Destiny: Rearm
Chapter 2
"So do you have a name?" The Guardian glances at his Ghost. It bobs along, preferring to fly by itself rather than be carried.
"Nope! Do you think I should have one?"
"You mentioned before there were others like me, so there must be other robots-"
"Ghosts."
He waves a hand flippantly, rolling his eyes a bit, "-right...ghosts. It would be useful if I could differentiate you."
The ghost, though it doesn't show it, is a little saddened by such a utilitarian purpose. "I mean...it would be useful. I'd kind of like mine to have some sort of meaning though, you know?"
Again, the Guardian couldn't tell he was talking to a machine. Is it even a machine? He examines it as they walk, and it looks back at him. Something in the way it moved and spoke has been communicating to him that this was more than just some flying computer. It looks behind itself, then back at the Guardian. "...yes? What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," he replies quickly, minding the broken asphalt road once again. "Okay...well, I can't think of anything yet, so if something really sticks out to me as a name I'll tell you."
"Okay!" It's voice is more cheerful, genuinely pleased that the Guardian was willing to wait for a significant name to emerge. It shoots several dozen meters ahead and dissolves more material. He had assumed that it was simply banking up material to use later, but it was being so choosy.
His curiosity gets the better of him, "What are you collecting all that for?"
"It's a surprise," it says. "I don't want us to stop moving and I want to stay close in case more Fallen show up, so I can't pick stuff up quickly. I'll have enough before we reach where we're going."
A large building stands half a mile down the road with smokestacks and storage containers lining it's outside. The most intense shooting had slowed some time ago. Potshots were heard up to about twenty minutes before now, but since then it's been silent. The Guardian stands about thirty meters into the treeline, stretching the string on a very well made bow. It's made of supremely springy plant composites that demand a great deal of strength to pull, with a granite grip to survive the stress, which has a smooth texture and a comfortable weight.
"This is...actually pretty awesome," the Guardian says. A smile is plastered on his face as the bow creaks under his pull and springs back with no warping at all. The Ghost is delighted, it's eye gently flashing, curved into a "C" shape with the ends facing downwards as a way to emote. "Thanks Ghost," he confidently pronounces, feeling like he's much better equipped with such a heavy drawing ranged weapon.
"You got it, Guardian. Can't make very many arrows, so keep an eye on your ammo indicator. You might need a few to go through shielding." He looks down at the indicator on his heads-up display. A bow icon is now visible, with a "6" right next to it. He envisions six dead vandals. He envisions the Captain with six arrows slammed through it's helmet, and he chuckles at the thought.
Briefly, he considers where such glee from violence came from. It isn't a desire for revenge he feels. He just wants to fight. His mind flashes back to the encounter at the last town where he died. In retrospect, he had a lot of fun, up until the point he nearly got cut in half by a sword of a skilled Captain. Humiliation from defeat should be at the forefront of his mind, he feels, but he musters no motivation from that.
Only the prospect of a fight fuels his fury.
"Let's go," he states with resolution. They begin their approach towards the building.
Smoke billows from the entire south wall of the building, opposite the road and on his left, collapsed from weapons fire if the myriad scorch marks were any indication. Though an ancient chain link fence surrounds the compound, time and fauna have torn many of it's sections to the ground. Vibrant flora has overgrown the rest. Through the holes in the fence and gaps in the vines he doesn't see any movement. The Ghost remarks in his helmet as it attaches itself once again to his hip, "An old factory maybe? If we secure it, I might be able to finally fashion some decent hardware."
The prospect of guns and adequate armor is certainly too good to pass up. He considered waiting to detect movement, but after only a minute of watching, his impatience gets the best of him. Stepping through the fence, he drops to a sudden crouch from the sound of two cracks of ballistic gunfire. There is no response from whoever, or whatever, was shot at. After another ten seconds, he stands back up and keeps moving sixty meters through a long dilapidated parking lot, where young trees have finally begun to sprout through asphalt, offering meager concealment.
Evidently, it isn't enough and the Ghost warns him, "Up there." He looks towards the top of the building just as some shape disappears away from it's edge. The element of surprise was already lost. Since the contact was probably still up there, he knew it wasn't going to be that useful to relocate around the building. Closing distance and entering the structure as soon as possible, before significant defenses can be raised, is the best bet.
Breaking into a run, he easily vaults over the husks of old vehicles and breaks through a few thickets with ease. Rather than enter the door in front of him, or use the left side of the building where the collapsed wall is, he runs right, seeing several large, open overhead doors. The closer he gets, the more he slows, until he's only ten meters from the first door and he reaches a creeping crouch-walk. The floor of the door is about a meter and half off the ground, for accepting freight from large trucks. He sticks to the wall underneath the opening and stops to listen.
Nothing happens after thirty seconds. Either the contact on the roof is alone, or whoever is inside won't expose their position right away. He wants to peek over the edge but if the bay doors are being watched, he'll be easily noticed in such broad daylight. He looks up towards the roof. No one is watching from there at the moment. Perhaps his gambit paid off. He decides to continue past the shipping and receiving area towards the rear of the building, opposite the direction he had approached from initially. He slowly peeks around the corner and finds no one there. There are two doors on this wall, and a ladder leading up to the roof. His eyes track to the top of the ladder. That approach is too obvious and easy to defend from whoever is on the roof, but at least at the moment no one was looking down from there.
Quickly, he moves to the first door. There's no window so his entry will be blind, and he lets his arrow dissolve so he can pull one the knives from his vest, then attempts to open the door gently. It's old, and it gives a quiet but nerve-wracking creak as he slowly pulls it open. Inside, he sees no one to the right of the door, and from where he is he can see some of the interior.
From here, he can see the collapsed wall. It's rubble, and there's still some visible embers underneath the brick; it's evidence that whatever damaged it was recent.
Several catwalks and rail-lines for moving large cargo run around near the ceiling, around 10 meters above the ground, and 10 meters below the high ceiling. From what he can tell, there's no one up there, but there are some parts of the catwalk he can't see. Though some of the main production floor of this complex is not visible, it's clear there are a lot of large machines the size of vans, or larger, ordered neatly around the floor. If there are defenders inside, it will be a pain in their ass to track him through that.
Just beyond the door, some unidentified machine blocks the rest of his vision, and he can't see anything to the left of the frame. He whispers, the helmet preventing any sound from escaping beyond it, "Peek left, real quick."
"What!?" The ghost, startled, forms behind him.
"Just do it!"
The Ghost shifts it's frame, as though uncomfortable, and moves towards the door frame. It quickly bobs to it's right, getting a look around the left corner, and then dissolves. "There's nothing! Happy?"
"Don't complain," he mutters, slowly shimmying through the opening. An arrow materializes in his hand, and he takes a steadying breath.
A shuffle, high and to the left! His head snaps up, seeing a human-shaped shooter on a corner of the catwalk. He leaps to down the path to the right as the sound of a large bore rifle echoes deafeningly through the facility. Several more shots ring out, but none connect, and he ducks behind one of the machines at the opposite corner. The bow draws back with a crackle, and he pops from the corner, but in his haste the arrowhead drifts one degree off the bow's shelf and he lets it fly. It soars fast, but wide left, and the shooter ducks away, running down the catwalk as they fumble trying to reload their rifle.
He draws back again just as a rifle bullet ricochets off his helmet. With a startled gasp, he lets the arrow go on accident, sending it tumbling through the air across the room as he once more scrambles for cover. He twists the now awkwardly sitting helmet back to a comfortable wearing position and pulls back for another shot, but this time he stops to listen. The rough clanking of the runner's steps are still there, but he's listening for something else. The bright, metallic click of a bolt being manually worked tips him off, and he leans, this time keeping the arrow held true to the shelf. It's demonic whistle pierces the air; just as well, as it has the devil's luck, and it shanks off of a thick steel hand rail, grazing the target's midsection.
Panicked by the injury, which he felt should have been light since he didn't land a direct hit, the target takes off running, retreating with the other runner. This is the chance! He pulls back another arrow, but the target is moving this time, so he tries to lead them. The arrow rips from his bow with such force it actually passes in front of the target. He hadn't realized just how fast these arrows fly! He pulls back one more, but to his surprise the first shooter stopped running at some point and takes a snapshot at him. It's enough to force him back into cover, and the clanking of their steps slowly fades as they move into what must be the upper foreman's offices that the catwalks lead into.
His arrow indicator reads two left, and he groans. Not even one kill! "I thought you said there was nothing there!" he spits through his teeth, then takes a breath to steady himself.
"I didn't look up, I was too scared!" the ghost retorts, more frustrated than apologetic.
"Were you too scared to look for anything else I couldn't pay attention to?" he seethed, taking quick peeks around the machinery, but he had a less impressive view from this corner of the building that the corner by the door.
"No, thank you very much! There's one somewhere on the ground level, but I don't know where."
"Well, now what? We have no initiative, and both of them are probably watching me now." It takes several precious seconds to heal and he still doesn't have enough information on who's in the main factory area to take a risk like running for it. He knows they probably won't enter his view, so he sits with his back to the machine. They'll have to come for him eventually, and as he's found out through their hours of walking, he doesn't need food or water.
Hopefully his attackers aren't Guardians themselves.
After a few minutes, someone from across the factory speaks, "You still there?!" The voice is husky and low. A man. He waits to see if he's trying to talk to someone else. "I'm talking to you in the corner asshole!"
"I'll give you a new asshole if you call me that again," the Guardian shouts back, and he hears what sounds like a chuckle.
"Like you could, from there. You hostile?!"
With incredulous amazement, the Guardian shouts back, "I-...WHAT?! Am I hostile? You shot at me first, so yeah, I'm incredibly hostile at the mo-"
"That's not what I meant; if I call a ceasefire, will you honor it?"
"Will YOU?" the Guardian shouts back.
"Yes!"
He takes a breath. He's lost the fight, from a tactical perspective. If he dies, the Ghost can just hide and come back for him later. If it comes to it, he might be able to use the ceasefire to his advantage, but since they sound human, perhaps they're friendly. If they are friendly, he'll probably gain more from talking to them than taking advantage of them. His bow and arrow dissolve, and he stands up. "I don't think this is a good idea!" the ghost hurriedly proclaims, but the Guardian ignores the warning.
He steps out from behind the machine and half-heartedly waves his hands. "All right, weapons gone."
Four contacts: one on the ground level that he never saw before, armed with an aged shotgun. The two riflemen – one's a woman, actually – are posted on the catwalk, guns leveled at him. He can't help but feel his heart skip ten beats, and as he considers how he's going to fight out of here, a cloaked figure uses a service ladder to slowly make his way down to the ground floor. The figure walks up to him, and pulls the hood back.
"Exo," the Guardian says out loud, unsure of why he knows that.
The figure nods, and motions with his hand to the Guardian's head. "Human...ish?"
Remembering his helmet's still on, he pulls the helmet off so that this stranger can regard him. He's human indeed. The Guardian has short brown hair, bangs down to eye level, with a barely noticeable natural right part. His eyes are a dull blue, but there's an unnatural brightness to the outer edge of the iris. His eyebrows are scrunched, giving him a near permanent glare, and his sharp, stately nose and otherwise ordinary features make him appear unassuming, if a bit unfriendly at first glance.
The strange Exo holds his mechanical hand out. The Guardian hesitates for a moment, but they lock eyes as he grasps the cold hand and they firmly shake. "Cale oh-nine. Sorry about the shootout, we're all pretty on edge at the moment. Can't blame the others for not wanting to take chances."
The Guardian nods his head towards the destroyed wall, blackened from plasma fire. "Guess I can't. That from the Fallen?"
Cale nods and motions that the Guardian follow, and as they move the three other figures drop the barrels of their weapons, on guard but at least at ease. "No Fallen in this area for a while. Got hit earlier today, few hours ago. Got a lot of traps set up so they went down easy, then reinforcements showed up. You got lucky, Winry says you came from the east, from that old town Okachka. You must have only just missed them."
Visions of purple blood, rotted wood, and the power of his hammerfists against the helmet of a Dreg flash through his mind in an instant, and he stifles his own suddenly rising fighting spirit. "Yeah, that is pretty lucky," he replies, trying not to sound sarcastic.
They climb up the ladder with the masked shotgun-wielding man following up behind him and the two snipers waiting up top, both of them watching him closely. As they reach the top, the Guardian gets a good look at both of them. Winry, tall and skinny, stands fast with a large rifle slung over her shoulder. She eyeballs him through greasy red hair and runs her hand over one of her eyes, wiping sweat from dirt-stained skin. The other says nothing at first, and Cale didn't mention his name, but he's goggled, short, and has a clearly handmade rifle cradled in both arms.
He gives a brief but polite nod to the Guardian as they walk by, but immediately ruins the gesture by talking, "kinda shit with that bow, stranger."
"Two guns after my head with height advantages, and I wasn't hit once," the Guardian retorts, even though he knows they at least grazed his head with one shot.
The man nods as if to say "you got me there," and he pats Winry with the back of his hand. "How the hell did you miss? You were right there."
Winry rolls her eye and shoots back, "yeah? How did you get hit by a guy using fucking caveman gear," and she pats the wound with the back of her hand, walking off past him.
"Ow, damn!" he angrily complains, and he gives her a shove as he follows after her, looking down at the still bleeding wound in his side.
"You're on watch," Kale says to the masked shotgunner, who just reached the top of the ladder. The figure nods and starts moving towards the roof access ladder. Goggles guy walks off to one of the adjacent offices, shirt lifted so he can look at the cut in his side, and Winry already disappeared through some other door. Cale motions for the Guardian to step inside the main office and asks, "What's your name, stranger?"
His heart jumps a bit; damn, why didn't he think of one? His eyes dart to a single-level bookshelf. Most of it is in a language he doesn't recognize, but a few english titles are there. He silently reads the first: "The Theoretical Archetype of the-" too long...the next one reads "Chekhov's Gun and Other Literary Devices." Good enough.
"Chekhov," he answers, pleased that he only took a couple of seconds to answer.
"Good to meet you Chekhov," Cale says, causing a wave of relief to wash over the Guardian. "Hopefully when someone fires his gun later, it's not in our direction." The relief fades and he averts his eyes from Cale. Cale sits down casually on a steel folding chair and catches the Guardian's look. "What, you think I've never looked at those books before? It's fine. I just want something to call you, so that works."
He motions to the other seat, and Chekhov sits. After so much time spent on his feet, and after many grievous injuries and one death, or two deaths, he supposes, it feels strange to simply sit down and hear little but the barely audible wind through the broken walls outside of this office. Cale speaks, "All right, so...sorry about that scuffle. We don't normally shoot other humans on sight. Good thing nobody died." Chekhov finds this puzzling, since he has no reason to believe a human couldn't be an invader. Were things that dire in the world? He had so many questions, and knew he was due to think of many more, but every question must be withheld until he knew he could trust these people. Maybe he can find some other way to probe.
"I'm surprised you're still here if you were attacked hours ago. The Fallen might be back," Chekhov observes. Cale shrugs flippantly.
"We've been around here for some time. They don't have a Ketch nearby, so it'll be at least half a day to lick wounds and plan before they even think of returning."
Chekhov banks that information for later. A Ketch must be a base of some kind, and the Fallen in this area don't have significant resources or manpower for consecutive hits on a location. Still, there were dozens of Fallen in that town. It should have been easy for them to overrun this place. He asks, "How did you survive with just the four of you? I heard fighting for a while leading up here. Explosions too, it sounded like a lot of them.
Cale is silent for twenty seconds. His glowing, mechanical eyes drift as his mind goes somewhere else for a moment. Softly, he replies, "There were eight of us earlier today." Chekhov guesses instantly that his ability to revive is abnormal, then hope floods him as he thinks that maybe his Ghost can revive them too. He'll ask the Ghost about it when he has a moment. "Had a lot of traps too, explosives, open fields of fire. Winry ran supplies during the fight. The masked fellow you saw is Warder, he stayed at the ground with three others. He injured the captain but he was the only survivor on the ground floor. Once the Captain got hurt, they buckled around him to keep him safe and covered his retreat, then they left to the North."
"So I guess you plan on leaving?"
"Yes. We need to be gone soon. Right now I'm planning to leave in six hours. We're all exhausted and we're low on ammo, so we're gonna push into the forest and try to disappear into a thicket somewhere for a few days. The Fallen won't search for us forever; they'll get back to searching ruins, then we can find a better camp and get real rest."
Chekhov wants to tell them about the Ghost, but he doesn't know what a Guardian's status is in the world is. The Ghost might be able to fabricate more ammunition, but he supposes if they're going to move anyway, more to carry might actually be more of a burden. Later, then. "Well," Chekhov starts, "can I help? I'm traveling alone and I don't have any friends out here. If there are Fallen, you could use a gunhand, and I could use people that'll watch my back."
To Chekhov's surprise, Cale is already nodding, and he lets out a relieved sound of a breath through his speakers. Does he even have to breathe? "Whoo, I was really hoping you would say that. You moved well out there and you look pretty freshly rested so I was going to ask if you could stick around. First positive development all day."
Cale stands back up, probably not anticipating how easy the conversation would be. "Can you take a watch up top? You can borrow Winry's rifle. I really want those three to be able to rest at least a few hours before sunrise."
"Sure, you got comms?"
Cale looks at Chekhov with a long blink, "I am literally a robot. Yes, I have comms." The Exo waves his hand towards the offices next door. "Supplies in there, got food and water but ONE canteen and ONE can of whatever's there only. If I find out you took more you're out of here, and that's only if Warder doesn't blow your head off."
Chekhov stands, knowing that won't be a problem either way, "Got it."
The clanking up the ladder behind him doesn't tear Warder's eyes off the forest below. Every light is a possible threat. Every moving shadow keeps his finger on the trigger. No more people die today, not a single one. When Chekhov speaks, it doesn't even make him flinch. If anything, he doesn't like that the boss just gave this guy a pass immediately after a firefight with him, but desperate times…
"Hey, Cale's got me up here. You're good to rest if you want," Chekhov said, kneeling and beholding the rifle in his hands. It feels so comforting to finally have a gun in hand. Unlike the old handmade junker Goggles uses, this one is worn but clearly machine-manufactured. Chambered in nine-by-fifty-six. Chekhov doesn't really know why he knows that just by looking at it; he hasn't even seen one of the bullets yet.
"Don't trust you," Warder says stoutly. His voice is surprisingly smooth, almost demure even through the slight muffling of the mask, but it holds a level and confident tone.
Chekhov sits silently for a while, ignoring the urge to shoot his mouth off. It's like the fact that they fired first was completely irrelevant to these people, but then again, Chekhov didn't lose four of his friends less than twelve hours ago. "Your friends...did you bury them?"
For the first time since Chekhov met Warder, Warder's hand breaks from the trigger of the shotgun and points down, some twenty meters away from the collapsed wall.
"What happened?"
"Fallen killed 'em, I'm sure Cale told you."
"Well yeah, but I mean...might help if you talk about it."
"It won't."
Chekhov gets the picture, and stops prying, instead rotating to the southern side of the roof to watch where Warder isn't looking. After twenty minutes or so, Warder speaks again as he walks towards the roof. "I can't stay awake anymore. If the Fallen get the drop on us, I'm killing you first." Chekhov doesn't answer as he slides down the ladder; he doesn't hear real venom in Warder's threat, just exhaustion. He hopes Warder sleeps at least a little well.
Hours go by, and the first, barely visible touch of deep blue light appears on the horizon. Cale didn't realize just how good of an idea it was to put Chekhov on watch. No food, no water, and no sleep necessary makes Chekhov technically the perfect watchman, but he's indescribably bored. He's just been staring out at the range of forests and roads, looking through his scope sometimes, chatting quietly through his helmet to the Ghost every now and then, but mostly wanting to try and stay focused on the job. He doesn't realize that he's staring into space blankly until someone climbing up the ladder snaps him out of it.
He looks back and sees Winry stepping onto the roof, stretching her lanky arms with a satisfying yawn. Looking back over the trees, he can't help but yawn himself, as though some unspoken rule of the universe demanded he do so since he witnessed someone else doing it, even though he wasn't tired. She wanders around the roof for a while, and after fifteen or so minutes, she finds her way slowly to where he sits. She sits down next to him, and he shoots her a glance.
Cleaned up a bit, her angular face is a bit pretty in the early dawn, though her eyes are bloodshot. Was it fatigue, or was she crying? Her expression is neutral, but she seems to want to speak. His eyes quickly return to the treeline below, scanning the old parking lot.
"So...a Guardian huh?"
Chekhov's heart stops. Not eager to share that yet, he forces out a lie and says "No."
"Are you stupid? Where was I when you entered the building?"
He thinks back to the fight. "Uh...the catwalk in the upper left?"
"And what did you send through the door to check the left side?"
Oh. "Damn it, I didn't think of that."
She chuckles a little, shaking her head. "Well no, it didn't occur to you that you wanted to withhold that information until you were already talking to us. Why didn't you say anything to Cale?"
He shrugged, and stayed silent for a moment while he thought about how to answer. She seems annoyed and bites the inside of her lip as she thinks that's all she's going to get. She opens her mouth to speak, but Chekhov beats her to it. "I was revived yesterday. For the first time. I don't really remember anything before that. I don't know anything about the state of the world except for the traveler's existence, and some city. Figured it was best to try and keep as much about myself hidden so I could infer more about what people like me are seen as."
Winry stares with an eyebrow raised. He isn't sure what that means and sits uneasily until she speaks again, "Huh, okay. That's really well reasoned for a guy that was born yesterday." She smiles at her own joke but the Guardian takes it too literally to catch on. Silence falls over them as they watch the sunrise, and a gentle breeze starts to consistently blow. Chekhov removes his helmet, and breathes deeply of the fresh air. After a while, Winry asks, "Can I see it?"
"See what?"
"The little robot!"
"I'm a GHOST," the Ghost interrupts with an irritated tone, and materializes next to him. "Ugh, finally. I was getting so tired of just sitting at your hip like that."
Winry's face lights up with a smile and she goes to grab it, but the Ghost deftly evades the grapple, "Aww, it's cute!"
Chekhov can't help a little smile himself. He almost forgets he's supposed to be on watch, and stands with the rifle, letting the Ghost and Winry talk while he patrols around the edge of the roof. Eventually, the clanking of steps on the ladder alert him to Cale's arrival. Winry and the Ghost don't seem to notice, but Chekhov feels better about telling Cale, having seen no hostility from Winry.
When Cale sees the Ghost, his eyes widen, and he walks over to Chekhov. "That yours?" Chekhov nods. "I don't understand." He motions with one of his hands like he was pushing something away, "why didn't you use your powers; you know, blast a fireball at us or something?"
"I can do that?"
"I've seen others do it. Knew a Guardian once, he used to jump up three story buildings and shoot lightning and what-have-you. Guess you gotta get to work figuring that out," Cale says with a bit of exuberance. "This is great, though. At the very least you'll be a hell of a help when the shooting starts. Go let 'em know we're leaving in an hour, will you? I'm going to go find Warder."
Chekhov nods, and as Cale disappears back down the ladder he walks back over to the Ghost and Winry. Winry is now gently cradling the Ghost in her hands, and the Ghost catches Chekhov approaching and pops off Winry's hands, sputtering with embarrassment, "Oh, uh! You didn't see that did you?"
"Oh yeah, he saw it," Winry said with a giggle.
Chekhov waves it off, disinterested in antagonizing the ghost. "Cale says we're moving in an hour. Ghost, can you get to work on a new gun? I'm going to help them pack up."
"Okay! You want something specialized or...?"
"For now, just something with general use. But definitely with a lot of power."
A blazing blue smothers the sky as the sun, still low in it's morning stage, peeks through the trees. The wind is pulling the tops of the trees as clouds threaten them all with storms from the horizon. The group has already packed what they intend to carry, and Chekhov works his new rifle in his hands. Heavy, with a long barrel. It's magazine feeds twenty nine-millimeter steel tipped slugs into a finely machined receiver; with a casing forty millimeters long, there's a ton of powder to push the bullet to high velocities. An encased, slightly telescopic sight on the top will make it easier to hit at ranges beyond two-hundred meters, but doesn't get in the way of quick use in tighter quarters. He is relieved to find his ammunition counter reads "20 | 100". His suit is more like armor now, and now features an alloy lattice throughout non-joint areas that will stop small caliber rounds, and more importantly, help disperse the electrical discharge of Fallen weapons.
His shield system was also improved, though the Ghost warned him not to rely too much on it. It can now fully deflect a few shots from Fallen but will nonetheless break quickly. Without a stronger power source and better materials, it's will stay like that.
The Ghost had also rebuilt the slapdash hand-made rifle that Goggles was using into something respectable, and extended the short barrel of Warder's shotgun – a modification he made when the front of the barrel had taken too much damage to fire. In addition, the Ghost used the last of the combustible materials it could find to produce a little ammunition for everyone there, though most of it was spent to load up Chekhov previously. The Ghost floats about with a cheerful voice as its lavished with praise from the group, and now despite the tragedies of the day before, there was an air of optimism. A little rest and a resupply went a long way towards improving morale.
They stop at the burial mounds of their fallen comrades before they leave.
Warder squats in front of them. Winry and Goggles look at Cale, who takes that as the indication that they want him to speak.
"To have come so far and have ended is not a tragedy when that end was a warrior's death. We're alive today because they gave everything for us yesterday. Nolan, Rich, Caitlin, and Kain...I mean I think back at all the times I thought it best to keep myself separated from the rest of you emotionally, so I could stay level headed...now they're gone and I..." he stops and seems at a loss for a moment. "This is worse. I wish I had known you better, but I'll never forget you. None of us will."
The others nodded almost in unison. Winry had her piece to say, but Goggles and Warder kept quiet. When Winry finished her whispering eulogy, laden with apologies for what will never be, she stood. Chekhov, having felt out of place the whole time, catches her eyes on him and he gives a slow, deep nod out of respect. He steps a few paces off and mutters to the Ghost, "Almost forgot but...can you revive them?"
"No. Only one with a Traveler's connection can come back like that. And a Ghost will only ever find one person to form that connection with. Maybe someday a Ghost will find one of them." Chekhov gave a deep sigh and accepted this as Cale told the rest of them that it was time to leave.
For the first time, Chekhov could truly sympathize with Cale's delight that he was a Guardian. Chekhov can do things the others can't; he fights with more speed and strength, and he can't die. To Cale, this must have been a windfall. Chekhov looks down at his hands, trying to imagine a fireball coming out of them. He shakes his head, and though his first reaction is to think something like that was impossible, so was his revival. Maybe it could be done. He looks a little closer, thinking he can see some sort of slight glow to his hands, but a slap on the shoulder from Cale snaps him out of it.
Their journey begins. First step: evade the Fallen, and find a new camp.