Book I Chapter 13: Angel in Red
"Exusiai?" Grani ventured, her voice dyed with trepidation. "Exusiai!"
A sea of white noise met her calls. She desperately slapped the handheld radio with the palm of her hand. "Damn…" she cursed, returning the radio to its clasp on her shoulder. "We have to find them."
"We know where they are," Luke paused abruptly. Technically, they could have moved. "Or, well—were: They're backstage, but the question is—how do we getthere?"
Grani pulled at her ears in distress, visibly anxious. "She mentioned a flight or something?" she groaned, struggling to recall Exusiai's exact words.
"A flight of stairs, probably."
She grabbed a hold of his arms, shaking him excitedly. "Yes! That's it!" she sang, beaming broadly. A second passed before she shrank back abruptly, releasing his arms as though she had been burned. "S-sorry."
Luke shrugged: It was no skin off his back. He could forgive Grani for anything. She could literally kill some random pedestrian off the street, and he wouldn't bat an eye. He greatly valued her company. Especially because she was tolerable of a wretch like him.
"If you're looking for stairs, there are some over there," he said, pointing to a nearby set of floating stairs. that disappeared into the ceiling. The decrepit structure looked like it hadn't been maintained in decades. Its steps were old and rusting with holes riddling each platform with razor sharp edges. Geez, someone ought to replace these, he thought to himself.
Grani slapped her cheeks, muttering to herself. Reinvigorated, she marched over to the foot of the stairwell.
Luke followed after her, placing his hand on the rusting handrail. He wasn't too keen on climbing what was clearly a workplace safety hazard. Who the hell invented floating stairs, anyways? They were practically begging for trouble. The gaping hole between each step seemed more like a one way ticket to the hospital, than an effective cost saving measure.
He squeezed the handrail as the pain in his abdomen flared up. He was starting to regret leaving Rhodes Island. When Franka mentioned a "grand adventure," this wasn't what he had in mind! He glanced down at the wet spot on his shirt: It had grown slightly larger since he last checked. Some of the blood was starting to dry, forming a wet, sticky mess. This is a mess. What a mess…
Maybe he wasn't too cut out for fighting after all. The world seemed so small and simple from his mountaintop paradise. Back home, he could subdue any challenger with ease. In retrospect, most of them were kids.
Not that Luke had anything against kids: Quite the opposite. Just because he had been beating children, didn't mean he despised them. In reality, he was rather fond of the little tykes.
Even if they are a little cruel.
The intentions of children are as clear as day: they don't disguise them behind ulterior motives. If they disliked you, they'd say it to your face. Kids don't beat around the bush. They're innocent—naive.
It was a stark contrast to how the rest of society behaved. The remaining rot hid their intentions behind farcical niceties, as if it made them look better. Of course, there were those who abstained from participating in such a masquerade, but those who didn't—He had little patience for their pretense.
Every winter, scores of people would visit the temple. Each and every one of them would throw a pageant greeting each other: shaking hands with parents and their kids; bowing to their in-laws; talking and smiling with friends. Except when they saw a kid who (for a lack of better terms), was not quite right, or if one of their parents happened to be an Ægir or a Sarkaz, then they'd offer a faux smile or a curt nod before moving on to more 'suitable' company. Pathetic, really. And that's if they were lucky. The unlucky ones were openly scorned.
Poseurs—hypocrites!—the lot of them: Blindly worshiping their dogmatic practices; masking their disgust with cheap smiles and dollar-store greetings. Authentic kindness? None of them really cared about being kind. They merely wanted to look kind.
He sighed. His emotions were getting the better of him. When was the last time he had smoked? A week? Two weeks? He could feel himself slipping further and further into irritation as though the slightest inconvenience could send him over the rails. Maybe I should have invested in some nicotine gums…
The sounds of a fierce battle brought an abrupt end to Luke's ruminations as he and Grani neared the stairwell's summit. He was relieved to hear Exusiai's voice amidst the chaotic roar of battle. At least she was alive. His relief was short lived, as another round of excruciating pain radiated from the hole in his abdomen. He collapsed, falling to one knee just as he rounded the final corner.
Grani stopped in her tracks, turning to check on him. "What's wrong?"
Luke crushed the handrail and pushed himself to his feet, clutching his abdomen with a strained grin. "It's nothing, Grani," he lied through his teeth. "I'm fine."
Climbing back down a few steps, Grani reached out and grasped his hand, gently moving it aside. Luke offered no resistance. She gasped: Equine ears pressed against her head—distressed. "You're bleeding…" she whinnied, gingerly placing her hand over his clothed injury.
Luke flinched as her bare hand kissed the drenched fabric. Blood had seeped through his shirt, leaving behind a large, dark mottle.
"Balls," he cussed, brushing her hand aside. "It'll have to do; we have other things to worry about. Besides, my body heals fast. Nothing short of a sword through the gut can take me down!" he lied.
Grani frowned, slowly withdrawing her hand. "I don't like it but… you're right," she admitted reluctantly.
He had a feeling that she knew she was accepting a lie, but what else could she do? This way, if he died, she could at least pretend she hadn't known. Then she could live guilt free for the rest of her life, right? Sure, it was selfish as hell, but he couldn't blame her for that. What kind of person didn't look after their own ass?
Luke forced a shaky smile to his face as a firestorm of searing agony swept over his body. "W-we should go. Exusiai needs our help."
Grani gave him a final distressed look, before nodding solemnly and turning forward. "Don't overdo it," she said, climbing back up to the penultimate step.
"Me? Never." He straightened his back as the pain began to subside.
If someone had told him the battlefield used to be a backstage area, he would have called them out for talking out of their ass. It resemblednothing close to a backstage area. For one, backstages were supposed to be dark and cramped places, with boxes and props stacked one atop the other. There was supposed to be a labyrinth of walls and tunnels, linking the various rooms with center stage.
This… place, whatever it was, was as open as goddamned prairie. Some bomb-crazed maniac had probably blown the roof off of the joint, because Luke could clearly see the night sky through the noticeably wall-less "room". Garish winds tore through the venue-turned-arena, throwing a mess of paper and debris in every direction imaginable. What little boxes that remained were either in a million pieces or being used as cover. The whole area was awash with the gloomy atmosphere of a moonless night, solely illuminated by the soft incandescent glow of the city lights.
What a mess. Luke thought for the second time that day. He had a distinct feeling that this was going to become his new norm, and he didn't hate the idea. It could help break the endless monotony of day-to-day life. He shook his head. He really needed to stop exploring his mental tangents.
He spotted Exusiai and Texas crouching behind a mound of rubble near what would have been center stage. While unharmed, they seemed a little worse for wear.
He poked Grani in the ribs, gesturing toward their location with a wag of his chin. "Over there."
"Please don't poke me," she said, shuffling a couple paces away from him. "I see them." She dashed toward their position, tearing across the open terrain in record time and leaving him behind in the exposed stairwell.
I mean, screw me, am I right? He found it inconsiderate; the way Grani leapt at the opportunity to leave him behind. How was he supposed to catch up to her without assistance? Sure, he was perfectly capable of such a feat, but an offer would have been nice. He thought it was quite tasteless of her to not even ask if he needed help: which he didn't.
Luke was well aware that he was being excessively whiny and subjectively so, but in his own defense, as long as he didn't sayit out loud, did it really matter? It wasn't like someone could read his every thought, right?
Focus, you! He scolded himself. Inching his way up the remaining steps, Luke peered into the fray. He watched as Liskarm single handedly held the mercenaries at bay. She had positioned herself near the contact line, between the remnants of two concrete walls.
Texas had taken to guarding the flank closest to him while Grani covered the far side, protecting Liskarm from encirclement. He was thunderstruck by Texas's raw power and sheer skill. Her shimmering obsidian hair fluttered through the night as she called forth a flurry of plasmatic blades, hurling them towards her enemies.
Franka was… out there. Somewhere. Unlike the rest of her team, the curvaceous Vulpo had thrown herself into the thick of the fight. Luke had managed to catch glimpses of her slim form, darting around the battlefield: seemingly blurring in and out of existence. Her sword effortlessly pierced everything, shields, weapons, armor, steel. Where his blade would have shattered, hers practically perforated.
Even Sora was doing her best, using her vocal arts to both heal and coordinate assaults. When Luke first met the idol, he had pegged her as a ditzy airhead—a spoiled girl who ate far too much for her size. It was comforting to know that he wasn't entirely incorrect. Sora was a hard working girl who would give up anything for her friends and values.
And she was a ditzy girl who ate far too much for her size. Win-win.
With the enemy focusing all their attention on his team, Luke felt confident in his ability to cross the open terrain and safely rendezvous with Texas and Exusiai. Waiting for Exusiai to finish reloading, he sprung up from the stairs the moment she returned fire. He bolted across the concourse and dove for cover, sliding to a stop mere inches from his fellow Sankta's feet.
"Hey," he greeted, waving weakly from the floor.
"Hey, yoursel—ooooh my god!" Exusiai wailed, dropping to her knees. She tore off her gloves and yanked his blood soaked shirt over his head. "Luke, I—you… Sora!" she called desperately. "Sora, help!"
Startled, the idol stumbled from her perch backstage. Scurrying to her feet, Sora rushed towards them with a smile. She stuttered to a stop and knelt by Luke's feet, the color draining from her face. "Wha… what happened?"
"I took a bullet."
"A bullet? As in one bullet?!" Exusiai asked hysterically, peeling away the soping bandages from his abdomen. "That's way too much blood for a single bullet wound! Look, there are like, four holes here! How are you still alive?!"
Luke lazily rolled his head to the side. He watched as Franka suddenly appeared beside Texas. The two seemed to converse briefly, before Franka nodded.
"Hey!" Exusiai snapped, slapping his exposed cheek. She roughly grabbed both sides of his face and turned his head, forcing him to look up at her. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you! When were you shot?"
Luke had never seen Exusiai so worked up before. Granted, he had only known her for a mere fraction of his life. "When you first called."
"What!? You—" she froze as a solemn countenance befell her face. "You really don't care how this turns out for you, do you?"
Luke returned her frown with a confused look. Where did she get that from? "What? What are you…?"
Texas suddenly appeared beside them, rolling into a crouch. "What's goin—" She froze, gazing down at the bloody scene with a complex expression. "You're injured."
Luke nodded dumbly as Exusiai resumed dressing his wounds. "Thank you, I've noticed."
"You can't fight like that."
"I'm fine."
"You should be dead."
"I'll be fine, really."
Texas growled. "No, no you won't! You're staying here, and that's final," she snapped, glaring down at him as though challenging him to disagree. "And if I see you out there: I'll kill you myself."
He blinked owlishly. Even he couldn't argue with that, and even if he could, something in her tone of voice told him that she would actually do it. "Well, when you put it that way…" he mumbled.
Texas stood with a huff. "Sora, do what you can." She disappeared in a blur, leaping back into the fray.
Shaking her head, Sora hesitated. "I-I don't think I'll be any help… there's too much blood…"
"You have to at least try!" Exusiai begged.
"I might be able to stop the bleeding," Sora explained with a solemn sigh, "but it'll only be temporary…"
"That…" Luke chuckled breathlessly. "That would be nice…"
Nodding mournfully, Sora began to weave her arts into her words, filling the ruined stadium with her melody. Echoing from every corner and wall, it pierced his body and enveloped his soul, caressing it within its embrace. The battle raging around him slowed to a standstill. A shimmering, azure aura streamed from her person and into his. Slowly; gradually; the scuff marks on his face began to disappear as the pain around his abdomen began to subside.
He wondered how Grani was fairing. He knew she could more than look after herself, but the sight of her hunched over, retching, lingered within his mind's eye.
Or did it?
He could have sworn he saw the Sarkaz mercenary kick his partner in the stomach, but she looked fine. She also denied that it ever happened. Now that he thought about it, there should have been a puddle of vomit on the basement floor…
But there wasn't.
Had he imagined it? Had it been a dream?
No, he thought with finality. It was far too real to have been a dream. He was there, the twisted creatures were there, and the silver haired girl was there. Yet, despite all his determination, a single doubt remained:
Grani wasn't injured.
Confound it all! How could the vision be real while Grani was perfectly fine? He was confident he saw her take a kick to the gut: He would bet his life on it. It all boiled down to what he trusted more: his eyes or his partner; her words or his vision. On one hand, Grani had told the truth, and his vision was nothing more than that—a vision. On the other hand, she could have lied, and his vision was as real as him or Exusiai. They were mutually exclusive.
The only way for two conditions to coexist is if bothconditions were true. Then the question didn't pertain to which vision was real, but instead to when the visions occured. If his dream-like fugue occured afterhe saw the mercenary kick Grani, then Grani had lied, and she was actually injured. If the fugue occured before the mercenary kicked her, then it's possible that Grani had told the truth, and she was uninjured.
Luke wasn't quite sure if his growing headache was due to his rampant blood loss, or the outrageous mental gymnastics he had to perform to reach his conclusions.
Regardless, somehow, he was able to view the world through eyes other than his own. Either that, or he had traveled to another dimension, a possibility he refused to acknowledge. Even then, his discovery raised more questions than it had answered. It felt like he was fighting a mental hydra: whenever he solved a mystery, two more would rise to take its place. Truly, he was taking one step forwards and two steps back.
Whose sight had he borrowed? What were those creatures? And more importantly, who was that girl? She was a dilemma in and of itself. Her face was foreign to him, and her voice didn't stir a sense of familiarity.
A sudden slap brought his pondering to a premature end. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me!" a voice cried, piercing through his mental fog. "Stay with me!"
Who…? He cursed his bleary vision. How could he be expected to see if his eyes couldn't focus! He was able to make out a vague red curtain and a glowing ring. Certainly a beautiful angel.
Another stinging slap cleared his vision. "Now isn't the time for pick-up lines!" The angel's voice was stern, but something in her tone said she was secretly relieved.
Groaning, he grabbed the offending hand and threw it aside. "Quit it."
The ring brightened. "Sora, don't stop! He's waking up! I think—"
"I'm sorry," Sora wept, sobbing for breath. "I'm so sorry. I-I can't continue. I don't have the energy to…"
Luke blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. He had no idea when, but he must have fallen asleep sometime during his introspection. He watched Exusiai press a fresh bandage against his abdomen in a last ditch effort to stymy the flow of blood. She lifted the bandage only for the bleeding to stop entirely. She dropped the gauze in shock.
Luke watched the cloth flutter to the ground, landing beside Exusiai's blood soaked boots. "Huh, neat."
"Luke…" Exusiai gasped, gazing down at his injuries with grave consternation. "What are you…?"
"I'd like to know as well." Texas said, landing beside them. She looked around the wrecked stadium, checking for survivors. "It's over, Franka and Liskarm are mopping up the stragglers."
Exusiai's shoulders sagged with relief. "We need to get him to a hospital. By all means, he should be dead, but I suppose we shouldn't count our blessings."
Texas nodded just as Grani appeared. The Kuranta knelt beside her partner. Reaching out tentatively, she placed a hand over his wounds. "You liar," she whispered. "Why would you go so far to—" A slow clap interrupted the weary officer.
"You still have a long way to go…" A voice rasped eerily. In a flurry of dark light, a hooded figure appeared before them near center stage. "After all, 'A journey of a thousand paces begins beneath one's feet.'" They lowered their hood to reveal Father Antonio's wizened face.
"Father Antonio?!" Sora cried incredulously. "What are you doing here?!"
A journey of a thousand paces… A jolt of activity surged in Luke's brain as a sudden name leapt to the forefront of his mind:
Madame Ling…
Soon, a thousand facts were bursting from the bowels of his memory. His attention jumped from one thought to another, connecting points and forming a path.
Chicken Piccata… Delayed speech… Postcards…
Sora…
Father Antonio…
"It's you…" Luke whispered in realization. He grabbed Exusiai's shoulder and, using her as a crutch, pushed himself to his feet.
"Luke, what are you doing?" she demanded, grabbing his arm. "You need to rest! You shouldn't be moving about!"
Luke brushed her hands aside. "It's you, Father Antonio," he repeated, this time with more confidence. "You're the sender of the postcards. You're the one after Sora's life."
The response was immediate. "Indeed, but I am no Antonio. This body is merely one in a million—a puppet for my machinations."
"That rat assed bastard!" Luke watched with morbid fascination as Antonio's body convulsed unnaturally: writhing in ways no body should. The awful convulsions dissolved as quickly as they had materialized, leaving Antonio's body as stiff as a wax display. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
Antonio's body crumbled to the ground, seemingly aging before his very eyes. Its skin shone with a slight sheen, like a layer of sweat after an evening's rut. Within seconds, the body began to expand at an alarming rate, becoming so large, so bloated, that it became unrecognizable. Luke pushed Exusiai behind him out of fear that the body would explode.
"Dio mio…" Texas muttered as a despondent look arose from her face.
The body's skin slowly darkened to a putrid green.
Shit. Luke crouched down, covering his hands with his own blood. Standing up, he rushed to wrap his arms around Texas and Exusiai. He gripped their faces, covering their noses with his bloodied hands. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing.
"What the hell are you doing?" Texas growled, struggling to free herself. "Get your blood stained hands off of me."
He remained silent as a foul odor permeated throughout the stadium, culminating in a malodorous assault on their senses: It was beyond description—perhaps akin to rotting fish. A nauseating concoction of fluids leaked from the cadaver as it slowly deflated.
He felt Texas gag beneath his hand. "It won't get any better, but this is as bad as it gets," he said.
"How can you," he tightened his grip around their faces as she dry-heaved. "How can you put up with this?"
"I can't."
A hacking cackle echoed around them as a spindly man descended from the bleachers, landing gracefully before them. He was tall, about Luke's height, but uncannily thin with blotched gray skin and green stained teeth. His eyes were a rotting, mustard yellow, and his head was completely devoid of hair. His decrepit body was wrapped in a long black cloak that sagged against his seemingly skeletal frame.
"I am Father Grendel, head priest of the Cult," he croaked, his voice sinister and coarse. He looked down at the rotting mess at his feet. "Ah, yes. The local preacher. You have served your purpose."
He lowered a boney finger towards Antonio's body, spawning a black vortex at the top of his finger. The whirling hole devoured the decomposing body and liquids, clearing the air of its rancidity and leaving a dense fog in its wake. "I am here to collect that which is rightfully ours."
"And that would be?" Franka explored cautiously.
Grendel pointed at Luke. "You," he rasped. "How did you know?"
Luke uncupped his hand from around Exusiai's face and stepped toward Grendel. "I always knew. I just didn't know I did. At first, I thought I was simply upset that Liskarm had gotten the better of me, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.
"The first postcard was ominous enough, despite its seemingly innocent intentions. It had everybody fooled with its clever references to Madame Ling. But at that point, the list of suspects included everybody in the city.
"The second postcard was more specific. It was packed with information that only certain people would know. Assuming that one person wrote both postcards naturally eliminated the general public as suspects, narrowing the list down to those who worked in the hotel.
"However, the second postcard taunted Sora over her lunch of Chicken Piccata over Rice. While it's true that a member of staff would know what food would be delivered to Sora's room. Only someone in the room would know which order belonged to Sora! Which left you as the sole suspect!
"Father Antonio always spoke with a slight delay, and I marked it up to nothing more than a symptom of his advanced age. But moments ago, you spoke through his body without any delay whatsoever! It was then, I knew, that 'Father Antonio' wasn't who he claimed he was!"
"You motherless whelp!" Grendel raised his hands, poised to strike with his dark magic.
A familiar shout cut through the thick fog. "Get away from him!" Grani leapt out from the shroud, barring towards the cultist with her pike drawn.
"Fool." Grendel launched a dark, pulsing wave with a flick of his wrist. The energetic disc slammed into Grani's chest, throwing her into the air. Her limp body sailed through the air before crashing into the first floor bleachers.
Outraged, Luke rushed towards the mad cultist, only to be pulled back by Exusiai. "Let me go!"
Exusiai vehemently shook her head. "No! You're in no condition to fight!"
"I swear to god, Exusiai. If you don't release me, I'll kill you along with that scaly bastard!" he howled, thrashing wildly. Exusiai only tightened her grip around his shoulders.
"My," Grendel sneered with a dastardly chuckle, "what good friend's you've found, my little lab rat. I'll be sure to cherish their remains as I suck the marrow from their bones."
"Not if we have anything to say about it!"
"What?!" he wheezed. Texas, Franka, and Liskarm leapt out from the shadows of their cover, weapons drawn.
Liskarm landed first. Casting aside her shield, the Vouivre dropped to her knees. "Texas, go! I'll cover you!" she shouted, firing several rounds.
The Siracusan held her sword aloft. "Spade pioventi," As if hearing her prayers, duplicates of her plasmatic blade appeared in the heavens above. "Falli a pezzi!" They began to fall—slowly at first, before quickly gathering speed.
Landing in a low stance, Franka lunged towards her prey, thrusting her thermite blade out before her. "Please don't tell me you forgot about little ol'me?" she whimpered before a coquettish grin slipped through her façade. "Just kidding!"
As if coordinated by some greater power, the falling swords and Franka's thermite unit pierced Grendel's body at the same time, followed by Texas's original sword. The stadium stood in silence as Texas's remaining swords sailed past the cultist, embedding themselves in the wooden stage with dull thumps.
A sole chuckle slipped past Grendel's thin lips, catching them by surprise. Their eyes widened as a dark maw enveloped the myriad of glowing swords. Franka leapt back into a triple back handspring, barely avoiding one of the previously swallowed blades. Texas shifted in an attempt to escape, but only managed to run a few feet before a tendril of dark energy bound her legs. It plucked her off the ground and swung her around before hurling her toward Liskarm.
Liskarm caught Texas with a grunt. "I got you!"
Grendel smirked, revealing his rotting teeth. He thrust his hands forward as a purple orb began to coalesce around his fingers. "The Texan bloodline ends with you…" A deep purple sword of miasmatic energy screamed towards Texas and Liskarm.
Luke wrenched his arms from Exusiai's grasp and shoved her aside. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. It was completely illogical and totally against his beliefs. He could see himself saving Grani, someone who had managed to scrounge up some kind of meager value from his existence, but not Texas and certainly not Liskarm, people he barely knew at best, and yet, it felt like he didn't need a reason to act. His body seemingly acted of its own accord.
I'm going to regret this. He thought. Throwing himself before them. Their eyes met for a brief moment before his vision faded to white.
Luke inhaled sharply as the ethereal sword plunged into his back, tearing through his stomach before dissipating before his eyes. The burning agony dwarfed the tickle from his bullet wounds: A disparity as vast as the magnitude of scale between a single drop of water and the vast oceans. He clutched his gut in a desperate effort to mitigate the pain. A warm sticky liquid clung to his bare hand—blood. "What a mess…"
"No!" Grani screamed, her voice hoarse.
Well, he thought. I did say a sword through the gut… He fell to his knees, collapsing in a pool of blood.
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