27
Rhiem whipped off his hoodie. From under it, he reached back and put on his Anacholite mask, immediatly his face was shrouded in it s cold embrace. With his other hand, he reached inside his cloak, and drew the Southern Eagle from the belt of his pants; the silver plating shone even in the pale, gray afternoon light.
In a flash, Rhiem had the ground around Bulldog in his sights.
"Sorry buddy," he muttered. "Just going to scare you a bit."
But Bulldog, with surprising speed, was behind a metal mast in a flash.
Fatty's faster than he looks, thought Rhiem, as he put several rounds into the mast.
"Hey!" yelled the Merchant through the radio. Rhiem flinched as his earplug crackled to life in his ear, several decibels too high. Don't go shooting up my ship!
"Well, I don't want to kill the guy! Rhiem said, as he rammed a fresh clip into the Southern Eagle. "He's stupid, but he doesn't deserve to die."
"How do ya even know IF that guy has Northern Cross?"
"Look at the way he moves."
From high above, in an abandoned apartment building, the Merchant glanced at his receiver, confused. He then peeked into his telescope.
Bulldog was sprinting from cover to cover, managing to dodge Rhiem's shots, even if they weren't aimed at him. Yet even if he was dodging the shots, he dodged weird...had an odd shuffling movement... preferred to run to farther cover to the right, than just turn around.
"Ah," thought the Merchant. He took a closer look at Bulldog s trousers.
"That idiot's got a knife inside his pants."
"Yep." Rhiem ducked as Bulldog shot at him with a imitation Glock. The bullets splattered harmlessly over his head. Drawing a new feed from his pocket, he slammed the .845 shells into the Southern Eagle with one deft motion.
"Rhiem ...be careful."
"Huh?"
"You re underestimating him. He's got a Cardinal Arm, and he's used it."
"...hm."
Rhiem stepped out of cover for an instant, pulling the Southern Eagle to it s sight.
No more warning shots. This one would be aimed for his foot. Rhiem grimaced apologetically.
This ll hurt like Hell, but-
What the-?
He searched the now empty deck.
He s gone.
"Where'd he go?"
"Hehehe..."
"Bulldog! Show yourself!"
"hehehe..."
"Hey!"
Thunk.
Rhiem glanced down at the mast he was hiding behind. On it, a beautiful, simple knife was embedded four inches into the metal. A faint, orange light was blinking off of it s light-blue handle, and suddenly, the hilt burst apart to reveal silver antennae that spun in the light, three of them, looking just like-
Like a cross.
"RHIEM!" screamed the Merchant. "GET OUT OF THERE NOW!"
He didn t need to be told twice. Rhiem ran as fast as he could from the knife in the mast. As he stumbled, he could hear whistling. This whistling grew louder, and deeper, it soon was born into a full and deep roar. It sounded as if a train was coming.
Rhiem leaped behind a coil of heavy wire. He planted his back to the coil, and then glanced to his side.
Bulldog was there sitting right by him, grinning.
Rhiem pulled up the Southern Eagle, but Bulldog shook his head.
Wait Rhiem did.
And then roar stopped.
Silence.
The deck exploded. A shower of shells, missiles blew apart the Shylock s deck. The pitiful coil of wire did nothing to absorb the explosion. Rhiem was struck across the face, chest, groin, every limb; every inch of his body was battered by the tremendous air strike. The force sent Rhiem and Bulldog flying off the land ship, until they hit the ground, far below, hard.
When the dust settled, Rhiem got up.
He coughed, bringing up blood and mucus and dust.
He glanced at his side. Northern Cross was there again, blinking.
A chain attached to it was pulled, and the knife flew back into Bulldog s hands. As he caught the blade, the gang leader then turned, walking into a back alley. He soon disappeared into the urban jungle behind him.
"Hey!" Rhiem was eyeing the terrain that Bulldog had disappeared into. It looked dark ad foreboding. "What do I do?"
The Merchant grit his teeth.
"You'll have to follow him, Rhiem." Rhiem could hear rustling in his earpiece.
Take this. Rhiem turned to look at the apartment complex the Merchant was hidden in. From the fifth story, the Merchant tossed something. The gear flew an incredible distance straight to Rhiem.
Rhiem caught the tiny gear. His hand throbbed from the impact.
"What is it?"
"A soul gear. Just...take it. You'll probably need it."
Rhiem nodded, and then set off into the urban jungle that Bulldog was hidden in, somewhere.
Behind him, Bulldog's gang watched. They would be waiting for the victor, no matter who it was, or how they won. Waiting for who would come out alive.
Rhiem crouched by a rusted trash can. He kept his gun low, the silver would do nothing to help him hide here, and his stance high, because hiding wouldn t do him any good if he got caught in Northern Cross air strike.
"I wish I had infrared goggles." muttered Rhiem. "Then I could flush this guy out with grenades as soon as I saw him."
"And I wish I had two legs and two arms. Life sucks, doesn t it?"
"Life won t just suck for me, if I get caught in that air strike, I won t have one."
"Boohoo. Add it to your wish list and finish that gang leader already."
Rhiem glanced at the Merchant's gift. It seemed just to be a gear, but on closer inspection, it had a rocky feel to it, and there seemed to be a gas inside of the center.
"What is this thing you gave me, anyways?"
Far above, the Merchant pursed his lips.
Just keep it. Don t do anything with it until I tell you. "What's with you. anyways?" Rhiem was annoyed now. "Why don t you just tell-"
Thunk. Northern Cross landed at his feet, blade in the ground.
Shit. Rhiem ran as fast as he could from the alleyway, out onto the street. As he did, the narrow walkway exploded in a storm of explosives, water, and fire.
Rhiem rolled into a bakery, swearing.
Son of a bitch! Rhiem screamed into his earpiece.
"TELL me what this thing IS already! I m GOING to DIE!"
The Merchant sighed.
"The slot at the bottom of Southern Eagle."
"What?"
"Put it there" The Merchant s voice grew testy. "Just do it already!"
Rhiem fitted the small, rocky gear into what he thought was a carving at the bottom of the frame.
The gear whirred for a second, and then clicked into place.
What now? The Merchant took a long draught from his scotch.
Now you hunt.
Bulldog lay behind the counter of a former farming supply store. Inside, he chewed on a pack of tobacco that he found in the store below, spitting out a thread every now and then onto the wood floor.
A shadow passed through the room.
Bulldog pulled out his Glock.
"Hello?"
Bulldog took an uneasy glance at the door, and then sat back down. Impossible. Anyone to come up to here would have had to pass through a clearly visible pathway that he was watching over. So far, there seemed to be a low fog, which meant that Bulldog couldn't see the street clearly, but, he reasoned, it meant the other guy couldn't see either.
Bulldog glanced up. It seemed the sun was going down earlier; light was fading quick, and he was getting sleepy.
Sleepy? Like Bedtime. Time to go to bed...
Bulldog hit the ground; his eyes glazed and his breath heavy.
Bulldog snored softly, flat on his stomach. Wrapped around his wrist, was a chain, and that chain had on it, Northern Cross. Rhiem appeared behind him, kicking the body.
"Gimme that!" Rhiem snatched the Northern Cross "Before you kill everyone here."
Bulldog whispered, drool pooling on the floor around his face.
"I wouldn t do that if I were you."
"Oh yeah?" Rhiem crouched down in front of him. He brought his gun to Bulldog s face.
"Lights out."
The gun let out another jet of sleeping gas, and Bulldog drifted off into unconsciousness.
With a sigh of relief, Rhiem pulled off his mask.
He thumbed the new feel of his gun. It had taken on a rocky feel, and was heavy, but surprisingly well-balanced.
Old Man! You didn t tell me I could do this with Southern Eagle and Soul Gears! Rhiem turned the gun over to look at the Soul Gear embedded at the bottom of the hilt. The Gear was spinning, the light shining softer and softer with each spin.
Rhiem! The Merchant was shouting at his radio now, Take that damned thing out of your gun. NOW! Shit, what s with you- FOOM
Rhiem felt the air brush his neck.
FOOM
He knew this sound.
FOOM
It was the wing-beat of a wyvoid.
He turned to face the gun platform of Northern Cross. Through the window of the apartment he was in, shone the massive eye of the legendary gun platform that Northern Cross was built for.
Amatsumagatsuchi.
Rhiem saw what seemed to be a flying whale. It was massive, over 300 feet long, shaped like a killer whale, and covered in sheets and sheets of solar panels. It was like a whale in every respect, except that it was floating in midair. No frantic flapping of the wings, no whir of high-power jet turbines. Except for the soft wind that flowed constantly around it like the Dao Ku-Long, it was silent.
Rhiem, fighting against his desire to scream and hide, looked away from the window.
He took a breath.
"Old Man!" Rhiem yelled, "You didn t tell me the gun platform was a God-damned wyvoid!"
"I didn t know! No one s seen the damn thing since the last war! I knew Kravotsky fitted it for independent self-defense, but I didn t know he designed it as a effin dragon!"
Amatsumagatsuchi roared, gliding over to where Rhiem was. Except because of how big it was, what was a slow glide was a thunderous, terrifying airborne charge to Rhiem.
Rhiem screamed as he ran from the colossal machine, diving and laying flat against the ground, as the mech tore through the apartment building like a knife through hot butter. The floor Rhiem and Bulldog were on started to shift, having lost all of it s frontal support, started to dump it s occupants out onto the street in front.
Rhiem landed bodily on the ground, groaning. He rolled several times over to the side, as the Amatsu tried another pass on him.
He rolled behind a concrete pillar, grasping at the cover it gave like it was a life itself.
"Shit!"
"Old Man! how do I kill it?"
"Kill it? You have to neutralize it without damaging it beyond repair!"
"WHAT?" screamed Rhiem as the Amatsu flew over his head again, the wind tearing at his face. "You want me to take this thing down WITHOUT damaging it?"
"It has a limited self-repair system, but- "
"It's three football fields long!" Rhiem screamed, "I could build a house on it!"
"Just hold on! I'm calling in help!"
"Help? What help-"
He stopped.
In a perfect circle, all around him, wind was picking up. The wind carried dust and rock and scrap higher and higher, still running in a circle, until Rhiem was trapped in a tower of wind and debris.
No. He breathed. A tornado? He looked straight up.
The Amatsu was at the peak of the tower, riding the winds it had created like a fish. But it kept it s gaze fized on Rhiem. And it s 20mm cannons.
As the first shot carved up a hole in the ground next to Rhiem that could have hidden a car, he gave up. There was nothing he could do.
"Rhie...ust...h..ld...help is..."He took the radio off. He couldn t hear the Merchant anyhow. The roar was growing louder, to his right. And familiar, too.
It annoyed him. Why did the roar annoy him?
He glanced to his side. Just as the second shot was fired, a motorcycle, with two riders, burst through the tornado. One of them grabbed Rhiem, and lifted him onto the bike, just as the ground below them erupted in flame.
And in a flash, they were out of the tornado, and back onto the street. The motorcycle skidded, sliding fifty feet, before the driver gunned the motorcycle down a back alley. The Amatsu, deprived of it s target, ceased the tornado, and started circling the city.
Rhiem gripped his savior, coughing. He knew this bike. He looked up at the guy who grabbed him.
"Brendan?"
"Nah!" The rider lifted his goggles. Beneath them, he saw the dark, slim, foreign eyes he knew so well. "It's KJ. This is Bren s bike, he rides it."
The driver looked over his shoulder.
"Heya, Frenchie. Not too busy getting your ass handed to you, huh?"
"Brendan..." Rhiem muttered. "Pay attention to the road before you make martyrs out of all of us."
"Huh?" Brendan glanced at the light pole that had, he would later say, swerved in front of him. "Oh shit." He threw the bike sideways, avoiding disaster, but still clipping the light pole and taking it down.
Brendan maneuvered into a parking garage, a small one, as only government officials ever had the right to own cars.
He took off his helmet, and let his brown hair fall out.
"So Frenchie. How's it going? Been like, what-a year?"
"Heya Brendan." Rhiem, still winded from the ride, shrugged at Brendan s neck.
"What's with the scarf?" It was yellow, with a floral pattern.
"What-this?" Brenden fingered the silk scarf uncomfortably. "It's nothing. I like it."
"Why?"
"Why? Why? F- you, that's why."
"Mom? Dad?" called KJ, "Stop fighting so you can help me kill this giant dragon that's going to eat our balls."
A shell ripped through the parking garage, punching through every last floor of the complex.
"Shit. It found us. So what s the plan, Frenchie? Surrender?"
Rhiem glanced at his gun. The rocky texture had disappeared, and the gear inside had faded. He fished for something in his pocket.
Smiling, he pulled it from his pocket.
"Fight"