Thick black vests covered the soldiers' heavy uniforms; various tints of gray peppered their attire which, I assumed, helped conceal them in the rocky terrain that covered most of the planet. Also, unlike Raze's minions, most of the imposing gentlemen standing at attention possessed firearms. From semi-automatic machine guns to six-shot revolvers, at least half the men secured some form of gun on their shoulders, in their hands, or strapped to their hips. That certainly raised the stakes of the game.
At the head of the entourage of ten soldiers stood a slender, well toned man towering at least six feet three inches. His well-defined biceps and triceps popped since he stood with both arms folded just beneath his chest. The same black beret sported by his soldiers rested atop his head, though small copper strands of hair jutted from the sides and down his forehead. A thin steel necklace hung around his neck and fell between the ridge dividing his pectorals.
Other than the beret, the man at the front of the troops donned far different raiment than his troops. A green tank top hugged his shoulders and chest before tucking into a pair of dark, forest-green camouflaged pants held at his waist by a simple black belt. Twin thick black combat boots rested on either of the man's feet to complete his ensemble. An intricate tattoo that began at the tops of his shoulders and raced down either of his arms decorated his pale skin in a bright blue tribal pattern.
From my position, even with my telescopic sight, I detected no weaponry on his person; though when marching with an escort as large as that man possessed, weapons might have been a bit overkill. The stranger's steel blue eyes stared forward at Mayor Trumark, the large congregation of Loftsborough's citizens standing behind him, and Crelyos' bulky figure standing next to the mayor. Crelyos clenched his fists so tightly that I feared he might cut into his palm or break his prosthetic limb.
“Reasonable? Oh goodness young ones these days… What do you mean be reasonable? You drop into my city like it's a terrorist warehouse, wave your guns around, start making demands, and then tell me to be reasonable when I refuse them?!” Mayor Trumark's dusty-old-man-voice reached my heightened auditory sense from across the football field's length that separated us. Disdain and irritation saturated his tone.
“Let us consider the options, Mayor. Either you release Raze and his subordinates to my care, or I take him by force with no guarantee that the citizens of your fair city will remain unharmed. Which sounds more reasonable to you?” The man with his arms folded replied with an eerie calm that unsettled me even more than Raze's eccentric accent.
“Sarge, stop ignoring me! I asked you a question! Why are you working for Bradich? Do you know what he's done to the world? Do you know how many people died?” Crelyos stepped forward; his frustrated shouts echoed with little regard to the conversation transpiring between the mayor and the sleek-muscled man he identified as Sarge.
“In due time, Crelyos. Right now I am negotiating the release of one of my comrades,” Sarge unfolded his right arm and lifted it in a halting gesture toward the blond mercenary. I arched a single brow at the spectacle playing out like dramatic choreography.
The sound of heavy thuds snapped my attention from the conversation to the path leading to the archway against which I hid. The methodic intervals of the thuds indicated marching footfalls; it was a patrol. I swung my partially exposed torso back into the shadows and flattened my back against the stone. The footsteps drew nearer, so I softened the sounds of my breathing and ordered my muscles to remain absolutely still. With my head turned toward the archway's opening, I watched as one of Sarge's men, clad in the same balaclava as his comrades, marched through the arch mere feet to my left side. His eyes ardently swept the area.
“Please spin left…” I thought to myself as he began the turn to head back into the city square. If the soldier's heel spun him to the right, his gaze would inadvertently fall upon my hiding place, but a swift spin to the left would leave me safe from detection. As luck would have it, the soldier drew back his left foot and pivoted upon it, twisting his body to the left before marching hastily back into the city to continue his patrol.
“Come now, Mayor Trumark. My proposal is more than generous. Not only will I rid Loftsborough of Raze and his brigands, but I will not so much as turn over one of the many loose stones scattered about your city.” Sarge continued his conversation with Trumark. When I glanced back around the corner of the arch, Sarge failed to offer Crelyos even passing recognition during his negotiation with Loftsborough's leader.
“You know what, Sarge? It doesn't matter what Trumark says, I'm not letting you take Raze! He told us what would happen if your organization got their hands on him, and I won't allow him to be killed. He deserves the chance to change his ways and go back to being his old self!” Crelyos stepped between the mayor and Sarge. The copper-haired military leader finally acknowledged Crelyos' presence with an aggravated glare.
“Is that so? A word of advice, Crelyos. Do not stand in my way. I have orders. I will kill you if I must.” Sarge slowly unfolded his arms and brought his hands to his sides. I detected a brief tension in his core; Sarge was ready to fight, if necessary, in order to complete his objective.
A white coat's sudden flutter in the distance drew my attention from the two former military men. A hundred feet from Eugene's mansion, Oswald stood among a few of the town's citizens. Aside from the mass gathered behind the mayor in the town center, small pockets of bystanders crowded the outskirts of the city square curiously murmuring to one another about the events displayed before them.
I leaned out a little farther from behind the arch; though the action increased my risk of detection, it allowed me to quickly calculate the number of hostiles occupying Loftsborough. Four clusters of citizens stood littered about the outskirts of the city; each possessed its own pair of armed guards who stood with imposing stature at the crowd's left and right. Other than the patrolling soldier with whom I almost became far too familiar, six men marched in specific intervals around the central square. Adding to that number the ten men at sharp attention behind Sarge, I concluded the enemy forces numbered at approximately twenty five. That was five more than Samson mentioned. I needed my rifle; I needed to reach Oswald.
I gripped the dagger at my hip and slowly slid it from its sheath. The smooth whisper of steel gliding across synthetic leather traveled to my ears like a subtle breeze. As the methodic thud of boots clicking against the steel ground tickled my hearing a second time, I pressed my back against the wall once again. This time, however, my dagger readily waited in my right hand.
Like clockwork, Sarge's patrol stepped through the archway and scanned the darkness that encompassed the elevator shaft and its command tower. Either the soldier possessed a night vision augment, or he simply watched for motion in the inky blackness. Either way, whatever vision he possessed soon ceased functioning at all. As before, the man drew his left foot back to pivot; he intended to return to his patrol along the city's outskirts with no incident to report. Unfortunately, we were in disagreement on how we envisioned the next five seconds to proceed. As he twisted his body and brought his broad back into full view, I spun from my concealed position and tossed my left hand around his face. His body's natural turn brought his mouth securely against my palm as I finished my spin and came to rest with my chest securely pressed against his back. Before his lips uttered even a muffled cry, I drew the sharpened edge of my long dagger across his wind pipe. A hiss of air and gurgle of blood escaped the unfortunate patrolman, but even that ended quickly when the same motion that drew my blade across his throat brought its tip to rest against the back of his skull. A firm push with my right hand and a pull with my left sent the dagger crunching through bone and into the portion of his brain housing his restorative nanite.
His body twitched against me for a few seconds before falling limp; my legs tensed to support the additional weight when his corpse dropped against my chest. I swiftly yanked my dagger from
the back of his head, and after returning it to its sheath, I wrapped my arms in a tight embrace around his chest and dragged him into the nearby shadows. After properly tucking away his body, I carefully crept back to the archway and took a deep breath. The distant conversation between my comrade and his former commander echoed in the back of my mind. Though my senses remained piqued through the activation of my nanites, I focused my concentration solely on infiltrating the city. I slowly peered around the corner and surveyed the patrols.
Once certain that darting into the city square would not compromise me, I turned the corner of the archway. I kept low and drifted through the shadows that Loftsborough's abstract architecture provided, traversing the city's perimeter like a purposeful specter. I encountered my first obstacle at one of the larger houses decorating the town square. The tall home likely belonged to one of the “wealthier” scavengers of Loftsborough, and it offered an impressive vantage point at its peak. A large, flat area crowned the building and simultaneously served as its terrace. The owner probably ventured to the roof to admire the view and soak up the faux rays cast by the city's glaring artificial sun.
Unfortunately, as I recognized its tactical boons so did Sarge's soldiers Sarge's. A single man stood alert atop the structure; his domineering gaze cast an overwatch across much of the city square, and he patrolled the perimeter of the rooftop in a steady, well-trained pattern. I annoyedly sighed at the difficulty of the infiltration and glanced back toward the archway from which I emerged. It would certainly only be a matter of time before the patrols were due to report, and with the efficiency of the unit, a patrol or two failing to report likely meant “game over” for anyone brazen enough to challenge Sarge's outfit.
“Bring it on,” I thought.
When the guard briefly shifted his attention to one of the other sectors of the city square, I made my move. I fluttered in utter silence across the steel ground, and within seconds I pressed my back against the wall of the house. I shifted around the corners until I reached the side of the building opposite Sarge and the large group of soldiers. The chill breeze from the slit between the city's metal plates cooled the parts of my flesh not covered by my black tank top or cargo pants. But there was no time for shivering.
I steadied my breath and glanced up to assess my options. A window, situated roughly five feet below the square lining of the roof, piqued my interest. It likely belonged to a makeshift attic directly below the roof itself. I glanced to the nearby door leading into the domicile; the idea of maneuvering through the unknown territory of the home and finding the attic, while plausible, struck me as risky endeavor, not to mention a waste of time. Instead, I enhanced the muscles in my arms and legs with my Supersoldier implant and gripped the various abstract protrusions which riddled the exterior wall.
With the trained silence of an assassin, I scaled the building, and upon reaching the window I desired, I quietly slid it open and hopped inside. The attic's musty metallic odor filled my nostrils and suggested its owner rarely used it even when Loftsborough was not facing one of its many crises. If the pungent smell nearly overpowered me, I possessed little time before the wind carried the smell to the vigilant guard a mere five feet above the cavity in which I stood.
I swiftly hooked the back of my legs on either side of the window sill and sat with my back facing the chill air outside; I spread my thighs far enough apart to properly brace myself, and after taking one final deep breath, I arched my back until I hung upside down from the window itself. I once more drew my lengthened knife from its home at my waist, and as my hair spilled like an ink waterfall toward the ground, I began tapping the blade of the dagger in set intervals against the building's metal plates.
The resounding rings reminded me of clinking coins, and not much time passed before the sound's intended effect bore fruit. “Huh?” I heard my target's curious grunt high above me. His heavy footsteps carried him to the edge of his patrol perimeter; no doubt he intended to peer over the edge and confirm some mundane source responsible for the noise, release a sigh of relief, and return to his post until the occupation of Loftsborough concluded and he could return home with his platoon to enjoy a round of sludge. As with the previous guard, I disagreed with the course of those events, and I considered myself to be rather persuasive.
No sooner did the soldier's head peer over the side of the building than I tightened the muscles in my abdomen and curled upward with the motion of a hanging sit-up. After transferring the momentum from my core to my shoulder, and eventually the extension of my arm, I launched the dagger with practiced expertise directly toward his forehead. The “thwack” as the blade sank into his skull was quickly followed by the whoosh of his lifeless body toppling over the roof's edge.
I desired as little compromise as possible, and the loud thud of a body as it fell several stories to the ground struck me as an unacceptable risk of detection. With my core muscles clenched and my body virtually horizontal, I steeled myself for the impact of his descent. My extended arms encircled him, but the force behind his fall broke the firm domination my abdomen possessed over gravity. My body forcefully arched back into an upside down vertical mess.
Even with my Supersoldier augment, my physical strength barely equated to that of a normal human bodybuilder. Others with naturally strong frames or an exceedingly advanced nanite possessed near superhuman levels of physical prowess. People like Crelyos, for example. In the moment when I strained to keep my legs hooked to the window and grunted under the stress of the dead soldier's body weighing me down, I envied those bastards.
“Buddy, you need to go on a diet,” I thought to myself as I struggled to draw his figure flush with my own. Without the dangling weight, the curl of my abdomen with augmented muscles proved just strong enough to fold the two of us into the attic with a sit-up I would assuredly never forget. Once inside, I retrieved my long dagger from the front of his skull and shoved it through his medulla oblongata to ensure his expiration.
After sheathing the weapon, I glanced out the window toward Eugene's mansion and Oswald standing mere feet from its protective confines. I descended to the ground and resumed my stealthy endeavor. The remaining distance proved uneventful, as the number of guards thinned the further from the heart of the occupation I traveled. The one or two that may have proved threatening simply lacked the expert attention needed to detect my movements. Within a few moments, I pressed my back against the rear wall of Eugene's home.
I slowly twisted around the corner and grabbed a tiny pebble from one of the building's loose stone components. I took careful aim and drew my arm back with every intention of beaming the tiny rock straight into the back of Oswald's head. A gentle toss likely would have sufficed, but the idea of causing him mild physical discomfort provided me with a great sense of justice in lieu of the nightmare I endured thanks to his experimental let's-kill-Ihlia serum. Unfortunately, the moment I lifted my hand to practice my fastball pitching technique against the old codger, he extended his hand behind him and motioned exotically to inform me of his keen awareness of my presence.
“How the hell does he do that? Honestly…” I thought to myself as I coiled back into the shadow of our temporary abode.
I assumed Oswald turned to head in my direction, for the sound of one of the nearby guards erupted sharply, “Hey, old man, where do you think you're going? Get back here with the rest of the trash!” The voice was well-trained. It possessed the illusion of a serious threat and the authoritative depth of a command one naturally desired to obey; of course, that only applied to weak-willed civilian types. Oswald was many things, weak-willed was not one of them.
The old codger's voice rose up immediately with a calm but logical exposition. It possessed all the points and evidence needed to convince a rational mind of its validity. The topic, unfortunately, made me slam my palm into my face, an action which accompanied my aggravated sigh.
“Good brutish captor, migh
t I remind you that even we trash have necessary bodily functions to which we must attend? Given my age, my prostate tends to flare up. When it does, it creates a powerful need to urinate. Unless you are suggesting that I expel my urine on you or another innocent bystander, I suggest you allow me time to do my business.” Oswald's matter-of-fact tone left the sentry speechless for a few seconds, but eventually he fired off a rebuttal.
“W-well, uh. Look, there's a bucket. Take that bucket and go over there somewhere, but make sure that I can see you! No funny business!” Though my position prevented me from witnessing the spectacle, I assumed the bewildered guard struggled to make sense of Oswald's long-winded explanation for the simple need to piss. When he finally decided to avoid making heads or tails of the speech, he caved in and gestured somewhere remote but in visual range for the good doctor to expel his “liquid.”
“You dare to have me urinate in front of so many? Including women and small children? You are a fiend, sir, but I can respect the compromise. I shall walk over to the corner of this building so that only you can see me. I shan't be but a moment,” Oswald responded.
The brief moment when Oswald lifted the alleged bucket created a small scrape; the old codger's approaching footsteps soon followed the sound, and I assumed he had conveniently chosen my location to perform his business. Sure enough, the towering figure of my longtime friend and nanite surgeon appeared. I prepared to speak, but the sound of the doctor's trousers unzipping completely changed the words that hissed from my lips in a furious whisper.
“I thought that was just a ruse to get over here! What do you think you're doing?!” I exclaimed quietly.
NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire Page 38
