up in a sitting position with the help of Takeda, leaning against a tree, with legs stretched out before him.
"What?!"
The swordsman let out a low laugh, wiping blood from the sides of his mouth, but he didn't say anything on the matter then. As the mirth subsided, he posed a familiar question, slightly breathless:
"Look inside yourself, son. Tell me, what do you see?"
Guilt and remorse gripped Takeda, shame creeping up in crimson on his cheeks, as the events of the battle, his silence as a spectator to himself and his soul, played in his mind.
"Moments before the ambush, you said I had to choose how much of a man I was, and how much of a beast." Takeda sighed defeatedly. "Well, all I know is that today I was a mindless beast and… I almost wanted to kill you in stride as well."
Kenshi nodded gravely. "I know, son. And I also know that it wasn't you."
Takeda glanced up, taking in his father's profile, who turned forward, breathing deeply. He was part incredulous his confession didn't cause a reaction in the swordsman, but mostly he was relieved.
"You call it being 'mindless beast.' I call it rage and madness. Whatever it is, though, this battle is in our blood," Kenshi continued factually: "The Sento told me once that our power becomes stronger with every generation; if this is the case with you, then we must find mental anchors for you, so that you hold on to who you are."
"And who is that, exactly? What am I to become?"
A gentle breeze blew snowflakes right over his face, and Kenshi leaned out, adjusted his son's scarf to cover his reddened nose. Takeda, baffled but relenting, allowed his father to proceed with the show of affection – he took it as a resolution of their argument from only minutes ago.
"It may not seem like it, but truth is: even now, that choice remains yours, son. And it always will."
Headquarters,
Outworld Investigation Agency (OIA)
"Jacqui! What are you—"
Young Cassie was cut off mid-sentence as she was enveloped in a bear hug, nearly lifted off the ground by the ecstatic young Briggs.
"My God, Cass! I'm so happy you're here!"
The eruption of serendipitous giggles, exclamations of surprise were quickly followed by words of relief. After all, neither had imagined they would have been sorted into the Academy within the same contingent together. Hugging and jumping in the middle of a well-lit, but painfully boring beige entrance hall, the two teenagers earned plenty of side-glares and snide remarks from other cadets.
However, there was barely any time to remember the past, to go over schedules and set up meeting times. The duo, along with roughly twenty other high performing cadets, were quickly ushered into a newly minted training station, designated specifically for elite soldiers that were deployed to the outer realms. Holographic figures mirroring the difficult terrains and environments glittering bright neon blue, as they continued to change colour and shape; yet it was a sight that brought bitter memories for both Cassie and Jacqui.
On an elevated platform, stood Major-General Blade, her jaw gritted square, expression stern. Cassie was caught unaware, and she felt a tremor in her hand, as she gulped nervously and tried to remain calm. Jacqui sent her a look of empathy; the truth was she did not want to face Aunt Sonya as her superior in the military either, either. If she was half as bad as her father, then that was already twice more than what she could bear.
Accompanying Sonya was a tall stranger; her brown skin and sharp features boasted a foreign heritage. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, rolled up to her elbows, dark navy pants and boots, the only accessory that stood out were her glove-clad hands – that seemed out of place with the rest of her rather conventional attire. Everything else, however, from her posture to mirroring serious expression indicated a direct affiliation with the military.
"Attention, cadets!" called out Sonya – and instantly the commotion in the hall died down to pin-drop silence – steel on steel.
"You are here because even during peace, we remain at war," announced Sonya. "In such conditions, consistent training is not merely our defence, but also our offence. Today's challenges are not limited to the battlefield – we need emissaries, diplomats, negotiators… It is now your time to take up the mantle."
Cassie belied a chill that ran down her spine; and for the briefest moment, she felt her mother glanced at her while she spoke – a fleeting bird that flew before she could grasp it.
"Patience and persistence, is key, cadets. And so, under the leadership of Colonel Ara - 'The Captain' as we all know her by - today we launch a new exercise, to measure your effectiveness in kombat – and see if you have it in you to serve against the forces of Outworld."
Cassie looked at Jacqui, and both could barely contain their surprise and elation when they realized they could put a name – and a famed name at that – to the face of the foreigner. Her story was inspirational, grit and determination downright legendary to all those who worked in the military or the OIA. Years ago, in the highest battleground in the world, Captain Jehan Ara had spent days cut off from her regiment, without food or oxygen, rescuing a whole village on the remote mountains of her country – despite heavily injured from sniper fire. The evacuation strategy, devised and executed right in the point of crisis, was so exemplary and efficient, that it transformed emergency response systems all around the world. Such was the impact of a singular soldier, one who often disguised herself as a man, to protect others.
"Thanks for the introduction, Major-General," Ara spoke huskily in a British-tinged accent, as she addressed the crowd. "Cadets, welcome to Project Miras. Legacy. Much of which you are expected to write, if you manage to prove your worth…" Ara paused, folding her arms behind her back, as she paced lightly.
Gauging the response with hawkish, desert eyes, Ara soaked in the confused silence from both the young audience, as well as her contemporary, who threw a quizzical glance her way. The Captain allowed herself a small smirk, before she continued:
"I will demonstrate in a minute. But first, I need two volunteers, you – and you, young lady in cornrows, yes. Approach the front, please."
Baffled at being voluntold, and that too with her mother in audience, Cassie felt trepidation trickle down her back in an icy-hot stream. Glancing at Jacqui revealed she too was nervous for the demonstration, whatever it was supposed to be. But the distance covered was merely a few metres – not nearly enough to rein in racing hearts, swirling thoughts or to steady one's breathing. Under the noses of two steely, unyielding women that the duo looked up to, all facades ran too thin.
"It's a simple command, not much to it, really…"
The Captain brandished a pistol – standard issue – from a holster at her rib. She continued to check its chamber for bullets, reassure it was loaded, and clicked the safety off. The mechanical ministrations echoed in the room, as the remaining cadets exchanged nervous glances with one another. Every passing second carried the weight of multiple hours, as tension mounted palpably in the room.
Walking over to Cassandra, the nearest to her, Ara swiftly handed her the weapon, and moved a step back, folding her arms in quiet observation.
"See the other volunteer," she said with authority. Cassie felt the weight of the firearm in her hand, and her nerves becoming wrought with uncertainty. Though she remained calm and in control, she was completely unprepared of what was to be asked of her.
"There, right between the eyes. Shoot her."
That last scene had been in my head for so long, it nearly inspired an off-shoot for the Captain xD
Anyhow – How did you find this update? Bad? Repetitive? Redundant? Somewhat decent? Dare I say it, good? :p Please let me know through your review, I would love to read any feedback and try to make this better next time.
Thanks everyone, enjoy!