-X- Introduction -X-
- Desolate Gail Redux
- Started on: 5-17-2004 / Posted on: 6-28-2004 / Checked on: 3-9-2005
- By: Zeronova
- Chapter 7: Insubordination denied

- Text: Third person, Narration
- Text: First person, Thoughts
- Text: Interjection, the Narrator

X- End Introduction -X-

Where was it…where was it… Quint rifled through his locker in the dark, the overhead lights off because of a lack of electricity from the internal generators in some hidden room on Floor A. The Gears probably destroyed the lines or the generators themselves, whichever didn't matter, Quint wasn't going to be coming back here to help the rebuilding process, if any. Cities that were destroyed were razed and built on top of, or the next one was built a mile to the side. Berlin had been destroyed three times, Pairs five, Dresden four times (they're in the middle of a rebuild, actually), but the only city that had withstood every Gear attack was Neo-Troy, on the border of Italy and France, as well as Warsaw, despite that Warsaw had been razed many times, just not lost to the enemy. More on that later. So many things to come, I must have said "More on that later" about six or seven times thus far, but dear reader, all in due time.

A small sliver of light pierced the darkness with its fading ambience from the doorway. At the beginning of the day, when Quint first walked out of that door, it was morning; though the sun was overcast, with a high noon stare of pure centrality, median of all things, shining down upon man and Gear, the fogs rolled around the dead and dying in the fields outside of the Seikishidan. Now, the sun was in the setting phase, an hour of fighting past, then a few while resting, and the recurring walks. It's new angle let it shine freely down into Quint's room, the skylight only in the center of the ceiling of Floor F, but the sun angled so that it shined directly down onto it, pointing it out, a small beacon to God that this stands the man who defied your destined leader, Ky Kiske.

Darton took use of the invading light. Setting up the Gear sword in the doorway, he leaned it against a wall, the light reflecting off of it a little to light a darkened portion of the room. His locker was under one of the bunks, positioned about six feet off of the ground with a set of lockers underneath it, eight bunks in the room with eight lockers, none to ever be slept in again by those who had in the morning. The setting in effect of the dead had been slow to come, and numbing to those who had survived, but pushing it back into oblivion would be imperative to survive, though apathy of the dead would only make their lives a meaningless waste. Quint himself didn't care for any of the soldiers in his room, or really anyone in the entire Order for that matter, but to simply never see any of their faces again, to never hear them talking about home, was a somewhat empty feeling inside. Come on, stay focused.

He threw out a handful of soiled garments from his locker, scattering them on the floor in the small sliver of light. Laundry pick up comes three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. He had laundry to be done, but still some unused garments left, suggesting he was a day before the carts came by and jostled each room for their garments. Groping through the shirts and clothing, Quint threw it out of the light as soon as he found that it held not what he searched for. Reaching into the darkened side of the room again, he pulled out another handful of clothing from the unorganized locker. Tossing it on the ground, he knew he had it, hearing a distinct thud on the cold, hard cement ground. Wiggling his hand through sleeves and collars, he finally felt his hands brush up against the cooler steel of what he wanted, and removed it from its polyester sanctuary.

"There you are, baby" he said slowly, bringing it up to his mouth, and kissing it tenderly, his eyes closing a little as he did. He slowly slid it into his belt, next to his buckle, and stood up to go to the door. Grabbing up the Gear sword, the light flickered out from the dark side of the room, escaping it, probably never to return. He smelled the air, dank and musty, air never to be breathed by anyone again. One last look, and he walked out, carrying the door behind him, the locks clicking in place, and all light bidding farewell to items never again to be grazed by its ambience.

The sun seemed to target him from the sunroof, like a laser target to drop a bomb, blinding him slightly as he stepped from C-403 into the hallway. A dead Seikishidan was slumped against the wall right next to the door, eyes looking upward in a deathly gaze.

"Hey man, don't look at the sun, you'll go blind" Quint said slowly, closing the eyelids of the soldier. Darton stepped over a broken piece of cement, kicked up from a crater five feet in front of him, like a long lost piece of a puzzle. He could see where it fit in, and where it had been kicked back a Gear from the small collapse in the ground. Stepping forward, over man and Gear, he slowly made his way forward, towards the end of Floor C where Kiske and the rest should have been waiting. Suffice to say, I don't want to write every step he takes. So, we'll skip ahead a little.

After a while, Quint came up to the start of the semi circle at the end of Floor C, where it wrapped around to connect both of the right and left catwalks on Floor C, with the stairway in pieces and no soldiers in sight. Slowly, Quint stepped forward, over pieces of rubble he could distinctly remember a soldier sitting on earlier, and a wall where he knew Jaygus was sitting.

"They left, eh?" he said, looking around himself, to reassure none were hiding. "Fine, I'll find my own way out of here." He said confidently, trying to hold back the anxiety of going at it alone.

"Sir, I do not think it wise to have left." Jaygus said to Ky, walking directly behind him.

"I stand by my decision. As a sergeant, you should understand my orders are final."

"Yes sir, I do, but maybe one of us should go back to see if he is there, then catch up to the group." Ky stopped his pace, all of the subsequent ones also.

"Lose another man to find one who disgraces God? I am not willing to lose another soldier to try and save Darton. We continue on, until we reach the tram elevator." Jaygus was defeated by Kiske's superiority in the situation, despite Jaygus being nearly twenty years older. Jaygus took one final look back to the now dimming walkway of Floor C, before entering a side room, searching for Quint, and his vision not finding the soldier. Stepping inside the small officer's room, Jaygus spectated it with eyes of amusement, to find where this hidden warehouse was. This officer's room had been in use for many years. Kind of like a small office room, it had a telephone system, that worked only within the Seikishidan headquarters, complete with six buttons on the top, labeled A, B, C, D, E, and F. After inputting he floor, a room number was required, although only other officer rooms had telephones. There was an officer's room every fifty dorms, which were more like nannies to the soldiers. Urgent information, a new assignment, moving of room, they did all of that work, and the dreaded laundry.

The soldiers set themselves upon the chairs, tops of the desk, on the sofa, and wherever, while Kiske went to finding the entrance to the warehouse.

"This feels like on of those old films where they'd pull on the candlestick, and the wall would rotate." A soldier said, a stifled laugh from the others around him.

"Lucky you've seen those old movies. Speak lightly of them, because few have. Once this war's over, I'm gonna make a hundred movies, and they'll be epic love stories, gruesome war battles, and they'll be the best thing anyone's ever seen." One soldier said with a little bit of hope in his voice.

"Why don't you make it on me then?" the other soldier joked.

"Because no one would fall in love with your ugly mug," he joked back. All of the soldiers, including Kiske, let out a little laugh, although Ky tried to hide his, considering a leader shouldn't show weakness or compassion, he needs to be level headed and make the best decisions for all. The soldiers' laughs died out, a little levity to every bad situation always helps, and this situation, with thousands dead and their chances of survival dropping every minute, a laugh, a little happiness was imperative.

"The warehouse could possibly have Gears in it" Ky warned, turning to face all of the soldiers.

"Didn't we kill all of them, sir?" a private asked.

"If we had gone up against all of the Gears back there, we'd be dead. No, some of them held back. Survey the area, move up floors, and secure key structural points. I don't doubt Justice knows what he is doing." Ky said slowly and methodically.

"It's dark, very dark in there. The electricity was knocked out, and it's a windowless room, as the entire Seikishidan is, save for the skylight. It is a warehouse, however, so there will be flares, food, extra clothes, and whatever else we need, supposing we can find it. Light is becoming scarce, and we must rely on using light reflected from the single doorway to the outside. You three," Ky said, pointing to the three privates "put one sword in the doorway to reflect light, next sword in the doorway to the warehouse, and third at an angle of the second. I'll be calling out for light, so the third soldier must turn when called to the superior officers providing that light. Clear?" Ky said. When we get out of here, I'm adding this to the survival manual.

Then, Ky turned around to a wall. There was a small wire box where the phone's wire went into the wall, except it was a small raised cube, about six inches by four inches in plane, and three inches in width. Ky brought the hilt of the Thunderseal up, and bashed on the small protrusion on the wall, which just looked like a simple electric wire guide box. The drywall cracked, splintered, and finally fell off, leaving a light white dust floating in the air. Using his glove, Kiske slowly wiped off the surface where the box was covering.

A small digital pad with a small LED counter above surfaced itself off of the plaster and paint, hidden behind the façade wire box. Ky pushed a small green button, the red LED screen flickering to life, and then typing in a five number sequence, which was unknown, except for the beeps that coincided with each number pressed, as he covered it with his body. Secrets of the Order that no one should know. Next to him, a portion of the wall cracked, the crack widening, running along the side, another crack opening on the opposite side and jumping along till they met, and ran alongside each other, cracking wall, splintering, white dust falling off and joining the rest, until a door shaped frame was revealed by the cracks. Atlas punched the center of the dry-wall cracked frame, his hand going straight through it, and white dust flying out along his arm from the dry wall. He felt inside with his hand, then removed it, taking the entire door frame in the wall with him, revealing a metallic doorway, locked with three sequential circular locks, pressurized and electronically locked.

Shrugging the piece of wall off of his hand, it dropped to the ground, sending a plume of dust at the soldiers sitting behind. The three inter-locked circular locks jumped to life, a bit of normal dust, as opposed to the dust created by destroying the wall, as they clicked to life, moving in one-hundred-and-eighty-degree motions, then both pieces of the lock separating, all three following each other in perfect rhythm. Then, the door slid open, slowly, like death. They say when something is anticipated and feared, time moves slower, you see every detail, every little sound becomes a boom, and you can't move. The door was already moving slowly to the left, but with these added fears, it was almost an eternity in the eyes of the soldiers. Ky stood defiantly in front of the door, the threat of Gears all too real, knowing he could be impaled before he could blink. The darkness greeted him from inside the door, the sliding entrance slowly clicking fully open as it found solace in the wall, hiding from the darkness that Ky challenged. Stale air jumped out at him, air that had been sealed in for decades, unused and unknown. Ky was terrified, he was about to piss himself if anything made the slightest noise from inside the room, but he couldn't show fear, not in front of the soldiers.

The difference of pressure in the rooms when the door opened created a small vacuum, the stale air pouring in onto the soldiers, a few coughing, others acting like it was nothing, when they all could smell the repugnance invading their nostrils. Ky breathed in deep, not to be macho to the soldiers and show he could take the stale air, but to reassure himself before he did something real ballsy. He took a step forward into the darkness, then another, each step easier than the last, his fear exponentially increasing as the darkness seeped into the void he made behind him as he walked, enclosing him alone.

"Privates!" he yelled authoritatively, motioning for them to execute his luminance plan. They all rushed in, unafraid, as Ky had been, setting up their three swords where they were told. One in the doorway to the room, leading from the Floor C catwalk, one in the doorway of the warehouse, and one standing about ten feet out from the door, where Ky was, to direct the light around, as a center to direct the radius of light wherever the soldiers called. The private ran up next to Ky, saying the appropriate "sir" and a nod, then putting his sword, tip down, lightly onto the floor, so the light from the previous two soldiers swords reflected off of his. Kiske turned to the one remaining private, two lieutenants and the sergeant, gave them a nod, and they all instantly entered the secret warehouse, finding crates, boxes, and anything else that could in any way benefit the Seikishidan, or the eight of them. Please God, give us time to find things we need.

"I'm leader, I do what I want, I'm sixteen yet I have more power than you'll ever have, look at my fucking shiny blue sword…." Quint mused in a vehement whisper. "Bastards left me to die, find my way out. 'Leave the ex-Seikishidan member!' Goddamn bastards…" Quint waked slowly, over carcass and death, his head down, not in shame or fear, but in anger to not look up. Walking along the opposite side of Floor C, he surmised they must have come this way, because if they went by C-403, he'd know. He kept a steady pace, head at the ground, every crack, face, pool of blood, haggard (and smelly) Gear body, all of it being taken in by his wandering eyes, though none of it really permeated him as much as it should have. Blood, death, gore, destruction, none of it seemed to have that adverse effect it has on most, were they can't stand it, cry, throw up, question themselves. Not Quint, he just plain didn't care.

"Whazzat?" he slurredly said, picking up a small sound, reaching for his stolen Gear sword, from the carcass near the cargo bay. Tap, tap, tap. There it is again, closer. Quint threw his head around, looking for the source of the sound, it being from above, then below, then next to him, and then a mile away. The echo of the enclosed, domed off Parisian Seikishidan H.Q., built into the side of the hill, was a technical masterpiece of architecture and planning, but it echoed everything. It sounded somewhat mechanic, a tap, tap, tap every few seconds, no other noise, just that slow tap. There! A tap-tap-tap echoed to his right, and he turned to face it, only the solitary nothing greeting where he looked. He stepped forward cautiously, each step on his toes, silent, his blade raised to stab on a second's notice, standard Seikishidan training. I really don't know how to describe this in writing, much less than actually depicting it, which ruins some of the climax, so bear with me, dear reader.

Each step he took forward distanced him from his real enemy. A Gear slowly crawled off of the side of Floor D, around the railing, and over the edge, sticking to the ceiling with small claws that dug into the cement like cardboard. Darton kept his silent walk forward steady, eyes swiveling back and forth, left to right, his backside unguarded. Very slowly, each step mocking Quint's, the Gear came closer, each claw digging through the cement with deadly, pin-point accuracy, making sure not to make the slightest sound in the dead corridors, not to let any pebbles fall. It moved on all fours, but had its body spread flat, like a spider. It technically had five arms, since an abnormal cancerous growth on the side of its ribcage was protruding out, the formings of a hand coming, nubs of fingers, and probably just a lifeless prostrate. Quint kept his eyes focused on what was, or wasn't, in front of him, and inadvertently stepped on the mangled arm of a Gear, bone crunching, blood gurgling out from ripped skin that tore like paper from the mutation and death, turning green with the mortality it had expended setting in. Quint jumped at the sound, spinning. His blood pumped adrenaline, eyes were shaky, hands gripping tighter and tighter on his sword while his breath jumped rapidly, and for no cause, except that burst of action running through his blood like a mutual parasite, both getting what they need from each other. Quint, the rush, the adrenaline, a host.

But, that adrenaline would not go to waste, because as he turned, the Gear also recognized that its number was up, and flipped off of the ceiling of Floor C, which was the underside of the bottom of Floor D. Landing with a deafening smack on the floor of Floor C, its hind legs crushed in the ribcage and leg of a dead body, the blood leaking out and over the edge of Floor C to drip constantly, a mathematical perfection to the procession of each drop, previous and proceeding. A loud roar emitted the Gear, who was missing an eye, a few teeth, and a mandible. Like nails on a chalkboard or running an engine with no oil, it made Quint jump back, both from ferocity, his own fear magnified, and the God-awful sound. After the war cry, he heard no more, the adrenaline pumping more than blood. He couldn't control himself as he ran; he was going on primal instinct. No reason, no morality could stop him, he was feral.

The Gear loped itself forward in each run, its body being thrown up and down by the hind and forward legs swinging like a pendulum to cover ground. Darton, bringing the Gear sword out, held it with the bottom of the handle facing the Gear, his left hand holding the blade, which was pointed behind him, parallel with the ground. They ran about fifty feet to meet each other at twenty-five, bodies and weapons underneath their feet being crushed and used as plateaus for the next step, neither caring about them nor worrying. In a fluid motion, the Gears forward legs reached out to take another step, digging into the ground, the hind ones jumping ahead of the fore, then the fore reaching out forward as the hind pushed off of the ground in a pounce. Quint, with his sword in running stance, was pushed forward and up in a swing by his left, as his right gripped onto the handle of the sword. His thrust upward with his left threw the blade into a diagonal slash forward and down to the right, turning his entire body with the blade to conserve his momentum for a second horizontal swing. The Gear was cut down to the ground with the first swing, blade cutting through its shoulder, removing an arm, and slamming it into the concrete from its pounce. Instinctively, it jumped up to attack Quint, and was met by the second horizontal slash of the blade, removing its head. The body toppled backwards, head tumbling off, rolling, and then falling off of Floor C between the slats in the railing.

"Shit," Quint mumbled, after regaining control of himself, panting with the adrenaline thinning. He felt like throwing up, going to sleep, and just falling to the ground as the parasitic adrenaline drained from the now worthless host. He hated the adrenaline swing, from high to low, because it was ten times worse than a hangover. He jumped to the edge of the railing, leaning over, breathing hard and propping himself up not to slump over. The head with no jaw fell silently, the few strands of graying hair on the head like arrows pointing up, yet descending, and reaching out to Quint to stop it. Then, bang-thud, it hit Floor A with a smash of its impact, then liquidation of the flesh into a red pulp. "Now they're definitely going to kill me," Quint said sarcastically, throwing himself off of the railing he was leaning on, adrenaline finding out that the host was actually worthy, and pumping again as Quint sprinted to find where the hell Ky was. He could already hear the husky voices of oncoming Gears, their distant cries, the ­tap-tap-tap of their feet into the cement. And there were a lot coming, and from where he couldn't tell because of the echo, but from what he could hear, a lot.

Each footstep followed the next, his mouth instantly sucking in wind. For the little rest they had, he hadn't gained a lot of strength back, but that is why adrenaline was so important. With each step, it pumped thicker than his blood, his eyes going hazy around the edges, and his conscious losing reality, focused on the pure rush of energy surging through him, the sounds of Gears behind and all around propelling him to run harder. He scurries of them above, tap of their claws running along the cement, deep breaths from ragged jaws with loose skin on their faces, the inhuman quality of the beasts, like a pack of carnivores on the hunt, except Gears didn't eat, didn't sleep, only followed orders until their body simply fell over dead, which happened every so often, which is why new ones were made to replace them. The Gears were expendable, but were numbered in years, since they were mutations, abominations, completely adverse to the Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest, because they were the most fit of all organisms on the planet, yet were also the most unfit for survival at the same time. The irony of it all, central to this story, runs through everything in this war, in this world.

Quint had no idea of how to tell one room from the other, the small bronze plates on each door with a C, for the floor, and the numbers increasing with every door flying past him with every step forward. He didn't dare look back, to see where the Gears were coming from, or how close, for not only would it be demoralizing, he was scared to look, and would be further scared to see. He ran farther, harder, each step being a stride longer than the last, his toes reaching further to grasp more ground with each step further away from the Gears who seemed to breathe down his neck, swarming in from every direction he could think, considering his eyes dare not find the pursuers. Yet, he knew. He could feel them, their presence. In war, and in times of stress, certain things become familiar to the soldier. Death, regrettably, being one of them. Being close to a Gear had a feeling, a clammy, deathly feeling, knowing that this creature was linked to Justice, scourge of humanity, reason of over four and a half billion deaths, and knowing that this once was a being, probably one opposed to Justice, and now killing for him. The smell, the air becoming clammy, the presence, no real distinction about being near them distinguishes it, but something more…intuitive. Something one can feel once they know it, something that crawls up and down your spine in search of hitting the nerve it knows causes fear, and it often finds it, but the Gears were that certain crawling specimen, and even if no distinct reason why the person should or could know they were near, someway, somehow, if after combat and getting used to it, a soldier knew. They just knew.

Somewhere along the sprint, Quint eyed a small door opened, and a white coat leaning out of it. Running at his frantic pace, his eyes blurring everything as he pushed harder and harder, a bit of fleeting light from above shining amber into the headquarters from the setting sun above. Painting everything a golden brown, most of the white interior, now cracked, destroyed, and defaced with bodies and blood, the holy sun, created by God during the seven days, was not quite as holy as it should be. God shining down upon all with a far light was true, the pouring gold lighting up dead man and dead Gear alike, yet faces of dead men paled further in the radiance, bodies of Gears seeming to shirk from the light, even though dead. So, God looked down upon both Gears and humans, favoring neither, helping neither, making the Seikishidan sort of a relic for a lost cause, but that's only from my viewpoint. You might say God hated the Gears, or loved them, and that the fate of each was either just or regrettable, right or wrong, just or not, justice served or justice tainted. Yet, in due time, my reader, due time.

"Hey, move!" Quint yelled between gasps, running further. The white coat barely leaning outside of the door turned into a full body, the small lining of green private coat greeting him with a questioning face at the voice. He was standing lackadaisically in the doorway, holding his sword propped to allow light to reflect in, the voice stabbing him from his day dreaming to a reality. His face went from curiosity and confusion to utter bewilderment, seeing Quint, then the enemy behind, who still was a mystery to the eyes of Darton. Running closer and closer, stamping his boot into the carcasses of man and Gear, he ran forward, trying to keep his balance right, not to trip, don't do anything stupid, keep running.

Darton grabbed the inner edge of the door, whipping himself around with his left hand, and grabbing the handle of the door with his right, snapping it shut as he thrust himself inside, breathing hard. The shocked soldier was thrown to the ground by the force Quint hit him with, as well as his stuttering delusion at the few seconds that just passed. As soon as Quint shut the door, his hands fumbled with one of the locks, the grunts of Gears coming closer and closer, perpendicular by a familiar voice.

"Private, where is the light?" the modern Atlas echoed.

"Gears, get yer ass movin'!" Darton screamed, securing the small circular lock with his hands, twisting it clockwise until it clicked shut. Then, pounding on the door, the crying and shrieking, talking and waiting, like an anxious child before Christmas, the Gears started to bash the door. Small imprints of hands on the inside of the door shown through, deafening clanks from each successive hits. "We don't got long!" Quint said, picking up the private in the dark, his adrenaline pumping to where light wasn't an issue, he could see well enough. He rushed through the door to the warehouse, instinct guiding him, hitting Kiske right in the chest, as his vision failed him for what he thought he knew.

"Darton!" Ky questioned, confused.

"We got Gears, let's go!" he said, trying to rush by, but Kiske grabbing him by the shoulder before he could bolt.

"You led them here! You're trying to kill us!" Ky said in desperation in the darkness, the sudden re-entry of Darton and Gears scaring him a little from a rather peaceful evening of searching a warehouse.

"If I were leading them here, they would have killed me! Now run!" Darton said vituperatively, nearly spitting the words at Ky, trying to wrestle free of the child's grip to get a running start. Then, the grip left, and Darton was ill prepared for the ensuing loss of leverage and balance. He crashed into a small crate inside of the door to the warehouse, the wood snapping underneath him, and the light pad-pad-pad of Seikishidan boots running by as he collected himself. All of them heard my little fiasco, they're running too, and I bet Ky is, if I could see. Damn kid.. He stood up, hearing the bangs increase in intensity and in number on the door, knowing it wouldn't hold for long. He reached for the Gear sword he acquired earlier, jumping out of the destroyed crate, to find its trusty place was currently missing. Reaching down in the darkness, he found the hilt of a sword, sheathed it in the adjustable belt loop that only accommodated a hilt, the blade resting without cover on his hip, and sprinted in whatever direction he thought was straight. I'm gonna need one of those…

"Follow the flairs!" he heard a voice echoes to him, how far ahead, unknown, who unknown, but the flare's location, soon to be known. With a few more steps, a small speck of light shot out at Darton, quickly becoming a small circle to a lively display of color and luminance, a small rod-like flare with a burning effigy on the top, leading the way. Warehouse, probably picked up those supplies, just keep running, Darton! Don't stop, don't ever look back, don't do something stupid, don't do something dumb enough to regret, if you even live to regret.

-X- Author's Notes –X-
- Zeronova's Notes:
- Well, by the time you read this, I will still be on my two-week vacation in Alabama, with the Samuraiter to thank for making sure DG:DE didn't fall without a Monday update. Next Monday I will have returned. Progressing nicely, and a little bit of a better way to introduce Quint's buddy, which plays a bigger part this time around, considering how very different the situation upon his getting it is this time. But, we have the warehouse sprint and battle first, so don't jump the gun. Can't have DG without bloody battles, even in a remake.
-X- End Author's Notes –X-