Slumrat Rising

Chapter 44: The Big Brother Type

“Comms! Is the bird down?!” Truth bellowed. His ears were ringing from all the explosions. He hoped the Comms operators were still alive.

“The Redhawk is perched in the field behind us. More incoming hostiles. We have to evac NOW, Sarge!”

MISSION UPDATE- PERSONNEL AND CARGO TO THE TRANSPORT AT ONCE, FORSAKING ALL OTHER OBJECTIVES.

Truth was moving before his brain processed the order. He grabbed a shell-shocked Ludovic and threw him out of the trench, shoving him towards the door. “Go, go, go!” He grabbed the Chief Suit, who only looked a bit better than Ludovic, and threw him out too. He shoved the box into their hands, shoving them, and screamed at the other suits to move out. His squadmates, the ones not dead or too injured to move, dragged the suits to the door, carrying them if necessary.

He could see incoming spellbirds, little ones, attack craft. He rounded the corner, sweeping for enemies and not seeing any. The dickhead pilot landed fifty goddamn meters from the house, putting them far outside the wards. Far from any cover. “Run! Run, you cowardly little shit! Run!” He screamed at Ludovic. All that mattered was getting them and the cargo into the transport.

One of the little attack birds started taking potshots, chewing the ground near them with explosive darts. “Smokescreen, Silversnow.” He activated the two spells together, creating a blinding wall of smoke and chaff between him and the birds. It wouldn’t be enough, of course. They could see the Redhawk. Some other guards did the same as him, trying to throw the enemy’s aim off.

The loading ramp was down, the crew waving them in desperately, sweeping around with extended magazine needlers and trying to spot the enemy. The Chief Suit was in first, hauling the box in with the crew's help. Ludovic was next, then the rest of the suits, as the guards formed a loose dome around the ramp. By some miracle, they got them all in, but the thunder of the incoming birds was almost defining.

MISSION UPDATE- ENSURE THE TRANSPORT DEPARTS SAFELY. FIGHT TO YOUR DEATH. YOUR FAMILIES WILL BE CARED FOR. DIE WITHOUT REGRET.

Truth swung around. His fetish was back in the house, so he would have to do his best with a needler talisman. No problem. He was a Starbrite Man, and a Starbrite Man was always ready. If today was the day he died, then that…

What the fuck am I thinking? I should die? FUCK THAT! I don’t want to die. Who’s going to look after the Sibs? Die without regret? The birds were clearing the smoke now, short wings flapping hard. Do you think I’m ok dying a virgin?!

Truth brought his needler in line with one of the birds. There were five, closing in fast. It didn’t matter which he aimed at. “Enlarge. Shockwave.” Birds are delicate things. Even combat spellbirds have thin armor. They rely on speed, offensive power, and all their wards can do for them. They also rely on aerodynamics to stay in the air. So if you were to, for example, displace a lot of air around the bird…

Truth triggered the talisman. Iron needles shot out, expanding as they went with the air howling around them. The bird seemed to have expected the guards would go out fighting and dove to avoid the incoming fire. Rounds started streaking towards Truth. He was a small target, but not that small. He ran. By strange coincidence, he angled towards the old well on the property. Fuck it, he tried. Good luck, Ludovic. Someday you’ll grow a spine. In a jar, presumably.

Nope. Ain’t going to be that way. Figures that even at the end you would fuck up my day. I hate you so, so much. Whelp. Let's do this the hard way.

An icicle trickled down the back of Truth’s brain, slipping into spaces he didn’t know existed, making connections. Severing connections. Truth spun in place and fired on the bird again. He focused on the bird’s head, where the pilot usually sat. He punched the rounds in. The needles pinged off the bird's skin as he expected, but the shockwave drove the diving bird straight into the ground. One down.

What? What? Why? The well is THAT WAY, body. MOVE.

Oh, fuck you so, so much! Do you think it’s easy puppeting your goddamn nervous system? Huh? I gotta keep that combat brain working and solving problems AND keep you from surviving this fight. BUT NO! You want to fight me on this! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! HATE YOU!

His eyes swept over to the next bird. Some of the other guards had the same idea as him, but they hadn’t had as much success. He drew a bead on the lead bird in the squad and aimed at the join of the wing and the body. “Extend, Borgus’ Shears.” The needle slammed into the joint, the shears snipping through part of it. Not enough to sever the wing, but enough to throw the bird off sideways. The bird beside it pulled up, twisting madly to avoid the tumbling craft.

Truth willed his legs to move towards the well. Something was wrong. This was a compulsion. A geas. He could fight it. Would fight it. He planted his foot and tried to shove back. It was like pushing a boulder up a mountain.

Damn you! Damn you! Do you think I WANT to be in your head? Do you think I WANT to force you to do this? No! NO! I didn’t get a fucking choice! You did, you little prick! You fucking scumbag slumrat! YOU put me in here! YOU DID THIS! NOW FUCKING DIE FOR ME!

The few surviving guards put down the one he winged—still three more in the air. The Redhawk was up and starting to move, but until it got up to speed, these little attack birds could shred it at will. And its big spell emplacements were at the front and to the sides. Truth lined up on the next closest bird. They had learned their lesson and spread out. This one, clearly a big thinker, was climbing on the reasonable basis that they didn’t have to be near the ground to shoot something on the ground. Such clear thinking deserves a reward.

“Graeme’s Arrow. Plutonian Chains.” A long, white streak of light shot out of the needler, many times faster than its usual blinding speed. Seemingly instantaneously, it punched through the tip of the bird’s wing. The Plutonian Chains activated, increasing the weight on the wing tip ten times over. The bird did a half cartwheel in the air and crashed sideways into the earth. Two more, and he could put the needler in his mouth, cast Acidball and Fireball, then blow his head off.

NO! NO! NO! I WON’T. I WON’T!

WARNING! CONTINUED DEFIANCE OF ORDERS GIVEN BY A STARBRITE OFFICER MAY RESULT IN SYSTEM TERMINATION AND FORCIBLE EJECTION. COMPLY WITH ORDERS IMMEDIATELY OR SUFFER PERMANENT DESTRUCTION OF YOUR SPELL APERTURES.

There was a shuddering moment of unreality. You weren’t a person without magic. Not really. A child or an invalid. Someone who had to be cared for. A burden. But even a child would grow. They would get their magic. To lose your magic- No. His siblings needed him. It would be hard, but he would find a way to make it work.

One of the surviving birds diverted towards him, firing madly. The other was chasing the Redhawk, but the Redhawk was starting to get its speed up. The loading ramp was up, the claws tucked in. It might be close, but there was hope.

Truth adjusted his grip and grinned nastily. “Smokescreen. Silversnow.” He fired at the bird’s head. The needle pinged off harmlessly. The head, however, was now covered in smoke and chaff. The shots were going wild. He forced himself to keep moving towards the well as he shot. He could move away as long as he kept attacking. For all that his legs were fighting him with every step.

“Graeme’s Arrow. Acid Ball.” The bird might not be able to see him, but he knew exactly where the bird’s head was. He started hosing the head with high-speed acidic arrows, burning through the wards and thin armor. His legs kept backpedaling. They hit the edge of the well. He couldn’t even turn his head to see how deep it was or if water was still in there. It looked barely wide enough for him to fit in, in the pictures. Climbing out would be a challenge. Assuming he could. He kept his fire on the head of the bird. The bird was dumping its magazines now, smashing the ground around him. One round finally caught him, punching through his chest and knocking him down into the well.

Truth banged his head on the wall inside the well. His fatigues were scraped and shredded as he rubbed against the unmaintained brick. Somehow he hung onto the needler. There was a massive explosion above him. The top of the well seemed to go black instantly. Things fell on him, cracked his skull. He lost the needler and heard a splash below him.

“Haha, fuck you, now you can’t make me kill myself.”

CONTINUED DEFIANCE OF ORDERS GIVEN BY A STARBRITE OFFICER. YOU WERE WARNED. SYSTEM EJECTING.

There was an unspeakable pain, something tearing away from his very soul. Truth went blind, the pitch black well turning migraine white as the system ripped out his magic and tried to return home. Tried to. Something in him, in his body or soul, wouldn’t let it escape. The pain was unspeakable, unending, as the System thrashed and tore him apart. Eventually, a brick fell down and smashed his head apart.

The young man, Truth Medici, a golden child blessed by Mars, died. The System Astrologica recorded his System's ejection (still pending return.) There were conclusive visual records of him taking a fatal wound to the chest, falling into a well, and then a spellbird crashed into the well. It didn’t get deader than that, absent an autopsy.

Given Truth’s merits and the intensely classified nature of his mission, this matter would be suppressed. Truth Medici died on a routine convoy mission gone wrong, and his family would not be penalized for his disobedience. After all, the eye-spies launched by the Redhawk recorded his heroic last-man stand. He might well have survived the battle, but for his orders. His superiors were broadminded enough to forgive him for not wanting to die. So long as he did, in fact, die, which he did. So all was well. His sibling’s records were marked for the fast track when they applied to join Starbrite. Some sighs were heaved. A few muttered comments about “What a waste.” or “He had such potential.” One went so far as to say, “A regrettable necessity.” And with that, they went on with their day.

Truth’s corpse floated at the bottom of the well. To the consternation of one observer, his soul had not departed the ravaged body. Neither had the System. Even though the corpse was definitively a corpse, none of the usual decay processes appeared to be starting. It was just… kind of floating there in the dark. If anything, the observer would swear that something was, microscopically, beginning to knit his flesh back together. It would take decades, and who knows what would come out the other end of it. Alternatively, given that it was stuck down here anyway…

Alright. Not how I planned for this day to end. Impressed that you still managed to screw me even after death. Very on brand, very you. However. There may be an opportunity here for both of us. Well. Me. There is an opportunity here for me. But hey, at least you might enjoy some of this. For a while.

There was, predictably, no response. Time passed.

Eh. Bored now. Let’s see what we can make.