Chapter Text
February 11
Day 11
“Corporal, are we there yet?”
A deep sigh erupted from the chest of the tall blonde clad in green camouflage-patterned robust military clothing. His short, nearly non-existent nails scratched against the two arrows upon his shoulder that were stacked upon each other, pointing down.
“No, Soldat Berglund,” he said. “Just like the last twenty times you asked. And you are aware of the fact.”
The other soldiers in the cramped truck chuckled in slight amusement.
“I thought we finally got you to call us by our names, Corporal,” the soldier of black hair whined. His youthful eyes shone with fake tears at this supposed slight the commanding officer had inflicted upon him. “All of this for nothing. How will my life ever go on? Reduced to nothing but a surname. Not like there aren't a thousand other Berglunds in Norway.”
“We are on deployment right now, Soldat Berglund,” the corporal replied. “You would know that if you listened to the briefing on this.”
“You really cannot expect Jonas to listen to anything,” a young woman with short and wavy red hair grinned. “Although, quite honestly, I did not catch anything past the fact that we have to investigate a string of animal deaths.”
“Wait, this is about the animal deaths?” Berglund asked incredulously.
“Not just those, Berglund,” Lance Corporal Halvorsen shot back, her voice edged with impatience. “If you actually paid attention instead of messing around, you’d know that all the animals were crushed—by hand. And now we’ve got a dead man with the same injuries, even though he had way more muscle and bone than any of those animals.” She folded her arms. “That’s what matters. That, and the fact that not a single victim—despite clear signs of a struggle—managed to get so much as a hair or drop of blood from the bastard who did it.”
“Nice to see you haven’t changed, Halvorsen,” Berglund muttered under his breath.
“Kind of a creepy mood, don’t you think?”
The voice that resounded through the black-painted inside of the truck belonged to another soldier with a standard-issue nearly ancient HK416, looking out through a pair of digital binoculars. His finger peeking out of his fingerless green gloves pointed at the odd fog that enveloped their vehicle and their escorting Mission Master, barely letting them see beyond the side of the road, shrouding the world in a greyish white curtain and covering the windows and sensors in a thin layer of condensation.
“Very strange indeed,” the corporal mused. “Fog should be common this time of year, but certainly not that thick . Weather forecast did not mention weird weather patterns.”
Halvorsen piped in. “Actually, it did, Corporal Nygaard. It mentioned weird moments of darkness during daytime, and fog rolling in before an animal is found dead right after.”
“Eikeland,” the corporal called out. “Is that weather common here? Doesn’t that kind of thing happen in the Arctic Circle anyway?”
“Somewhat, Corporal,” the man with the binoculars said. “But not here. The Arctic Circle is still about seven hundred klicks north. And even up there, sudden darkness isn’t a thing. Sunlight’s predictable— it doesn’t just vanish. ”
The blonde corporal exhaled sharply and buried his head in his hands. The coarse fabric of his gloves scratched against his pockmarked skin.
“Of course. Of course it has to be some weird shit on top of everything else.” He lifted a hand and smacked himself lightly on the cheek. “Get it together, Erik,” he muttered.
Before anyone could respond, a low groan rumbled through the van as the brakes slammed hard. The sudden deceleration sent the soldiers sprawling inside, cursing as they tumbled over one another. Erik, somehow, remained standing.
With a shake of his head, he straightened. “We’re here. On your feet and out the door.”
The moment they stepped outside, the cold hit like a punch. The wind cut across their faces, sharp as a knife, but the thick mist barely stirred. It clung to them, heavy and suffocating, thick as tar. Even with their gear, visibility was absolute shit.
“Not gonna lie, this is creepy as hell,” Berglund muttered, tightening his grip on the ugly, boxy frame of his light machine gun. “Feels like we walked straight into a horror movie.”
The redhead whispered back. “I agree, but you saying that while your finger is on the trigger is somewhat not cool .”
He rolled his eyes. “As if you gripping THAT thing isn’t horrifying enough, you now have to grow brains. Wrong time, Aas.”
“Aas?” The grenadier asked indignantly. “Were you not the one who whined about being addressed by your last name? I can be trusted with a grenade launcher more than you can be with even a fork.”
“You take that back–!”
“Be angry all you want, Berglund, you know I–!”
“ QUIET, you two!” Halvorsen snapped at the two. “The mission has already started, drop the jokes. You two can’t help but fuck around every time, and now we have to pray we don’t find out.”
The typically American English expression spewed out of her, but the message was clear from every operation they worked with the yanks. Reluctantly, the two followed their orders, and fell back into formation.
Mist swirled around them and wind whipped their faces until they were red, blowing their eyelashes back so they had to squint their eyes as they stepped ever forward. The UGV slowly prowled along, its turrets –a configuration of one heavy calibre machine gun and 2 smaller calibres– and sensors actively hunting for potential threats.
“Goddamn goggles–” somebody smacks their helmet. “Acting up–”
“Should have taken better care of those things like the CO told you. ”
Short and blocky cubes with sloped roofs appeared from the smoky curtain, the vibrant blues, reds and yellows of the painted walls muted by the white condensation to the point of becoming nearly grey. Rubber soles struck against the coarse, old asphalt as the group moved forward through the street. Wary eyes peeked over the ACOGs and chevrons of guns as the eight soldiers and their lone robotic companion crept forward.
“Did one of us forget to get a few drones in the air?” complained a troop amongst the squad.
“Doesn’t matter, we can get this done without them. Less things to repair later if they do break.”
“Fair enough.”
“Soldat Berglund, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice of the corporal resounded through the empty street, the reverb ignoring the attempts of the fog to choke it. The black-haired private in question knelt at the side of the road, the quiet pinging of his goggles heard from those closest to him, machine gun hanging from his back as he poked and prodded at some lump on the earth.
“Older corpse, body’s cold,” Berglund reported back in a yell. “Some guy just fucking crushed the poor duck with his bare hands. About my size, if the finger dents are anything to go by.” the young man pokes and prods a bit more, before finding something that made him grimace. “And, uh, yeah , that’s a maggot…”
“Good work, Soldat, but warn us next time,” Corporal responded, tapping his microphone. “Damn mission logs need us to tell us if you’re doing anything. Also, stop touching the rotting corpse, that’s disgusting.”
“Will do.” Berglund immediately gets up, thick fingers were quickly wiped off from nonexistent dirt and rotting flesh on the wet grass and Jonas rejoined the formation once more.
“Dude, how bad was it?” The ginger grenadier asked, blue eyes wide.
“Karoline, you would not believe it,” Jonas whispered back with eyes just as wide. “There were just handprints pressed into the thing, like it was put in a hydraulic press. The ribs were cleanly broken off without any damage to the rest of the body.”
A disgusted expression contorted the pale skin of Aas’ face, who seemed a bit ill at the thought of it. “Who would even do such a thing in the first place? What the hell?”
“That is what we’re here to find out, no?” Eikeland chimed in.
The group fell into an uneasy silence, only the rustling of clothes, the whirring of their light exoskeletons, and scraping of rubber against asphalt resounding in the street, and instantly choked out by the odd white swirls of the cloying, nearly impenetrable mist.
They did not stop for more corpses beyond a quick check for injuries, stage of decomposition, and to report that back to HQ. They tried to not let the silence get to them, and the fact that the lights that shone from windows was the only proof they were not the only people here.
“Movement, 12 o’clock!” the Corporal warned, and all units –even the wheeled drone– aimed their weapons down the street. There was something– movement– pacing through the fog that was heading right for them. From the silhouette, it was not hard to see that it was a resident .
Somebody native to the town. Maybe the one who raised the flag for Oslo to come in…?
“Hey there!” Nygaard called out to the new contact and stepped closer, lowering his rifle and putting out a hand for the incoming individual. “ Norske Forsvaret! I would like to ask about a few things that have happened here, sir!”
A shudder ran through the new arrival. An individual that finally broke away from the fog and was now in the safety of an armed force. He was a man in his thirties, with short cut hair that started to fall out at the temples and forehead. He was sweating, exhausted . Taking in deep breathes, he calmed himself, even taking the offer of some water from one of the privates.
“Uh- certainly, sure,” he nervously stammered as he looked around at each soldier with wild eyes. “Just - be quick, before that guy comes back.” An eyebrow crept up the corporal’s forehead and carved deep wrinkles into his otherwise youthful skin, but he decided to question the man about ‘the guy’ later.
“When did all of these deaths start? What were they caused by?” two simple questions, yet they were enough to elicit a rather extreme reaction.
The man’s eyes widened further as he looked around again before leaning forward and saying, low enough to be inconspicuous but loud enough so all the soldiers heard him–like he was whispering a tale of horror around a campfire, “T-there’s a new guy in town… he-he’s the one causing trouble. He killed like five dogs already, w-we gave up trying to stop him!”
“And yet the local authorities wasn’t able to detain him?”
“Y-you don’t get it,” the man whispered frantically, his flushed face and shrunken eyes screaming of terror . “He is strong . T-think– superhero flick-type strong. He killed animals only before, and when the owners of the dogs tried to get him, he just broke their arms to d-dust–! I never realized that drug addict strength could…” he trailed.
Jonas interrupted, waving his hands as his gun was slung. “Woah woah woah, hang on; A drug addict did all this?”
“What–what bloody else could he be!?” The man questioned, nervously fiddling with the frayed hem of his old bomber jacket, the leather long since stained black from dirt and age. There was dried blood, and that was the most unnerving part. “Guy looks blue all the time like he is drowning or something, stinks to heaven and is in rags the entire time. You tell me what else he could be, I’ll wait–!”
“Since when were drug addicts blue?” Aas asked in confusion.
“I’m calling this in…” the Corporal mutters, reaching for their comms and speaking. “Command, this is the Military Intelligence Battalion, unit Bravo 2-1 actual…”
“Since they started being dirty,” the bald man replied–ignoring the reporting from Halvorson. “I can’t find my cat right now- w-which is why I’m out here. The guy got his hands on our doctor Leif already. I just want my cat to get out of here, I’m not taking my chances with him .”
“Be careful out there,” Jonas said, an odd seriousness taking the place of his usual joking demeanor. “Your cat is missing, but I’d rather you not fight something you were never meant to handle.”
A shuddered scoff was the response the private got. “I am not an idiot, you know.”
“You never know,” Jonas shrugged . “Some people are brave enough, some aren’t you know?”
“Thanks for the information, citizen… Squad! We need to get moving!” the corporal ordered sharply, looking around, finger on his trigger. “If we run into your cat, we will get it to you after we complete the mission.”
“Sure hope so,” the balding man muttered, grateful, but slowly moving towards the direction the troops came from. The unit once more kept walking down the street, the town was quiet, and—
“YEOWW–” CRNCH–! thud…
The brief noise put all of the troops on alert, weapons raised in readiness, facing the direction of the commotion. “Well, there goes that cat,” Jonas muttered. “ Christ, that’s sick. Who the hell even kills cats for fun like that?”
“Psychopaths, that’s who,” Halvorsen replied, her discipline broken–more human .
“Druggies, nothing out of the ordinary,” Aas shrugged, stating it as though she had seen it too many times before. At the strange looks she received, the grenadier clarified rather swiftly. “My mama was addicted. She did all sorts of wild shit that you wouldn’t believe.”
Morbid curiosity fed, the safeties on everybody’s weapons went off, and even the UGV following them had electrically cut off the governor on its minigun. Slowly the boots of Eikeland creaked – taking point, the muzzle of his gun aiming in preparation to put a bullet in some drugged motherfucker’s body.
Everyone crept behind him, and soon, they were rewarded with quite the gruesome sight.
A man of an unknown age was squatting on the ground, thin blue skin nearly rotting on the muscles it was awkwardly stretched over like a botched taxidermy job, barely covered with rotting, tattered clothing that once may have been a pink tunic and long brown pants, but both now were a dirty green-brown now.
His hands, covered in burn marks from where once gauntlets might have sat, were clutching the corpse of a tiny cat which barely passed the stage of adolescence, its once fluffy white and orange fur matted with flecks of garbage, dirt, and blood. The grinning visage of that man stared gleefully with sickly yellow eyes at the fingers that sank so deep into the tiny creature’s flesh that the rib cage was peeking out of the wound over the man’s hand, cleanly shorn through with the force of the squeeze.
And then the smell hit the soldiers.
An overwhelming, disgusting stench of blood stuck to the man like the fog stuck to the ground, a cloying and swirling gut-churning miasma of sickly sweet rot, the iron scent of blood, and the stench of old clothes, maggot-ridden flesh and other bodily secretions that likely stemmed from the victims. Berglund and the medic, Viklund, gagged visibly, while the others were able to keep it together, even if they did look very green in the face.
“Norske Forsvaret!” Nygaard barked out, joined by the ranks of his fellowmen. “Hands behind your head, down on the ground!”
"Hvað eru þú að glæpa um, strákur?”
The sounds of the odd language tumbled from the lips of the man who stood up and now was facing the troop, his right hand with the cat’s corpse hanging limply at his side. His thin, wrinkled lips struggled to form the right shape, and most of his sentences ended up sounding too similar to parse what he said.
“Icelandic?” Mari Viklund muttered in confusion, yet still kept a laser and her chevron locked and loaded on the soldier’s head. “Why is an Icelandic hobo all the way over in Vestland of all places?”
“Not Icelandic,” Eikeland murmured quietly, correcting her as he took position by the walls. “Sounds similar, but not fully. I do not speak Icelandic fluently, but enough to the point where I can tell you this is either very old Icelandic, or entirely a different language . Like Norse .”
“Of all things, Norse ?” the corporal asked in exasperation, making sure his helmet cam and microphones were on. “What, is this a drug addict larping a Viking who got lost on the voyage to Vinland?” He snapped back to his discipline however, once the weird man did not comply
A finger outstretched, Nygaard pointed at the blue man, and then mimed putting his hands behind his head and lying on the ground. Yet, it did not get the desired reaction. Instead, it sneered, the face of the hobo distorted in a mocking expression. His wide grin reveals his yellowed teeth, stained with years of neglecting his own hygiene.
“Aldrei gerði ég það.”
And then, he was no longer where he stood before.
“Oh SHIT–!” The corporal barely had time to shout a warning before the giant shape of the man barrelled into Eikeland, the scout only able to shoot the man twice before his rifle was squeezed into a useless piece of scrap against the asphalt by the bare foot of the hobo who tore it out of his hands.
With a single rake of his hands, four long gashes tore open in Eikeland’s face and neck and torso, scraps of removed skin falling to the ground with a splatter of blood. On the goggles of the lead, he sees the beating line of the private fall flat. “FUCK– we’ve taken a casualty!” instinctively screamed the corporal, “We need a QRF–!”
“Everyone, fall back!” Nygaard barked out–guns opening up from the UGV and starting to blanket the alleyway. “Berglund, Aas, fall back with the drone and give us suppressing fire! Everyone else, keep moving and blanket the fucker with lead!”
Berglund and Aas instantly ran back and ducked behind the cars they found. It took no less than a moment to get the light machine gun up and its laser sight following. The goggles guided the aiming of the pair, whose weapons began to open up. The rapid barking of a German-made weapon echoed through the street.
Berglund’s rifle continued to unleash a storm of lead that impacted against the tango in question, yet the hobo merely looked mildly in pain. As though he was being hit with needles and not being shredded with a storm of 5.56 and 7.62 rounds.
The rest of the squad fell back, and ran until the next cross-section, where Mari Viklund frantically tore open her IFAK and poured alcohol and healing agents over the deep lacerations that the blue man’s nails carved into Eikeland. Ignoring his hisses of pain, she roughly wiped them clean with a cloth, and then smeared a foul-smelling green paste over them–then being reinforced with bandages and patches whose microtechnology immediately got to work.
“Don’t try to be a hero, we need to get you on a MEDEVAC bird.”
Eikeland rolled his eyes and crawled over to the others, who had set up a barricade of cars to shoot behind. The drone had come into full play, its gatling and heavy machine guns spurring to angered, artificial life. It was bringing up its small missile array, and was preparing a wide assortment of tools to help its team.
The blue man caught a bullet that had squashed against his teeth, and examined it. With a scowl that yet betrayed his impression with modern weaponry, the blue man jumped forward with blinding speed, and swiped at Erik with long, claw-like nails. “FU–!”
The corporal barely was able to dodge before the claws embedded themselves in the plants of the blue house he was standing next to. The squad immediately adjusted and vaulted over the cars that they were using as cover while the Mission Maker UGV immediately repositioned, its AI forcing a hurricane of rounds into the monster’s back.
“What is your problem?!” Erik exclaimed after he got near the drone that was turning everything that didn’t have ear protection deaf, practically barking at the motherfucker over the sound of a giant tearing canvas. “What the HELL is wrong with you, you fucking psychopath?!”
“ Quid… ”
The grave voice resounded next to Nygaard. He whipped around, and saw that indeed it was the hobo that suddenly spoke Latin.
“ Quid… nomen? Tibi? Quid nomen tibi?”
The broken Latin, pronounced in a heavily accented ecclesiastical version of the language, was nearly unrecognizable to the corporal who took a Latin class back in middle school, and yet he at least still recognized a request to know his name.
“Erik Nygaard,” he responded with a bite in his voice.
A grin split the face of the hobo. He pointed at himself. “Skarde Torstenson.”
He then proceeded to swipe at Erik–who was furious at this rate and had moved to take cover again. Not taking ANY more chances. The corporal furrowed his eyebrows after he got out of the way of certain death. This was too slow for what Skarde had shown earlier , he thought as his gloved hands found purchase on the wet asphalt, and his muscles tensed to make his body turn and jump back up.
And then, an odd light flashed between long clawed fingers. Sudden migraine erupted within the corporal’s skull, and he cried out in pain. “ERIK?! WHAT THE FUCK’S HAPPENING TO YOU MAN?!”
“WHERE ARE THOSE GODDAMN REINFORCEMENTS?!”
The unbearable throbbing torture he endured felt like Skarde reached into his head and started kneading his brain into mush. He barely jumped back up, and barely dodged once more at the cost of his handgun which the very-likely-dead man tore from its holster– Bitch! Erik fell back to Jonas and Karoline, heavily breathing.
“Fall back, now ,” Erik breathed–slowly recovering from the attack. “I don’t know what kinda hocus pocus he just pulled, but he can shit you with an instant migraine, and I am not about to find out what else he can do.”
“Rear force, cover us!” He shouted over the radio as he hurriedly ran along the street, accompanied by the automatic rifleman and grenadier. The grenadier, who was aiming her weapon and slinging high explosive rounds at the monster.
Skarde again merely looked in pain, less like he was being actively shot at, and more like he stepped on a sharp rock–or at worst hit with a dull blade. However, save for a few, all of their weapons had suddenly gone silent, the amount of bullet impacts on that tango would have made swiss cheese give less trypophobia.
“Corporal Nygaard, I’m out of ammo!” The medic yelled in alarm, reaching for a mag that was not there.
“Same here!” \ “Fuck, same here!”
Several other agreements were heard, and Erik’s headache only got worse. If this was what command had to put up with all day everyday, he would be sure to cause less problems for them , he thought sympathetically.
“Tell me you all still have your bayonets on you,” he said in exasperation.
The soldiers showed the long knives with hard and smooth green plastic handles they wore on their hips. “I still got grenades on my person sir!” Aas reported back, as furious as he was.
“Great,” the corporal said–throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Fix bayonets, better than fucking nothing.”
While the troops were scrambling to fasten their bayonets to their guns, Erik glared at the weird man who was slowly approaching–the most . The UGV was still unleashing a furious amount of fire, its onboard weapons still having enough spite and rounds to kill the target over and over again.
In a sudden, uncharacteristic bout of anger Erik took hold of a horseshoe from a nearby crate – God knows how the hell it got there– and hurled it with all his might at Skarde. A desperate, furious reaction when he knew he wasn’t going to get his blade out in time.
And with surprise he halted that hobo, who before has been shrugging off all manner of gunfire and weapon attacks, genuinely cried out in pain as the horseshoe left a rectangular imprint across his face that glowed an angry red, like freshly burned skin. His headcam reported that, immediately sending that to the rest of the team.
He looked at Berglund in question. Berglund looked back with confusion. Erik looked back desperate for an answer, Berglund looked back gleefully.
“What are you thinking, man?” Erik whispered to him. “You think this is something out of the stories your mama reads you at night?
“Fuck yes,” Jonas grinned widely. “Bitch did not like getting hit with Iron. Don’t try with silver… but maybe some farming equipment… came from a farm afterall…” Erik took the moment to take cover with the man who seems to have listened in reading class when he was young.
“What is it, a troll or something?”
“Nah,” Jonas still tries and fixes his bayonet, the blade not seating right on the end of the AR-like platform “ Álf , probably. Or an evil spirit.”
“What are you idiots talking about?” Ingrid Halvorsen asked them with confusion written across her severe face. She had taken cover with them, and was trying to feel around for her pistol and bayonet.
“This thing is from European folklore,” Jonas told her. “Likely our home territory.”
“The fucker does not like iron,” Erik reports, tapping his goggles, “Threw a horse shoe at it, and it’s like he got branded with a hot iron…” the man stares at the soldiers who were trying to keep the hostile as far from them as possible. “I don't think bayonets are going to cut it.”
Erik tore a nail out of a nearby door. Ingrid had an idea, finally pulling out her pistol. She stuck the nail into the end of her barrel, and fired directly at the thing. The hobo cried out as the nail found itself firmly buried in the neck of the monster. It allowed the UGV to take over, while the squad moved to get the fuck out.
“Well, that worked.”
“Of all the bullshit we have to deal with,” Erik sighed deeply–his annoyance rising with. “An invincible Icelandic hobo who can cast some kinda mental bullshit and is only harmed by a metal that has long since fallen out of use–”
He cut himself off as he looked back, in the opposite direction of the fight.
Tears rolling down his face, the same man who told the troop about his cat was approaching. He held in one hand the corpse of the tiny cat Skarde killed - probably took a few side alleys to get it and get back - before gently laying it down on the hood of a car. He kissed the top of its head before walking inside a giant building that was painted red, with a weird hexagonal roof type, before once more walking out with a can of what seemed to be deodorant in hand, a lighter, and a-
“Is that a fucking scythe ?” Jonas whispered incredulously.
Indeed, the curve on that tool was unmistakable. The metal no longer was reflective and was rough from being exposed to the elements, and furrows ran along the cutting edge of the scythe from decades of sharpening with the same whetstone. The wooden handle was dark and desaturated from the fat from the hands of its users coating it, becoming a part of the varnish.
“Step aside,” the man hissed through clenched teeth. A hiccup interrupted him mid-word, but he carried on without repeating himself.
“That guy is monstrously strong and fast, thou-”
The man did not let Jonas or Erik finish their warnings, however. He simply stepped forward, his old bomber jacket showing a cut from carrying the scythe carelessly, and walked up to the blue creature.
No sooner had the creature looked up from examining its neck after pulling out the nail, the rest of the soldiers lying beaten at its feet, did the man strike.
The first strike missed Skarde’s neck and the blade buried itself in his side instead. The second cut the scalp of sparse oily black hair, and the third cut through half of Skarde’s thick, muscle-covered neck.
With a cry, the man wrenched the scythe into place so it did not veer off, and kicked the back of the blade to cut the neck better. Pushing mightily, Skarde’s head fell from his shoulders with a sickening squelch and a crunch.
“ Quid -”
The man again did not let the sentence finish, and pushed the button on the deodorant. Skarde looked in confusion, before the man ignited the lighter.
And all Skarde saw was darkness.
His eyes were to go first. His head slowly dissolved into ash, first his eyes, then his hair, then scalp, then skull, then brain, then nose.
As his mouth and vocal cords disintegrated, the blue man’s voice reached the ears of the soldier troop, and with an odd clarity, they all understood what was said.
“Verði þér mikill vandi, verði líf þitt aldrei auðvelt aftur. Hægst munn þínn af Huginn og Muninn, og skotið út í Hel, þar sem þú munt fara eftir að þú deyrð.”
May you never have an easy life, a life of misfortune. May thy luck be eaten by Huginn and Muninn, and cast into Hel where you will go after you die.
The man, meanwhile, started incinerating the rest of the body of the creature. The stench slowly lessened, replaced by the choking smell of smoke.
“Thank you for at least somewhat helping,” the man spoke bitterly.
And with a sharp heel turn, he left. He picked up the cat’s lifeless body, and turned to walk away.
He did not see nor feel it twitch beneath his fingers, nor its sickly yellow eyes as its eyelids fluttered open. The UGV rolled into view, its weapons hot yet cooled by the cold of Norway. It did notice the cat twitching, and its systems made it very clear that it recorded that.
“Well, job well done?”
“Not the time, Berglund,” Erik sighed, the squad slowly regrouping with their casualties being taken care of. “Well done, but there’s nothing left of the body, and we have to make sure that command received all of our shit–”
As if to underscore the helplessness he felt, the world decided to make him trip on a small rock and nearly bust his skull on a tire iron that was lying around. He nearly avoided death by cushioning his head with his fingers.
“That would have been a dumb death, wouldn’t it?” \ “Shut up, Jonas.” And the squad began to RTB, moving back to their vehicle.
“God, that could have been way worse.” Erik turned to Jonas, pointing at him.
“You’re lucky you didn’t have to fight that hobo with, I don’t know, muskets or some shit.”
“ In formation men!” barked a distant voice in rough, clipped German, each word ringing throughout like the shining of the young cloudy day above. On the shades of the sky, swirled with the work of a master’s paintbrush coated in white, an overcast threatened to sully the good—enough mood of the mates around him.
The endless sprawl of sabre-like weeds that faced him was something he could enjoy with a beer here and there. His eyes kept returning to the sky, tired and beneath the bill of his shako.
Clear of all but the heavens who watched from seemingly distant thrones, where God and the deities that ruled this land sat on their ivory bricks and chairs.
It has not mattered to the young man standing here in the field, where the chilly February air nipped at him like a bee would have done to his sweetheart’s flower garden back home in Leipzig — had she not perished in that battle.
He would have liked the opportunity to tell his lieutenant that — had there not been a problem — he wanted his fellow men to camp out here and go hunt for local game. That if they were not dispatched, he would have brought a few of his mates to go get the meat that they would have feasted on that day. But yet the messenger came and he was mobilized.
Gott, he complained in the recesses of his mind, where not even the greatest discipline and training instilled into him by the finest gentry and officers could prevent his true thoughts in like a summer wind. My arms are heavy. Not that he had been laboring, nor was he unfamiliar with the Jager rifle that he carried. But he just woke up because of this emergency.
“ Napoleon loyalist forces are coming to us!” He lowers the weapon that he held, looking down on its rifled nature and turning to his object of interest. Less than 100 paces away, he eyed his officer, who was riling up his men. “ I have dispatched a messenger to our north for some reinforcements, but men, it will be us!”
He takes a breath, focusing. Even when the short man has been exiled to a far off island, there are still issues that his fools are causing, he remarked in a barely hidden scoff. He eyed the captain of the rankers, a little unit of skirmishers attached to them. The Jaeger had no idea where his sergeant had disappeared off to, but the forest nearest to this place was the most kind to this familiar grouping.
The three rows of the rankers gave him comfort, for they had not broken discipline. They remained ready, their weapons up and focusing down. The banner of the Prussian kingdom waved defiantly near the officers who stood at the ready with their spy glasses. Fifers played, drums beat away the tunes of a simple tune to keep discipline steady. Bayonets focused forward, Korporal Ludwig focused his iron sights on a few parts of a large field that led to where he was. Not the greatest position, sitting on the middle of a hill, but he needed the high ground.
Loyalist… treating that emperor like a god after what he did. This time he allowed himself a scoff. Before, rolling like thunder, he witnesses something slowly appear over another hill in the distance. Distant chanting, like the incantations of a dark spell, slowly began to fill the air.
His eyes focused, Ludwig lined up his iron sights and readied. He knows his fellow Jagers were readying for the coming column too, for he saw flintlocks move to ready from behind a few bushes. He did not know how many were coming, but they did not have a 12 pounder cannon or even a howitzer. Yet there was a river, and the British had a Brig-Sloop that was not that far north of here.
He was hoping that the messenger would be able to get to it in time. There were still sizable loyalist forces in this area, and he did not wish to fight it within at least a few cannoneers. But with that body of water behind them and if that ship gets here in time, then they’d have ample firepower to handle the incoming column.
When they appeared, the column flooded in like foam across the German shore. A large rank, the size of nine men across, manifested with their bayonets at the ready. They were chanting something in their language, leading a company of soldiers that got larger and larger. Drums and fifes began to sing a war song, the echoed rolling of the beat getting louder and louder.
”Men! Prepare to attack!” The captain barks, Ludwig aiming down at the approaching column whose skirmishes began to appear. “Jagers! At the enemy skirmishes!” He took a steadying breath, and the Jager saw the uniform of one French Loyalist getting too close while the column continued to appear.
He looked over to where his sergeant was, who appeared holding up a weapon of his own. Always willing to fight alongside us, damn that Captain who hides behind his lines. “Men!” the sergeant barked for him to hear, “Disrupt their skirmishers, and drive them off!”
”Jawohl!” He heard a response, with his own reaction being the depression of his trigger. The flintlock flew forward, striking against the pan. Sparks began to dance, before he felt his gun recoil. A hit he has been familiar with for the longest of times. A round escaped from his weapon, but his victory in fighting the recoil rewarded him with the successful landing of a shot.
There was a spot of blood, and a body being knocked backwards. His musket firing into the sky harmlessly. The skirmisher falls to the ground, a few more of his comrades falling with him.
Sheisse, he thinks, reaching for his horn and preparing his next shot. Only a few in this opening, not good.
The smell of gunpowder and the smoke which rose to fill the air gave him the energy to speed this process up. Using his horn, he put the right amount of powder into his pan, before setting it aside and producing an actual round.
The cartridge went into the muzzle, which he accomplished after ripping out a part of the paper with his teeth, and allowing the contents down the barrel. The rankers fired a row of shots that cut down a few of the incoming, just as he gets a smaller rammer and a wooden mallet and starts seating the round just right. He produces a longer rammer, taking it out and pushing the round firmly down to where the powder is.
All in twelve seconds, which was a record for his Jaeger unit. When he was hunting smaller critters back where he lived on the outskirts and closer to the forest, this was a necessity to get as much as possible. He still thanks the gods above that he maintained his weapon discipline even after entering the Prussian army.
He fired again, and he faced having to do the process all over again. The skies above darkened as the gunfire continued. He noticed a more forward squadron of Jaegers started pulling back, especially as the columns of bayonets got closer and closer, less than three hundred paces now. He was getting a little bit nervous, these loyalists were getting closer and closer, and the skies filled with a terrible strange miasma that began to choke him.
Ludwig got up from his hill, and began to step back. He prepared his weapon once more and fired again. Just as the ranks near him began to puff smoke and fire like dragons.
”Where in the name of the devil is our messenger?!” Was the first thing he heard getting back to the lines. A round flew by his head, nailing a sergeant in his head and collapsing. The march of the column got closer and closer, even as the three ranks continued to volley.
The distant galloping of a horse could be heard, just as a distant whistle began to be heard. “Sir, I’m here!” A voice called out, just as the man of the hour gets off of his steed, which huffed in disinterest. With a quick snap of his honor, he began to report. “The Brig-Sloop is here, and they are disembarking a battalion of their Royal marines onboard.”
”Good, now get your rifle and help us defend the line!” The individual was pushed back into formation, letting out his report in the time that Ludwig was able to let out 2 more shots and more of the column was felled. The skirmisher grimaced, watching a bunch of his fellow Jagers get cut down. “Men! Get ready, they are advancing!”
Here we go… Ludwig muttered to himself, just as a few of his sergeants started to reach their line. “ We are down by 20 men! We don’t know they’re actually pushing on us!” Ludwig fires again, hitting a drummer in the head and removing a bit of their command structure.
The captain’s horse started to get anxious, the rankers were being outnumbered, and the French loyalists were still coming. The skirmishes were being pinched, and his fears slowly began to rise. Was he not going to be able to be buried back in his home, Leipzig…?
“ Men! Hold the line—! ”
It was then, the sound of shells flying over was heard. Mid priming of his gun’s pan, Ludwig made the fatal mistake of looking away for a moment. Back towards the Ems-Weser river, he eyes the Royal Navy warship, whose gangplanks were down and slowly emptying of the marines onboard.
His spine froze, at the same timing of the skies above becoming a purplish, pink mess that rendered the skies silenced from their normal joys and wonders. The shells hit against the warship like the hammers of the gods, striking at the surface and cutting down the ranks that were rushing to get off.
The deck rocked with the impact of 21 shells, the wooden flooring splintering. Several more splashes followed, peppering around the hull of the ship—not different from the work of a fine Parisian chef. It was then the entirety of the broadside was impacted. Roundshots penetrating the thick body of part of Britain’s pride. Skewering through the crew and causing many Royal marines still on the gangway to fall into the river.
Then, the fuzes exploded. The shells that were able to land on the deck or go through it exploded in its entirety. Smited, as though the punishment was from God himself. The warship found itself rendered in half, as its magazine exploded. All of that gunpowder and unused shells, ignited by a sudden rush of gutsily-launched shells.
Ludwig felt terror render his being, overriding the discipline that once governed him. Realization immediately flooded him, and that’s all that’s left of his mind which screamed one fact — in parallel with the captain who desired to retreat.
“THEY HAVE ARTILLERY—! ” Was his final warning, swinging his steed around. Before they could even run, before the thought of even think of retreating, another wave of shells whistled for him. From then on, he and the forces there knew their fates were sealed, and they moved to make one more act of defiance. One more volley, or one rush for the safety of the German city nearby.
Ludwig made one more effort to raise his gun, and successfully got one more haphazard shot off. The round flying out and hitting a sapper dead in the heart. The big, beastly individual fell to the grass.
One more for Prussia—! He instantly cheered. If that were to be his last kill, then so be it. He lowered his rifle, and closed his eyes shut. Just as the rankers fired one more volley into the column of chanting loyalists, the Korporal felt — for the smallest of moments, something strike against his shako.
Something heavy, something made of iron. A howitzer launched shell that— as though guided by the gods themselves —hit him squarely in the head with the accuracy of the finest Austrian sharpshooters.
And from then, it was good night forever.
“…with the Trial ongoing, the United States’ populace has found itself invigorated by the two major victories scored against the Archons and the UNSC…”
Drones on the reports of the Euro24, whose news bulletin—being one of the few fully functional in the western world that has not collapsed when America’s networks went quiet and the undersea cables were trampled. It still had direct lines all across Europe, and for some, it was good enough for it was delivering still enough of the facts to make a decision. Yet, tragically as observed, it is not enough to try and patch together a world that was seeing its stability’s foundations crack.
For the crumbling powers of France and Britain, who ache and bend as New York’s shuttered doors collapse their economic power, they have their eyes on the trial for their economic interests. It is not hard for one side of Europe to miss after all, how the House of Commons and the European Parliament are panicking. They had been relying on the purse of investment that came right out of Washington, and now that this trial puts that pipeline between being closed or let free again, the national executives are trying to prevent the worst from happening.
For select nations on Earth however? They had their own interests. They were not as tied economically to the West as that part of the EU was, but there was a threat that was threatening to encroach on Europe. And that has the Baltics, Finland, and even Ukraine more concerned over that than they are about what occurs in Fontaine.
“Amidst all of this, the Russian Federation is finally declared to be dead,” the reporter states, their eyes awash with the surprise like a newly born faun. “It is reported that loyalists in the Moscow Area have stormed the ultranationalist strongholds with advanced warfighting technology. They have pledged their allegiance to Alexei, who is still presumed to be taken by the Tsaritsa. Zapolryney Palace refuses to comment…”
”Hm, never thought we shall see the day the great Russian bear dies before we die again.” Snark, riddled with cynicism, had been delivered to a meeting room full of waiting men and women. On their lapels were a flag of 2 simple colors. Red and white, the latter over the former. As poignant as bone, and as running as the blood that turned the history of this nation. The individual who had spoken leans in, her hands clasped and a grim look in her eyes. “But that leaves us in a precarious situation.”
”Tak,” agrees another individual, fixing their sharpened spectacles and opening a hologram. “As much as we hated the guts of Moscow, they were a demon we were familiar with. Now,” a switch was pressed, and the coat of arms of Russia over its land found itself replaced with the icy emblem of Snezhnaya. “There is likely to be a new storm that will befall us.”
”I do not think we can purchase American toys to defend us now,” another speaks up, keeping their tone low and measured. “Neither can we call upon Japan or even the Germans… perhaps we can contract the South Koreans for more of their tanks?”
”They do make some incredible quality ones. Plus, we can purchase parts from the Nordics. They have licenses to produce them,” agreed the man with glasses. “It is beyond me how they received the license for that, but it is good that they have it.”
”What about our American machines?” Questioned another woman who sat at one end of the table. “We simply have too much that cannot just stop calling Washington for parts for. Abrams tanks, ATTEs, Schwarzkopfs… we spent trillions getting a stockpile that makes the land armies of the European Defense Ministry seem like small skirmisher squads, and now we find our ability to maintain them threatened because of some divine serpent from an off-brand China?”
”Mrs. Katarzyna,” chides the last person in the room, at the far end of the table. Their tone was not of anger or hostility, just of professional warning of pain. “We are a government, let us keep our language more measured than that.”
” Przepraszam, ” was her response, before firmly planting herself deep into her seat. The news reel still played. “The American government is seeing a wave of legal advice and support from people all across the world, and they are using this to galvanize their efforts to further win the overturning of a contract—“
”Americans,” that voice speaks again, cutting off the report with a storm of static. “Always resisting till the very sun and the stars die.” A chair’s squeaks as its owner places down the control of the television. “But even I doubt their ability to defend against threats when their very economy and congress is paralyzed. That is why the movements of this… Snezhnaya worries me so.”
Agreed murmurs were the reaction, the politicians in the room remaining quiet as these advisors and secretaries stated their view. “We could expand our defense budget, it is the simplest task we can undergo,” spectacles speaks again, pushing forward some papers that were rapidly turned into holograms for them all to share. “Our nuclear weapons program has vastly outpaced the dusted reserves and enrichment plants of even France, and we are producing low radiation nuclear weapons by the pallet.”
”You have spent a lot of time studying American logistics to be reporting nuclear weapons in pallets. ” Comments the leader, amused at the lexicon chosen.
“Well as the saying goes, ‘Learn from the best’, Mr. President.” He had to cover his smirk at that, wholeheartedly agreeing with that sentiment. He leans back in his seat, fixing his glasses. Staring at an updated blue marble globe of the Earth, he ponders about the place of the Republic of Poland in this world.
Archons… Trials… he leans back further, the creaking of his chair barely penetrating the static of chatter that filled the room. It is clear the balance of power has become more abstract. The raw power of divinity is a task to overcome, however it is not an impossible wall—for the universe’ natural nature is to seek balance.
He recalled signing a check to the Fontanians, one issued for 10.5 megalitres of Indemnitium and the services to make it work. It should be enough to power Warsaw, more than enough if London’s experiments with the energy source are still to be believed. I should allocate that .5… now about that remaining 10…
That former statistic, in his mind, was going to be the only amount used to actually power the nation. The rest? He turns to face a woman in the room, dressed in a cross between a military uniform and a scientist’s lab coat. “Ms. Aldona,” she perks up at the mention of her name, standing at attention. “How is the experiment going? You should have received the amount you needed earlier today.”
” Tak, ” she affirms, nodding vigorously. “We are preparing for our first launch tests with the equivalent weight. But, an actual explosion test would mean that we need to purchase more of the energy source.”
”That will be difficult, to say the least,” responds a politician in the room, leaning on their armrest with disinterest. “If Poland suddenly turns around and demands more of the energy source, would it not look suspicious to the Palais Mermonia or even NATO at large?”
”Not if we frame it correctly.” The president leans forward, a solution on his mind. “10.5 megalitres is only enough to cleanly sustain a small portion of our country. If we ask for…” a hologram quickly manifests and using a calculator from the same projection, he does the math. “Another… 40 megalitres would appear as a natural amount for modernizing the energy grid of the rest of the country—but in reality only about 20 megalitres will actually be used for its stated purpose..”
They quickly deliberated on that, coming to a solution not too long after. “Mr. President, we agree that may be the best solution to our conundrum.” The head of state turns back to the army scientist, and gestures to her.
”You will have your Indemnitium tomorrow,” he then claps his hands and pivots, pulling up pictures of a new relevant problem. “Now, we need to discuss something that protests in Warsaw are begging for.”
“Ah yes, the mobilization of our armed forces?” Inquires another. “That should be an easy bill to pass. The global security situation is getting worse, and not even the security pacts that we have will be enough to face it.”
”I will sign a bill, that should be enough until we gather more information against the Archonic threat.” The president clicks his tongue, “We still have the largest land army in Europe, even amidst the advancements of the others. We are thinking of opening diplomatic relations with Sumeru,” the officials around him held their tongue, allowing the man to explain himself. “They are Teyvat’s biggest source of academic knowledge, perhaps we can utilize that to learn more about them.”
“If that is the case,” another individual pipes in with a raised hand. “I will ask academic investigators to venture into the Akademiya, I am not sure how free their information sharing is, but I believe we might have some insights into the nature and power of the gods as a result.”
“Granted.” With that final approval, many leaned back in their seats and turned back to the tv screen—whose static had been annoying a few closest to the device. “Let us return to the show, any new developments is something we must be made aware of for the security and defense of our nation.”
“Understood,” and the president raises the remote once again. A present the button followed, and the news reel began to greet them—after a momentary pause and words from their sponsors.
In her room, the star reporter of the Steambird has never felt so small than she does now. 6:24 read the cards of the clock closest to her—clicking as they flipped to the next minute. Charlotte, truthfully, did not get a lot of sleep last night. Anxiety ate at her like the eels did around their prey. It was causing her to toss and turn in her sleep. Countless what ifs spiraled through her mind, endless scenarios and possibilities.
Do I do it…? Questions one side of her mind.
Ohhh but what if… argues the other side, the one where her monocle rests.
This was the back and forth that plagued her now. Constantly between sharing and not sharing. It was a mentally exhausting exercise, and yet she could do nothing but keep the spiral going. The matter that was in her heart was so critical, so severe that anything less than scrutiny that would make the FRI jealous would be causing an injustice. The young sunlight began to bleed into the room, providing her some warmth and comfort, but not enough to fully keep the bitter chill from feasting away.
She was hunched over the desk of a hotel room that she was visiting. Paid off by Steambird since she was the one reporting on the trial between the United States and the Archons. Her gloved digits shakily wielded a pen whose ink was dripping onto her signature. Yet, at the forefront of her mind, it is not the fear that this article won’t be received. No, she has faced countless times where she was not sure if her boss was going to accept what she had made for publication.
Truthfully, that should not to cause her to tremble at all.
No, instead it is deliberation, birthed from something still in her gasp.
In a brown sandwich bag, were the dirty secrets she raked up from the muds of America’s swamp. Where a manipulative politician—undoubtedly not of human nature—tried to play the song of a siren to the very god that ruled over Liyue himself. And he had taken the bait. This is where her dilemma begins; she was a mere human. A reporter who had found herself in D.C. because her boss wanted her to get the scoop, and yet here she was now—a human with forbidden knowledge that would stay in the dark.
Yet, like what Euphrasie claims and the very organizations he works for does too; A Good Newspaper should be a Lighthouse of Truth!
The very foundation on which Charlotte will fight on, and yet she was grappling with whether or not letting the incandescent bulbs of the towers glow upon this ugly fact. She’s left with a question, over and over again, no matter how much she tries to find an answer. The very simple question of what should I do ?
Ever since she landed in Fontaine, she has struggled with approaching it without the severe cost of her sleep. Not to mention, the fact that some organization within the United States that even outranks some of their top government officials was the ones who gave her that information is astounding.
She was a just a human, yet they expected her to use that information to surprise them.
Surprise them how? Vindicate the United States? To expose the politician—whose name she still tried to search in vain of the internet being on lock down? How can she use this evidence without causing a full extent of chaos? How does she even deliver the evidence without exposing how she even got it?
She needs to leave for the trial in less than half of an hour, get the best seat she can to take pictures, and then be ready for the arguments to be presented. And yet, her biggest concern would be approaching this entire situation. How does she use what she learned as…
… evidence…
The mind of the reporter began to swing into action—cogs turning on just that single word alone. … This entire trial is about how the contract’s founding conditions are unfair. Economically, politically, legally… and yet there was the missing hidden that she almost missed.
She remembered ranting mentally about it when she first heard the transcript, and thinking on it now— logically is the final part missing from the equation.
The anecdotes—“… Oh come on lass, America’s the most advanced military on Earth”/“You cannot go one day without hearing from the Americans about their pride in technological development…”— that she heard from those tourists who have visited Fontaine?
Nobody ever spoke about the mythological element. All of it was technological, military, human elements. Things that can be manufactured by human technology.
A missile who uses the flesh of some ancient alligator? That goes against everything logically known about the nation. What is shared publicly, everyday, without revealing too many cards about national security… and yet this transcript…
That might be it—! She suddenly snaps with a proud Eureka! in her heart. I can use this transcript to… She suddenly took hold of the bag—its contents as strong as an anchor, and equipped Monsieur Veritas. Her beret followed soon after, turning towards the door which was now awash in the golden light of the sun.
Her hand takes a firm hold of the handle, and twists it.
Time to fix this mess—!