8:00 AM
Center of Festivities – 1st Security Precinct of Novgorod
"Jesus," Barry said, eyes lifted towards the heavens. "That thing's –"
"Fucking hideous!" screeched Banks. The Canadian was busy clenching and unclenching his fists, while his body vibrated with rage.
"This is the centerpiece?" he said, pointing at the large statue in the distance. "That piece of shit?"
Mutt pulled at the side of his mouth.
"Eh," he said. "Looks fine to me."
"Where's the detail, or the spirit?" Banks said. "It's basically the same as the hunk of metal it was molded from!"
"Better shut it, Banks," Petrov warned. "Crowd's are comin'."
Right on cue, the five resistance fighters began to wade through the crowds of Novgorod. It wasn't too much of a struggle – everyone there was going to the same place that they were. Of course, a few eyebrows were raised at the sight of Petrov's skin and Zip's ears, but no one gave them any bother.
Barry took it easy, moving step by step through the crowd. He felt like leaping out of his skin, turning into one great lightning bolt of destruction. The lust for combat was whittling him down to a bundle of jumpy nerve fibers.
So when Petrov grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him into a small side street, he nearly pulled out his rifle. Seeing the Russian's familiar face, however, calmed him down.
"Follow the fucking group, blin," Petrov said, unaware of how close he'd gotten to being perforated. He motioned for Barry to hurry.
Deeper they went, moving away from the happy city sounds and into a more barren section of the town.
By the time Barry caught up with the rest of the group, they were all huddled in an alleyway, their heads poking out at the street beyond.
"Wassup?" Barry said as he crept up behind the group.
Mutt turned and pointed a finger at the street.
"Hit the fuckin' jackpot," he said. "Whole place's empty. Must be fer a parade or somethin'."
"Hold that," Banks said, abrupt and calm. "I see two guys."
"Soldiers?" Petrov said.
Banks shook his head. "Civilians. Just a couple of janitors cleaning up." He ducked his head out, but shot back like a rabbit.
"Headed this way," he hissed, scrabbling away from the wall. "Scram!"
Four pairs of feet pulled away from the alleyway exit. The last pair, belonging to a certain blond-haired, smug gent known as Mutt, refused to budge.
"Mutt, what're you –"
"Shhhhhhh!" Mutt said, pulling out his baseball bat. He drew himself into a pose and faced the exit. "I'm huntin' ADVENT."
Barry could hear the sounds of conversation grow louder and louder, nearing the alleyway. Footsteps trampled the soft snow.
Mutt straightened up, took a breath, and then swung.
Something hit the pavement with a wet smack. Mutt reoriented himself, and then swung again. Someone grunted in pain, before falling flat on their back.
Mutt cocked his head into the street and took a few steps out of the alleyway. Then, he brought down his bat a few more times. Meaty whacks resounded in the alleyway, followed by a low moans of pain.
Mutt finally returned, with the unconscious, bleeding bodies of the hapless janitors he'd just ambushed dragging behind him.
"You – you didn't have to beat the shit out of them!" Banks said.
Mutt spat in the snow. "They're fiiiiine," he reassured. "Just out cold fer a bit. Won't get in our way fer a nice while."
Petrov nodded. "Good choice for once, boss."
Mutt hooked his baseball bat onto his back once more.
"Aight, it's Commandin' time!" he announced. "Here's the plan – we'll sneak past security, hit the statute, run, and pray to God that Shi and the fellas are keeping 'em busy. Sound good?"
The others nodded. Mutt stood, and darted forward into the street. Petrov and Banks lunged forward, keeping pace with him.
Zip's ears jutted up in confusion. "Prayer? There's no time for that, silly."
"Eh, it's just an expression, Zip," Barry said, unpacking his grenade launcher and rifle. "Don't take it literally."
Zip placed a finger against her mouth. "Ex-pres-shun?"
Barry finished latching his grenade launcher to his back, and then turned towards Zip with a fond smile on his face.
"Don't worry yourself too much," he said. "Just follow my lead, and we'll be fine. 'Kay?" He extended a hand out towards Zip.
"'Kay!" she chirped, bouncing up and ignoring the proffered hand.
Pretty soon, the two of them had caught up with the main group. At this point, the empty boulevard had widened out and reached a nexus of sorts. Low-lying fences blocked off the street, confirming Mutt's suspicion that it was a parade ground.
Outside, the Monument to Unification loomed over them, its austere golden arms pointed towards space. People milled about the base of the statue like ants, posing by it and snapping pictures. Interspersed amongst the crowd, Barry saw the unmistakable shape of Advent troopers.
"That's not all of them," Petrov said.
"Hm?" said Mutt.
Petrov shook his head. "I count only eight soldiers. Enough for two combat squads, not three. Where's the third?"
"Huh," Banks breathed. "Rusky's right." He turned to Mutt. "Should we wait for them to show up?"
Mutt clicked his teeth and looked to the sky.
"Nah," he said. "Shi and the others are probably runnin' distraction action out there. Can't waste opportunity."
He regarded the other fighters.
"We'll gel with the crowd a bit and go loud 'fore they catch us. Whose got the stuff?"
Barry rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing the item Bradford had given him.
"Right here, boss," he said, grinning from ear to ear. In his right hand was the aptly named "X-4", a plastic explosive in the shape of XCOM's logo. Talk about poetic justice.
Mutt nodded in Barry's direction. "Good. Keep 'er safe." Turning to everyone else, he said, "Follow my lead."
Mutt reached over the security fence and hauled himself atop it. He shimmied across the fence's cold surface and attempted to drop back onto the ground. Instead, he slipped and fell flat on his ass. A cry of "Buggah!" escaped Mutt's lips.
"Feh," Petrov said. "Follow this."
The Russian vaulted himself over the fence, his arms rippling with power, and made a calm landing next to Mutt. Zip, Barry, and Banks followed without incident.
"Let's get going!" Zip said. She jumped ahead of the group. "Come on, catch up!" she said, bounding across the snow with the energy of a caffeinated toddler.
As Zip neared the populated streets, she didn't notice the lampposts that dotted the streets, each radiating blood red light. In her eagerness, her arm brushed against one of these lights for a single moment. In that moment, security systems within the lamppost had picked up her genetic signature, compared it to the existing genetic database of all ADVENT's citizens, found a match, found that the matched citizen in question was currently wanted on charges of treason, and sent a blaring klaxon across the district, as well as a digital message to all Advent personnel in the area.
Alarms screamed in an unholy choir as Zip withdrew her arm. Every head in the pavilion turned towards the commotion. Someone caught a glimpse of the black magnetic pistol strapped to Zip's thigh, causing screams to erupt from the crowds.
The crowds were quick to disperse, making it easier to see the eight extremely pissed off troopers and their guns.
Claymore slumped against her seat, feeling worn out and stretched like an old rag. Her elerium high had walked out of her head long ago, hurrying off to someplace less depressing.
Pain thrummed in her skull, a rollicking tantrum with no end. But it was no hangover – that too had faded away a couple of hours ago.
No, it was merely the responsibility of command, a prospect that weighed heavily on her like a take-out bag filled with dog shit. Why'd Bradford have to go on the operation himself? And why didn't he have anyone else who could do this?
Those were the questions that she'd shot at the Central Officer the night prior to Gatecrasher. Central had waved off the concerns, mumbling on about how she was "relatable" to the troops, as well as the most experienced soldier on board.
The amount of confidence Bradford placed in Claymore's past experience showed how little he actually knew.
She actually hoped that Bradford would lay her off after this. That he'd find his "Commander" and let Claymore fuck off. Go back to caring about her elerium stash and whether she'd see another sunrise.
Her previous encounter with Shen Jr. hadn't helped either. Actually, it'd been a massive fucking letdown. Now, not only did Claymore feel unprepared, but she also felt completely out of place – like she'd been dropped in her old cell again, Plexiglas doorway and all.
Something clattered to her left against the Avenger's consoles. Claymore heaved herself over, and spotted a technician in a grey jumpsuit right next to her, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. A feeling of renewal forced itself into her bones, and a sensation close to arousal lit up her cheeks. The technician didn't look half bad either.
"Here," the man said, leaving one mug on Claymore's console. "You'll need it for the operation."
"Oh," Claymore replied. The man's voice was smooth, but not slick. Along with the coffee, he looked and sounded like a businessman, off work to hand a coworker some refreshment. "Thanks."
"Just making sure you operate at 100 percent efficiency, ma'am," the man said. "You're leading the mission after all."
"Don't remind me," Claymore said. She lifted the mug to her lips, feeling her eyelids shutter open as the coffee trickled down her gullet. "I've got the lives of ten people in my hands. I'm like a fucking soccer mom."
"Well – on the bright side, you'll get some parenting experience in," the man joked.
"Real funny," Claymore said, humoring him back. "You the ship's comedian?"
The man thought for a second, and then shrugged his shoulders. "More like a morale booster. I'm supposed to be a navigator for the Avenger but", he gestured at the room around him. "We haven't done much flying."
"You pilot this damn thing?" Claymore asked.
"I give directions," the man replied. "Central Officer Bradford does the flying." The man sighed, clearly disappointed about that fact.
The man cleared his throat. "Uh, apologies. I'm Nguyen. Technician Jeff Nguyen. I realize you probably haven't noticed me because you got – well, commanding to do."
"If running my ass off and suckering a bunch of folks into joining a terrorist group is commanding, then this must be the easiest damn job in the world!" Claymore declared.
"Not exactly the most accurate of statements," Nguyen said. "But whatever floats your boat, 'Commander Claymore'."
Claymore couldn't help cracking a smile at that. "That's – that's pretty good," she said.
"What?" Nguyen asked, eyebrows raised.
Claymore rose from her seat and pointed at the man. "Nguyen. Nguyen." She snapped her fingers, then spoke up again. "'Mr. Nguyen' – that's what I'm calling you from now on!"
Mr. Nguyen pursed his lips. "I'm… flattered?"
"Not the most creative", Claymore said, grinning. "But it works, just like Commander Claymore."
"Okaay… I'll just call you 'CC'," Mr. Nguyen replied, adding a little chuckle for emphasis. "Less of a mouthful that way, right?"
Claymore leaned back in her seat, the weight on her head easing up. It was only a slight dab of relaxation, a cool spot amidst the raging furnace of consternation pent up inside of her, but it was relaxation nonetheless.
"Great talk, Mr. Nguyen," she said. "Real good. And, Jesus Christ, that coffee's amazing. Where'd you get it?"
"Well, I –"
Mr. Nguyen's pleasant voice, like all good things on Earth, was cut short by an alarm. One of the screens near Claymore exploded with activity, its display shining like a nightclub.
Claymore scooted over.
"Sorry," she muttered, sliding on a headset. As the headphones smothered her ears, she added: "Thanks."
"Glad to be helpful," Mr. Nguyen said, before the rest of his voice became muffled and incomprehensible.
Claymore ignored the man's departure, instead leaning towards the screen.
Now, just what have you all gotten yourselves into? She wondered, scanning the scene.
"Move, move!" barked Mutt, waving in the air. He pressed forward before sliding against a billboard.
Zip was backpedaling away from the monument, her arms wriggling about as she tried to tear her pistol from its holster. Shouts and alarms filled the air about her.
"Fucking hell, move!" said Petrov, bringing out his rifle. He knocked Barry's shoulder forward, and the two of them moved to cover the Chinese girl.
Petrov maneuvered between the troopers and Zip, his rifle pointed forward.
"Back up!" he roared, spraying bullets in all directions. The Advent troopers scattered, and began to return fire.
Barry popped up next to Zip, rifle also at the ready. "Hi," he said, waving.
Zip shouted and nearly leaped into the air, but Barry grabbed her by the arm.
"Yeah yeah, glad to see me, I know," he said, dragging her. "Let's find someplace less public to do this."
He pushed her underneath one of the smaller statues that littered the area, before rolling next to her. "Having fun?" he asked.
Zip merely glanced back at him, her eyes bugging out like those of a crack addict.
He patted her shoulder. "Good sport," he said. He turned away from Zip and surveyed the battlefield.
Petrov had, amazingly, found a piece of cover that was big enough to cover his meaty frame. It was a tight fit, with magnetically propelled rounds missing him by centimeters. Currently, he was busy eating through his ammo supply. Every bit of cover or structure between him and the monument was pockmarked with bullet holes, while the Advent troopers hunkered down. A few of them tried to fire back, but the constant stream of death being projected towards them caused their shots to fly into the stratosphere.
Brzzzt!
Barry tugged at his ear. He must've gotten hit with a concussion or something – his right ear was buzzing.
"Brrzz – Hey. HEY! Anyone still alive down there?!"
Barry blinked. Now someone was talking in his ear. Did he drink too much this morning?
"Mutt – alive and well, Miss Claymore!"
"Zip here! Oooh, it works!"
"That's good," said the voice, who Barry assumed was Claymore at this point. "What about Barry, Banks, and Petrov?"
"Uh… I'm here?" Barry said. He looked behind him to see Banks crouch walking towards his position. "Banks is pissing his pants right now."
"Reading you," Claymore replied. "Command is online. We're trying to figure out how to get you out of this clusterfuck."
"Da, hurry. I'm running out of fucking ammo," Petrov shouted.
"Got you, Petrov," Claymore said. "Barry, you got grenades on you?"
"Yeah," Barry said, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire.
"Good. Lob a few of them at the troopers gathering near the benches. You, Petrov, and Banks will keep them pinned, while Zip and Mutt will go for a flanking maneuver."
"Flank what?"
"Just – Just go around them. Aim for their backside, Zip."
"Oooh – Awesome!"
"Barry?"
"Way ahead of you," Barry replied. His hand was already slotting explosive ordnance into the throat of his grenade launcher. He leaned out from behind his cover, and lobbed the grenade at the nearest group of Advent.
The explosive danced and skittered along the white ground, before slamming against a park bench.
"Grenade!" a male trooper screamed, backing away in an attempt to get out of the blast zone. The grenade went off mid-sentence, dissolving the bench and throwing the troopers to the floor.
Barry didn't stop there. He turned a few degrees, and then sent a second gift towards another group of troopers who were slowly advancing. Three more bodies were thrown into the air, flailing about like black beetles.
"Ya see that!" Mutt yelled in the comm.
"Da," Petrov said. "But no damage. Shoot them!"
Petrov was right. The troopers were recovering, looking spry and ready as ever. The worst damage Barry had done was knocking their shoulder pads off.
"Open fire boys!" Mutt roared over the comms. The sound of four rifles and one pistol underscored that comment. Gunpowder and heat exhaust filled the once pristine air.
Mutt and Banks both scored a kill, their bullets catching a single trooper in a crossfire. Although the trooper's armor was tough, the combined firepower managed to crack it. He jiggered around like a marionette on the strings of an epileptic puppeteer for a few seconds, before he collapsed in a smoking heap.
Petrov managed, with remarkable accuracy, to hit another trooper in the neck. Her jugular burst like a water balloon, a waterfall of blood staining the front of her uniform a deep shade of cranberry.
The rest had already scrambled into new cover by the time the fighters could get their guns on them. Zip was able to score a glancing hit on one, with her magnetic pistol tearing a chunk out of the trooper's leg.
"Keep them down, Barry," Claymore ordered through the comms. "That red one's trying to rally them!"
Barry followed Claymore's direction, and popped another grenade over there. The sight of smoke and the sound of screams let him know he'd been successful.
"They're disoriented!" Claymore shouted. "Move in!"
"Kill 'em all!" screamed Mutt. A chorus of gunfire accompanied his exclamation.
Barry packed up his grenade launcher and charged forward, staying low. Petrov, Mutt, and Zip were well ahead of him, dashing towards the Advent troopers.
As gunfire rang in the distance, Barry turned and slid against a black obelisk that jutted from the ground. He grinned, and then popped out, weapon raised.
"DAS VEDANYA!" he hollered, opening fire on the dumbfounded Advent trooper in front of him. Most of his bullets bounced off of her tough carapace, but he managed to get a few in her face. The trooper let loose a dying groan and collapsed backward, rivers of blood leaking from her helmet.
Barry grin, suffused with adrenaline and battle lust. His finger tugged eagerly at the trigger, ready to loose lead death everywhere.
Movement registered to his right, and he swiveled, screeching a battle cry.
He turned to face another trooper, who had his back against the obelisk. The trooper wasn't firing back – instead, both of his hands were on his thigh, framing the horrific, charred wound he'd suffered at the hands of Zip's mag pistol. A grunt of pain escaped his lips. He didn't even notice the XCOM operative standing above him, or the gun barrel pointed inches away at his face.
Barry's grin faltered, and he felt his combat high slip away from him. The trooper, despite being a bloodthirsty killing machine, looked pitiable now – like a puppy with its legs broken, or one of those poor orphan kids Barry always saw groveling in the muddied streets of the settlements. This wasn't a fighter Barry was facing – he was just a man. A man with a really, really fucked up leg.
Barry couldn't simply shoot the man. It didn't feel… right. Instead, he did something else. He talked.
He leaned up close against the trooper, until he was level with where he assumed the trooper's ears were. It was hard to tell with those goddamn helmets they wore.
"Eh, buddy?" he whispered. "Kind of an, uh, awkward situation here. I'll just – " Barry gulped. "I'll just make it quick, 'kay? Don't worry 'bout your thigh, aight?"
The trooper only moaned in reply, his fingers still firmly wrapped around the bullet wound.
Barry hefted his rifle, and jabbed the barrel at the trooper. His finger, eager to kill a few seconds ago, now touched the trigger with a ginger caress.
"Alright, I'm gonna –"
A scream cut through Barry's head, causing him to lose concentration. His finger choked the trigger out of instinct, cutting the trooper's life short.
Barry rose from his bloody handiwork, and wrapped a hand around his head.
"What the fuck was that?!" he shouted.
"Blin! Banks get the fuck up!" Petrov yelled.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Claymore hollered, her voice rivaling Petrov's.
"The hell's going on?" Barry shouted again, jogging forward towards the monument.
"Mutt's down – fuckin' dead!" Petrov roared. The chatter of gunfire, followed by the more ominous sound of a magnetic rifle discharging, interrupted him. Then: "Banks is fucking shitting himself!"
"Who got Mutt?" Barry yelled, his voice raw and slick with dread.
"Fucking cyka with red armor!" Petrov screamed. "He's got us pinned!"
"Got it," Barry said. "I'll move in and get that son of a bitch."
He moved forward, and spotted Banks. The Canadian was huddled up against a bench, hyperventilating, his rifle lying at his feet.
Barry moved up next to him and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Yo, what's happening? I thought we had them on the ropes!" he said.
"Holy shit, holy shit," breathed Banks. His breath was high and ragged, chugging like a freight train. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, we're gonna die!"
Barry whacked Banks in the face. "Snap out of it!" he said, gritting his teeth. Grabbing Banks's rifle, he said, "Here, take this and shoot somebody!"
Banks took the rifle from Barry, but he only cradled it against his body like a safety blanket. "Oh God, oh God…" he whimpered, chewing his lower lip. He scrunched up closer to the bench, his eyes flitting back and forth.
Barry looked away from his pants-shitting companion and looked at how the others were doing. The first thing he noticed was Mutt's body, lying in the street. A single shot had decapitated him, tearing off his boisterous, blond-haired features and leaving only a bloody stump.
Absolutely fucking wrong.
He eyed the remaining Advent troopers: around three of them – two regular grunts, and the beefy son of a bitch who had killed Mutt. Barry's neck tensed at the sight of him.
Said trooper was the pinnacle of arrogant assholery, clad in blood red armor with this shitty little cape flowing behind him. He was growling into a communicator, probably calling for reinforcements. But when Zip managed to flank their position and drill a magnetic round through the head of one of the troopers, he finally looked up, lips fixed in a vicious snarl. Grunting, he hefted his rifle and stormed out into the open.
Seeing the opportunity, Petrov rattled off a few shots at the red trooper. The bullets hit home, sending up showers of sparks.
Unfortunately, the blocky red figure barely stumbled. Besides a few distortions on his once pristine armor, the trooper was no worse for wear. He continued to walk through the open, pinning everyone down with gunfire.
"Fuck!" Petrov yelled, dropping to the floor. "That goddamn cyka's built like a wall!"
Rage boiled inside Barry at the sight of this boss killing motherfucker strutting through the streets, like he owned the damn place. The fact that the Advent trooper likely did own the district they were fighting in didn't occur to Barry – only the satisfying thought of vengeance.
Abandoning all common sense, Barry leaped up and sprinted towards the trooper. He only stopped for a moment to relieve Mutt's corpse of its baseball bat before resuming the charge.
The trooper stopped for a second, caught off guard by the sight of the skinny Ukrainian charging him with a silver baseball bat. In a second, though, he was firing, wild shots smacking into the ground around Barry's feet. Fragments of pavement showered the Ukrainian's shins, while the trooper tried desperately to recalibrate his targeting module before the fighter could reach him.
In one smooth, photogenic leap, Barry lunged towards the trooper. The baseball bat flew in a smooth, glorious arc, slicing through the air like the wings of a hawk, before crunching unceremoniously into the trooper's cranium.
The trooper stumbled back under the manic assault, but Barry kept going. He hammered away like a butcher, tenderizing the trooper's face. His helmet crunched like cheap plastic, caving in under the vicious blows.
The other trooper, still behind cover, moved out to defend his superior, but Petrov put him down will a well-timed burst of fire, allowing Barry to continue reshaping the trooper's face without interruption.
"Fuck!" Barry screamed, timing his shouts with the blows. "You! Fuck! Advent!"
The trooper replied with a low grunt, before Barry bashed him in the front of his face with the back of his baseball bat. He moved back, watching the red-clad soldier walk about unsteadily, before falling on his back.
Silence reigned on the battlefield.
"Holy shit," murmured Claymore. "That was –"
"Fuck," Petrov said, rising wearily from his hiding place.
"Uhm… Anyway," Claymore said, trying to restore order. "Avenger's crew is telling me that we'll probably need some corpses to take home. Once you plant the X-4, grab any corpse you can before Firebrand shows up."
Barry turned around, the baseball bat dragging behind him.
"We take Mutt with us too," he said. "That isn't a question."
"Uh, sure," Claymore said. "Whatever you want, Barry."
While the other fighters turned to coax Banks from his panic, as well as to salvage anything they could from the bodies, Barry turned towards the monument.
It loomed over him, arrogant and powerful, like it didn't give a damn about what had just happened.
Barry gritted his teeth. That was the aliens, alright. Unmoving, like fucking brick walls, to anything going around them. Almost like they were laughing at the pitiful little insurgents and their losses, things too insignificant for their eyes. Well, Barry wasn't going to let them swallow their satisfaction. After today, he wanted to see them react.
He wanted to see them scream.
He slapped the X-4 against the base of the monument, inputting the detonation code with a vicious vindication. Then, he began to walk back, waiting for the charge to detonate.
"Charge is set," Claymore said in his ear. "Petrov, you're in charge now. Signal for an evac – Firebrand will be there in a few minutes."
"Got it," Petrov said.
Barry finally approached the rest of the group, who had finished their preparations. Petrov had Mutt's headless body slung over his shoulder, a grim look of resignation on his face, while Banks and Zip were propping up two dead Advent troopers. Petrov, seeing Barry, looked up and nodded.
"Ready to go?" he said.
Barry nodded back. "Fuck yeah."
Petrov turned and withdrew a flare from his pocket. Then, he threw it a distance away from the monument, where it exploded into a circle of blue lights.
Barry lowered himself to the ground, wrapping his arms around the body of the red armored Advent trooper. The moment he rose, though, he felt antsy. It was a bit quiet – Shi and the others couldn't have distracted EVERY patrol in Novgorod for this long. Shouldn't there be some reinforcements by now?
In a second, Barry immediately regretted asking that question. Pain suddenly blossomed in his shoulder, a hot sensation that was followed by the smell of burnt flesh and melted Kevlar.
"Barry!" screamed Petrov, reaching out with one hand. Everything went dark after that.
Banks froze, watching as Barry felt to the ground. It was fucking unreal – this entire day had been. First, he had watched a man get his fucking head blown off in the middle of battle – like, he'd been skipping around, fine as a daisy, before, and then – bam! – he was just this hunk of bleeding meat on the floor.
Now, some green shit had come out of nowhere and tagged the Ukrainian in the back. Looking behind Barry, Banks felt like breaking down.
Reinforcements had arrived, in the form of two Advent troopers, and some ugly, shriveled up pink thing. The thing chattered and screeched at the group, before dodging behind some cover. The troopers split too, firing at the group.
"Move, zadrotas!" Petrov screamed. "Zip, grab Barry – Banks, grab the red thing!"
The two of them did as Petrov ordered, and, without looking back, began running towards the evacuation flares. Gunfire screeched over their heads, and Banks hoped against hope that he wouldn't feel the warmth of a magnetic round drilling into his back.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he whispered, adjusting the heavy body that was slung over his shoulder. His feet slammed against the pavement, legs and tendons pumping hard to get him farther and farther from the nightmare behind him.
A little relief fluttered in his breast when he saw the familiar shape of the Skyranger shoot through the sky. Like some angel of salvation, the craft hovered over the drop point, letting down three ropes for the fighters to climb up.
Petrov and Zip had already made their way there, each of them grasping the ropes. Looking to Banks, Petrov motioned with one hand for the Canadian to hustle his ass.
Banks gladly hustled, his arm outstretched towards the dangling rope. When his fingers felt that corded nylon, he felt like he could cry.
Things didn't get better, however. As soon as Banks touched the rope, he felt something touch his mind. Not touch, really – more like fucking grasp it. It was like some tentacle had dragged itself from the depths of a cold, unseen sea and wrapped itself around his brain.
Panic surged in Banks's body, and he could taste bile in his mouth. An unnatural choir of screams plugged his ears, while an image of Mutt's headless, bleeding body was superimposed across his corneas. The grip around his mind tightened, squeezing his grey matter dry. The pain was intense, rocking throughout his body like a lightning bolt.
SUBMIT
Came the word, flashing through the tornado of sound that swirled through his eardrums. It was a tidal wave of mental force. Banks let out a desperate yelp, feeling his fingers, slowly but surely, lose their hold of the rope.
Then, he felt a strong grip on his arm. His vision cleared, just enough to see Petrov, the bulky Russian, gripping Banks's arm with enough pressure to cut off blood flow. Banks, fully in control of his senses, happily tightened his grip on the rope.
Then, the ropes went up, shooting into the sky like bullets. The landscape of the Advent Megacity shrank as the Skyranger retreated into the air. Banks felt his eyelids grow heavy, a tired smile creasing across his face.
As he shot one last glance at the burning battleground, his heart went to ice once more.
Below, the pink thing was staring at him. Its unblinking, oily eyes traced his escape, while a bony grin was pasted over its emaciated features.
He saw it stretch one lanky arm towards the ship, and he swore it was pointing its long, ivory talons at him.
Good try it seemed to say. But we'll see you again soon, Banks.