The sergeant held the map like it was a rope on life, hanging from it was his only preserver between him and death. His free hand shook slightly, pointing soldiers in directions, covering posts and setting up. The small sewer tunnel ended abruptly, a large barricade of rubble caved into the walk way. The metal had been crushed inward, rocks and tar above filtered in, crushing the rest of the end of the sewage pipe, a bit of moss already reaching up with spindly green fingers to grab the rubble in its infectious grip. Good thing their exit point was about ten feet short of the destruction, so they were still go on their mission.

The exit point for each team was a mechanical entry way for maintenance and fixing, a breach in the tunnel to the outside where crews would come in annualy, clean out the pipes, make fixes to where the drains had been broken, punctured valves and ruptured water-passages, doing the same as the Seikishidan, walking through the 12-foot high tunnel-like sewage pipe. Along the walk their were many smaller pipes running along the ceiling and sides of the tunnels, swerving off into the cement, jumping out, crossing around, carrying water to and from, electrical, and other wires in tubes stretching all around, the real underworkings of Lyon under the cement and under the view of the normal citizen. The mazes of tubes and pipes in the one large sewage duct were over grown with weeds and vines, hanging from like home owners looking disdainfully on passing residents, the over grown algae giving it a slight glow from the darkening sky.

They had walked leisurely to this point, not taking too long, since it was past noon barely when they started, and despite Lyon being a big city, they kept their pace slow, since they had to wait until the dead of midnight to start their attack. Most hoped that they could at least get the attack started at midnight, not before. Soldiers, and for the most part, humanity, didn't know the true ability of Gears. Could they smell humans? Could they see in the dark? What was their real strength? How long could they live for? What are the types, differences in how they're made, classification? It was all basically a mystery, except that you could spot a Gear easily, through their grotesque appearance, or if it was Justice. Few Gears though, and rumored of Justice as well, had great lengths of humanity in them, with the Gear effects also.

And, what I mean by such a broad statement is simple. Look at Testament. He's had a small part thus far in the story...but he was there. Testament is Justice's commander of his armies. While Testament is still a Gear, under Justice's direct control, he is more human than any normal Gear, as looking at him would tell. His skin is not rotting, no deformed bones, no hideously animalistic qualities. He looks human, has eyes, hair, clothes...except for his pale skin, red eyes, and super human strength. He can talk, think...and some say that this has to do with the way Gears are made. Everyone knows back in 2075, when Justice became operational and started the war, that whatever Justice was before the operation, had been worked on for years, taken time to fine tune the DNA and being known as Justice, before slapping on the battle suit. This sort of level of engineering left Justice a Gear still, a sentient Gear, not mindless drones that were easy to make, quickly made, and good at their job, but they were nothing more than bodies to be controlled, they had no reasoning, no thought, except for small urges of normal animalistic behavior, like the way they moved or mouth hanging open.

Testament was rumored to have been taken by Justice, a human, and transformed to Gear. Being transformed is just a matter of slapping in new DNA to a pre-existing creature, using magic to solidify the bond, mutating the DNA into part of the creature, not like a cancerous growth of new DNA, but making that DNA part of the creature in every aspect, mutating it, simply. WHere the starting creature and infused DNA really dictates what it will end up being, those certain mixes, how much, how little, how made, can really determine a Gear, a true Gear in how it acts, looks, strength, everything, as DNA does as well. But, when the host is cultured, turned with special DNA fragments and nurtured with the transformation, it can keep part of itself, as well as embracing the new DNA, becoming a Gear. Testament is obviously free-willed, but to a point. He cannot truly control himself, but he has humanity in him, that is for sure, yet he is a Gear regardless. Not like the thousands and millions fought and killed for a century, he is like Justice, a methodical, thinking Gear. Not quite on par with Justice, since he cannot control, but he is much ahead of the normal stupid soldiers, but Testament was also a pet project of Justice's, no doubt. And, for very special reasons, though that'll be known later. I kind of veered off course, but this is interesting information still needed to be told, anyway...

The soldiers spread themselves out as according, fifty or so near the barricade, just in case a Gear decided to go cavalier and bust through, a hundred at the pipe they just walked past, and the rest hanging around the sergeant near the door, the higher ranks with the sergeant, the privates standing where a Gear attack might come from. 2400 was approaching fast, night consuming the sun, no moon out tonight, dark gray clouds embracing it, like a light swimming poetic line in the sky, daintily coasting along until it came near the just-past-full moon, and embraced it, sucking it into its false etiquette, and drowning it in the gray wisp, encircling it, grabbing a hold and blanketting it in, like the clouds had a wager on the night, and didn't want even the moon to interfere with what could happen. Seems even the dimly lit nocturne knew of the mission, and what it entailed, snaring its own view off to not witness the carnage.

"Let's get to it" Sol mumbled, standing up from his resting position, leaning against the wall of the pipe, arms crossed. He pushed off, standing straight, the tunnels echoing the splash of water under his boots and demanding the attention of all of the soldiers who were silent as the grave, waiting for the Gears. "It's 2400, let's move."

"No...it's not..." the sergeant said, fumbling through papers, coming up with a small chronometer, unable to read it in the darkness.

"It's midnight, asshole, now let's move." he said, leaning down in front of the sergeant who stammered, and accepted, motioning for soldiers to move around and get to posts. Sol had that aura, that simple power he demanded in each word and each gesture that left others coerced by force into obeying him, despite orders or opinion, his presence was over powering.

The auxillary maintenance hatch was built into the top section of the pipe, spanning a quarter length, 8 feet long. It was on metal sliding hinges, pieces of wrapped metal the edges fit into and slid through and across, as they would have slid horizontally open, but they weren't now. It had been close to a year since their last opening, and bits of vines and rust had grown over the metal hatch, the two pieces connected together at the center of the bevelled opening, each piece four feet long, and interlocked with each other, unable to open. An electric motor used to power it, before it was destroyed by Gears, the two halves of steel locked irreversibly with each other.

The sergeant fumbled around with the instruments he had, the map, a compass, a chronometer, trying not to lose the flair gun tucked in his belt, he couldn't find the instructions to open the hatch. He told a few soldiers to try and pull it open, see what happened, but it was electronically shut, beyond the strength of any man to move.

"Uh...how are we supposed to get into the city now, Sarge?" a lieutenant asked hesitantly, whispering it.

"Shut up and work no it, soldier." he growled, searching every pocket.

"I don't got time for this shit" Sol muttered, flicking out a dying butt from his lips, the ashes splittnig from the cigarette home and spreading out in a display of orange before it sizzled to a cold, dead shell of itself on the moist floor of the sewage pipe. He put the Fuurenken down, leaning the Fire Seal agaist one wall, steam rising off of the bottom of the pipe where the tip was touching. Both of his hands donned finger-less gloves, reaching up past his wrist, then cut off by a dull blade, the hardened cloth jagged. It was a Seikishidan standard gauntlet padding, underneath the armor, and he had cut it off. he also wore a Seikishidan rank-signifier between his legs, a long strip of cloth that reached to the top of his chest, underneath the belt, and hung lazily down to his knees. He had cut the top part off, only keeping the bottom part, the red color matching his red head band, and showing he was a sergeant in the Seikishidan before he split ways.

He reached his fingers into the maintenance door, the heavy doors locked together with two halves of a circular lock that met, and twisted itself around, locking both pieces together with a nearly unbreakable bond, except if the power surged through it once more, unlikely. The soldiers had focused their attention on him now, wanting to see what was happening, due to their stuck situation and Sol's presnece, the sergeant cursing in a low tone to watch their posts, don't be distracted, but it hardly had much effect. He grunted, his fingers bracing along the cold metal, and pulled. His feet slipped under the curved arc of the tube, but he quickly regained, body buckling under the pressure, muscles bulging slightly from where they were dormant on his body, now accenting itself in the animalistic power it had over a more speedy and lithe Ky Kiske.

He grunted again, a low cry of metal. All soldirs were now looking, the noise drawing them, and the authority Sol's presence demanded. Another grunt of pain, and the metal bent under the weight, the steel plates giving into the power, circular lock cracking down the middle, the metal shards breaking and falling to the floor with an anything-but-subtle clang. The slightly bent inward pieces, now removed of their locks, were shoved to each side along their tracks, a bit of sanguid blood dripping in from a body above, the poold blood sitting on the top that had now been moved. Sol bent over himself, breathign heavily, sounding as if two voices were breathing in the place of one that was just put into effort. His eyes were closed as he did, slowly standing up, low pops from his back and muscles as they realigned themselves to his body. he took one final breath of duallity, then coughed, a more normal voice in place.

"Get yer asses movin'" he mumbled, grabbing his sword again and leaping out of the tube, the eight foot incline up to the bottom of it, and then up another foot to the street. The sergeant stood dumb founded, eyes still wide at the feat performed in front of him.

"...No man could have done that..." he muttered in disbelief. A hand came from behind him, grabbing him on the shoulder and shaking him to reality.

"Hey, don't forget at Bordeaux, this guy wasn't too normal." The sergeant sneered at the lower-level sergeant who had touched him and been unformal to a C.O., but he quickly shook it off, and ordered the soldiers to move out into the streets of Lyon.

Lyon itself had been in the middle of a renaissance, transitioning into Lyon-2, after it was destroyed somewhere ni the 2080's, and never rebuilt, until about three years ago when a few brave people came out to live in it, start rebuilding, but it never became a full fledged city, ended before it began. It had a central hub of people, brimming over to about three thousand, but was still rather small, compared to Neo-Troy, or Dresden-4, but there was no shortage of carnage. The city, which still retained its former self, the destroyed and emptied city of years past, had that feeling still, buildings unoccupied and dead for decades never rennovated or rebuilt, only a select few done so near the central hub of life in the short-lived life of Lyon-2. The streets still catered to old conventional cars, fading white and yellow paint lnies smeared by years of sitting in the sun and not re-done. The city had seen better days, but remained intact to the day it was destroyed, buildings mere skeletons of themselves, the rubble underneath them, which used to be top floors, lyign in disarray at the foot, bits of soot and dust layered on the top, like an old graveyard undisturbed by time.

A few small fires raged in the distance, near the center of the city, where the people had lived, but there were bodies strewn even at the entrance to the sewage maintenance hatch. People had fled, tried to escape, every way possible, and considering a body out here, he got pretty far before getting a Gear's hand through his back. The moon still was enveloped in its duskly embrace, leaving little to no light as a guiding mark. The soldiers filed out, taking in the ghost city, a slight wind whistling through the shattered glass windows and corpses of buildings and humans. They set up a perimeter around the opening, a twenty foot radius wall of soldiers, keeping an eye for any movement, any life, any Gears. They all kneeled down or layed flat, not wantnig to be seen or heard, the leading sergeant standing in the middle, near Sol, who sat no an old piece of rubble lazily, leaning on a perched up knee.

"We have to go..." the sergeant said, twisting the map to look at the compass, then a direction "there." he said, pointing down a street with an pale orange glow emanating from around the corner.

"You sure?" Sol said, an arrogant smirk on his lips.

"Yes, I am." the sergeant said back, sneering.

"Don't you misfire..." he joked, pushing off of the rock and standnig up. The soldier looked at him awkwardly, questionnig.

"'Don't you misfire'?" he asked, quoting Sol.

"The compass, don't get the wrong coordinates."

"But what about misfiring?" the soldier persisted, not taking something like that for an answer. Sol sighed, taking a step forward, his massive body scaring the soldier slightly with his strength in presence.

"Queen." he said, serious to the stubborn soldier. The sergent rolled his eyes, not knowing what Sol was even meaning, walking forward to where the old compass told him. Damn, these bitches don't know real music...can't really expect them to, I guess, been a long time since I've rock and rolled, and them too...when this war is over, I'll find every single old record, and make a nice stack of 'em, relive the old days.

Wait...just wait...let me see him. Move forward 2.31 meters, slowly, good. Zoom in...ah, perfect. I see you, Kiske. We see each other again. Let him have some time, stay in wait. Quadrant 31 section 7C, stay in place, do not move, keep breathing to a 2.2 PSI intake and out take, slow... You got out slowly, looking around, the soldiers following. It's so obvious, your tactics and patterns, predictable and text book...secure allies and dark spots, but soldiers in wait, set up command, plot next course after a fifteen minute interval of silence and not moving...then head to the center of the city, right? That's so typical, standard Seikishidan operation.

What's that? Alert, unit 24601 has a proximity error...seems a Seikishidan is getting too close to it. The alley way across from the sewage opening...they're securing perimeter. Let him live, and if he gets too close as to where he'll see you, kill him silently, don't let him scream, don't let him do anything. If he stays his distance and slacks off, like most soldiers under Kiske's lead, let him live. He'll be dead by dawn anyway.

Searching the alley, kicking around rubble and debris, I can see you in the dark. You're scared, each step thinking to be your last, I can tell your heart beat…102 beats per minute, and your breathing is erratic. Are you scared, human? You should be…only two meters away is your enemy, your death. Turn now, walk back out, tell Kiske it is safe, do it…for your fear, pathetic wretched human. I can smell your fear, in every bead of sweat and every stifled breath…there, he left, without knowledge of the Gears in the alley or those on the rooftops. Pathetic human…only shows how worthless your race is, by the merit of the normal one. The normal soldier, normal person, his endeavors truly measure the race, not leaders like Kiske or murderers like Frederick, but the average one…the only that stands as a being of normalcy amongst the herd, the stereotype and populace…not the leaders or figure heads.

What's that to say of me? Gears populace are dumb brutes…idiots controlled by my will, yet alone without me, they'd be nothing. So, judge Gears by me or by the populace? Ha, like it matters, they're not sentient, humans are…they're weak because of their thought, Gears prevail because of unrelenting loyalty and no thought, just orders. But, then the only real Gear worthy of judging is me, and I am of more than mere classification, not to any. And, who would classify me, show of my race to be better? Certainly not humans, but then who would look upon what I have made and done, and proclaim it great and amazing? God? Of course not, He is not with my, and I not him, we are at ends…eternally bound by our hatred of each other and continuing battle of control over such a world and these people…God may be my enemy after Kiske, Him the only one left in my path after the humans…yet, if I killed humans, I kill God, right? Dogmatic law, as well as that if none is there to praise Him or believe in Him, would He exist? Do you live in the minds and fears of the people you rule over? An intangible leader…killing those in whom you dwell kills you…same as I. God, you and I, not so different, but being so alike, we're bound by fate to be adversaries, except I can fight my own battle…I need not use my minions and soldiers to the fullest extent, I can fight, I can do so with my soldiers, unlike You…but, let the best God be the victor, I suppose.

Enough thinking, don't lose sight of the fight, of Lyon.

Switch to quadrant 74I, unit 87123. Ah, another sweeper team. Coming out of the same type of sewage system…securing the area, making sure the leader in the middle is top priority and seen above the rest. Holding the map scared, looking around…you're trying to figure out which way is north, where to go. North is that way, thirty-two degrees to your left…but you wouldn't know.

"Warning, proximity detection breached, invading units to proximity quadrant 30" Siren said in the female electronic voice, devoid of life and feeling, only simple and sweet satisfaction in facts.

What…they're on the move. Kiske is taking his troops towards the center of the city…track him. Switch to 24601 again…ah, there you are Kiske. There's no light out tonight, it's dark, and it makes it easier for me to pin point and kill you…it's the glow. That bastard's weapon…the blue glow of it, I see the tingling electricity coming off of the blade resting in your hands. It's jumping all over the blade in excitement…dancing along the ground and around in an azure ballet…it can feel that I am near, the Gears sitting and waiting in the darkness, it can feel it. Power signatures read it to be operating at over 350 degrees Celsius…yet it is as cool as pond water to you, right Kiske? The blade…the properties it has, the bastard made it specifically for the purpose of killing Gears, it knows how to use and kill Gears, yet remain harmless to humans. There, the electricity pulses up and down your arm, surging through the fabric and into your skin, then jutting out again…you with no problem with it, no feeling, no pain, nothing from it…magical, as they say. Unnatural bolts, but it's no foolery, just technology, absorbing and conducting electrons on frequencies that only affect beings infused with higher-than-normal magic levels, a specific level, who knows, only Frederick, but those bolts…they know, they can feel a Gear different from humans, and they kill with lethality to them. And, for non-living things, it's normal lightning bolts…which doesn't run on a magic-infused level of symbiotic life…magic and organisms feeding off each other, it exists in harmony in the environment, no need for alteration and changing, only normal lightning then. Damn you, Frederick…such things, you created, so long ago, yet they still work and still used in the hands of the skilled…

Follow on pursuit, slowly…match speed, keep your noise to less than 2 decibels…if a Gear goes over, have it killed by another near it, and make sure that is not higher than 2 decibels…I do not want them to know our presence…not yet, let them think it is vacant, let them gather themselves, cornered and then, we strike…we all will, Gears in glorious harmony, not even evangelic harmonies of Michael's wrath could rival what will happen in that Biblical astounding sense…You should learn a lesson or two God, because this will be in my Bible, and You…Yours will be a lost chapter, never revealed, sending others to do your work intangibly, but not I, I will be here, to rule and dictate, to be a God…in every way.

"It's been all day…what's on your mind?" Bianca asked, walking with her hands in her pockets, looking down at the ground, her feet kicking up small pebbles, watching them tumble along. Darton breathed in deeply, snapped from thought, then looked over to her, trying to remember the question, then that too snapping back to him.

"Oh, nothing."

"You're a terrible liar." Bianca said, smiling while looking over at him slightly.

"You seem to have a knack to understanding me." She smiled again at the compliment.

"Well, maybe I should be. After all…dead men are hard to understand."

"Well, speaking for my kind, I think that you make an unfair assumption. Among us dead, we have great men from times past, living forever in name and reputation…we're a lot better off dead than alive, you never know an alive guy till he dies."

"Is that so?" Bianca said, stopping slightly, looking at him with a sarcastically fun grin. Darton stopped walking also, looking back over at her.

"Sure, I mean, look at all those famous guys who wrote the books hundreds of years ago, and the guys who drew the paintings…" he said, motioning with his hands of their endeavors in a mildly humorous act, bringing a smile to Bianca's jovial face. "And, then, you know, there is that one guy from a long time ago that a lot of people know." Bianca started trotting again, poising her question.

"And what guy was that?" As soon as she finished, a loud thunk emitted the empty streets of Troy, her foot smashing into a small rock protruding out of the cobble stone road, smoothed by time, but still a jut. "Jeez, I can be blind sometimes" she said, leaning down slightly on the hurt side.

"They say this special guy a long time ago could heal blind people." He said with another grin. She thought for a second, then looked back at Darton, shoving him slightly.

"Member of the Seikishidan making jokes about the Bible after he's dead…you're one hell of a walking contradiction." Bianca smirked.

The streets of Lyon were relatively empty this time of night, the moon covered in a veil of darkness, choking and asphyxiating Luna in her own venomous luminescence. Lights shown down unnaturally from the lights on the webbed buildings above, hundreds of feet high, the orange glow filtering down through other buildings and smog to the streets below, in a faux heavenly gospel of light. They had just been walking the town all day, after the diner incident, Darton made a point of it to switch out of his Seikishidan garbs. Something I left out, a small scene…not too important, for now, but I'll basically give you the narration, since I like to keep time frames relatively in check, but this happened after the diner incident, before Seikishidan troops landed in Lyon, so, about afternoon. Basically, what happened after they left Zimmerman's, Bianca brought Darton back to her place, had him change. They both made a deal, that if Darton wears these clothes that Bianca had, which were rather ratty and, well, Troy like (old, used…from worlds since forgotten), that Darton wouldn't wear his Seikishidan garbs, and of course, he really didn't want to either. So, they both had a complacent agreement on that. Both had good reason and good plans for it. Darton, well, he wasn't an Holy Order soldier anymore, no reason to fly their colors, and he didn't want to get a knife in the back. Bianca because of the whole Darton getting killed equals bad, and she really didn't like seeing Seikishidan paraphernalia as much as the next Trojan.

"Oh, I almost forgot" she said, stopping suddenly. Darton stopped too, looking at her curiously. She lowered her head menacingly, an evil smile on her face, and approached him, Darton taking a step back as she got closer to him. Her face was inches from his, a little bit of seductiveness about her. "You owe me a drink."

Zeronova's Notes:
Well, that's 27 (this chapter took me like a week to write). The battle is slowly coming…so slowly…but I keep it interesting, hopefully. Anyway, wow, this is really hitting home for me, coming so far, so much in DG:DE. Everyone's first story they set out is supposed to be an amazing story, better than anything they will ever write, something they had in their minds ever since inception of creative thought, and when they first get the chance to write, it is that story…well, mine wasn't really this story (I didn't always know of GG), but this was my first story, and seeing it evolve and keep going like this, it really makes me feel great, knowing that it keeps going, and is always zooming forward…I'll finish it this time, I will, and it'll be the fulfillment of a personal vendetta with my own writing demons to finish. Then again, this is chapter 27, and I have…nearly 20 more, quite possibly more. So, keep it tuned.