"Hey Zimmerman" Bianca uttered, the bell hooked b string to the metal door jingling as she entered. The man behind the counter looked up almost immediately, the voice familiar, though she said it as she walked in, almost so much so it was drowned out by the rush of the crowd outside. She stepped in, brushing herself off from the dirt on the crowd she had to press through, nothing much, but she didn't like that feeling.

"Hey Bianca" the man said back, a large paternal smile crossing his lips. She stepped away from the door slightly, another person entering. Zimmerman looked at him too, his hands busy with a rag and an old glass mug, cleaning it, when he stopped, setting both items down on the counter top of the small diner.

"...What are you doing here?" he asked in a low, aggressive tone.

"Whoa, whoa, back up." Bianca said to him, looking at Quint then Zimmerman back. Quint brushed himself off, readjusted his broken collarbone, the arm in sling slipping slightly, his eyes looking around the small diner, situated on a busy street way outside the people so thick that you had to force your way through the crowds, pushing through and being pushed in return, which didn't fare Quint's arm the best. The diner was simply laid out, very effective, yet old. The door, adjacent to the street led straight back, lengthwise for the diner. On the left was a counter top, jutting out of the far wall and wrapping around a few feet from the door, a set of stools in front of the open side of the counter for people to sit, Zimmerman behind it, rows of liquors and ingredients, as well as silverware and kitchen utensils lying in disarray. On the opposite wall as the counter, were two separate tables, each with two chairs, hand made, folded steel and rods, bent into position, crude-welding linking them together with a small square of plastic for one to sit on, the back rest a stiff and straight two bars of metal. The stools were circular metal plates on top of a long pole, simple yet effective.

"We don't like your kind 'round here, 'Kishi'. I don't know how you got in, but make it quick, and get out of here." Zimmerman said low, placing his hands on the counter, a menacing stature and look casting off of him. He was a stout man, short and fat, but had a power underneath his bones from years past in youth. He was balding on top, but seemed as if all of his wayward hair went to his chin, where a huge beard had sprout out, a mix of black and gray, peppered throughout the tangled, rough beard.

"Hey, lay off." Bianca said, walking forward to the counter, leaning over slightly, both arms folded across the crude metal. She had known every crack, every dip in it, she had always been coming here, knew the owner well, and he to her, it was like a place she could come everyday and feel safe. Bits of the metal, the shiny silver, were off-colored, rusted, new pieces welded on to fix holes, the irons and cobalts a noticeable change from the steel, but not like it mattered, Troy was built on foundations of stone and metal, wood being obscure and sought out. "He's with me."

"I'm looking out for you...'Kishi's in Troy is not a good thing. He's trouble."

"Shut up and give us two of the normal, Zimmerman. I'm still a paying customer, you know." He grumbled, nodded, and turned around, picking up a few items, reaching for a pot, fumbling around with a few pieces of food, and started making the "normal". Bianca looked over to Darton, who stood hesitant at the door, unsure of what to do, then she nodded at him to come on over. He walked hesitantly, the two other men in the diner, both old men, worn by years gone by, thin and frail with sagging skin, had intent eyes on him, namely for his suit. They both sat at one of the tables, the two men at the bar on the far side. Quint couldn't help but notice the diner's appeal...it was dark, no light except from the outside, and the walls were warped, water damage and years of use, the paint chipped off and splinters out of the walls easily decipherable, as well as dirt collecting in the corners.

"What's his deal?" Quint said, leaning over the front of the table to whisper to Bianca.

"It's not his deal...it's Troy's. I should have told you, Seikishidan colors don't fly well here."

"Thanks for the heads-up..." he muttered, two plates slamming down in front of them. Zimmerman brought them over, and more or less, dropped them on the table, more towards his disgust of Darton. Bianca muttered a thanks, obviously perturbed by his demeanor towards Darton. The plates were old, cracked in places, discolored and somewhat dirty, but they were glass, a very rare thing nowadays, and a place like this, with glass and drinking mugs, was definitely a hotspot at certain times. A relic of an old world, people lived to indulge in eating off of a plate rather than the normal things they use, most people having their own metallic plate they take with them everywhere, also a mug. The upper levels of Troy enjoyed things like glass and sometimes, wood furnishings, more so than the lower levels of Troy, and the rest of the world, due to their Zepp-influenced superiority.

The food was poorly made, crafted from old utensils and old food, but it was still good to hungry mouths.

"So...what's the deal with the Seikishidan here?" Darton asked, eating rather huskily, not having a full meal in a few days. Bianca finished off another bite, before sitting back to talk.

"Well, you know about Troy, right? Built long time ago, ex-Seikishidan soldiers, specifically outside of the U.N. and the rest of the Seikishidan. Built this place to hold out the rest of the world, none of that crap matters here. No Gears, no governments, except for our own, and any who try to get in here, Seikishidan, U.N., or Gears, don't. It's simple."

"Well, I'm here."

"Yeah...you're no longer a Seikishidan though, so we should get you out of those clothes."

"Good idea, the getting out of my clothes part." he said with a smirk.

"Well, either you get something else on, or you might get jumped, and you don't have any weapons right now." she said, continuing to eat like it was normal. As she said it, Darton's hand reached down to his right side, where there should have been a notch and a strap, holding the hilt of a sword up, hilt first. He had forgotten about it this morning, he didn't have the sort of everyday checklist to go through like in the Holy Order, and that she had it somewhere with her, as she was going to sell it...

"Hmm, when you're right, you're right." he said back, smirking a little, trying not to show a bit of tension he had, not trying to show that now that he knew he was looked down upon, and didn't have a weapon, he was a bit scared, his eyes shooting to people all around. He had noticed a few people shove him in the street more so than was usual, but took no notice of it. Now that he knew, he was a bit more cautious in every move, every breath, since even in Troy, there were muggers and gangs, as there was everywhere.

"So..." Darton mumbled, not knowing what to say, not wanting to be in silence. It wasn't true silence, the blast of the morning crowd outside, packing the streets so the cobblestone underneath become blurred, made more than enough noise, but between him and Bianca, silence was more unnerving.

It's been a while, dear reader...I haven't had a talking with you, a little explanation and help, I believe, but it is time, very much so. What I come to tell you, interrupting the story, is very vital to it. It's deep though, much so deep. It has to do with this story, itself, why it is written, why something like this is included. Why would I, the author, take such a prevalent part in the writings? It is simple, reader. This isn't just a story, it is a life, lives lived, lives lost, lives persevering. In a form of a story, what more is it than fairy tale, science fiction? To be read and then shut, put on a shelf, never again to see the day of light grace the pages I toil upon?

I am a man, I live in these times, despite that I write a story, true, I also write truth. These events, these characters...are not just events and characters in a story, but in life. Life and breath, given to and taken from, not just simply characters in stories...which is where I come in. I am a character in the story also, you could say. Except, I keep my role distinctly outside the focus of the story, my telling of it is directly a character, how I decide to tell events, change some, add some, tweak the people I know in reality to a story, make them better, worse, anything of that sort. That's the purpose of a story, to give a reason to read, an end to a conflict, but the characters have to drive it, and while the real Ky, or the real Quint, might not have been to the T as I describe, it is close, but also so far.

I am not them, I cannot write them perfectly, but I do change them, in my authorly concern. It's not that it is for the story, but it is for history. Dust from our bones will be gone in thousands of years, but names will remain. Stories about them will...but this story isn't about just characters to remember, but people to remember, people that made a difference, their stories, their lives. Through a story, I can do anything, but this is life, with a twist of my own accounting.

And, while these people are characters none the less, they're still in the realm of my writing, though I try and keep them as true to reality as possible...such as Bianca and Darton. Who knows if they would have thought what they did, said the things they did, events happening word for word, but things happened, an end was met, as was with everyone and everything in the story, to be seen as the final page flips, but that is far from here. These people, these "characters", are not just false, paper-thin cut outs of a literary fashion, but they are living creatures I have tried to capture and put to words...it isn't easy, but it is a task I bring myself to do, for this story, a story of people, needs to be told, this entire thing, needs to be said and done, to people in the future, to those in the past wanting to be remembered, by those who do not of it, it is something that a book, in such times, is worthy of being graced to be read, to be a book in times of none.

To Quint and Bianca...if you knew them, you might find faults in my characters that was not truly them, yet the outcome is the same in the end, which cannot be changed or avoided, dependant or not on how I, the author, get there. But, my own personal view on it is definitely interesting, since it is different from anyone else's in the world. This story could be written by a hundred different people, and very much different each time, yet this is mine, my telling of it. And, the characters, the people I portray, under the influence of my pen, do things not exactly as they would, but if they were able to see and read this...they would not be put to shame or disappointed in it...I know that for sure. I write this not for them, not for the times, but because it needs to be written, if it wasn't, the world would be without account, without knowledge, of so many things that it had, so apparent in everyday life to people who lived in this world, but if they looked at it like I did, in book, in writing, things done and taken for granted, everyday actions, are far from it...they're different, once seen from another perspective and such. That is the reason...and I, telling it, have my own view. Who I am factors heavily into that, and you, the reader, should be starting to think "Who is the author?", because that does matter, very much so, to what the story, in the end, truly is.

"Why did you tell me that last night?" Bianca asked softly, her eyes down on the table, eating her food, not looking up to Darton.

"...You asked. I thought I owed it to tell you."

"Not that...that sort of thing...I wasn't expecting it, I didn't know...I'm sorry. I didn't say it then, but I am sorry." Darton sighed in deeply, looking out to the crowd, then turned back to look at her, smiling slightly.

"Hey, it's over and done, right?" After he finished his sentence, the bell at the front of the store jumped to life, the door opening and a man stepping in. He looked very well-groomed, official, like a government worker. He walked to Zimmerman, eyes not looking at anyone. He simply handed the owner a sheet of paper, and walked out. Bianca stood up, walking over to Zimmerman, Darton only watching her do so. She looked over his shoulder at the paper, him smiling slightly at her there, then she seemed stopped for breath. She slowly looked over at Darton, eyes wide.

"Darton, come here." He was puzzled, but stood up and walked over, leaving a mostly empty plate on the table. He walked next to her, Zimmerman handing him the paper. He looked at it, still puzzled, a mess of small font written all over it, columns and tiny-sized font listing all sorts of things he couldn't read.

"What is it?" he said, squinting at it.

"It's a roster..."

"Of...?"

"The dead at the Parisian H.Q." Bianca said. Then, she reached over Darton's shoulder, her finger resting on a small printed name on the normal-sized piece of paper, plastered with over five thousand names and ranks with their status, both next to each other, in long columns, the entire page printed all over with the names, no space un-used.

"Quint Darton...private...K.I.A." he mumbled, reading off the information. He blinked a few times, then handed the paper back to Zimmerman. The man who walked in was a Troy official worker, and they had received broadcasts of names like that. Every time a battle, a raid, anything happened, every single personnel in the operation is called over ancient technology, radio waves mostly, and lists are comprised. Name, rank, status. Every soldier in action of a particular operation, who was at the scene, is accounted for by the U.N., then lists, like that one, are compiled and sent around cities, towns, everywhere. it was the only way for people to know about the war, as well as families to know if their beloved ones are ever coming home.

"It's over and done..." he said again to Bianca, turning her head to him with his right hand slightly, pulling her chin to him. "I'm dead." he smiled.

"File out!" Ky screamed over the whining engine, finally kicking off as the MT slid to a stop in the moist dirt, wheels put on full stop for over a mile, and just sliding over the dirt, dragging up clods and roots with it. The truck finally came to a slow enough stop, hydraulic doors lowered, the back double doors opened, and soldiers jumped out, strapping on their black helmets, flipping down the visors, grabbing weapons, and jumping out, feet hitting the marshy ground, dirt sticking into the grooves of the soles, and running to the front of the MTs. The other two also stopped in synchrony, soldiers jumping out in a flood of white uniforms and black armor.

The day was prime, the afternoon and a light wind blowing across the tall weeds growing in the sewage dump of Lyon, the swamp around it not the best smelling. Ky stepped off one of the hydraulic panels, watching the soldiers run by him, to the front of the three MTs, where they would form rank. He slowly walked up, his trusted sword in sheath against his leg, his armor a bit constricting but also securing in its tightness and closeness. He carried his black, semi-reflective helmet in his left hand, walking forward. A few A.A.'s filed off behind him, already waiting for their chance to enter the city, do their job. They were walking up and past him, so he stopped one.

"Excuse me" he said to the girl, who turned to him, and stepped back shocked that it was Ky Kiske.

"Yes sir, what is it?" she said anxiously.

"Can you give me some sedatives, I'll need them."

"Of course sir!" she said, reaching into the pouch on her hip, bringing out a syringe and a few pills. Ky reached for the pills, and swallowed them on the spot. Better do what I can now before my back becomes a problem later. His gash on his back hadn't healed yet, the thick and deep gash across his shoulder blades still in pain, but it wasn't something like a break, where it'd be impossible to use. In plus, he was the commander of the Seikishidan, dependant or not on injury, he had to do his best.

The A.A.'s settled in behind the soldiers, talking slightly, wondering about how many would be dead, the actual city when they got in after the troops cleared it out, and whatever else they could blather about. Ky walked to the front of the five-hundred-and fifty-four soldiers, seeing the armor over the white, sergeants in the front, followed by lieutenants, and privates in the back, more people as the ranks got lower. Most of them had their helmets on, but a few didn't, the defiant cocky ones, and most of the ones who had them on were the scared ones. Ky stood for a second, looking them over, all of them going silent as he stood in front of them, no more fidgeting and talking, everyone going silent and at attention.

"For all you stragglers who fell asleep last night, this is simple. We have three teams led by three sergeants. Step forward." The three sergeants stepped forward, Rivarez included. Jaygus wasn't a fourth-class sergeant, he was third, and also not picked by the U.N. to be a leader. "You will file under command of these sergeants, equally numbered. We went over this last night, when we commence, get to your group and then we go through here." Ky said, turning back to the huge sewage pipe behind him. It was easily fifteen feet high, over grown with weeds and moss that were invading the cracks and growing like they owned it, bits of vines hanging off the top to the ground, a green glare of the old steel pipe.

"When inside, each sergeant has a map for directions of where to go. Follow them. Also, they each have flare guns." As he said it, Gestahl walked by, handing an antique flare gun and one canister to each of the sergeants, who thanked him with a sir, and put it into their belt. "Signal with the flare if you are attacked before 2400 hours. At 2400 hours, you should be at your designated mission parameter, outside, and securing the area. If you are attacked by Gears, signal with the flare. At 2400, sweep out your central area to your objective point, and head towards the center of the city, sergeants again, you know where this is. Along the way, if you encounter resistance, shoot the flare. If a group sees a flair being shot, everyone get to that position the double, and for those that shoot the flair, stay put in position, as the other two teams are on the way. If all goes well, we should get to the center of the city without resistance, and from there, we do sweeper teams, eradicate the Gears from Lyon." he said professionally.

"That's the mission...but there's more, something that I want to say." Ky paced slowly, closing his eyes and breathing deep. "I will be going with one of the teams, not as a leader, but as a soldier. Sergeants conduct the mission as set, but I am coming in as well. I am a soldier in this war, fighting and killing Gears as well. Where the U.N. tells us to do missions, thinking of only numbers and outcomes, we, the Seikishidan, we get it done, we fight, we give that security. I'm going to be there too, fighting with you, fighting as another human, another soldier against Gears. Let's go." The soldiers felt a boost of morale, their inherent hatred of the U.N. flaring up again from Ky's words, as well as him being there also gave them another shot of hope.

"Move out" he said low and serious, eyes locking upon Gestahl, standing behind the soldiers with the A.A.'s, who seemed a bit annoyed by Ky's words. He inwardly smiled, glad he had angered him, a U.N. dog sitting back as these soldiers in front of him went to give their lives. The soldiers marched forward, following command under one of the designated three sergeants, the large sewage pipe behind Ky being entered, the darkness soon covering them, only a frail memory of light bounding off from the outside along puddles and moss-covered sides of the sewage pipe.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, boy. You got this entire mission riding on your shoulders. And, the way it looks to me...you'll be dead long before tomorrow's dawn." Sol said with a grin, cigarette lingering in his hand, the smoke rising up at a dull, slow pace. he was leaning against the front of an MT, and had spoke as soon as the rush of soldiers had already splashed through the low waters, dirty and bacteria filled, and into the tunnel. Sol strode forward arrogantly, each step preceding his body which seemed a step behind his feet, like a superior air about everything he did over everyone else. He held his sword down, the dull rectangular edge gliding through the swampy puddles of the sewage drain, the water bubbling around the tip of the sword, steam rising up from the water which seemed only volcanic around the blade, the rest still and morbid. Sol strode past Kiske, who stood in the same position, in front of the pipe where the soldiers had just filed through, now Sol brushing by with a tsk seething from his lips. Kiske took one more look at the afternoon day, the sky of outside of Lyon, Gestahl and the A.A.'s looking at him back, standing in front of the three huge MTs, hydraulic doors on the sides still propped down into the dirt, slight clouds lingering in the sky, the high sun casting a hot beat that the light moist wind from the south-west dissipated. He took one last deep breath, turned to the pipe, put on his black helmet, and walked inside, trailing one of the units, opposite of one Sol trailed.

It was silent...their plods footsteps in the sewers the only complacent thing to soothe their growing fears. None dared to talk, the slightest mumble carrying out an echo for eternity that would come back to smash the one who uttered it, leading Gears to them, or fear itself killing them, those around giving stares of spears to shut that person up.

The pipes were tall, twelve feet, and wide, enough to accommodate three people walking side by side, albeit the person in the center only had the level walking ground, over grown with rodents and plants as well, so the paths were mostly tread in single file, the last few people in line keeping patrol to the back, as to not be ambushed. The front few kept a patrol ahead about ten meters, leaving the rest behind to clear the way, the sergeant packed into the front 2/3 section, near the front to lead, but also securely protected by other soldiers, since he was the most vital part of the operation.

The streets above were lined with small slats on the side-walks, allowing sewage to drain into the massive pipes. Every five feet was another slat, a few feet long, then five feet of cement, and another. They let in the fading light in bars of gold, unspendable echoes of prosperity, the soldiers walking through them, admiring it, for they might never again. Across the sewage slats, blood could be seen. The crimson dripped down into the sewers, staining and flowing outward, the residue left in a brown, dried stain, cracked and dusty, mixing with dust in the air if blown. Pieces of rotting flesh and sinew were strewn about in places, rat feeding off of it, the innocents killed and slashed, pieces thrown down into the gutters. An arm hang into the gutter, the dead body having fragments and tattered pieces of cloth hanging from the body, a face outside of the sewer, eyes open in a ghastly scream only eternity would hear, the body covered in its own blood.

They continued to walk, their slow and somewhat ghastly pace syncing in step with each other, foot following foot, the displacing of water under boot, trickling down the sides of the tube as it was kicked up, a scurry of animals fleeing out of the way and a few sighs, grunts, collective chokes, and an anxiety that spread through all soldiers, all three teams. Some were anxious to fight, anxious to get it on, kill some Gears, see action. Others, anxious for something to happen, afraid of silence and afraid of darkness, the unknown reaching out to grab them and never let go, they were scared.

While all three teams were led by the map-carrying, flare-holding sergeants allocated to each, each had a notable figure in the helm. The first one had Ky Kiske, who put leadership onto the fourth-class sergeant of the group, but he seemed a bit scared to order Ky, instead making hand signals and whispers to soldiers around him, directing the course and what to do, expecting Ky to follow, scared of his reaction or simply what could happen if he did order his superior, despite that his superior was in control of the mission by name, yet he had the control, which Kiske let him have, despite his unwillingness to have.

The second group was under the control of Sergeant Rivarez, the soldier who had come out of the bar to greet Ky upon his arrival back from the U.N. He was a stickler for service duty, wanting "sir" and salute, to the letter. He would perform a perfect operation, and so would his men. If he was going to get commendation from Kiske, he would work for it. Not like he needed it anyway, he was a fourth level sergeant, the highest rank under commander. While soldiers were usually promoted quickly, due to the death common in the wars, he had held the position a few years running, in his mid 20's. He had worked hard to earn it, and would show that he deserved it to the commander, the one who mattered.

Every base had a few fourth-class sergeants on board, and if they didn't, they'd promote some up. All bases had a status quo of at least three fourth-class sergeants, it had to have that many or more to take control over the troops effectively and efficiently, or else there would be a lack of super structure. While these soldiers, promoted or not, were fourth-class, they had no real power, except over other soldiers. Most bases had government officials, soldiers above rank and above taking orders to run things. Mothers and sons, I guess. A son can grow to be a leader, stronger and quicker than any man, the best in the world at everything, yet his own mother can control him, not on strength, or speed, or in any feat or anything, because her son is greater than her, but because of that authority, which his mother always has on him, no matter how old, no matter anything. These soldiers above rank were not really Seikishidan soldiers per say, but were in the end. They sure as hell weren't U.N., but they acted more like a U.N. personnel would, considering their control over bases, maintaining and checking for smooth operation.

The other group had Sol Badguy, smoking a cigarette, each lazy step trailing the tip of his sword as it rolled and clanked over anything in the sewer, twinges of flame emitting in its wake, like small match heads being lit as the tip touched, a tiny fire sprouting to life in an orange blossom, then fading out seconds later, a dull orange glow surrounding him. He walked in front of the rest, not caring about fear or what would happen, knowing where he was going, and they'd all be following.

So...these 'Kishi's think they got this all planned out. A bit of recon, get to the point, wait for nightfall, spring attack, head to center of city, kick ass of Gears. Pretty easy plan...it'll definitely have a ton of dead soldiers, that's for fuck's sake sure, but the way that sergeant back there, the way he keeps glancing at the map from the light up above, directing with his wobbling finger, he's like a kid. I know where we're going, and I never seen the goddamn map. I remember, 2048, I think, I was here...nice vacation, had to get off after finally taming it, enjoy the country side without worries of anything. If there was one thing I remember about that shitty trip to Lyon back then, it was that mugger who got in my way. White lab coat, he ripped it, not like it mattered, piece of shit was old and tattered, I had it for...decades...but it still shouldn't have been destroyed by that punk who tried to take my wallet, despite I didn't have one for him. But, I had something for him. Broke the bastard's neck, and he deserved it. Back before all this, and humanity was giving itself the big dick in its own ass, but we have Justice now to just use it. Good job, bitches...and now we see what we got now, more humans and Gears to fight and die, as per usual this war. Oh well, when it's all over, maybe they'll have some cigs in one of these shops, I'm running low.

---
Zeronova's Notes:
Dun dun dun! We have Sol thinking to himself...and about a time he couldn't possibly be alive in! The mystery! Anyway, Chapter 26, there it was. We got a huge battle coming up, the siege of Lyon...it won't be nearly the volume that the Seikishidan H.Q. was, but it'll be a good fight, don't worry. We've had enough calm since Chapter 16, time for some action. Oh yeah, this is being posted in November, and I wrote it August 13th, time really is a bitch when you get the fingers typing, and the week-a-chapter rule gets in your way. Shame. Oh well, you know what happens next chapter, so don't miss it! Find out next time on the amazing, daring, dashing, and dangerous Desolate Gail! Dun dun dun! (I've been watching old 1950's action shows lately, meh).
---