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Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
A crack in my shin warns me as I slide underneath a Crimlime, removing its insides with a swipe of my Necrosis-covered dagger. Infectious granules descend from its wound toward my face, but I force myself into the ground with a Flicker, twisting my foot enough for a step.
Reappearing a dozen paces away, I inhale, my mask tightening against my face from the sudden approach of air. A soundless impact behind me marks Elizabeth's influence as another Crimlime falls temporarily before its sand is dragged back into the storm.
The relentless tide of abominations advances upon me, their crimson-sanded forms undulating like a living nightmare. I can't help but marvel at their grotesque, shifting visages. The sand that composes their bodies resembles blood-stained tendrils as if they were plucked from those unknowable worlds I sometimes visit with Flicker.
Shaking my head as a series of rapid gunshots from the passing train pulls me from my momentary stupor, I assess my situation.
I shift my gaze downward when a burst of pain demands my attention. The pang from my leg, the bone protruding like an accusing finger, serves as a reminder of the toll the battles have taken on me. It mocks me, telling me that I should rest. I look away.
My energy is waning, and my body feels like it's on the verge of collapse. When I woke up, my figure was pure of Ether saturation. Now? I dare not pay attention. I slept a whole night's sleep for a Nightowl such as myself, but it was not nearly enough—two dozen broken bones and half as many ruptured organs take far more than an hour of slumber to heal.
Coughing, I step forward as the train gains distance on me, slowly leaving me behind. I need to clear more of the tracks. I need to. One foot moves in front of the other, unconsciously, the movement imbedded into my very being.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Gradually, I gain speed, shifting my gait to match the pain in my body as my other leg screams for help, too.
Four. Five. Six—ten—twenty—forty—hundred.
Every step I take sends jolts of agony up my leg, but I dare not relent. There's too much at stake. Flashes of the many faces within the train inundate my mind, overtaking the pain.
Gradually, my form turns indistinct, shadows enclosing all around me. I clench my teeth as I compel my Nightwhips around my own flesh, tightening to that of a vice. My bones pop back in place as the reinforcements take the place of recovery. As long as I do this, Dawn can heal any injury as long as it is not mental. And even if she can't, Earl will figure something out. The knowledge that I don't have to worry about the repercussions allows me to fall into the mindless focus that I've seen Wyatt embody so often.
Two hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred.
My legs kick faster and faster, the moonless sky above covered with only swirling sands, providing me the strength I need. Thinking of Wyatt pushing himself beyond any kind of human limit, I tighten those binds further, even as blood leaks from my insides. I let the Nightwhips enter from the seeping wounds, entwining with my veins and muscles.
The Nightwhips curl, twist, and contort in such lengths on and within my form that they extend far, far beyond a hundred feet in total. Like that of a curling wire, their lengths are deceptively robust. It occurs as if, on instinct, just as one would tighten their jaw in times of strife, my Nightwhips enclose around my being. The skill I've grown the closest to in spirit now joins me in body.
Gradually, I outspeed the train—no Flicker needed.
A thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand.
The sheer speed at which I move surprises me to no end, but I accept it, bashing aside any nearby Crimlime as my eyes are set upon the rising tracks beyond. Hundreds of Crimlimes lie upon our path, several of which are removed every second with Elizabeth's aid.
At my five thousandth step from falling behind, I pass the train. Elizabeth shouts out to me, but I can't hear her over the swirling winds. Instead, I pounce onward as I continue my charge. Without a shred of hesitation, I engage the abominations with a calculated fury, leaping upon the first with my dagger already in its skull. Vaulting from my first kill, I extend my Nightwhips from my flesh, latching onto the nearby Crimlimes that I pull inward. With a flourish, I throw both daggers in my hand, killing two before kicking the knives through the dead with a drop kick.
I catch myself with my hands as my shadowy tendrils dance through the air, catching my blades and striking down Crimlime after another. The ease of moving my Nightwhips has only increased over time, and after this recent breakthrough, I think it's safe to use them with weapons. Nevertheless, I draw the daggers hidden within my boots for more blades. But there are so many, an unyielding sea of crimson, and I can't help but feel like a lone island in a relentless storm.
I steal a momentary peek backward at the woman on the train, far behind me, supporting me with her rifle. Elizabeth's been a beacon of safety since I dropped onto the sands, her presence a lifeline in this chaos.
After the glimpse, I continue, waging a war amongst these beings, doing all I can not to be touched. If I am, I have to waste the Ether on a Flicker to remove the infection. It must be some extradimensional nonsense to be discarded so easily.
With every breath, I find solace in the pain, drawing strength from the knowledge that our survival hinges on my resilience. I've always been forced to fight under exhaustion.
I mock Wyatt for fighting as dangerously as he does, but I'm not that much better. Though, I can balance the recklessness. Only if I am to die otherwise do I fight as though I am already dead.
Blundering backward from a misstep, I almost take a claw to the carotid, but a swift bullet ends the creature that attempted it. Backpedaling further, I pivot, grabbing a Crimlime with my hands and Nightwhips before slamming it into the ground. As I gaze down at the beast, its claws lunging for my veins, I feel the adrenaline surging through my veins, pushing me to new heights. Bursting with a speed unlike me, I sink a backup dagger with a Necrosis-lined tip into its skull, ending it abruptly.
The battle quickly becomes a slog as I force myself to continue moving forward. Kill, kill, kill, and run. I have to simultaneously stay in front of the barreling train and kill the monsters spawned from the incarnadine sands.
The agony in my leg is now a dull throb, drowned out by the cacophony of battle. I am a whirlwind of motion, so much so that I catch myself overextending—making mistakes. That cannot do.
Pausing temporarily, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, seeking that inner well of strength that has sustained me thus far. I close my eyes even as these dusty abominations lunge for me. At least I have a second before they reach me due to killing all those already close.
But as I exhale, a colossal shiver ripples along my spine, sending a cold wave of worry crashing over me. Opening my eyes in worry, I find my hands shaking ominously, the threat apparent to my eyes. My hands, the very hands that have wielded blades and Ether with deadly precision for over a decade without a tremor, are shaking uncontrollably.
For a hideous moment, I think it is fear clouding my movements, but it is not. It's not some creeping illness that weakens me, either. No, it's something more insidious. It's my own body betraying me in this moment of dire need. The wear and tear of battle have finally taken their toll, and I can feel the limits of my endurance drawing near.
I'm no paragon of fortitude.
I'm just a man.
My mind races, seeking a solution, a way to overcome this physical rebellion. I can't afford to give in to weakness now, not when I'm so close. Crimlimes are nearing me, but the ridge is only a few hundred feet away at this point. The train is nearly a mile back and gaining on me with every second. But as much as I will my hands to steady, they continue to shake.
I know I can't keep up this relentless pace and must find a way to regroup and recover before it's too late. But there isn't time. It's a painful realization, but I also understand that pushing beyond my limits could prove fatal, not just for me, but for all those who depend on my strength.
I'm not Wyatt. I can't come back from that brink. Once I step past it, my heart won't beat again. It's a precipice I've met only a few times in my life. The first was in that underground cave when I was captured by the Damned. The second was on the mission to kill Darius Line, which gave me my freedom.
But even those times... I didn't step beyond the edge.
A bullet screams past me, obliterating the upper body of the closest Crimlime. My eyes trail backward as I see the train coming closer. Then, abruptly, as if tearing an arrow shaft from a wound, I whip around forward.
My body, gradually stumbling backward, is ripped forward by a series of Nightwhips.
"Sorry, Aron."
My words are swiftly eaten by the wind, but I crash my destroyed leg into the ground, propelling myself at the Crimlimes. My vision blurs and my strength wanes as I tread the bloody sand, but I hold on with crushing Nightwhips.
My right hand, flexing a dagger, cleaves through the flesh of one more Crimlime after dodging a swipe creature before I stumble, my legs giving way beneath me. I collapse to the ground, pain lancing through my body. Instantly, I heave beneath me, forcing myself to my feet.
One of the abominations, driven by an insatiable hunger, lunges for me, its jagged form eager to devour my weakened flesh. Shouting a grunt of effort, I throw myself to the side with my arms. The teeth of grinding sand swallow a fist-size whole of dust, revealing the ruined stone beneath.
Widening my eyes, I try to push myself to my feet, but my limbs refuse to obey, and I falter in my struggle. As the creature closes in, its maw poised to tear into me, I prepare to meet my end with a defiant spirit. Falling from my partial stance, I thrust out my dagger for its hollow eyes, feeling the tracks beneath my ribs effortlessly. But in that dire moment, a bullet pierces the abomination's skull with pinpoint accuracy, ending its life in an instant.
Sand explodes in every direction; before I can fully process what has just occurred, a pair of boots crashes down on the fallen creature, crushing it into the ground. The body slides several feet before a pair of legs steps off it, walking for me.
I gaze upward as Millie stands over me, her piercing gaze locked onto the surrounding abominations. She holds a familiar pistol in her hand—Primrose's Colt that allows the wielder to teleport to the location where the bullet lands. A breath I didn't know I was holding departs me.
"Just in the nick of time."
Millie laughs with a dry tone. Extending a hand toward me, she offers her assistance. I take her hand and am swiftly pulled to my feet as I notice what's upon her back. A supply of explosives is strapped around her chest, the box closed tightly on her back.
Unsteady, I stumble as she rapidly fires the other Colt in her hand, Johnny's, as she kills the charging aberrations of life.
"How'd you get those?"
Millie grins at me as she runs out of ammo in Fate Sealer, choosing to retrieve another familiar weapon—Blake's Colt suffused with her ghostly Ether. Spinning around, she fires again in a fusillade, keeping the beings away.
"We are... running out of people to use them. You always boast that you are an assassin first and foremost, Virgil, but here you are, fighting like the General against a horde. Have more faith in yourself. I've met scarce few men with the endurance, will, and violence that's embedded in you."
I smile back at her, taking her words as a compliment, but she shoves Primrose's Colt alongside Fate Sealer into my hands as she holds me with her shoulder against mine. The woman twists me around, a stern and unrelenting tone in her voice.
"Shoot the roof. I let it recharge enough with my Ether for one shot not to drain you."
Her demeanor changes as she speaks, her shoulders rising higher and her back straightening. I furrow my brows as I take the guns.
"What about you? How will you get away?"
Millie, the Colonel who has served in Bent for over three decades, one of the most respected Forerunners in all of the Territories, a veteran of a thousand battles, and a survivor of several wars, provides a grim line across her face.
"Don't worry 'bout me, kid. 'Bout time I join my General. Someone's gotta break the tracks behind the train. My weak arms aren't meant for coming times. In battles between Gods... a bit of courage means near nothin'."
I don't even attempt to stop her as I see her expression. Millie isn't playing. She's done the calculations. She knows this is the only way to do it. Otherwise... this wouldn't be happening. She might not be the most potent Sigiled, but her support and tactical mind are something that has kept us alive so far.
Every major fight, her micromanagement of war, bolstering Ether, and personal strength have saved many lives, likely lowering all casualties by half. I bite my lip as I raise my arm, the limb trembling uncontrollably. I'll have to wait until the train gets close to fire, or I'll miss.
Nodding to Millie, I give her the go-ahead.
"Go. Clear it. I understand. May Marshall's strength guide you."
The wartorn woman grins at my encouragement before dashing away, moving at a pace that will likely end with the train meeting her upon the ridge. Like most women on the frontier who engage in this life, her hair is short, only a half-finger longer than most men's hair, but it's the easiest part of her to notice as she is silhouetted against the crimson dust shifting along the air.
I shake my head and watch the Crimlimes near me, their ravenous forms diving toward my body. But Millie bought me time with her rampant slaughter. She shoots her guns like Johnny, expelling the weapon when it runs out of ammo. Whenever one gets too close, she stabs it with a knife and kicks it away, leaving the blade behind as she pushes onward.
It'd be a waste of resources at any other time, but she knows it's needed. The slight time it would take for a woman of her skill to reload could still get her killed.
Sighing, I look down the barrel of Primrose's Colt. I don't even remember its name, but I feel its cold metal in my quaking hands.
As the monstrous creatures draw nearer, I keep my eyes fixed on the approaching train. It rumbles closer, and my heart races. I wait for the perfect moment, my finger poised on the trigger.
Elizabeth, atop the train, rather than clearing the tracks as I had expected, has taken a position to protect me as a Crimlime is abruptly murdered only a step from me. Her resolute stance conveys her intention—she won't allow me to sacrifice myself and trusts Millie to do her job. I can't smile at her decision, but I appreciate it.
When the train is just within the range I could not possibly miss, even with my tremors, I squeeze the trigger, sending a surprisingly well-aimed shot that dinks off the front of the train. Abruptly, in a way far more out of nowhere and uncomfortably than Flicker, I appear on the train, grunting as I roll up and over the forefront of the train.
Splaying my arms, I try to catch something—anything. But even as I wrap my fingers around a bar, they don't hold. My heart sinks as I feel warmth cover me and slam me to the train's roof.
"Fuck that was close!"
Elizabeth breathes into my ear as she wraps some rope around me, tying herself to me. Then, she pushes back, setting her rifle back up to help Millie. I don't say anything to Elizabeth beyond internally noticing she curses a lot more than she used to.
The train continues, gunfire behind and rapid shots in front. Millie's cleared the tracks onto the ridge, the only portion where the Crimlimes have not yet reached. Around us, however, the Crimlimes are finally starting to climb onto the train from every angle. It's not many, but it's enough to worry me.
I breathe in and out, repeatedly, before I find it within myself to stand again. Millie still has a chance for survival, and I hold it in my hands. While Elizabeth is focused on her mentor's survival, I cut the rope she has tied us together with a slight movement.
Then, with a cluster of Nightwhips that threaten to throw me unconscious, I stand, stumbling toward the back of the train. I need to get the gun to her after she places the explosives on the bottom of the ridge as the Crimlimes seem to just follow any signs of life.
At my sides, the sandy monsters crash through the steel walls of the train after bashing against it for several moments, entering the insides with screams. Tightening my gaze, I look only forward.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
I force myself into another dash, feeling every bit of me threatening to break. Without Nightwhips to tighten my bones as they keep me stable to the train's roof, I wade my way to the back of the train.
But the train is so fast. I hardly reach the back, where all the major fighting is. Wyatt kneels with one hand on the metal floor as he gasps for breath, a dozen other Sigileds caked in sweat dust around him. I don't recognize any of them and just assume he's outlasted everyone else.
Instead, I search with my eyes, finding Millie as she lunges onto the tracks as the train finally lurches, angling diagonally to head upward. The angle isn't dangerous, but it is noticeable.
"MILLIE!"
I scream for her, my voice echoing over the winds and against the dust. She looks up with a match in her hand, ready to blow it all up. Her eyes widen seeing me, and she stops her endeavor to explode the rocks below.
Not having the strength to throw the weapon at her, I toss it down to Wyatt, yelling at him as I point her out.
"Wyatt! Toss this to Millie! She's over there!"
But the instant I let go of the weapon, a colossal tremor, one tens of times more sinister than all the others, originates from the depths of the storm and shakes the whole world. The train surges upward and sideways in a chaotic motion, forcing Wyatt to recreate his old act, holding the train to the side of the cliff face with the Bloody Palm.
I almost fall off the train myself, tumbling down and onto the final car before catching myself with a burst of Nightwhips. But as the entire train wobbles dangerously with rocks falling from above, I see a glimpse of Millie.
She nods her head sadly before lighting the match.