-X- Introduction -X-
- Desolate Gail Redux
- Started on: 5-17-2004 / Posted on: 7-5-2004 / Checked on: 3-11-2005
- By: Zeronova
- Chapter 8: Darkness shant be your ally

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

X- End Introduction -X-

No preparation, no deliberation, it was all off the fringe. Even if they had weeks and months of planning, down to this exact moment, it all wouldn't have mattered. The human intellect, human's inventions, strengths, all of them wouldn't have helped in a feral, simple fight for life in running from a predator. Running from death, running from those who will kill you, but you can fight. You can turn and face death, gritting your teeth, showing him you have a pair of balls, and if he wants your life, he'll have to go through Hell first. Most of what happened with the Seikishidan and Gears was like that, since the actual battle itself was reduced from military and strategy to pure fighting. The essentials. Hand to hand, blade to blade. No explosions, no fancy things that could kill hundreds in seconds, no guns, it was all somehow…simpler.

In a time of harnessing more amazing power sources, more amazing inventions, more amazing times, it all reduced. People lived in fear of death the next day, day to day thinking, and sometimes being correct, that it could be their last, and then having to have one man, leading others, go fight for their freedom, security, and lives in the simplest way, dating back to Neanderthals and even animals themselves. So, simply, are humans animals? Do we, as a race, classify as animals? Gears are humans, sometimes, animals, infused with other DNA, from countless other organisms, fused all with magic, turning them into genetic amalgamations and discombobulations, brains turning subservient to the one Alpha Gear, a mix of technology and Gear, yet still human as well.

The Alpha Gear was the first. No other sort of Gear to serve, given that sentience. Except, with Justice, there were rumors that he wasn't the first. The original Gear project's contributors mysteriously disappeared, their research destroyed, records destroyed, and floated back to the background of politics and news, finding new uses and amazing new things to do with magic, Gears not being of any importance; the magic-infused bio-organism project was shoved to the side for other technologies. Those accidents, those few that may have possibly lived from that initial project, if at all, would have been the original Gears. Many people sometimes debate if any did survive, and if they are all sentient, they should still exist. Aging, decay, all of it destroyed by the Gear process, as well as them being extremely strong. So, would Justice be subservient to any if they still existed? Technically, yes. So, they can't exist, right? Well, rumors say it is possible, in the dark alleys of the human homesteads left, lurking and living amongst us, there is, and they just try and live a normal life.

Personally, I believe the story, and you'll know why later, but I have a reason. Knowing that there is something to believe besides Justice, maybe able to stop Justice, it gives some faith, considering I have none for God. Would God forsake my faith in his enemy? Are Gears even God's enemies? The Seikishidan says so, but is it? I'm not one to say, and I don't make the rules, I only translate them. The old saying goes "Hey, I just work here", and indeed, I do. I work at this, I write what I think, my literary beliefs and tones subjugated in writing and my own thoughts. I do hope my personal ramblings and insight do not bother you, dear reader, as I write for you in some weird query that you do not know anything of the Crusades, do not know Ky Kiske, maybe you don't know my world, maybe you're from another. Far future where the past is gone under ice and decay, removed, or from the past before events, or maybe you're just like me, searching for reality in something that you cannot quite grasp, but know existed, and know happened. Which is why I write, reader of future, reader of past, reader of now, reader of far away, reader of close, reader of myself. I have personal reasons as well to which I attribute this diatribe, but that's losing focus as the pages whip past my pen…

Run, run, run. Don't stop, don't look, find the next flare, run till you see it, run straight don't curve, no! There! See it! Go for it! Don't stop, you goddamn pussy! Darton pushed harder with each step, hurting more than the last, and each step moving forward again. His legs wanted to stop, feeling like dead weights, harder to lift and push forward each time, but doing it nonetheless. He wanted to sit down, rest, take a breather, but that meant death. Maybe that was it; maybe he was ready for death, since he was so tired. No, don't give death your soul because you're tired, keep pushing until he has to wrench it away from your very last finger clutching it in. That was how Quint felt, each leg pounding further, harder, more and more ground flying underneath his boots, each step methodically jiggling his sword on his hip, back and forth. Flare after flare passed under his feet, like beacons of hope, small-lighted dots of security that seemed to give him hope there was more to go for.

He could hear the Gears behind him, rushing in, the door broken, overtaking the doorway, pieces of cement crumbling underneath the surge prying the doorway open, smelling the scent of humans, following orders descended down to them by Justice. Their footsteps cracked the cement like they were running through sand behind him, the cracks racing along with the Gears and fleeing Seikishidan soldiers. The small cracks, reaching out with every footstep of every gear, joining, cracking more in front, running like veins to the heart, trying to grasp Ky Kiske, the centrality of the Seikishidan, mission objective. With every sep, Quint felt the cracks catching up, his feet losing perfect grounding, his boot finding small imperfections in the ground as they raced up to him, and then beyond him in the small silhouetted spitting light. They're close, behind me!

Small dots of red light pierced the darkness, asides from the flares. The glowing inhuman eyes of the Gears shone dull in the darkness, the magical properties outwardly reflecting in their retinas, the DNA somehow gleaming the indifference, like a poignant reminder that it is different, yet somehow trying to act cool, like it's not a big thing. Darton saw red dots, sometimes one, sometimes three, two side by side, two mixed on a silhouetted body that had been contorted racing along the walls and boxes of the warehouse around him, closing in. They were racing past him on both sides, clawing into the walls, the ceiling littered with red dots of the crawling Gears. There were some behind him, he knew, the less animalistic ones. He wasn't their priority anyway, but they'd kill him. Leave the heavy infantry and humanesque units to run, the animal ones who could traverse more…unique obstacles went ahead and did so to reach Kiske, lost in the darkness ahead. The grunts from the hulking Gears behind, clanging of their feet on the ground and swords dangling along were a lullaby to Darton throbbing heart inside, his breathing muting everything else in the huge gasps.

Then, he heard a cry, a squelched, liquidy gasp; a human cry. Darton kept running, then saw a small frame of a Gear, standing over a body of a Seikishidan, a flare up ahead revealing in an orange light the impaled man with the killer Gear hovering above, confirming the kill, sending the information to Justice, thinking, receiving, and finally deciding, crying out in a Gear's dual voice, a scream of delight and torture at the same time, like a ghastly vignette. It had both of its hands impaled in the body, then brought them out slowly, likcing at the blood, analyzing, thinking, before ripping into the body again to verify its death and taking delight in its dissection of its enemy. Quint ran harder, legs pumping, his hand reaching for the sword sheathed at his hip, binging it into his right hand. This feel weird, it isn't the Gear sword…Shit! Quint has no time to think, a Gear on the ceiling, racing along with each step, every small claw digging into the cement with a bit of dust being swept in the running barrage, leapt off of the ceiling, turning in mid air, and landing completely level. Obviously, it had feline DNA in it, the slit like eyes and balance, as well as elongated claws and fangs, dripping with excitement and expectation, bits of fur and skin meshing in small fragments, skin ripped, exposing muscle and organ, bones sticking out, an overall disgusting creature, though designed perfectly for the job of genocide.

A small layer of dust exploded upward when it landed, the warehouse floor traversed by the few soldiers ahead of Quint, but still mostly untread in years. It growled slowly, then pounced at Quint in the bleak darkness. The adrenaline gave Quint a fighting chance, and the orange glow of the next flare above gave him an edge, if it would be considered that. Quint, not wanting to stop his run, swung his sword futilely in the air at the airborne Gear. He closed his eyes as he did, knowing he could keep running, but knowing also he was dead. Even if he hit this Gear, it would smash into him, then the Gears behind would kill him. Swizoosh! He kept running, feet plodding one after another, no Gear impaling him, no Gear blood splattering on him, no blade cutting into flesh and bone. A small wind rushed past him and he felt his clothes and hair be tugged towards it, Gear no where to be found, dust settling in the distance, the faint orange glow tingeing it like the embers of a fire on the horizon. The hell...? Keep running!

Faster every step, every step harder, every leap forward on his feet feeling like his last, to be defied a second later by the opposite leg jumping up in front. He pumped his arms as hard as he could, gaining more speed, but even his arms started to feel like weights, his legs not wanting to move faster, pain building, the burning sensation gone, replaced with a numb pain that hurt more and more, yet lost feeling more and more, like a backward masochism. Gears around him caught up, gave him a glance, the slow glowing crimson of their eyes piercing the darkness, abbreviated with a slight orange tinge from another flare up ahead that soon passed under their feet, then raced forward more. Justice didn't care for Quint, just a grunt, already tired, and would be picked off by routine battle operations of the grunts behind. The faster, more animalistic units needn't worry about some private, go for Kiske, leader of humanity, mission objective. He pushed harder, trying to keep up to the fleeting trails of the quadruped Gears, who bounded off into the darkness, beyond the orange silhouettes the next flare ahead and the one passing granted.

The human like ones behind him were catching. They were slower than their more animalistic brothers, but what they lacked in speed, they made up for in strength. He could hear their grunts with every step, cement cracking under their mutated and swollen feet, their hoarse breaths thick with moisture creeping on the back of his neck, and he ran harder. But, that moisture only caught up, taunting him to look behind, but he dared not. I can hear them, every breath, every grunt, every disgusting plod forward, they're behind me, they're catching me, run harder, run faster, run!

Through the running campaign, feet and distances became null, darkness being their only gauge, and even that was somewhat misleading. How far they ran into the warehouse, if it was even the right direction, who knew, but they ran. Past crates and wires, up a small stair set that was two or three high, then down a small ramp, around a supporting beam, and kept running. They had to keep going, for fear of death, fear of having to turn and kill more, and of fear itself. Quint couldn't see any soldiers ahead, the count down to him, Ky, Jaygus, and six other Seikishidan, since one private was just killed. Don't turn, don't turn…run! Quint found it harder every step to not turn, to run forward, and he could now feel the steps of the Gears behind him reverberating in the ground, shaking up his own heels. Don't turn, don't turn… Running harder, his legs now hardly moving to his command, each step becoming more faint than the last. Don't…TURN!

Quint took one more step forward, his right foot lodging itself, toes first, into the cement for grounding, then his left jumping forward past it, turning so his body would rotate, and landed with both feet shoulder width apart, facing the Gear army covered in the veil of darkness. The hell are you doing…gonna die, then do it bravely, eh? Start swinging, never stop until they remove your arms and pin you down, remove all blood from your body, and pluck your soul from the hands of God himself! Quint wrung the grip on his new sword tightly, then brought it across his chest in a horizontal slash, his right hand leading the blade to slice the midnight surrounding him. No flesh, no bone, nothing touched his blade, and all fell silent suddenly, save echoes of Gears ahead of him. Though, in front of him now, he heard none of the Gears from the previous pursuit, he heard none of the husky growls and disgusting plods, it was silent. Then, splat-tap-pat-pop­…a low growl, a few red eyes opening, silhouettes of bodies standing, slowly walking forward, an orange tinge outlining the grotesqueries of their faces, the juts of bone and flesh, shading other recessed parts.

They seemed to be filling in a gap left, slowly walking inward around Quint, their sprint forward stopped. A few red eyes rolled in their skulls, blinked unendingly, processing data and receiving it to Justice. The previous sounds he heard now found images, as a few Gear bodies fell limply to the ground in the distance, like being dropped from a cliff, or thrown, the orange light from a flare in Quint's wake giving them renewed life to the eyes of the living.

"Aaaaaah!" Quint screamed, bringing both of his hands to rest on the grip of the sword, then brought it above his head, and slashed vertically forward at the nearest Gear, the blade tip finding itself a home in the cement at the end of the slash. What followed was a clamminess, the air seeming to grow cold and dense, humid and dry at the same time, the Gear was untouched by the attack and stepped forward to impale Quint, then a small sound, a swizoosh, like a rustling wind, and the Gear he swung at, suddenly screamed in agony, flying backward, the Gears behind it being bowled down. What the hell is with this sword! Quint was consistently scared and amused at this new toy he found, every slash he made a like reaction happening, and neither understanding nor coping with exactly what he found. He brought his sword up again, attacking another, running head forth into the slew of human Gears, number unknown in the darkness, only the orange silhouette of a flare about fifteen yards behind his back, lighting those in his immediate sight barely.

His slashes were more lazy, like he was flailing, his body ripe with exhaustion, sweat dripping off of his face, wetting his dried bangs, the neck of his uniform becoming moist with perspiration. Every slash was accompanied with a yell, his flailing hands leading his wavering sword, and Gears being slain down, one after another. How, he knew not, and neither did the Gears, but he did. And, the humanesque Gears continued to try and kill him, to no avail. They neither passed him up and kept running, since obviously, Justice's danger rating had jumped severely. In due time, the program would say, this human must be killed before the remaining will, and the hunters ahead will have taken care of that job, as well as these current slave bipedal Gears would be needed to kill this human.

A Gear came in from Quint's left with a vertical slash, which Quint blocked with a lazy sword, being thrown down to the ground on impact, his body tired, but he pulled his sword back up to block another volley from the same Gear who took another step forward, Quint taking one back, blocking again, and his sword almost lost from his grip once again. On the third step, it brought the blade above its head with one hand, then forcefully down, of which Quint sidestepped (which was more of a falling to his left, in his exhausted state), then stabbed forward, the awkward tip of the blade finding dull flesh. The Gear cried out in pain suddenly, then was pushed off the end of the blade and back ferociously, as if yanked, screaming echoing back in the emptiness, and blood trailing and spraying everywhere in a slight gust, a bit splashing onto Darton's uniform and two drops landing on his face.

Darton fell to the ground on one knee, propped up by his sword which found a crack in the ground to be a crux for him. He could hear a small sneer, an undeniable joy in the Gears silently and blindly moving in on him, around him. He breathed hard, sweat dripping off of his face like dew in the morning of fresh grass, his eyes scanning the orange glow, seeing figures jump this way, that way, duck under for another to replace it, and slowly surround him. He could see that dull red glow in their eyes as it turned in their heads, processing, relaying, querying orders and actions, programs executed, programs denied, all of it functioning to serve a Gear's reality. This is how it ends? Dying trailing behind, because I'm tired. No, you won't die like that. You won't, now get up, move, move damnit!

Quint slowly moved his kneeling leg up to a foot base, then lifted his upper torso slowly, his back cracking and his muscles agonizingly burning through him. Pain was no longer an issue, the point past pain had been reached, where pain was a metaphor for some feeling that meant nothing while fighting, only to distract you. He was far and beyond, his body ached like it had never ached, he was tired like he never was before, and he was still going. The large gash in his arm was bleeding new blood now, feeling the trickling down his arm and over his uniform, but he wasn't conscious of it, it was as gone as the pain. The Gears continued to slowly pace around his back, forming a circle. They grunted and growled, small twinges of delight pacing through their howls. A kill was imminent, blood to be splattered, and they wanted it more than any other desire had ever been bestowed upon a creature previously, than the three goddesses and the golden apple to the fairest, more than Abraham wanted to find one non-sinner in Sodom and Gomorrah, and more than humanity wanted Gears dead.

They formed their circle, each around him. He swiveled his head slowly, seeing dull outlines and shaded forms, a few Gears in direct line of sight of the flare ahead, blocking the orange that pervaded around their heads and under their legs, silhouetting the grotesque bodies in a colored vision around, leaving the center epitome of their being and body black and vacuous. He could see the figures of more humanoid Gears running by with husky growls while the few that surrounded him had him as priority, closing him off.

"Come on, you bastards..." Quint spat out, his torso leaning over his legs slightly, his body jumping with more adrenaline, a straight shot of what he had left. He brought the sword to his knee level, blade back behind him, both hands on the hilt, letting it push up against both of his calves as he stood, breathing over himself in his hunched position, head a little low, scanning them all with hawk eyes through his matted brown hair.

A slight curl in the voice of one Gear, like a scowl, and it jumped out to Quint's right, one hand forward, and the other back, poising to strike. It was a humanesque form one, as all of them were, the speedier ones already ahead. He was burly, big, stood on two legs, and mildly slow in terms of running speed, but quick in movement of arms and reflexes, despite a general stupidity. It aimed to simply grab and crush Quint, no blade, no razored bone or nail, just simple bashing, as Justice would indeed like to see such a thing of a human. The Gear didn't accomplish the task handed down by Justice though, receiving Darton's sword in the middle of its right clavicle, down to the end of the sternum. It cried in pain of the vertical slash that tore through its chest, blade lodged through it entirely, then Quint realized what the sword exactly did.

Another growl of the Gear, like it was cursing him, then the air became stale, like it was dead. A small swoosh of air pushed Quint back a foot, his hair jumping like children scared, then resuming their place on his forehead like children returning to parents. The Gear lodged on the sword was smashed into the ground, a gust of wind blowing from the sharpened side of the blade, as if it sucked life itself from the air to amplify it in a vortex to where the blade was slashed. The wound gushed open at the ripping torrent, Gear being pushed down into the ground, shins snapping in bone and sinew, the entire body crumpling with blood being the only clue left to the murder on the blade, which was mostly cleaned and splattered on Gears and Quint alike by the gale.

All of the Gears stopped moving, their hunched, haggard breathing, modular movements that are as natural as breathing, processing, re-evaluating.

"Well, looky here..." Quint smirked. "I found something you guys don't like..." He said with a renewed strength, puling his body up to a full stand, hands regripping the hilt, tightening, a new burst of energy and optimism in Quint. You got this thing, now use it, kill them all, and live. Come on, Darton, you didn't survive Berlin, De La Morte, and Tripoli to die in some warehouse in some shitty Seikishidan op. You'll live, and you'll kill more of these sons of bitches, now let's wipe these out here and now.

Quint took the first step in engaging the Gears, who were starting to show signs of life again, new orders processed and being executed. He ran forward into the small circle, the circle being about twenty-five Gears in total, the heads and bodies of other Gears rushing by the small enclosed perimeter to catch up. They isolated Quint, and the dozens of others ran by, stamping by on the ground, husky voices permeating the air, while those enclosing Quint had their orders for him. They couldn't deny the orders, they couldn't not accept them, it was why they existed, to carry out orders perfectly, death being the only thing to stop them. Conscious wiped clean from them, reality and thought vanquished, they were expendable items, objects, and entirely useful for that.

Quint flailed his weapon, not caring whether it met flesh or not, now realizing that what he picked up earlier was more than a mere sword, and he knew, to an extent, what it could do. Slash after slash, he kept flailing it, form and style to his fighting gone, and just simply throwing his arms every way, sword gripped tight. Blasts of wind and gusts jumped from the blade, smashing into jumping Gears in front of him and to the sides, catching them in the draft of the billow, and tossing them like rag dolls into the darkness behind, crashing with unanimous and dull, squishy thuds. Darton swung it left, right, turned around in a circle, the odd sword pitching typhoons at whim. So long as he didn't use the blunt or flat side, he was fine. He had to cut the air for it to work, as he found out by trial and error in his flailing. He closed his eyes, screaming with each swing as it hurt his muscles and body more, a few tears of anger finding way from his eyes as he continued to slash every which way.

A Gear rushed in, and he swung at it, the flat side of the sword flung at it, bluntly slapping the Gear in the chest. It stepped back in anticipation from a gust, none coming, as well as being sliced, of which it was just forcefully hit, leaving no broken bones, bruises were negligible, but the sword not responding. It then jumped forward again, one hand back, holding a crude knife of sorts, a rusted tin contraption, sharpened on one side by stone. Its hand outstretched first acted as a battering ram, squarely knocking Darton on his back, the second hand following down onto the Seikishidan knight. As soon as Quint's back felt the concrete rush to meet him, he immediately raised the new sword up, angled correctly, the Gear coming down on top of him experiencing slight weightlessness as its forward force was stalled, then reversed, being thrown straight into the air, to come down next to Quint three seconds later with a sickening splat, bones splintering in a piercing crack from its fall from twenty or thirty feet up.

He slowly stood up, looking around him, eight, nine, ten Gear bodies concealed in darkness, the circle now having slight holes and gaps where the dead should have been, the surviving enclosing on him slowly.

"How many more of you bastards do I need to kill?" Quint asked mockingly. Sweat poured off of his bangs, beaded on his chin and dropped over the dead carcasses, his collar, yellow-brown with dirt and exhaustion, seemed to hide his face as he bent his knees to attack again. His Seikishidan outfit was lined in small brown dots of dried blood, new red splotches adding to the roster like medals of honor and proud relics of war, the pure white hardly pure anymore on the Godly uniform. Quint raised the sword again, and jumped forward attacking, a shrill cry of anguish, anger, pain, exhaustion, and above all, the reason Justice couldn't kill humanity in this war, hope.

-X- Author's Notes –X-
- Zeronova's Notes:
- Well, sorry that the past two chapters got speedily uploaded two days ago. I thought I had sent Samuraiter the e-mail with my login and password, but it appears Yahoo didn't want to send it. My sent folder said I sent it, but his inbox said I didn't, so whatever. I had a great time in Alabama, made great friends, and had a blast. If anyone from Alabama is even reading this, VF-103 Jolly Rogers Thunder Flight and Short Bus forever!
-X- End Author's Notes –X-