This story is a derivative fanwork written by GodandMen for the Toaru Majutsu no Index/とある魔術の禁書目録 franchise.
SACRIFICES
II
-x-
The irony was not lost to him.
How many times has he been on the other side, with a smile and envelope in hand, informing his hapless victims of their fate?
How many times have he savored the life draining from their faces as he informed them of the fact that their deepest, darkest secret was in his possession?
How many times did he deliberately set the cost – the price of their honor and dignity – just a bit higher than what they could afford, just to squeeze them because he could?
And yet here he was on the other side of the fence: the victim.
It seems that fate does not forget. Nor does it forgive. There was a cruel laughter echoing through his ears.
It whispered relentlessly to him, telling him how weak, how feeble he had been to have fallen so madly in love with her. So much so that he decided to put the darkness behind him.
The postman always rings twice…
The cool night air wrapped itself around his tuxedo. Another sip from his champagne glass. He could hear the loud commotion from the soiree, the sound of the elitist guests reveling and dancing like they always did. He knew that he still had about two hours before the garden maze was opened to the guests.
He heard the sound of rustling grass and, after another long sip for courage, turned to face his blackmailer; the new lord and master over his life.
He strained his eyes to make out the figure slowly walking across the opening towards the pavilion. He saw that the other man was wearing a long, unfashionable trench coat and a old fashioned bowler hat. The man was also carrying a large heavy bag in his hands.
Rather dramatic, isn't it?
He cleared his throat.
"So, I believe you have something belonging to my wife?"
The man nodded.
"Do you have the photos? Or should I say images? I believe it's fashionable to store images on USBs these days, is it not?"
Another curt nod.
Satisfied, he turned around and reached for the bottle of champagne on the pavilion's tea table. Another glass was poured for the new guest. Then, with his back turned for cover, he discreetly slipped a small pill into the cold drink. The pill fizzled and quickly dissolved into the alcohol, leaving no trace of its existence.
He took a deep breath and turned again to face him, to offer the blackmailer his last drink, just as the rope coiled itself around his neck.
Who made this stuff?
He had not expected this.
Jim had expected the last map coordinate to be someplace deserted, somewhere quiet, somewhere the killer could kill his victim in peace. He had not expected an elaborate garden maze within a public park with a big, high-class party taking place right next door to be the would-be crime scene.
In fact there were so many people that Jim had to pull out a ski mask from his waist bag. The balaclava needed to hide his face; he could not afford the risk of being recognized.
He stopped for a moment to regain his bearings, looking over the surroundings with his other eyes. He had barely managed to climb over the outer walls; the outer perimeter of the maze was actually covered by a chain-linked fence. There were only selected entrances and they were all being guarded by patrolling security.
Luckily the hedgerows themselves weren't actually solid. The walls were very thick and quite dense with shrubbery, but if it came down to it he could force his way through it and come out on the other side.
Still, Jim was still shocked by the sheer size and the complexity of the maze.
If it were not for his other sight and the trail of green, glowing footprints he would certainly have gotten lost. Looking down at the grass again, he traced the meandering journey the man took to the center. The trail was still fresh. Jim rested his right hand on a knife and moved forwards again.
Judging by how the footprints overlapped several times it seemed like the serial killer had also gotten lost on the way. But eventually, he came upon a small clearing with an open-air, domed structure – a hut of some sort – in the center. Jim looked up and concentrated his vision on the figures within it.
Too late.
He saw the green silhouette scuffling with another a mass of vivid, shifting red; the color of desperation and terror. The struggle was livid and rough, but he could tell that the killer was gaining the upper hand.
Soon there would be a fifth victim.
Jim bit his lips.
What now?
The hut was situated in the middle of a large clearing. Jim on the other hand was at its very edges, hiding behind the walls of the hedgerows for cover.
If he had a gun Jim could take a shot at the killer. Even if it was only a pea-shooter like a .22 caliber, he could at least try to scare off the killer with a warning shot.
But he didn't have a firearm.
And it was too far to throw a knife.
The hut didn't have any walls, only some pillars and a domed roof. There was no way for anyone to hide there. So it was certain that only the killer and his victim were in the center.
This meant…
He slowly scanned the edges of the clearing, intently searching for a hint of fire: for the mass of red flames that he had seen in the dusty, flour-coated warehouse.
She's gotta be here.
This was the final and the last coordinate. And Jim was sure that she had seen the lines of script on the warehouse's walls. Surely the operative would be here, waiting to ambush the killer in order to find the little girl.
He scanned the dense hedgerows surrounding the pavilion again, this time looking for a smaller figure, a figurine of blue perhaps…but nothing. The little girl wasn't anywhere in sight as well.
Jim took stock of the situation.
If he ran out into the open then he would be an easy target for anyone waiting in the bushes. The operative would shoot him down quite easily; there was no doubt about it.
But if he didn't do anything…
Jim held back the urge to bite his cheek in annoyance.
For some reason, the first thing that came to mind was…her.
He quickly unzipped the waist bag slung across his shoulder and fished out the burner cellphone. Jim started dialing the number on the crumbled piece of paper that she had given him earlier that day.
Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
Her phone buzzed and vibrated loudly.
In fact, it shook with such force and urgency that it slid off the directory's open pages and fell down onto the cold, hard floor of her office.
She was not answering.
Fuck's sake!
What is with you and your phones?
What is the point of giving me your number if you're not going to pick up?
She was probably just fucking with him. The number was probably a dud, something she made up just to get him out of the station.
Jim groaned angrily, although he did not understand why.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
Jump in like some hero to save the innocent, kind-hearted victim from the deadly grasps of the evil killer? For what? He didn't give two shits about some guy getting strangled by some stupid magician in some garden maze of some fancy rich-people-party.
Jim would gladly let him – and plenty of others – die if it meant he could get his locket back.
He made up his mind.
Fuck this, I'm going to sit tight and wait for the girl.
Only to be shocked at the thoughts that followed.
It was a montage, really; a neat slideshow of images. First was the sad hobo, and he was followed by the girl brawling her eyes out on the bench. He even remembered the old shopkeeper and his sad, waning smile.
Not bad, no bad, but you'll have to try harder that that!
But wait, there's more!
And then there was the boy…the boy cowering in fear in the dark bedroom, oblivious to his mother's death just a floor below.
Ouch. That last one did hurt.
Ah fuck, what's this bullshit?
Jim was taken back with bewilderment.
I've got a fucking conscience now?
The mongrel gnashed his teeth irritatedly.
Since when?!
And then, her. Damn it. It was her. But why? Why? Why her? He barely knew her. Why, damn it, why?
But in the end, it was her.
In the end it came down to her; it came down to the way she teased him, to the way she smacked his head, to the way she mockingly – with half mischief and half sincerity – smiled at him.
It came down to the way she flicked her fingers against his head.
In the end, it was Yomikawa.
Jim hated himself for what he was going to do next.
The small knife slid noiselessly out of his belt. It was risky but then again, what isn't these days?
Throwing a knife at this distance was out of the question. But if he could close the gap a bit, if he moved out of concealment and covered some ground, then he could make the shot.
Of course, it meant that he would be out in the open when he threw it.
The fiery operative would have an easy shot.
He had to act now, or else there's only going to be one person left standing in the hut. Jim could see that the victim was already waning. The killer would be done soon.
He readied his knife and –
Steady…
Really, she didn't need to be so careful, to be so meticulous. She knew that her hand has had thousands of years' of practice. And yet…
As the arc widened and the momentum multiplied, an uneasy dread rose from her heart. She ignored it. Nerves. An involuntary function.
Steady…
He looked quickly to his sides again as the knife danced on his fingers. He was poised for action. It was now or never. She knew what had to be done.
And yet…
Loose!
…in the end, her hand failed her.
Too slow. Bad form. Inefficient arc.
Everything was wrong with it; everything that had been perfect a million times before.
It was just like that night on the bridge that night, when the tears came flowing from her eyes, when she cradled the light in her hands.
Her chest was overtaken by a deep, profound longing for something that she did not – impossible! – recognize
Her eyes moistened again.
Why?
– and the pebble hit him.
He spun around in a flash and the knife came flying out without any hesitation. The blade cut through several strands of her ashen hair just as she gracefully sidestepped it. She didn't have the time for another full arc, to properly gain velocity; she only managed a half moon.
But it was enough.
Jim's fingers had only reached the next knife's plastic handle when she let loose her shepherd's sling again, sending the second pebble squarely into his forehead.
Incredible.
Right then and there, Jim was back in the mountains. Just like back when they would rain 122mm rockets down onto their positions. Jim would emerge afterwards from his foxhole clutching his head, unable to shake the ringing silence in his head.
The very earth shifted beneath his feet. The pain came quickly and savagely. His eyes were blinded by the shearing, screaming darkness as he stumbled backwards, badly shaken.
Jim shook his head violently to clear the concussion but it continued gnawing away at his mind.
No time. No time to nurse the pain.
Push.
He saw that the girl had already taken off, leaving only her cold footprints glowing in the grass. Jim wiped his forehead with his left hand – to no effect – and gave chase.
He was weakening.
He mustered what little strength he had left and tightened the rope. The desperation seemed to have given way to futile clawing, but the rope held true.
Another tug! Was that a crack? It was difficult to tell between the loud shuffling of feet and exerted grunts. Another! He mustered his strength again as the death tightened its grip on his throat.
Then silence.
He gave out a deep sigh, from both relief and exertion, and released his grip. The limp body dropped unceremoniously onto the pavilion's cold stone floor. He wiped his brow between heavy breaths to clear it of the sweat and tension; he was unused to this, unaccustomed to such barbarity.
His hands were shaking badly.
Despite the fact that this was his fifth time.
This is the last one, he thought, after this it'll all be over…
Deep down he knew that was a lie, but he did not dare to think of the future. The thought of it alone made him feel faint and weak. So much so that he had to sit down on the floor. He propped down next to his victim, burying his head in his hands.
After a moment he managed to collect himself again.
Finally, he got up with what determination he could muster and reached for the bag that he had brought with him. The tools were laid out with artisan precision: a bottle of cat urine, a paintbrush, and the iPad with the reference image.
The dagger came out last.
It was a dagger with a long wide blade attached to a peculiar grip: the hilt formed the shape of a curved I, with a protruding handguard and another identical protrusion in the place of a pommel.
He took a deep breath, channeling his years of intense academic focus into his hands.
There was no room for mistake. He could not fail, not now. He had sacrificed too much.
The corpse was pushed aside to make room.
Slowly, meticulously, precisely…he began to draw.
Left! Left!
No, no!
He swung around again.
Ah…right!
There!
Jim pivoted his ankle and dove straight through the hedgerow, cutting through the shrubbery He came out on the other side in a roll. But all he saw was the blue silhouette flashing past him.
A miss.
Jim had just barely missed her.
Again.
He had to give it to her; she was very agile. No matter how hard he tried to cut her off she always managed to gracefully slip away.
What's more, the girl seemed to know every corner of the maze like the back of her hand. The zigzag, weaving routes she took always led to dead ends, false corners and winding passages.
She could have thrown off any pursuer.
Even Jim himself, with his pair of eyes, had difficulty tracking her. The concussion from her pebble was also not helping.
But he could tell that her breathing was getting shallower and shallower. As nimble and quick footed as she might be, her stamina was lacking.
After all, she was a little girl.
He also observed that the limp in her ankle was beginning to show the more she moved around. The girl must have gotten that when she jumped out of the kitchen window. Soon it would get bad enough to really slow her down.
Soon he would catch up to her.
Once again he followed the trail of cold blue footprints down another passage. Judging by the narrow spacing of the footprints he knew that she was no longer running.
The ashen-haired girl had slowed to a brisk walk.
The footprints led around a corner to what appeared to be a wide footpath. The girl had exited the intricate web of the garden maze and walked onto a main path. Jim took cover behind the edges of the green walls for a moment and…hesitated.
Surely she must know that he could easily catch up to her on such an open path?
Why did she leave the cover of the maze?
Jim's fingers gripped one of his knives.
She's probably getting help…
Maybe the girl exited the maze to find a security guard. She could tell them that there a scary criminal – with a black balaclava on his face – chasing her. If that was the case Jim would rather not deal with it.
He peeked out of the corner to see if there was anyone. Nobody. The entire footpath was deserted.
Jim mentally sighed with relief and deftly stepped out of cover, his eyes continuing to track the blue footprints on the grass. They meandered forwards to a bench and a large trash bin placed on the path.
Then nothing.
Nothing.
He frantically swung his head around, trying to see the continuation of the footprints somewhere nearby.
She must have jumped!
Where?
Where did she jump to?
The tracks can't just end here! He quickly scanned the site in a large circle, intently searching for the faint, bluish essence.
Nothing.
It was as if she had simply vanished into thin air.
But…
A flash of movement.
The knife shot out of his hands without Jim realizing it. It flashed past her shoulder just as she disappeared into another entrance of the maze. Within half a second Jim was on his feet again, rushing forwards to the spot.
When he got there a terrible realization hit him.
This time, the girl had no footprints. Nothing. The only thing he had seen was her blue silhouette.
He gritted his teeth grimly.
She's masking her footsteps!
This was going to make Jim's life infinitely more difficult. There was no time to waste; every moment she was out of sight reduced his chances of catching her drastically.
He needed to keep her within eyesight at all times.
He shot down the passage where she was last seen and turned the corner. Once again, he just barely caught her figure disappearing into another path.
Wait…
Jim moved forwards quickly, but when his eyes checked the surroundings he realized something. He looked around again, unsure if he was right. But yes, he was right. He was right.
He had been down this passage before.
It led to a dead end.
He pulled out another knife and crept forwards hastily. Hopefully the girl – with her small, delicate frame – would have trouble trying to get through the hedge's wall. With Jim closing in from behind that would be her only way out in a dead end.
The knife danced in his fingers.
If he sent it to her knee, or her thigh, then he could cripple her. Instead of herding the girl around it was probably easier for him to just force her down. Then he can tie her up with the zip ties from his bag and carry her over his shoulder. She did not look very heavy.
But maybe he didn't need to.
If she simply gave back his locket, then that would be that.
Loose ends…
She knew too much.
Don't count your chickens yet.
The fateful corner came up. No time to hesitate or think: only action. Jim gripped the knife's handle and turned, pivoting his body around the corner as his eyes intently searched for the small, bluish mass.
He did not find a little girl with her back to him, desperately trying to force her body through the hedge to escape him.
Instead Jim found himself coming face to face with a magician.
Even through his other sight, he could see the little girl's eyes glowing with a dangerous aura. She faced him squarely, without fear or hesitation, as her experienced hands pulled back and twisted itself into the arranged form of a spell.
He saw her mouth moving, but there was no sound or voice.
Instead, he felt it.
The tremors – echoes of her incantation – coursed through the air and vibrated through Jim's body. Her fingers began to glow; a white sphere swirling with powerful magic formed in her palm.
She was waiting for him.
With her cold eyes still fixed on him, she shifted her head slightly to the left – like she was simply stretching her neck – and allowed his knife to sail harmlessly past her ear.
Now the sphere in her hand began to narrow, concentrating into a dense mass. She stepped forwards. Her calm hands moved into position and –
Push or die.
– and Jim rushed forwards
Two steps.
Two wide steps.
He closed the distance between himself and the girl in two wide steps.
His right hand was held close to his chest, holding the knife with the tip pointed fowards. His left arm came swinging forwards in a wide arc.
Jim could take the spell with his left arm.
He'd rather not.
It would hurt. A lot.
Hopefully she would lose her nerve, allowing him to tackle her onto the ground. Jim knew that he would win the moment it became physical. She may be a shrewd magician, but her small frame stood no chance against him in a grapple.
So he shot forwards like a bolt of lightning, with his knife poised for a deadly thrust, as he closed in on the girl.
She held.
The sphere narrowed further still until it was just a tiny ball in her small hands. But as it became smaller, its light became blinding. The spell's powerful aura reverberated throughout the air in shockwaves.
She did not flinch or hesitate as she twisted her hands forwards.
She aimed the sphere at Jim's approaching form.
Fine, I'll fucking eat it.
His left hand came stretching out towards her. The sphere's light had become so blinding that Jim could not look at it directly, even with his other eyes. But he knew where to strike.
His fingers tensed themselves for the pain, for the awesome, burning sensation of power being devoured, of light being consumed: of magic's death.
He touched nothing.
His fingers sliced through the glowing ball like a flash through shadow. They effortlessly cut through the phantom sphere – shapeless, formless, weightless – towards nothing. The once awesome, blinding light vanished without a trace.
But his left hand went forwards still, groping blindly at the darkness until…
Jim touched her hand.
I remember the first time she showed me.
It was behind the building, in the backyard beside the outhouse, next to old Marushya's cafeteria.
Really, I didn't know.
She was so excited. She grabbed me and kept saying that I needed to listen to her now because she can turn me into a dog if I didn't. She said I should be more respectful.
So I followed her and she showed me.
She showed me the light in her hand.
First it was a light, glowing like the old clunky lamp that Vanya had but brighter and greener and small and in her hands.
Then she changed it into a fire. But instead of a red fire it was blue and green, like it was mixed together like paint. The fire burned in her hands without wood or oil.
After that she showed me the water. She got a couple of droplets from a bucket and dripped it onto her palm. The water didn't splash her skin. Instead it turned into a ball and danced round and round in her hand.
"See, Jăska? I'm a witch! I'm a witch! I can do magic!"
I could only stare. I looked at her messy short hair and her toothless grin. Even though it was summer I felt really, really cold, like the frost had eaten my fingers. My tongue was caught in my mouth.
For once in my life I said something smart.
"Listen…you can't tell others about this, okay?"
She stared at me like the stupid girl she was.
"Why not?"
"You can't. Promise me, Raya, promise me that you won't –"
Their eyes met just as the little girl began to crack, to break; she shattered into a thousand little shards of brilliant glass. Each piece fell silently onto the grass without so much of a whisper.
And he was left alone to face the silence of the night and the faint echoes of his past.
The four winds shall come and go.
When summer came we were in the meadows,
dancing the days away like courting sparrows:
a dream without end.
But summer went and the wind will pass.
When autumn came we were in the woods,
swearing solemn vows only the trees understood:
a play without pretend.
But autumn went and the wind will pass.
When winter came we were in the cave,
singing by the fire of our warm embrace:
a storm without rain.
But winter went and the wind will pass.
When spring came we were on the lake,
whispering farewells of our sweet mistake:
a death without pain.
But spring went and the wind will pass.
Now summer comes and I am by the sea,
weeping of what has come to be,
and what we've done we've done in vain,
of things that can never be again:
a grave without remains.
And so what it begins must it also end.
To remember this I do intend,
What?
Remember what?
The millennia of memories, all fleeting glimpses of a truths forgotten, flashed before her eyes. Lament! She could only lament, weeping of her loss. She knew not from which crack this well had sprung, but it came crashing forwards, overcoming her entire being with the likes of which she have never experienced.
Her heart ached, intolerably so, for something she could not remember, for a life robbed from her, for a dream unrealized.
But just as quickly as it came, it went without prompt or ceremony. And once again all was lost; lost again to the sands of time that flowed onwards, ceaselessly, to the horizons of eternity.
And she was left with only whispers.
Remember, remember!
But what?
Remember what?
What has she forgotten?
How does one answer a question they've never known?
How does one forget a past they've never remembered?
How does one mourn a life they've never lived?
How, indeed?
She felt the ache welling up in her chest again, but she wiped her tears away coldly and sealed it away in the deep abyss. Instead, a harsh, merciless rage took hold in her fists.
She was disgusted by her own weakness.
She had no luxury for such superfluous sentimentality, for such drivel. Such frivolities. She was too learned, too wise, to ancient to be having such childish fits. And thus the cold, blue death returned to her eyes once more.
She rose back to her feet, back to the task at hand.
It was an illusion.
The little pieces of glass simply dissolved into the air before Jim could even touch them. Just moments before the grass had been littered with glowing shards, but now they were all gone, just like the little girl. Jim brushed his hands over the cool grass.
That's why there were no footprints.
It was an illusion.
Jim tried to stand up, but his knees buckled. He only managed to lean against the hedge. Why was he breathing so heavily? Strangely, his left arm was not in pain, even though he was sure that it had taken the little girl's illusion.
Instead he noticed that there was something wet on his face.
Rain? Dew? Blood?
No, no.
Tears.
Jim was crying.
The memory came back to him, the memory of him talking to her behind the orphanage all those years ago.
What happened?
The moment he touched the girl's hands the past had flashed before his eyes. It was a past that he didn't even realize that he still remembered.
His hands numbly wiped away his tears. Why was he crying? Why did his body feel so heavy and laden? Jim sniffed loudly and composed himself.
He heard something.
It sounded like something metallic toppling onto the grass. Jim took another moment to steady his heartbeat before moving out of the passage, making his way back to the pathway.
He came out of the maze and looked around for the source of the commotion. He realized that it was from the bench.
The trash bin was toppled over the grass and its lid was open. And sure enough, leading from the bin was a trail of glowing, blue footprints. They led back towards the direction of the dome…
Jim smacked himself on the head, hard.
Of course! She was hiding in the –
"Moving."
The suppressor peeked first, just barely an inch over the corner. Like a compass he methodically scanned every degree with the muzzle as he turned the corner. Then his shoulder materialized. His head followed, and finally his torso.
He held his position briefly, swiftly sweeping the footpath with the invisible IR laser. He noted the bench and the overturned trashcan. His eyes checked for any sign of movement through the green hue of his night vision goggles.
"Clear."
Satisfied, he emerged from cover. He was followed closely by the second man. The duo made their way towards the bench.
As they moved forwards they checked every entrance of the maze's passageways, sweeping any possible corner with their IR laser. Their fingers were resting calmly on the trigger their FN P90 submachine guns.
Any target that came into the reticle of their holographic sight would be greeted with a nasty little burst of armor-piercing 5.7×28mm rounds.
The first operator knelt down when they reached the overturned trashcan. He kept his submachine gun at the ready with his right hand while his left quickly examined the scene. His partner took up position behind him, covering his rear.
The operator readjusted the focus of his tubular night vision goggles, briefly assessing the trampled grass. Soon he stood up again.
"This is Alpha Two. Negative, negative, no sign of target, over."
Another brief whisper into his mic and the two was off again, quietly shuffling their way around another corner. They disappeared into the shadows without a trace.
The two gray figures turned and moved forwards, in the direction of the dome and the killer, before Jim emerged from the darkness. He had observed them discreetly from the shadows of a nearby corner.
At one point one of them swept his muzzle directly over his chest. But the operator did not fire.
Jim knew from experience that he was invisible to normal NVGs if he took cover in the shadows – in the Lady's embrace, cloaked by her obsidian form – but he still had to restrain himself.
So…two.
A duo. A pair.
It made sense.
The entire maze was too large. To cover more ground the team would have to split up and scan each sector individually. It also offered them more advantages in a rabbit chase; they would have more maneuver elements to intercept and cut off a target's escape routes.
Jim bit his cheek.
The pyrokinetic operative from the warehouse was dangerous, but if he played his cards right he had a fighting chance. In any case he could always avoid her unless he needed to.
But this?
This?
This is bad.
Really bad.
Jim knew that if he ever saw a grey silhouette – a calm, collected and well-trained counterintelligence officer of Academy City's finest – there were bound to be others close by.
They never worked alone.
This meant there was, at minimum, a tactical team in the maze. And embedded in this team of twelve operators would be a trained esper. Most likely the team leader.
It was already too late.
Fuck, they've probably already locked down the entire party with undercover attendees as well. They would have suppressed pistols under their clothes, ready to move in at moment's notice to cover the entrances.
A deep, bottomless pit opened up in Jim's stomach.
He had met them before, during his time in Sofia. And if there was anyone he hated even more than the jackals it was them: the men in grey, the slithering reptiles, the anointed guardians of Paradise.
The snakes have come.
"All Alpha call signs, be advised, Overwatch is repositioning. Will be back on station in three mikes, out."
The image shifted and blurred for a second as the small drone – flying 300 meters in the air – repositioned itself.
Academy City's airspace was a very, very valuable commodity. Even the white ones did not have complete monopoly over it. In this context it meant that launching a proper, full-sized UAV from the airport was simply not worth the hassle.
Instead it was simpler to use an appropriately sized commercial drone. It could be launched and recovered from a support van. After all, it could be outfitted with many of the same features – IR vision, communications compatibility, aerial surveillance – at a fraction of the cost.
The only notable capability missing was armament.
But then again, who would need a Hellfire missile in Paradise?
The woman sitting at the table turned away from the large screen and inhaled another puff of the tobacco. The cigarette was held in a long, slender cigarette holder of silver-coated ivory. She knew that smoking was technically prohibited inside operations rooms.
She didn't care.
Rank and privilege was synonymous in their service.
She turned to look at the screen again. It was a grotesque abstraction of green hues and black shades; the maze's complex design did not lend well to night vision surveillance, especially at such a distance.
"Switch to thermal," she said with a slow drawl.
"Yes ma'am," the operations officer replied and quickly barked the necessary commands to his staff.
The mess of viridescent shapes on the entire screen was quickly replaced by fuzzy masses of white and black. She could see there were a dozen or so indiscriminate white figures moving around the maze.
However most of them also had the signature blipping flash, courtesy of the IFF strobes on the tactical team's body armor.
Oh, if only we had this in Moscow!
She immediately counted three white figures without the rhythmic strobe. One was in the center, under the pavilion. The other two were moving about the maze.
Then she spotted a fourth one.
Is that…
She pointed at one of the unmarked figures that was moving towards the center and shifted her eyes at the operations officer. He met her gaze quickly but was caught off guard by the quiet intensity of her stare.
What unnerved him most was the grotesque, white prosthesis in her right eye.
She didn't need to say anything. The operations officer nodded curtly and was already on it.
"One target, man-sized, moving south to west towards the center, on the east quadrant of the maze. Intercept that. Get Alpha Two to –"
"No."
She leaned back into her chair languidly and took a another deep puff.
"Send Alpha One. Let him have some fun."
"Of course, ma'am."
The Ops officer nodded at the communications technician. The command was passed down the line:
"Alpha One, this is Overwatch, be advised, there is a target, man-sized, moving from south to west towards the center, on the eastern quadrant of the maze, approximately 100 meters to your south. Break. Alpha One you are to intercept and terminate the target, I repeat you are to intercept and the terminate target. Do you copy? Over."
There was a brief pause.
"Overwatch, this is Alpha Actual, solid copy on target location. Break. Repeat your last, over."
"Alpha One, this is Overwatch, I repeat, Alpha One, you are to intercept and terminate target. I repeat, you are to intercept and terminate target. How copy, over?"
"Overwatch, this is Alpha Actual. I advise you rescind your last order. Alpha Actual will not engage target, instead will focus on capturing the target. Be advised, engaging will reduce tactical efficiency and capability of team. I will send Alpha Two to intercept. Alpha Actual out."
A frosty silence descended upon the room, broken only by her snickering.
"Remind the little hatchling, please."
The communications technician swallowed uneasily and fired up the radio again.
"Alpha One, this is Overwatch. NEGATIVE. NEGATIVE. You are to intercept and engage target as ordered. This comes from Overwatch-Actual, I repeat, from Overwatch-Actual. Do you copy? I repeat, do you copy? Acknowledge! Over. "
There was a buzz of static before the reply, short and terse, came.
"Solid copy. I knowledge. Alpha Actual moving to engage. Out."
She smirked.
Orders were quickly issued to the other units to converge on the pavilion in center and to pursue other targets. She smiled as she watched the solitary white figure deftly leaping over the hedgerow like an agile cat.
It's unfortunate prey was a single figure moving nakedly through the winding passageways of the maze.
Of course.
Jim did his best to move stealthily through the path, along the hooks and corners, taking great care to stick to the shadows of the tall green walls. All the while his mind was also racing to understand the developments.
The little girl's footprints were leading him back towards the center, where the serial killer had been. Jim knew that he needed to avoid the tactical elements that were surely closing in as well.
He mentally scolded himself for not realizing the situation earlier.
Of course the snakes knew.
Yomiakwa had told him that the snakes kept taps on the serial killer's investigation. Of course they had access to the internal Anti-skill reports. Unlike Yomikawa, they also had access to the capture team. This meant that they must have learnt of the girl's hair color from them.
It made perfect sense that they would connect the dots between capture team's target and the little boy's description of the girl at the crime scene. So they knew that the serial killer was linked to the little girl.
As to why or how they knew to be here, at this spot, well –
Jim stopped.
He heard the whistling sound of something flying through the air.
A bird? A plane?
No.
It was something else.
It was a glowing, crimson blade passing within an inch of Jim's face.
The katana slashed across the hedgerow and sliced through the thick shrubbery like a knife through butter. His startled prey was saved by his own ineptitude, falling backwards clumsily as the slash came in.
His prey rolled and dove through the hedge wall after the close call. The coward was in full flight now, like a hapless little hare.
The hunt was on.
He went forwards, his feet fluttering effortlessly over hedgerows with each leap. Sailing through the air, he saw that the little hare was desperately trying to evade him.
A futile effort.
Again and again he kept pace effortlessly, after every sharp turn, every burst of speed. Eventually the hare seemed to have realized this as well. But it was still compelled by sheer terror and cowardice to make one last, maddening dash.
Swinging his katana about in a beautiful whirl of fire, he scoffed at its naiveté.
None can escape Zantetsken's judgment!
He allowed the hare to pull ahead.
It scurried away into a dark corner of hedgerows' intricate maze.
Jim became one with the shadows.
He just melted into the darkness just as the figure caught up. Even through the thick hedgerow he could see the infernal red glow of sword, hungry for flesh. The mongrel recognized it as some sort of a Japanese katana.
Through a small gap in the shrubbery Jim saw that his pursuer was not wearing any night vision goggles; he was only using his naked eyes.
Like a silent film, he watched as the grey figure moved forwards soundlessly with the glowing sword at his side.
There's no way he could see – or even sense – Jim with the layer of hedgerow between them.
The mongrel's eyes continued to follow the crimson katana through some gaps in the wall but eventually lost sight of it.
A tense silence descended.
Jim strained his ears to try and listen to his movements, to get a clue as to what he was doing. But nothing. Jim could hear nothing.
He waited.
And waited.
He slowly reached for a knife.
Where?
The grass and the shrubbery shook gently in the night's wind. The shuffling noises of the clumsy ants became deafening. Yet only the whistling leaves answered his katana's queries for flesh.
But he knew that the prey will answer soon, for no man could escape death's call.
Not when it came to them through his Zantetsuken.
And indeed the answer came.
It was barely a whisper, a faint echo that was drowned out by the living grass and the trees and the ants and the wind. But he heard it regardless.
And Zantetsuken answered.
The sword came piercing out of the shrubbery like a needle through thin linen. For a brief second it simply stayed there, with the red hot blade sizzling and setting fire to the hedge.
Jim gulped. The spine of the blade was located just inches away from his right cheek. An unbearable heat spread across on his skin.
Should he should move? He didn't dare. So Jim simply stood there, frozen to the shadows, listening to the desperate heartbeat in his chest.
Then the blade turned and faced its edge towards Jim's face –
Run, little hare, run!
Zantetsuken cut cleanly across the length of the hedgerow as he pushed through the shrubbery. He emerged on the other side and his katana greeted the two knives flying towards his head with a quick parry, slicing through the metal blades like butter. They fell uselessly to side just as the hare disappeared around another corner.
His displeasure of temporarily losing track of his quarry was offset by the song of his blade hissing through the grass. Zantetsuken painted the air with its crimson ink as he brought it to bear again.
Such form!
Such beauty!
It pleased greatly him whenever his foes gave him an opportunity to display his art.
He could still hear the desperate little hare.
His ears continued to track the hare's movements rushing through the hedgerows. He jumped once more, soaring through the air for a moment before landing right beside the hare.
Yes, it was good. It knew how to stick to the shadows, how to blend in with the darkness, but none of it mattered if he could hear it.
Still, it surprised him that even in its desperation the little hare was breathing so quietly; normal men would have been screaming their lungs out, huffing and puffing inelegantly like a monkey.
It wears the shadows well.
He knew that he could finish everything quickly by simply pulling out the suppressed MP9 machine pistol strapped to his thigh. But why would he do that? It would be bad sportsmanship.
It would ruin the fun.
His smile widened as he leapt forwards again, savoring the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins.
Run, little hare, run!
The snake was fast.
It also unnerved Jim that he could appreciate everything he was doing: the way he swung his sword, the fluid motion of the blade, his deft footwork, the way he twisted his wrist and the way the blade cut across the hedge.
Perfect.
A part of him wished that he had a proper 180cm winged spear with him, just like how the elders had trained him. Then he could meet the snake and show him…
Jim was no master of any sort, but he had done his time in preparation for the trial.
But he did not have a spear. He was not in Krakozhia. And there was no deep, dark woods that he could retreat to. No darkness to hide him.
Jim was alone, in a foreign city, with only some shitty kitchen knives.
I'm dead.
It took three times before Jim realized that he was not getting away from the snake. Three times Jim pulled away from him, carefully sticking to the shadows, hugging the walls of the hedge, cloaked in the Lady's embrace.
Yet each time the snake found him without any difficulty.
And he wasn't even chasing Jim on foot.
The fucker was flying!
He was leaping through the air like some sort of a winged lizard, landing on the top of hedgerows noiselessly and then jumping again. Jim had no idea how the shrubbery did not collapse under his weight.
It was pointless.
The snake was playing with him.
That's why the snake wasn't using his firearm, even though Jim was sure that he had one. He was holding back deliberately. That's why the snake didn't immediately catch up to Jim, even though he could have easily done so if he wanted to.
The snake was corralling him into a corner.
Finally Jim stopped and accepted his fate. He was not going to get away from him.
The mongrel grimly went through his options.
Jim did not have a gun. The only things he had were his flashlight, a taser and several knifes. Of the knives he had left there were several smaller ones and the big one he saved for melee.
The taser was useless unless Jim could hit him somewhere vulnerable, not to mention that he needed to close the distance first. Impossible. Throwing knives at him was a waste. Meeting him for melee with a knife – against the snake's katana – was suicide.
He heard the swishing sound again as the snake flew through the air. Jim could see the glow of his infernal katana above the top of the bushes getting closer and closer.
I'm dead.
Jim smiled sardonically as he cracked his knuckles. The darkness swirled around him again, thicker than ever, as his fingers wrapped themselves around the plastic handle of his melee knife.
The old familiar dread rose from his stomach: the dread of death, the dread of the void and the dread of the Lady's cold embrace.
And of course, as tradition dictates, Jim paid his respects.
In silence, and with grace!
He landed on the grass softly.
Finally, it seemed like his quarry has decided to take a stand. He whipped his katana through the air again, delighting in its graceful movement, and stepped into the silent gathering that had assembled.
Out of respect for the court he withdrew his blade into the saya and pulled it from his back. It would be a grave breach in etiquette to carry one's katana as such in the company of such illustrious figures.
He slid the Zantetsuken through his tactical belt and held it by his side, as befitting a proper swordsman.
The guests were all silent and mute, twisted elegantly in their positions, oblivious to the new comer.
He walked past a small herd of deer and admired their beautiful, slender forms, before following the path further inside. On his journey he was greeted by another beauty: an elegant princess, with her long kimono flowing out onto the ground, blending in seamlessly with the grassy carpet.
Finally he arrived at his destination and beheld the wonder standing before him.
It was a great warrior, dressed in full armor, with his odachi raised triumphantly to the sky. It was a great tribute, indeed, to the linages of great samurai warriors and their descendants.
He felt the irresistible urge to bow and to pay his respects. He wanted to honor those who have gone before him. But he knew that it was forbidden.
His clan has long since abandoned such ways when they took to the shadows of the palace gardens as the Oniwaban. From then on they were destined forever to toil, to fight and bleed in the shadows, away from the glorious embraces of tradition.
They were destined to die in the darkness without recognition or fame. Such was his fate. And such was the fate of his quarry.
He was standing with his back to the last figure of the garden.
It was a great heinous wolf, with its bloodthirsty fangs bared and ready to strike.
How fitting!
It was indeed a cornered wolf, baring his teeth in fear, showing its true skin as the pathetic and treacherous creature that it was.
His Zantetsuken shall cut it down.
Come!
Show yourself!
It is time to meet your judgment!
This was as good as it was going to get.
The snake was standing with his back to him. For some reason he also had his sword in its scabbard.
Jim steadied his breathing and repositioned his shoulders as silently as he could. Hopefully he would have the advantage of surprise as he leaped out of the grass sculpture and attacked the snake from behind.
Now or never.
A cold wind blew across the clearing, imbuing the grass with a nervous energy. The entire court mutely watched on at the scene that was about to unfold.
His left hand cupped the saya at his waist as his right hand gripped the intricate silk-weaved surface of the tsuka. The snake channeled his power through the sensors on the handle and Zantetsuken awoke once more, coursing with power through its titanium blade.
The breeze slowed down and the grass began to waver in their dance. The courtly guests stared at him, the great swordsman, and observed his every move.
They shall bear witness to his martial prowess.
He twisted the saya with his left thumb, angling it to the side, readying for the draw.
The wind slowed, and slowed…
It stopped.
And they met.
With one twist, a deft flick of the wrist, and a masterful pivot of the foot he swung around, drawing and sending his infernal katana on a deadly horizontal cut in one single, uninterrupted motion.
No mortal could possibly hope to parry such an attack.
The draw and simultaneous attack was the perfect ode to the art of Battōjutsu.
He met the wolf honorably, as real warriors did, with his unwavering blade striking forwards, cutting through the air without remorse or hesitation.
The wretched creature leapt at him from behind, like a true coward, with his fangs bared in fear.
But it was no match for his mighty Zantetsuken! Indeed, all that came forwards to meet his blade was a puny, contemptible knife.
Ha!
Is this the best you can do, foul creature?
It occurred to him that he should look into the wolf's eyes, to witness his terror and to savor his fear.
And so his eyes rose to meet its gaze. With the moon at its back, the dark shadows hid the wolves eyes but that was no problem. The katana's blade cut through his knife like soft bamboo and its rapidly approaching glow illuminated the creature's face.
The wolf was a young man, dressed in shades of the night with a black balaclava covering his face. He made a mental note to take it off after he was through with him.
But as his Zantetsuken approached the wolf's naked, defenseless face, he realized something.
The wolf's eyes were closed.
Jim turned on the flashlight.
White.
Light.
The sun.
The sudden beam of light pierced his eyes with the intensity of a thousand tiny needles. But his muscle memory pushed his movement to the end without interruption; the blade followed through with its slash.
Nothing.
It sliced through the air cleanly without any contact or feedback. The wolf was nowhere to be found in his sword's path.
It angered him tremendously.
How dare his quarry take him for a fool?
How dare it humiliate him and his Zantetsuken by refusing to accept its judgment? He turned around in a flash with another cut, directing it at his phantom prey, to put it down like the rabid dog that it was –
And the wolf bit back.
It sank its fang low into his side, stabbing precisely through the gap between his plate carrier and the tactical belt. It pierced through the black combat fatigues. It even forced its way partially through his mail shirt underneath, cutting into his stomach. A piercing burst of pain exploded throughout his lower abdomen.
But the wolf got greedy.
He realized that all of it was just a diversion when he felt his MP9 machine pistol tugging in his holster. The wolf was trying to steal his sidearm. But in his clumsy haste the creature was unable to get through the safety catch of the holster in time.
Now he knew where the wolf was.
Don't bite off what you can't chew!
His left hand let go of the wolf's shoulder and formed into an iron ram. Then he delivered a savage blow to the wolf's skull, knocking it to its very core.
He brought his fist forwards again and again.
The wet, delicious feel of its blood staining his knuckles drove him crazy with lust.
The blows gave him a good idea of the wolf's positions. Thus he pivoted again, twisting on his toes with a quick sidestep and bringing his katana to bear again.
The wolf expected this.
Once again the wolf was privy to his plans and affected another pathetic dodge. But this time the creature had misjudged it – expecting it to be another wide swinging cut.
Instead, Zantetsuken went forwards in a thrust.
He tasted flesh.
The delicious smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nose as his katana sliced through the wolf, intoxicating him with its flavor.
He could tell that the thrust had been shallow – only a drawing cut. The blade told him it had landed somewhere across the wolf's ribs. Still, he knew that even a slight brush with the infernal blade would be enough to cause terrible burns.
Aha!
You cannot run forever, little hare!
With his vision slowly returning, he locked the shaken wolf into his grasp with his left hand. His right hand began recovering the length of Zantetsuken for another strike.
This time, instead of a cut he brought the sword to the level of his waist, preparing it for a fatal thrust.
There was no way for his prey to stop this attack.
He would skewer the wolf.
But just as his arm began moving backwards to power the blow, his katana stopped dead in its tracks. Perplexed, he gave the tsuka a hard jerk, and still it refused to budge with any significance.
He looked down with his half-clouded vision, still dancing with phantom colors, and dimly made out the glowing shape of his Zantetsuken.
A black mass was holding onto the middle of the blade.
Jim grabbed the sword with his left hand.
Impossible!
What could it possibly hold it?!
His Zantetsuken was hot enough to cut through even steel! How was the wretched creature holding it with his hands? Its hand would simply melt under the heat! And yet there was no scent of burnt flesh or roasted skin.
Impossible!
He looked up, just in time to see the wolf sink its two thundering fangs into his neck.
Jim tased him.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Pain.
The shockwave coursed through his body. Every tendon of his muscle screamed in exertion as they were stimulated to the limits. But he held onto his katana as he stumbled backwards. His left hand, having let go of the wolf, reached immediately for his MP9.
The little machine pistol came out and began to bark furiously in shorts bursts, firing blindly in a wide arc. But the bullets were searching for a phantom target.
The wolf was already gone.
"All Alpha call signs, this is Overwatch. Be advised, be advised, primary target is currently in southern quadrant of the maze, heading to the secondary target in center. Alpha Two, move 50 meters to your south and link with Alpha Three. Alpha Four, move a 100 meters to the west…"
The steady flow of radio chatter continued as she took another deep puff.
She continued to study the giant monitor of the operations room, absent mindedly tracking the moving figures. She studied the primary target, their golden prize, and smiled as the little figure bounded past the hooks and corners.
The image of an innocent little girl, running away from the evil men and their guns, came to her mind. She smiled at the irony of it.
How cute.
Suddenly the image started crack with static and distortion. The communications technicians looked up quickly with puzzled faces before turning back their screens and displays.
She frowned and shot a disapproving look at the Ops officer. He was not amused.
"What is going on? Why is the image flickering?"
The technicians swallowed nervously and continued to check their screens.
"Answer me!"
"Sir…," the most senior of them began, "there's a problem with the datalink."
She scoffed. This was what happened when they relied too much on fancy toys.
The Ops officer's face reddened with rage.
"Then…fix it," he hissed threateningly.
But the technician shook his head.
"We can try sir, but it's not a problem on our end. The software and hardware is fine."
She exchanged glances with the Ops officer. He asked the next question quickly.
"What's the problem then?"
"Someone is jamming our datalink."
He clutched his head and shook it vigorously, trying in vain to dissipate the wolf's thunderous fangs. His entire head was ringing with noise and his eyes were still trying to recover their natural night vision.
He was unused to be being so blind at night; he had been trained from an early age in adjusting his eyesight to the darkness.
The wolf, as cowardly creatures do, had taken flight right after stunning him. Not even giving him the dignity of a reply. Such was the way of cowards and the wretched. The vengeance in his heart burned brighter than ever.
It was a disgrace.
"Overwatch, this is Alpha Actual. I need support locating the target. Last seen in garden of grass sculptures, located in southern quadrant, near my location. Please advise, over."
The reply came quickly.
"Alpha One this is Overwatch. Negative! Negative! Abandon pursuit of the target. Head to center. I say again, head to the center. Over."
That was quickly followed by another message.
"All Alpha call signs, this is Overwatch. Be advised, be advised, Overwatch is under electronic interference from an unknown source and is repositioning. Overwatch will be unable to provide visual support, will be back on station in ten mikes. Break. Primary target is in the southern quadrant, moving south to east. Secondary target is in the center. All Alpha call signs are to continue pursuit as ordered. Overwatch out."
He narrowed his eyes. Technical issues were very rare in the field. Almost unheard of. After all, they were no amateurs. It seemed like his prey would have to wait.
He grunted and started moving again.
Why the fuck did I do that?
Jim cursed his own stupidity as he made his way through the maze, clutching his ribs. The man had hit him hard in head, which caused a nasty concussion making its rounds through his ears.
And then there was his left hand.
It seemed like the glowing sword was some sort of an ability or magic, and his left had taken the brunt of it the moment he grabbed it. It only was owing to that his hand did not simply melt to the heat.
But his palm still grabbed the blade underneath and allowed it to cut into his fingers. So now the fingers on his left hand were bleeding profusely.
But that was not the real problem.
The real problem was his ribs.
The blade had melted straight through his sweater and made contact with his skin. It frightened Jim terribly that he felt no pain from it, only an itching numbness.
That meant the burn must have been bad. So bad that it must have melted the nerve endings on his skin and delayed the pain.
Once he was in safe distance away, he knelt down and quickly took out some bandages from his waist bag.
He placed a small gauze pad against the burn. The wound was a wet slop of burnt flesh rubbing against the cotton. Fuck. Most likely a full third-degree burn. Still, he bandaged it as best he could.
He cursed himself for not bringing any medical alcohol. Or any strong disinfectant.
Jim hoped that the wound would not get infected later on in the night.
His arm started to ache again, courtesy of the burning blade, but he knew that it was not enough for an episode. Still, he'll probably have to deal with sporadic muscle spasms for the rest of the night.
Why the fuck was I so greedy?
He should have ran the moment he hit the snake with the flashlight. It had disoriented the snake badly: a perfect opportunity to escape. Instead it gave him a false confidence, the illusion that he could win if he stayed and fought.
Shouldn't have tried his luck with the submachinegun.
Jim got his ass kicked.
He took stock of his inventory.
Jim still had the flashlight. He had used up the entire charge of the taser on the snake. But what troubled him most were his knives. He had started out the night with one and half dozen knives on him. Now he only had about half of them left.
Damnit.
He took stock of the situation.
The snakes must have known about the hut in the center. They were probably heading there right now, coming down on the place with the entire team, blocking off every escape route. He had seen the girl heading there as well, after she got out from the trash bin.
They were all descending on the same spot.
Things were going to get messy.
He put the final touches to the sigil. Once again, he turned back briefly at the reference image on the iPad for the final confirmation.
Yes, it was correct.
Even though he had already done this four times, each time he was still raked by nerves and unease the moment he picked up the paintbrush. It was as if he felt an strange presence behind his back, tempting him to make a fatal mistake and gamble his soul away.
But he didn't.
He stood up and proudly looked over his work. That pride was dampened when he turned around and remembered the dead body lying lifelessly on the floor.
Of course, he reminded himself, it's too early to celebrate.
The hardest part was yet to come.
He took a deep breath to calm his nerves before he began the final part of ritual, which in his opinion was the most revolting part. The man bend over and carefully dragged the dead body to the center of sigil, taking care not to smudge the lines of the sigil.
Once that was done he began to reposition the limbs.
The arms and legs were both spread open, with each one in a different direction. The head too, was laid in a certain direction, pointing straight upwards. Each limb – and the head – was positioned over one of the five points of the sigil, with the corpse's chest directly over the biggest point in the center.
The position reminded him of the Vitruvian Man by Leonard Da Vinci. A stray thought crept into his mind and he wondered if the great Italian master was somehow involved in the Occult as well.
Now the dagger.
He gulped nervously as he grabbed the dagger in his hands and leaned forwards over his victim's head. He pried open the dead man's mouth and reached the blade inside.
He dared not look as he sliced away with the blade. Finally he heard the sickening sound of the tongue disconnecting.
Now the words.
He took a sip of the champagne for courage and got onto his knees. Then, with his head humbly downcast, he raised both of his arms up into the air and began chanting.
"My honor, gratitude and eternal allegiance I do herby offer to the Great Marquis, oh Mighty Spirit of the Infernal Legions! Hereby I do present this humble offering to thee, oh Great Trickster of Men! Hereby I offer thee this tongue of the wretched, he who profit off the misery of others! With my humble offerings I hereby invoke our pact, the promise we made on that fateful night, to avenge your humble servant in his endeavors to punish his oppressors!"
He paused for the final words. It was if a disgusting slime had accumulated in his mouth. It pained his mind to even think of the words. But he found the feeble strength in him to continue.
His tongue tasted of burnt ash and sulfur.
"I humbly beseech thee, oh Mighty Spirit of the Infernal Legions, to lead your puny servant to victory!"
His fingers ached with the pain of rough iron grating against it.
"I humbly beseech thee, oh Great Sower of Discord, to crush the enemies of thy servant!"
He spat out the final word quickly and with great terror. The sores in his mouth began to ooze and bleed again.
"I humbly beseech thee, oh Grand Marquis of Hell, to reveal thyself to me, as you did to my forbearers that fateful night at the Lake of the Four Wooded Villages!"
For a long time there was only silence and the man simply knelt there, his knees stained with cat piss and his hands bruised from the strangling.
He hated it.
He hated how foolish it was to be performing such theatrics. He hated how he was engaged in such tomfoolery like a charlatan.
Sometimes…sometimes he could feel a strange, unnatural air about him. But was it simply his delusions? His guilt?
Sometimes he questioned his own sanity. Was he just a madman, a deluded killer with blood on his hands, screaming mindlessly in the night? He looked at the dark domed roof of the pavilion with tears in his eyes.
There was only a black void in the ceiling.
He hated the fact that something as frivolous and laughable as "magic" was the only thing he could rely on right now.
But he had no choice.
This was the only way.
Oh, if only I got a sign!
And he received his answer.
Suddenly the sigil began to glow green with an unnatural aura with the likes of which he has never seen before in his life. The night suddenly seemed a lot darker, like the moon had been blotted out completely, and he felt something swirling round him.
Something was whispering in his ears.
He arms became heavy and his head felt light with the scent of sulfur and saltpeter.
The voice echoed to him.
I have received your offerings.
Your sacrifices have pleased me.
Even if you are not the descendants of the men with whom I consorted that night…
Something narrow and sharp pierced his eardrums.
…I shall honor the pact regardless, for I am a just and kind master.
Something began burning in his tongue, as if someone was branding it with a hot iron. The searing pain brought tears to his eyes and he wanted desperately to scream. But he could only whimper. He could not move. In fact he could not move at all; his entire body was frozen solidly in place.
Now go, and prepare for the final ritual.
Tommorrow, at the strike of midnight, call for me once more and I shall reveal myself to you.
From thence I shall lead you to the victory that you so desperately crave.
The voice vanished from his ears.
The glowing green light illuminated the entire pavilion, including the domed ceiling overhead. The darkness that had previously lurked there disappeared and the void was ushered away.
He stared upwards with unbelieving eyes.
Lo and behold, an angel!
The angel was a woman in her mid-forties, sporting a short pony tail under her baseball cap and wearing a long gardener's jumpsuit.
Alas, this angel had no silver wings with which to take flight from. Instead her positon high up in the pavilion's domed roof was supported by much more mundane means: one of her gloved hands held onto a utility handle and her legs rested on the crossbeams.
The angel did not smile or call out to him. Instead her gaze was cold and impassive.
She did, however, greet him with something else: her celestial, heavenly sword granted to her by the mandate of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
It was a long black suppressor sprouting out of a chrome-plated Berretta 92F, and it was pointed directly at his head.
-x-
First uploaded: 27/3/2021
Last modified: 1/8/2021
Wordcount: 11,441
Changelog
5/3/2022 – Prose edits. Shaved off words. Shamelessly rewrote spear and trial again. Remove esper level reference.
31/3/2021 – Fixed typos, lots of typos. Fixed fail (lol) with dagger and Oniwaban. Shamelessly (?) mentioned spear and trial. Changed some poem rhymes. Explained "4 figures" better (not shameless…right?).