Mhaieiyu

  Arc 3, Chapter 15

  The Heat of Hate

  Tokken, Pride, tried hard to imagine what town he could be referring to. He didn’t have an excellent grasp of Centriegol’s geography, but he did know the scarcity of habitation in the direction Meschae indicated. Tokken looked on toward that possible, yet unlikely settlement. Common sense dictated his hunch had to be wrong, just on probability alone, nevermind the simplicity of that place he knew. What could the cultists possibly need done in a town as plain as his home? But the mere chance crept up him and devoured his mind.

  “Do you know what the place is called?”

  Meschae made a dismissive grunt and reclined his head back, dangling it precariously off the edge. Tokken shook his head and tried to abandon the thought. It was pointless to even assume, less so with such a dimwitted guess. Still, even he knew that the only other structure of note was Hyretix’s capital’s remains, which now stood as the ghost of a once prosperous kingdom crushed by modern powers; its satellites subsumed by the ever-expanding megapolis they stood upon, here too surely the repurposed corpse of a lost nation.

  “I’ll need your aid to get there.”

  “Oi,” Meschae seethed, “don’t get cocky. I don’t give two spoonfuls of a shite if ye’re Sin. I ain’t too keen on the corporate ladder as is, I ain’t takin’ orders off another toddler.”

  ‘Another’ implied the existence of a young cult member, one more powerful than the barbarian in front of him. A long, fatigued breath left the lad as he pondered his options. His leg wasn’t going to help him, and even if the option felt unlikely, a journey alongside Meschae didn’t sound too great either. Not to mention he’d technically be committing desertion. The entire plan was ludicrous, leaving his post like that. When he thought of it for even a second the absurdity rang hard, but how long? How long was he supposed to live with the fickle idea of his life’s purpose? Even the prospect frightened him. Could he live in ignorance? He understood his task, but not the reason. To follow an order blindly is deserving of being called idiocy. A soldier who fires without context is a good soldier and a terrible human being. If one is to take a life, one should be conscious of their motives, or so Tokken believed. To rob someone of their memories is a terror unknown. To rob others of new memories with them is a horror untold. To destroy a life, undo futures, is a weight beyond the likes one could expect to carry. And thus, to do so without thought is a beastly act at least.

  Tokken had to kill the Guardian.

  Murder, and one of a valued member of society. He can’t just do that and move on, never knowing what he accomplished and why, nor the consequences of his deed. The blood on his hands would be tainted forever ignorant of the depth of his doing. For this reason, for this utterly fantastical and dreamt up reason, Tokken reasoned, albeit loosely, his motivation to pursue answers. Even if it meant desertion. Even if it meant walking the path of these supposed enemies, and hearing word of these alleged deviants.

  Tokken faced Meschae again, who had lost all interest in him by then. He was facing the city, holding his unclean glass for wine and grinding it into the parapet. “Meschae, I’m going to need your help. I can’t force you, but please reconsider this. It’s me who’s tasked with murdering the Guardian for you people.”

  The Disciple defaced the floor with his spit, not even wishing to look at the boy. “Aye, except ya ain’t hurtin’ flies. Amazin’ with all the shots ya’ve been havin’, och… Piss off.”

  Anger brewed in the teen’s core. His body puffed up, his hands balling into fists. He knew he had no leverage over Capricorn, but his soul demanded respect. Voices that he’d never heard until today whispered their spite, and a current of influence began to build within.

  Tokken slowed his breaths. Of course, he knew what this was. Pride was speaking directly to him, manifesting his actions. Despite its power, he isolated his feelings and soothed himself. When his shoulders relaxed, he parted his lips again.

  The door to the roof screeched against the concrete as it was torn from its hinges with an intrusive clang. The door, bent in half, skid harshly upon hard stone, sparks flying off it and dotting the area. The noise startled the boy, but Meschae seemed unmoved by the commotion, oddly enough.

  From within the darkness of the staircase, a figure made itself known to the light. His hair, dense and poorly managed, hung animalistically a smidge over his shoulders; an old, drawn out exhale the first to come of him.

  Tokken’s hair stood on end when the information his eyes presented clicked in his brain. Speak of the devil and he may come: the Guardian himself had become audience to their dialogue, and a heckler he did seem.

  Emris’ voice was hoarse, dry and dripping with contempt, and the boy felt his blood slow at the sound. He called Meschae by name, though it came out so distorted with hate that the grind of his molars made more presence than the word did.

  “Em. Been a bit,” Meschae said with an impressive calm, although his anger, too, was palpable. “I should’a kept a calmness. Fookin’ gave meself away, din’t I? Fook’s sake…”

  “Emris, wait!” Tokken had the gall to intervene, as if this scene wasn’t suspicious enough. “I’ve managed to subdue this cultist into a readily communicative position. We could attempt to harvest some information off… him——?”

  Tokken’s lips slowed when he realised Emris’ right arm was soaked in red. This, mixed with his bearish, slumped position, his showing teeth and lethal stare told the boy that it was the Guardian who wouldn’t stand for diplomacy.

  Meschae turned to face Emris, his left cuff drooped unceremoniously as if to declare its presence to the man. “Came for me other one did ya, cunt?” The venom inflamed those words past the point of being evident.

  The ghastliness of Emris’ aura gave him an uncanny look. Meschae’s calmness felt out of place, but regardless there he stood, a slightly quieter but still present bravado glued to his heels. Then, with the light of the sun on his shoulders, Meschae began his mock.

  “Look at that air around ya,” Capricorn shunned with a smirk, “th’ almighty ignorance o’ Wrath is clingin’ to ya like shite. ‘Course, Wrath’s more of a looker than youse, Em. By a long’un.”

  Emris' stance lowered further, his hands not far from the ground; a literal pounce in the making. The savageness could not be overlooked.

  Meschae only felt credence in his words for the fact. “Nay, a blightin’ rat’s no Sin worth praise. Lookin’ at yar likes, yain’t even got the energy for somethin’ like Wrath. Bottlin’s all yar good for. Hidin’, seethin’. All ya’ve brought us is a bloody mess ‘s all. Pissant, ya body ain’t even for ya, in’t it?”

  Tokken shuffled his view between the two dangers. One, dripping in poison. The other, foaming with venom. The monster and the monstrous mind licked at each other like old dogs.

  Meschae tossed his glass to the side and allowed the length of his arm to glow with fire. With his final words, rancour would be unleashed. “Now, whose is it that skin yar wearin’, Em?”

  Tokken kept mouthing the words, never able to vocalise his thoughts. His mind failed to process exactly when Emris flew toward Capricorn, but it happened at some point, with a painful boom cleaving the tension. Meschae kept to his own, though. Emris’ mind-numbed right hook was stopped by the fervent red glow of that simple jewelled band on Capricorn’s ring finger. Emris responded with a left hook, still midair, but his wrist was swept off by Meschae’s one arm. Emris then tasted a sample of that furious flame, which burst him like a spent rocket back from whence he came, singing his chest and ruining yet another of his old coats.

  Emris didn’t take too kindly to the deed. He was quick on his toes, leaping once more toward his target, sluggish this time. The boozed Disciple mashed his ring on the floor, emulating the force Emris had wasted earlier, pulverising the concrete by his feet. The roof disturbed and shook, portions of the brick falling inward to lower floors. The pitiful Guardian’s foot was caught in such a drop, and with nothing to ground him, his body, caught in momentum, was forced onward on a blind path. Through the dust, Meschae snatched the Guardian by the neck hard before swinging his unruly self out and off the roof, condemning him to fall.

  Emris was shaken for a moment, but the violence in his mind demanded closure. Teeth gnashing, he swivelled around before his plummet and released that black, vile snake from his back, shooting and stretching its coil toward the fiery bastard — but it wouldn’t find anchor. From the emptiness in Capricorn’s flailing sleeve withdrew a tendril of his own: one much broader than Emris had developed, a leaf-shaped blade at its tip. The serpent whipped against Emris’ own and snapped it right at the end.

  It took longer for him to process his failure than it did for gravity to yank him down toward the earth, threatening to crush his consciousness amid natural enemies. The risk of it set his mind aflame with unrest. Saliva was ripped from his open mouth by the winds as he panicked to find salvation, and though he’d be ashamed of it, an involuntary bellow slipped from his throat. His eyes bulged when a disturbing presence under his skin finally gave hope. Emris thrust his shoulder toward the walls of the building, and of that momentum shot forth a new elastic tendril, locking him to the surface. His body avoided colliding with the glass with a quick shield, though he was still showered by the shards.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Emris’ body hung tired and astonished from how quickly his mindless assault had failed him. Looking up, the Guardian’s worth continued to degrade, and all the more from the peak of the concrete.

  There, Meschae watched Emris with close brows and a wrinkled forehead. He pointed his finger down at him. “See that, tiny? That’s all ya’ve gotta plunge it in. Morts, It’d be harder killin’ minxes.”

  Tokken approached the torn edge timidly. The scene opened and closed in a fistful of seconds. Minding his boots, the boy struggled to look the distance, too concerned for a gust of wind teetering him over.

  Meschae’s dissatisfied snarl only grew. “Lord.” He kicked a few stones and raised his voice loud. “If it ain’t just another wingless devil like us, eh?! No hereafter for us, is there?! Guess we oughta make’un! C’mere.”

  Tokken was too busy worrying about Emris and himself to prepare for what would happen next: a hard grip locked around Tokken’s suit straps before throwing him off the boundary. Death-defying or not, the fall still urged the kid to scream, watching as Capricorn’s figure smallened in instances.

  Emris forced himself back into motion. His legs kicked at the wall, ready to jump, but his tendril kept him locked. He kicked again, harder this time, crushing the wall behind him to tear his second tendril apart. This time, his body did fling on, but the motions were all wrong. Emris’ flailing arms clutched the teen a pity few feet from the ground. The shield he scrambled to conjure wasn’t good enough to be reliable. By the time they made impact, only Tokken was spared the damage.

  The teen patted his body down, looking for new injuries, but only felt bruised. Baffled at his survival, he instead turned his attention to the Guardian. Emris, unguarded, bore the brunt of the impact. His head bone broke instantly, and he wasn’t to stand from it, Tokken discerned.

  “No…” he whispered, before an agitating voice overhead pierced him.

  “On with it, shithead! Can’t be any fookin’ easier than that, can it?! I’m spoonfeedin’ the fooker to ya.”

  The pangs from the nerves in his leg seemed to quiet down, or he ignored them. That tenderness in his soul — the weight and the cold, Tokken felt pressure build within. His head tilted up and down, his hands fidgeting, hesitating to act. His fingers reached out toward Emris. He wanted to help the Guardian, to peel him off the road at the very least, but anxiety over what Meschae might do after kept him still. If he tried to help, he would quickly be ousted by Capricorn. If he didn’t commit to his task soon enough, the same outcome would play. The Tsuki had no plan in mind to spare himself and the Guardian at once. Fearing repercussion, he drew his knife at least, though he didn’t know what to do next. Seconds passed by without action. He reached Emris’ side and knelt beside him, the Jewel radiating its red from how it glowed. Its entire purpose, its target by birthright, lay inches away and unable to defend himself. The excitement it exuded disturbed him.

  “Stick ‘em, lil’un,” Meschae insisted. “I said fookin’ STICK ‘EM!”

  Tokken’s hands shook too much, the grip of his knife too slick to hold onto. He couldn’t stop himself. He dropped it. Trembling and wracked with fear, Tokken’s fingers refused to come close to the Jewel again. He stood up and backed away, away from Emris’ body, refusing even the sight of his duty. It was too much. To kill a man seemed too daunting a task. Too much guilt rested on that one horrible deed. A terrible soldier he must be.

  Up high, on that roof, Meschae clicked his tongue. His ageing hands soothed his face with their coldness, his stomach empty, sleep-deprived. He’d imagined the outcome already. “Aye… It adds up. This ain’t a job for a kiddo, ain’t it?” he said to himself, quietly. Looking down at that incompetent boy, his jaw hung loose, his body slumped. His tendril whipped the concrete, fueled by his anger. “A snottin’ pissin’ and shittin’ lil’ boy in a fookin’ uniform. God, ain’t a workin’ man just ‘appy to pick up the slack. Pisstakes, och…”

  Tokken hoped to leave the endeavour to the cultist, unable to save or kill the man himself, and he was halfway through chewing himself out when he heard a roar of fire, seconds after his knife popped back on his person. The lad turned and watched above, the blowing heat showering about him already. It was Meschae, naturally, but what he was up to blindsided him completely. Fire had engulfed the man from the waist down; such that his legs should’ve been sausaged. But where there were to be screams of agony was a face of silent condemnation. His body, propelled steadily by the fire, hovered and closed in on the scene. It was obvious who he intended for. Tokken didn’t have much time before he and Emris were blanketed in an unbearable scorch.

  The boy turned instantly from where he walked, rushing toward Emris. Tokken decided that the weight of allowing death was no smaller than that of murder, and considering Meschae’s character, Emris might be his only ticket out of this. He plucked the veteran from the floor and staggered at his heft. The strain on his muscles insisted it wasn’t possible. The sound of fire forced him onward regardless. Grabbing under his arms, the teen glanced around him and realised his mistake. There would be nowhere to escape to. Not a single open window. The flames fell upon him once more, and he remembered something. He remembered, months ago, before the war, when Emris was destroyed by the bullets of his own subordinate. He remembered how quickly he stood on his feet after. As sweat dripped from his entire face, and his fingers stung from the heat, the lad begged Victus for forgiveness as he used Emris’ body as a shield.

  Thankfully, the flames subsided seconds after. Emris’ front had probably been shrivelled into a crisp husk, but Tokken endured. With what little dignity he could preserve, the boy set the Guardian down gently. And then, a hammer came down.

  A hammer, that’s what it felt like. It was Meschae’s fist gliding down and striking him in the face. Instantly, his skull receded and his brain was destroyed.

  Tokken dropped Emris’ body like a sack of potatoes before throwing himself backwards. Meschae’s fist struck air awkwardly, lurching him, giving Tokken enough time to stand straight and find his gun.

  “Don’t move!” Tokken shouted, taking the safety off and steadying a finger on the trigger.

  Meschae snarled again, his teeth showing. Weirdly, the boy found he and Emris comparable in act. “Ya’ve got a better pair on ya than I figured. Still ain’t bright.”

  Meschae’s tendril whipped again, smashing the concrete and slicing Emris’ leg half apart. The noise startled the boy, who fired wildly. Meschae ducked his head and blasted himself forward again, smacking the rifle away before pushing his hand through to Tokken’s heart.

  “Don’t move,” Tokken commanded, a colder voice than before. He’d steeled his nerves to the best of his ability. “I know you’re not bulletproof.”

  “Right…” Meschae growled, “Then I’ll guess ya’ve got the stones to kill a man, then?”

  “I’ll do what it takes, sure.” Tokken kept his aim steady. A tiny voice in the back of his head compelled him to just commit already.

  “...Ya’ve ‘alf the mind to play the farce, aye,” Meschae continued to prod.

  Patience could only go so far. Tokken lowered his aim and fired at once, hoping the impact wouldn’t be deadly. The gun did fire, but the fever of smoke and fear obscured the damage. Tokken stumbled back a step, smelling the Blackpowder in the air and watching Meschae’s wide-eyed surprise. The cultist straightened himself, processing the pain, but his shock wore off into a worrying grin. He chuckled quietly to himself, bringing his hand to his wound and singing it sealed.

  “Ballsy cocker.”

  Tokken fired twice more but missed in the rush of things. Meschae had propelled himself quickly, ducking the lead and grabbing the boy’s head before smashing it on the floor, spilling its contents.

  Tokken managed to swat the hand away as it came, though his forearm ached from how hard it felt; like a metal rod cast toward him. He stepped back again and his tendril snagged his rifle, crashing it on the floor. Oh, the scratches. Tokken’s stomach wrung seeing this. Capricorn was behind him before he could understand how, and his back was slashed. Tokken yelped and screamed, pushing himself forward and away from the tendril’s sword. The damp, cold feeling of blood on his vest kept him lively. The lad ran and reached for the rifle. His neck snapped when a fist fell upon it.

  ? ? ? ?

  This was a familiar feeling.

  He felt it recently, too, but it was much more distant than that. An intimate memory. A smell, or lack thereof. Senses deprived or limited to the point of inability. Numb touch. Unfelt tongue. Stiff nose. Lukewarm temperature. Buzzing ears. Blurred vision.

  The earth, loose and hard with damp perhaps, was the coldest thing here. A cold so fragile you had to desire to notice it to do so. A world beyond the grave. A featureless void of struggling darkness. A hint of purple, too.

  Emris was exhausted. He had been sober for too long. The desire to drink irked him. He didn’t want to think or remember, but he was. It was depriving him of his firmness, his stubbornness, his unkindness.

  There was no other way to express it. Emris was forced to think. He kept his face down on the ground.

  The old soul wagered he’d be liberated with enough time, but time came and time was spent, and his body remained in this place. Indeed, this was no flash of memory. He was here. Emris knew as much, but the thought of looking at this place again filled him with nausea. This was where the King still loomed. This was where his death could speak to him. Emris had no business to spare for the thing that sought for the end.

  But there were no bells. No rings. No horns. Thinking back on it, he wasn’t forced to stand. To attend. To listen. He was just here, on the floor, wondering when the experience would end. This place, where escape is not possible to will alone.

  Hours passed and Emris remained, daring not look up from the ground. This vaguely mauve earth, that felt coarse and soft to the touch. He buried his fingers into it. Ah, it was colder, the deeper he dug his nails. A pleasant feeling, almost.

  Yes, a pleasant feeling…

  “How long is the codger intent on sulking?”

  “It is not so leisurely to live, for some,” a feminine, strong voice compelled the irritable male one.

  “We don’t live easy, normally. That’s what we do,” another voice, an older one, spoke up too.

  “Yes, some less than others,” the feminine voice spoke again.

  “He’s too old for this,” the first irritant booed him.

  “Yet he hasn’t had the time to grow old.”

  “Hapless.”

  “You never change, 38th.”

  “I don’t need to hear a lark, 56th.”

  “Be quiet, kid,” the older one scolded, his lended voice growing distant.

  “I have a point of being here, Two. Find a stone to kick.”

  That irritating voice drew closer. Emris felt the stomping footsteps just shy of his head. “57th, pick up your damned head already. Of course you’d be too lazy to, in the very Dreamscape.”

  These people, he’d heard them all before. Emris’ memories only continued to gush. A long distracted echo drove blood and electricity into the most decrepit recesses of his brain. The memory of old. Those flashes he had of late. From then, the colours of the place he fled. From then, the place he escaped. The pain he ripped apart from. The agony he sold back.