Red meat.
A piece of throbbing red flesh. For some reason, it took Amara a long time (or she had the feeling it took a long time) to recognize it as a heart.
It was her heart, and it was beating in someone else's hand.
With each palpitation, it squirted large amounts of blood through the heart valves, which were now connected to nothing.
I'm going to die, she thought.
With fear.
Anyone who wasn't afraid of dying wasn't human, plain and simple. But...
But she realized the meaninglessness of life in her last moments. How could she not? She was practically forced to realize it, seeing that her life, anyone's life, was small enough to fit in someone's hand.
And be crushed.
That didn't change anything. Not really. She was afraid.
I don't want to die, oh gods, I don't want to die.
Those thoughts tinged with despair were the last before everything that girl was, and what she could have been, disappeared into the darkness of oblivion that awaited all human beings.
■
Flesh.
Throbbing red flesh, dripping with blood.
And he was seeing it...
He was seeing it through the hole in a girl's chest. Through her broken and bent ribs. Through flesh... and blood.
A beating heart, in the hand of the person behind her.
A soldier who shouldn't even be alive.
His own armor had shattered him, he had the pieces of the armor nailed all over him. He hadn't been a human being from the start, but like that he didn't even look like one.
In that state, even if he had managed to barely cling to life, he shouldn't have been able to move.
Yet somehow
somehow
he had stood up behind Amara and...
and...
It had ripped out her heart.
Amara turned around. With the last moments of her life, she looked at the beating heart in the soldier's hand.
Before he crushed it.
Then two things happened. Amara collapsed as if the last thread that tied her to life had been cut, and Desmond, full of rage, lunged for the enemy like a raging wind.
Like a raging wind, his sword descended on the enemy.
He didn't try to dodge the attack, nor could he have, even if he had tried.
The enemy was cleaved in half with his sword.
The two halves fell rolling around.
It was done, but too late. Amara was already dead and even if Desmond had been paralyzed, unable to do anything, the brief flame of the enemy would have extinguished itself in the next few seconds.
No, in fact, perhaps he had been dead before Desmond had cut him in half.
Perhaps... do what he did, it was all he could with what life he had left and the flame was snuffed out.
Desmond fell to his knees.
On one side, the two halves of the enemy.
On his other side, the girl who had died because he had failed to save her.
Again and again.
Again and again and again, without changing.
The same thing happened to him. The same thing he let happen.
Abigail knelt down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. Desmond thought she would say something. She didn't.
In situations like this, Desmond always sought to say the right thing to prove himself. But maybe that was a mistake.
Maybe Abigail had lived more than long enough to realize that, all too often, words were not enough.
Nothing was enough. And maybe he should accept that.
And a lot of other things. But it was just... it was so frustrating! He was never strong enough when it counted. Amara had died in front of his eyes. He could have prevented it.
It wasn't even his biggest failure of the night.
He...
With his own hands, he had killed so many people. Pushed by the will of another, but that didn't matter, that was almost an excuse.
Those boys and girls were dead and he had to do something about it.
Take responsibility.
But...
"It always ends the same," Desmond said. "Always."
That reminded him of his thoughts before this madness really began.
That tonight was going to be like a repeat of the day of the initiation test.
At the moment, it had every indication that things were going to end up exactly the same.
Desmond chuckled to himself.
The same?
They'd be lucky if there were as many survivors as there were that day... assuming, of course, that if they survived this it wouldn't be as slaves to the Empire. Which was also possible, even likely, considering they were showing themselves willing to cooperate with their most hated enemies for the sake of winning. Like Laura. Like the shadow.
Desmond felt a chill.
Desmond felt like puking his guts out.
"We have to get out of here," Abigail said, finally.
"How?" Christina asked.
"Look at you. You can barely stand up. Amy is bleeding to death as we speak and she's not going to be able to stand, not without help. And we've ended up in this state because of eight soldiers in those strange, new armor. There are hundreds out there. There's nothing we can do but escape."
Amy. That's right, Amy.
Desmond looked at the girl as if hoping she looked different than the last time he glanced at her.
Like hoping to see her better, magically.
She had stopped bleeding.
That wasn't an improvement. Amy was pale as death, like the death approaching her, and she was shivering as if she was very cold.
They had to get her out of there, the sooner the better.
Desmond didn't know how long she could hold on like that.
She needed urgent medical attention.
"But you said it yourself. There are hundreds of soldiers," a cannonball, Christina grimaced as if thinking she was going to get hit "waiting out there. If we get out, they'll tear us to pieces."
But Christina was right, too. As black as their chances were...everyone's, not just Amy's, who was hurt like that....
If they got out, they'd be much worse.
Desmond couldn't see a way for them to escape, honestly.
"It depends on how we do it."
"Wouldn't it be better to wait?"
"You're a smart woman, Christina. Wait for who? For what?"
What did she mean?
"Unlike the academy, this place is not isolated from civilization. No accident, I'm sure. The nearest town is less than half a kilometer away, if I'm not mistaken. If reinforcements were going to come, they would have already done so."
Oh, shit.
Fuck, she was absolutely right.
It was clear they couldn't depend on reinforcements.
But why?
Christina was left without the ability to object, too.
It didn't matter why.
In any case, they had no choice but to take their chances. Then to put their necks on the gallows. In a manner of speaking.
"Anything stopping them from going in? Or hearing what was going on? Seeing it, even?" Desmond asked.
"Something like that." Abigail turned to him with a slight smile, as if she was pleased that his thoughts had gone in the right direction. Which was a little embarrassing. But, at the same time, very... maternal. Yes. "And I think I know what it is."
"Tell," Amy mumbled.
"The mage who looked like a living shadow," Abigail said. "There's no technologic way to do something like that, as far as I know, so he's most likely the one responsible."
If Abigail was right....
Then Desmond's failure to kill him was twice as great.
He gritted his teeth.
"But he got away," Amy pointed out. "What can we do now?"
"He must be close enough to here to maintain the barrier... or whatever he's doing."
"Kill it and we can get out," Christina said. "Well, that's just the first step, but okay, let's take it one step at a time. Just because he's here doesn't mean he's within our reach. If he's hiding somewhere in the forest, for example, as far away from the battle as he can, recovering (what anyone would do in his place, come on), concentrating on the barrier.... 'or whatever', then we... What can we do?"
Christina approached Amy, still prostrate on the ground. He saw the tears glistening in her eyes, purple as the evening sky.
But she was right, as much as it pained him to admit it.
As black as their chances were if they stayed here (everyone's, not just Amy's), trying to escape was not a better alternative.
They would be quickly surrounded and torn apart like by a pack of hyenas.
He couldn't see a way to escape with his life, or to even make it to the shadow.
But he was just a child.
Abigail had lived for two thousand years and had proposed that for a reason. She knew better than any of them. Even if he couldn't see the logic, it was best to rely on that experience and wisdom.
If there was any way her team would survive to see the next sunrise, that was it.
Let's do what she says, he was going to say.
But he didn't have time to utter a word. Her sharp ears picked up the sound of..... sliding, a heavy metal object.
The cockpit.
He turned around.
The cockpit. The creature inside had opened it, and had staggered forward out of it.
With a gun in his hands.
It was alone. He intended to die fighting.
But this time Desmond was ready. He was on his way. He wouldn't let him hurt anyone else.
The demon squeezed the trigger and held it tight.
Bullets flew randomly.
The soldier wasn't even bothering to aim. Fear had taken away his reason.
Seeing his death as inevitable, he at least wanted to take some of his enemies with him. As Desmond had said not a few times, he understood fear. And that feeling especially. Because he had been in that very place not too long ago.
He didn't get a bad taste in his mouth for knowing that similarity between him and one of those demons.
That was not something that made him human. It was something even an animal would feel.
Desmond didn't dodge the bullets.
Behind him were people he wanted to protect. So he stepped in the way of the bullets each time, swinging his sword. He cut the bullets in midair or received them with his newly regenerated body; that didn't mean recovered, as he had said, but he could take it.
In less than ten seconds, he was on top of the creature.
Desmond wrenched the pistol out of its hands by pulling it out with one hand, not the sword. Then he put that same hand to its neck, squeezing.
The beast's eyes widened.
It brought its hands to its neck, trying to remove his hand from its neck or at least loosen the pressure, catch some air, buy some time.
It got nothing, of course.
What it was doing was like trying to pierce the stones of a castle wall with his tongue. No matter how much effort it put into it, in other words, it wouldn't get anywhere.
Because the problem wasn't the effort, it was the tool.
That thing lacked the proper tools to do anything about Desmond, now that the only weapon it had on it had been taken away.
Its last resort for situations like these.
Desmond smiled, looking at the animal.
He'd say despite himself... but that wouldn't be true.
The truth was, he liked it. Yes, he liked it. And there was nothing wrong with that. It was more than his job. It was what they deserved.
This was the person who had killed Abigail, firing the cannons of the war machine. Now Abigail was out there as if nothing had happened.
But it didn't matter. That he had participated in this was bad enough.
That he had done something like this to Abigail deserved special treatment.
So Desmond smiled, anticipating his revenge.
"Let him go," Abigail said. That word might not have been an order, but to him, all her words were orders. So he let the piece of shit go.
But not before kicking the gun, sending it well away.
Desmond remembered then that he, too, had a gun.
That, as a consequence, he could have finished this much more quickly and without moving from the spot. Without getting shot, without taking any risk at all. Pulling out the gun and killing it with one hit, just that.
In other circumstances, that mistake would have made him feel ashamed of himself.
Regretting having lost himself in the moment and not having known how to react well.
But if he had drawn his gun, he would have surely killed the enemy instead of letting it suffer. Desmond would have reacted a little too well... and Abigail wanted him alive, for obvious reasons, now that he thought about it, now that he allowed himself to think.
So how could he regret it?
Abigail approached them leisurely.
Christina and Amy too, leaning on each other. Desmond stepped back to help them even though they didn't really need his help, to join in that sort of group hug.
Three people on their last legs, splattered with blood everywhere.
Tonight, Desmond had begun to feel a little... estranged from his team. He was willing to admit that, if only to himself.
Now, however, the tables were turned.
Helping Christina walk, letting her lean against him, one hand on Amy's, resting on Christina's shoulder, he felt as if they were puzzle pieces.
And they were.
Maybe they weren't the right people for each other.
But they were like pieces of a puzzle. For better or worse, they fit here and nowhere else.
This couldn't die here, like this. Tonight.
He wouldn't allow it.
They surrounded the fallen soldier as if to devour it. Their roles had been exchanged, which gave him great satisfaction.
"Now you will answer my questions," Abigail commanded, crossing her arms.
"What makes you think I'll cooperate with demons? "It was trying to put courage in its voice. And failing miserably. That thing was so scared it wouldn't be surprised if it literally pissed itself.
Abigail snorted, as unimpressed as he was.
"Always the same question. Humans are so predictable.....
"I'm going to die anyway," the shaky, sweaty thing stammered.
"Yes. Changing your fate is out of the question. The question here is how you're going to die."
"Huh?"
"Don't be slow. We're demons, aren't we? And I'm a terrible witch. You don't cooperate, and you think we're just going to sit on our hands? Or just slit your throat?"
Silence fell. In that deadly silence, the demon swallowed.
"No," Abigail continued. "We will use our demonic arts on you. To make you suffer. To make you sorry. Or just to enjoy it, or for all things at once and none. But you will suffer. You will suffer long before you die. And it's in your hands. A slow, agonizing death or a quick, relatively peaceful death? You are free to choose."
They hated and feared them in equal parts, seeing them as if they were demons. But they always displayed that bravado.
As if they were dealing with "mere human beings".
What idiots.
Would anyone choose to stand up for their ideals in a situation like this?
"All right. All right!"
Desmond came to the conclusion that no. That the creature's response was no surprise. Ideals, after all, were things without weight, without real value.
No one would make such a choice for mere ideals, but for things that really mattered.
Like friends.
Like family.
Or love.
Compared to those things, ideals were less than dust in the wind.
"What do you want to know?"
"The reinforcements should have arrived by now. What's preventing it? And how can we fix it?"
"That... thing! "He spat. "Like you. A mage. That thing is maintaining a barrier around the area."
"Where is it?"
"How should I know?"
Abigail nodded her head slowly.
"You're right," she said.
Then she plunged the knife into his neck. Running it back and forth, she almost cut off his head. It was an incredibly sharp knife.
He was dead in seconds. Just as she had promised him, a quick and relatively peaceful death.
Relatively.
There was no peace in those wide but dead eyes, staring blindly at the ceiling.
As the blood continued to gather in a pool beneath him. Beneath his slashed neck.
"This has confirmed that you were right," Amy said with effort, "but nothing has changed. We still have a big problem on our hands.
"The solution is right up ahead," Abigail said, nodding towards the war machine.
■
He gave the order to stop the bombing.
Silence unfolded in the night like fog. A true silence, not even interrupted by the animals that dwelled in the forest.
It seemed that the battle inside had come to an end.
But who had won it?
From here, they could see nothing. Blindly, they had striven to keep the pressure on the enemy soldiers.
Ammunition was limited, so they could not fire the guns indefinitely; the salvos had become more and more infrequent, however. So they hadn't really done much. They hadn't done much damage to the building, and the biggest effect was undoubtedly psychological on the students, who had to face the fear of death for the first time in their lives.
However, eight soldiers had gone to support the war machine that fell when the ground collapsed.
A machine that, like these armors, was being tested on the battlefield today for the first time.
Eight soldiers with the anti"magic armor and a small war machine, but with great destructive potential.
Logically, they should have finished off the threats on the roof. They should be moving down the building, killing everything in their path, looking for priority targets.
However...
However, why this restlessness?
The cloud of dust that obscured his view of the building finally dissipated as he was embroiled in his thoughts.
The war machine, now regenerated, descended to the ground with the wall collapsing behind it.
Instead of continuing to attack the building, it walked towards them.
Finally it got close enough for him to see the truth.
The pilot... Right now he didn't even remember his name, but that wasn't the assigned pilot.
He wasn't even the same sex to begin with.
The person who now sat behind the controls was undoubtedly a woman. And not just any woman, either.
The witch they had been looking for.
■
Surrounded by the soldiers, Abigail took action without hesitation.
That is, it's not as if she had any reason to hesitate. These weren't human beings and they weren't looking for anything other than to hurt them.
By that Desmond meant the ease with which she handled this thing, even though it was the first time such a machine had been seen.
Abigail opened fire.
Even the cannons had been restored. Not the ammunition, of course. But the pilot hadn't used that much in the first place. There was still more than enough left.
At least according to Abigail.
The soldiers returned fire.
They had been terrifying foes in a hand"to"hand battle, in that new armor. But in the face of the war machine's power the armor could be any other, or they might not even have it on, it made no difference.
The double burst of shredded bullets tore apart whatever it touched as if it were nothing.
Someone threw a grenade near them.
"Grenade," Desmond said to warn her, but he needn't have bothered. Abigail had already noticed this and kicked the grenade back at them.
And at the best possible moment.
The grenade exploded in midair, as the soldier who had thrown it and those nearby were trying to escape.
Four of those creatures jumped into the air.
Maybe not dead, but at least they would have received heavy damage.
Their objective wasn't to go against the army they had gathered here. As powerful as the war machine was, facing these numbers it was only a matter of time before they would be overwhelmed and defeated.
The war machine was large, but small enough to squeeze through the trees in the forest.
They forced their way through, at times.
That is, Abigail did.
Pushing the trees out of the way, almost ripping them off the ground with the arms of the machine.
They didn't know where the abomination they were looking for might be, so they had no choice but to search everywhere until they found it.
Turned to black smoke, it would blend into the darkness of the night.
But they had to find it.
Everything and everyone depended on that.
For that very reason, it wasn't the right time to think about something like that... if there was any right time. But... Desmond was sitting in the pilot's seat.
Abigail was sitting on top of him. On top of him and against him...and....
She was so soft and warm.
He had never been that close to a woman before. Abigail wasn't a woman, she was his mother, so he couldn't think that way. Especially in a situation like this.
Oh, no.
He was...
Oh gods, what was in his head? What was wrong with his head?
Abigail would have noticed. There was no way she wouldn't have noticed. But she didn't move, didn't change position. There was no room to move in the first place, in this cramped cabin.
Desmond opened his mouth as if to say something. Though he had no fucking idea what he could say.
How to get her to not lose all the respect and trust she had in him.
His chin was quivering.
As Abigail kept moving through the woods as if nothing had happened, Desmond closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, anything but the feeling of.... Of her ass against...
Gods, stop it!
Pull yourself together.
(His erection, so close, only separated by the thin fabric of the dress, oh, oh gods).
Desmond shook his head.
That wave of thoughts that seemed to come from someone other than him, from something higher than him, was penetrated by a very clear image.
Amy on the floor, breathing hard, one hand on her shattered shoulder. Lying in a pool of her own blood.
And then, Christina's face.
The tears in her eyes.
That wave was suddenly cut off.
Desmond opened his eyes slowly, swallowing saliva.
He opened his mouth to apologize properly, though nothing could be apology enough, in his opinion. But he closed it quickly.
Because he had remembered how the woman had reacted the first time they had been able to talk face to face since that day.
By the river, after all their enemies had died.
Illuminated by the moonlight.
As he tried to express what she had meant to him, she....
She had kissed him. In truth, she didn't mind playing the mother or... something else. So Desmond shut his mouth. And he lost the urge to talk about it at all, though he still felt guilty, boy did he.
Instead, he said the first thing that popped into his head.
"How can you pilot this so easily?"
"It's not new to me," Abigail said.
"It's not? But no one had ever seen a war machine like this until tonight."
"Well, that's a long story."
He took the hint.
"All right."
After what seemed like a long time, but surely hadn't been that long, the machine fell.
But not because Abigail had made a mistake.
Simply because one of the machine's legs had been cut off again, so it lost its balance.
The impact was hard.
"He's here. Get down," she said, turning to look over her shoulder at him.
Desmond stared at her in silent question.
"I'll cover you. I'll come after you as soon as this thing recovers.
Desmond didn't know if that sounded like a good idea, but he nodded. Abigail pressed the button that opened and closed the hatch. Desmond slid out of it.
He jumped to the ground, landing on his knees.
Something danced in the darkness of the night. Like a fish swimming in the depths of the sea.
Black smoke lunged up to engulf him.