Rhodes Island buzzed with a tense, controlled chaos as Kal'tsit and Amiya oversaw the final stages of securing the Mountain of Smiling Bodies into its temporary cell. The massive structure of reinforced steel and Arts powered inhibitors was designed to hold the dangerous Abnormality in place.
Kal'tsit, with a clipboard in hand, monitored the readings on a nearby panel, her expression one of calculated concern. "Ensure the perimeter is clear of any organic material. We can't afford a breach," she instructed a nearby operator, her voice carrying the weight of her vast experience.
Amiya, standing beside her, watched the monstrous form of the Mountain of Smiling Bodies through the thick, reinforced glass. Its myriad eyes roved restlessly, and its mouths gnashed silently against the containment fields. "Roland mentioned that these beings perpetuate the same behaviors indefinitely," Amiya remarked. "He said that they forget past interactions in favor of their current behaviors, making permanent containment a delicate balance."
Kal'tsit nodded, glancing at the readings that flickered on her screen. "The organisation that handled them, L Corp believed that Abnormalities are manifestations of abstract concepts and ideas from the human psyche."
"This one thrives on wrath and gluttony. We need to keep it engaged with Instinct and Repression work primarily. Any lapse in these protocols could lead to a catastrophic breach." the Doctor added.
Amiya considered this, her mind racing through potential strategies. "Instinct work, then, would involve feeding its psychological hunger without actual food. What about using simulated environments or scenarios?"
"Potentially," the Doctor responded, "though we need to ensure that these simulations are devoid of any triggers that could induce a rampage. Repression work will require a more direct approach, suppressing its desires and actions through containment measures tailored to its specific needs. Satisfied Abnormalities also sometimes produce gifts or essences that can be used to forge EGO weapons. Roland was not familiar with the exact process, but perhaps we can research into harnessing this aspect as well."
Kal'tsit wrote something down on her clipboard, her mind already formulating experimental protocols. "That's an avenue worth exploring. For now, our priority is ensuring that this containment holds. Amiya, coordinate with the security teams to set up a double-layered surveillance protocol around this facility. No unauthorised personnel should come anywhere near here."
"Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit," Amiya replied, moving away to relay the orders.
As Kal'tsit watched the containment protocols fall into place, a thought crossed her mind, adding another layer to their strategic defense against the Abnormalities.
Turning to one of her aides, she made a mental note aloud to ensure it was captured and actioned upon immediately. "Once Logos returns from his mission, remind me to set up a meeting with him and Closure. We need to expedite the development of a cognitive filter. It could make direct interactions with these abnormalities more manageable."
Her aide nodded, tapping the instruction into a tablet, "Will do, Dr. Kal'tsit. Anything else that needs immediate attention?"
"Yes, actually. Reach out to the Lichs—they owe me a few favours, and it's time to call those in. We need their expertise to implement spatial containment measures. It'll add another layer of security and containment that could prove crucial."
The aide jotted down the details, understanding the gravity of each task. "Spatial containment from the Lichs, got it."
Satisfied, Kal'tsit turned back to the viewing window, her gaze lingering on the Mountain of Smiling Bodies, now subdued within its layered confines. Each step they took was a move towards greater control and understanding of this threat they faced.
...
Rosmontis stood, slightly off-balance, facing a figure shrouded in the shadows of the destroyed environment.
"How... you blocked my walls with your bare hands?" Rosmontis gasped, disbelief etching her features as she flexed her numbing hand. "No. Oh... I thought that was a building collapsing, but that was you?"
From a distance, Kal'tsit's voice cut through the tension. "Rosmontis, fall back."
"But I..." Rosmontis began, unwilling to retreat.
"That's an order, Rosmontis. An order," Kal'tsit reiterated firmly.
A guerrilla fighter approached the silent figure, tension visible in his posture. "Captain...!"
"You did well. Go, regroup," came the deep, gravelly voice of Patriot, addressing his subordinate.
Patriot then turned his attention to the Rhodes Island operators. "Rhodes Island. I don't care who you are. You attacked my men. You, die."
Kal'tsit stepped forward, her voice calm yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Are you sure you don't care?"
"Very sure—" Patriot started, his stance unwavering. "Wait... wait. You..." he paused, squinting in the dim light.
"...Buldrokkas'tee," Kal'tsit greeted.
"You... how...?" Patriot stuttered, taken aback.
"It's been a while," Kal'tsit acknowledged, her tone soft yet somber.
"Dame Kal'tsit?" Patriot's voice mixed surprise with a hint of reverence. "Why don't... you age?" he asked, his gaze scrutinizing her unchanging features.
"Shieldguards. Guerrillas. Stand by. Hold position," he commanded, not taking his eyes off Kal'tsit.
"Roger," a Shieldguard responded promptly.
Kal'tsit observed Patriot, noting the strain in his voice. "The way you talk... is that because of an infected organ in your larynx?"
"No. Just, over time, became like this. I can't speak smoothly, anymore," Patriot explained. "Dame... I never thought I'd see you, again," he confessed. "I remember, faintly. When my people left. You and, Her Majesty, didn't stop us. That was a long, long time ago. But you... no change. The years, did not change you," he observed.
"Not true. The years have changed us all, Buldrokkas'tee. I'm not the same woman I was before," Kal'tsit replied.
"Why did you leave Kazdel?" she inquired, steering the conversation towards his past decisions.
"Why I left, I think, you will laugh. I left because I hated killing... But for my life, I have killed," Patriot admitted.
"All that you've been through has only tempered your will. Your blood still flows in your veins. I will not laugh at you. You've earned respect," Kal'tsit affirmed.
"High praise, Dame. I failed to avoid killing. I did, kill so many," Patriot said, acknowledging his violent past. "Dame, this name... Do you know, how I got it?" he asked, seeking her understanding of his legacy.
"Your followers consider you a true warrior, fighting for Ursus. You fight injustice, slavery, bloodshed, and oppression for the future of Ursus. Do you agree?"
Patriot shook his head slowly. "Even if war is necessary, such a title is trouble. For many, we started war. But war, is murder," he declared solemnly. "The war ends. If it truly ends. We should all die."
"But war never ends," Kal'tsit replied softly.
Patriot nodded solemnly. "But I will die. But, for my death, I want meaning. I want to see, for Ursus, for the Infected, another future. I asked, many times, of my people, Kazdel. You and Her Majesty worked together, for many years. She trusted you. So, I too, trust you. You led Rhodes Island here. Not for blood," he continued, acknowledging Kal'tsit's motives. "But my daughter. Captured by you. Most likely dead."
Kal'tsit's expression softened slightly, her voice calm yet filled with sincerity. "The Yeti Squad is still alive, and FrostNova is currently comatose after receiving intensive surgery. She's alive, Patriot."
Patriot's stance softened, though his resolve remained firm. "But I cannot let you through. Reunion cannot destroy itself. I won't betray again. Or they, the Infected, the struggle, are for nothing. They die. Even if Talulah has gone mad..." he trailed off.
"How do I tell the Infected, their leader, is mad? A traitor? How do I say she is wrong now, but once right? How do I say, she, who you follow, must now die? I won't let Reunion become 'Infected, civil war, then nothing.' I will not," he declared, his voice firm.
"But Reunion won't be able to carry its own weight. And besides, Talulah has been working secretly to destroy Reunion from within," Kal'tsit countered, hoping to reach through his resolve.
"You are right, Dame Kal'tsit," Patriot conceded. "I prepared, to face many types of foe. But I did not expect, in the end, to fight Infected," he confessed.
"This is really what you will choose?" Kal'tsit asked, her voice tinged with a plea for reconsideration. "Buldrokkas'tee... You don't have to die."
"I fight for my son. Executed for treason. Grrovae'zzeal. I fight to carry his ideals. I fight, for the living, for all Infected, to the end. Reunion cannot fail. Reunion must, liberate. All Infected." Patriot stood firm, his halberd gripped tightly in his hands as motes of light began to coalesce into rings around the weapon, mirroring the intensity of his emotions.
"Reunion must, liberate. All Infected," he declared. "So you, will not pass. I will not, allow it," Patriot continued, his gaze steely and unwavering. "To go through the central district, you have to kill me. Only then, will your value be known. Otherwise, you are only intruders." He gestured with his halberd towards a pile of shadowed rubble.
From behind debris, Roland emerged, Durandal in hand, its blade now lined with teeth that vibrated silently, aching to bite into flesh and bone. Yet, Roland quelled that corrosive desire, his expression grim and determined.
"War, does not care. Not about right, or wrong," Patriot intoned solemnly. "It does not care about the suffering, or the oppressed, or the enslaved. Off the battlefield, there are. On the battlefield, there are not. Whoever dies, is wrong."
From the perspective of the onlookers, particularly the Doctor, the scene was almost surreal. Two monstrous warriors stood before them—one, a feared leader of a movement; the other, a haunted man with a tormented past.
Roland broke the heavy silence, his voice tinged with a bitter edge. "What would your daughter think of you throwing your life away like this?"
"She's so young, only knows blind trust. I don't hate anyone. I just don't trust you. I cannot trust. I seek no understanding. I only win wars," Patriot responded, his voice a low growl of defiance.
Roland laughed, a sound more pained than amused. "I used to think the same thing. It's just a coping mechanism. We are men accustomed to violence, stuck in a cycle of killing until we are killed."
"If you were a good father," Roland accused, his tone sharpening, "you would spend what time you have left with your daughter."
Patriot's eyes narrowed. "You could not understand my sorrow. You didn't have your wife die young nor did you unwittingly have a hand in the death of your child."
Roland fell silent for a moment, then spoke with quiet rage, "My wife and unborn child died because I took her gloves and weapons on a mission. So, don't dare accuse me of not understanding pain."
Around Durandal, rings of light began to circle, resonating with the intensity of the confrontation.
Just as the tension reached a crescendo and it seemed they would come to blows, the entirety of Chernobog suddenly lurched, a massive tremor shaking the ground and interrupting the imminent clash. The sudden shift forced everyone to grasp for stability, momentarily derailing the confrontation.
The generator area and the control tower of the landship groaned ominously, the very metal and concrete bending and cracking as if subjected to an immense, unseen weight. Amidst this chaos, flashes of gold zipped through the air, and the sharp, deafening report of explosions reverberated through the structure, each blast a lethal dance of intense fire and shrapnel.
From within the heart of the destruction, a figure emerged, stumbling through the debris and smoke. It was W, a mercenary known for her explosive prowess and unpredictable nature. As she cleared the threshold of the collapsing generator room, she clutched her side, wincing from the effort. Her voice was raspy, strained from smoke and dust, "Ah... cough cough... Where am I? How'd I blast my way down here... Is this it?"
Her gaze wandered, trying to make sense of her surroundings through the haze and chaos. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed as she recognized the insignia and the uniforms around her, "Huh? You're... Rhodes Island? What rotten luck I have today..."
Before she could gather her bearings further, her attention snapped to a familiar figure in the distance, one that brought a surge of recognition—and not of a pleasant kind. "Hm?! ...What an unexpected reunion, Kal'tsit."
Kal'tsit stepped forward, her expression unreadable yet tinged with a clinical detachment. Her eyes quickly assessed W's condition; the mercenary was gravely wounded, several deep cuts marking her body, the edges of each wound glowing with an unnatural, fairy-like gold as they bled profusely. Kal'tsit's voice was cool, controlled, "You're gravely wounded."
As W tried to respond, her eyes caught sight of another figure—Roland. His presence ignited a fury within her, her voice rising above the crumbling din, "You! You're the shithead who brought those fuckers here!"
As if in answer to her an implosion of intensified gravity surged through the area, an invisible fist that clenched the space within its palm, dragging down operators, shieldguards, and guerrillas alike. The outline of three distinct figures emerged, and Roland felt fear.
"Arbiter of the Head, Beholder of the Eye, Executioner of the Claw. How are you here?!"
The Arbiter's voice sliced through the tension, their words laced with a venom that made even the air around them seem to withdraw in caution. "The Black Silence, once again a lapdog of a meager machine putting up the charade of being human," they sneered, gesturing toward Kal'tsit, who visibly stiffened at the provocation. "I wonder if this iteration of you is planning on murdering her too."
Roland's posture tensed, his silence a heavy shroud that enveloped his thoughts. Kal'tsit's eyes narrowed, but her control held firm, her voice remaining unshaken. "Your words carry no weight here."
"As for why we are here," the Arbiter, "you have your dear Angela to thank for that. That pained look on her face as we reduced her to scrap metal... But I suppose even a machine with a heart can be petty. She refused our judgment and sent us here as a final act of spite."
Patriot shifted, his halberd reflecting the scant light as he prepared to engage. "Interlopers. What do you want?" he demanded, his voice echoing like thunder across the devastated landscape.
"Nothing that concerns you, flag-waver," the Arbiter dismissed with a disdainful wave. "We are simply fulfilling part of an agreement with Emperor Fyodor. He despises the immortals pulling Ursus's strings from the shadows, and in exchange, we will be granted access to the Door at the edge of the Icefield."
With a sudden and brutal efficiency, the Claw pulled an unconscious and heavily injured Talulah from the ground. Before anyone could react, the Arbiter shot a chain of gold through her skull, a shocking act that halted the breath in every onlooker's chest. The amassed forces launched a frenzied attack against the interlopers. But the Beholder shone with a mind-rending white light, space itself shattering as their presence intensified. Blows were redirected so they hit each other, and The Claw's syringes pressed down, his body pumping with serums as he prepared for the assault.
In an instant, a crack reverberated through the air, and a thousand attacks occurred in less than a single heartbeat, simultaneously shredding through every combatant on the field.
"Now, now, there's no need for that," the Arbiter said with a chilling calmness, retracting the chain from Talulah, who was miraculously unharmed, as The Claw tossed her aside like garbage. Entangled within was a writhing, black serpentine form. 'M Corp's Singularity' Roland deduced. "The threat of Reunion has been removed. Chernobog is still Ursus property, so you'll have to kindly leave. That Sarcophagus-"
W, barely pushing herself up, winced but her voice rang out clear and defiant. "You verbose bitch, what makes you think you'll win against us all?"
The Arbiter shrugged nonchalantly. "You can certainly try, Sarkaz. Defeating us will allow that," she gestured toward the frozen form of an Emperor's Blade, "to run rampant, and I don't think you'll enjoy the consequences." Behind them, the seething form of the collapsal was locked within the armour by J Corp's Singularity.
The Doctor, assessing the chaos and the potential for an even greater catastrophe, gave the order. "Retreat." As Rhodes Island's forces reluctantly began to withdraw, the pyrrhic nature of this victory—or perhaps defeat—settled over them like a shroud.
Kal'tsit's gaze locked onto the trio, her contempt for them clear as day. "You think you play at a game, moving pieces where you wish, but the people of Terra are no mere pawn in your machinations. You've unleased a storm upon yourself, and we will be its eye."
The landship continued to crumble. As the dust settled and the silence returned, punctuated only by the distant sound of retreat, it became clear that the true cost of this confrontation would be measured not in immediate losses but in the challenges to come.
...
With Roland's arrival, a soft luminescence began to seep into Terra, a gentle glow that promised change. This Light, imperceptible at first, crept like the first rays of dawn, inching into every shadowed alley, every hidden nook
In a secluded chamber, Theresis stood before the body of his sister, Theresa. The Light caressed the edges of the room, and for a fleeting moment, a sliver of doubt crept into his heart. His gaze upon her was one of reverence and torment, a tumultuous mix of admiration and a terrible resolve. With a silent snarl, he extinguished the nascent flicker of uncertainty. Nothing would sway his path; nothing could deter him from ensuring the future of the Teekaz.
Far from the solid ground, amidst the merciless embrace of the sea, a ship battered by relentless waves carried a man named Alfonso. He stood firm at the helm, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon. The ship was its crew, and its crew was its captain. Together, they would return to Iberia, their minds unyielding, their resolve unbroken, even as their bodies bore the brunt of the tempest.
Elsewhere, the Last Knight paused in his tireless crusade against the ceaseless waves, his thoughts drifting to 'Mortica'—a name that held the essence of his identity—and the vast plains of his homeland. The Light reached him, too, stirring memories long buried, reigniting a flame of recognition within his weary soul.
Amidst the din of a fervent gathering, Andoain stood unflinching, his voice carrying over the crowd as he spoke of unity and hope to Sarkaz and Sankta alike. His ideals, unshakable as the mountains, resonated with the Light's silent song, reinforcing his message of peace and determination.
In the heart of a grand hall, Arturia Giallo heard a warm voice that intertwined with the notes of her music, echoing in the hearts she opened with her harmonies. She paused, her bow hovering over the strings, as it grew louder and clearer.
And then there was the Doctor, already reeling from the backlash of M Corp's mind-altering Singularity.
"Priestess, I remember our promise."