บท 53: Chapter 53: Who Needs a Key, Anyway?
Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 53: Who Needs a Key, Anyway?
Fighting through the twisted streets of Ellisburg was like fighting through the circles of Hell, if Hell had been designed and built by a pathetic madman with delusions of divinity. Three of the screamers-that-weren't, thin of limb and moving in jerkily erratic motions, dove for her while a pair of the not-shooters pinned her down with concentrated weapons fire. Her eyes flickered over the scene; the gaping maws, streamers of drool glinting dully. Sharp claws, glistening wet with some substance. Behind them, a pair of brassy metal guns belching eggs of purple flame. She couldn't get her rifle ready in time, couldn't move to buy herself that time.
So instead...
Up into the air went the rifle, her left hand closing around the throat of a screamer-that-wasn't as she put her right shoulder forward, dug the toes of her boots into the spongy, faded green ground, and pushed forward. The rightmost of her foes flew past, carried by its lunge as she bore into the chest of the enemy in front of her. The enemy grasped tight in her left hand raked its claws down her arm, tearing gashes in both fabric and flesh, pain and rage mixing in her chest and drawing a howl from her throat. Taylor forced that wounded limb to obey, bringing the second body in front of her with the first.
This close, she could feel the bodies jerk and jump as they were riddled with fire from their supposed allies. Their black ichor splashed on her face as she covered the distance between her and the not-shooters in seconds. In that time, they managed to almost evaporate one of her unwilling shields.
Unfortunately for them, almost didn't cut it.
Up close, the not-shooters were more refined than the ones Nilbog had made. More intelligent in very obvious ways. That did not stop them from being surprised when she threw the dead screamers-that-weren't in their faces. From behind her she could hear her rifle clatter to the ground and the third screamer-that-wasn't scrabbling to come back and tear her spine out. She'd have to move fast.
Fortunately for her, she was quite good at that.
By the time the first not-shooter had pushed the remains of its once-ally out of the way, her pistol had cleared its holster. As it rose, lines of golden flame began to push from her hand into the black metal. Her left arm still weeping blood, she used that aching hand to fan the hammer. Boom! That not-shooter went down, a flare of sunflame removing most of its head. The second had finished bringing its gun to bear on her, she could see the maw of the weapon beginning to spool up purple fire and knew she was about to be shot.
She grit her teeth, took the hit, and blew that one's head off, too. Her stomach was a mess of red-hot pain, the stench of burnt cloth and burnt skin filling her nose as she turned to face the charging screamer-that-wasn't. It was close. Far too close. Its claws sunk through her armor with ease, tearing into the flesh of her right shoulder, digging deep . She dropped her pistol, Light leaving it as it left her grasp. As it fell, her red left hand closed around the hilt of her knife.
It rasped as it came free, and squelched as it was buried in the skull of that last enemy. She watched the life leave its multi-faceted eyes, felt its weight drag its claws free of her skin, its skull free of her knife, and finally crumpled to the ground. She breathed in short, sharp pants. Her wounds were lines of fire on her body, hurting as much in the healing as they did in the harming. Eventually, she was able to tap her earpiece radio, cuing a line back to the command center. Her voice was a harsh rasp, throat tight with pain. "This is Guardian. Enemy contact at my location. Five hostiles, all down."
A man's voice, one she didn't recognize at all, replied almost immediately. " Roger that, Guardian. Logging your location. Are you wounded? "
"No." Her stomach ached from the memory of burning, scorching skin as she retrieved her rifle. She half considered leaving it there, for all the use it had been thus far. To be fair, she had thrown it away. "I'm fine."
"Understood. In that case you should proceed to sector E5 rendezvous with heroes Spike, Narwhal, and Miss Militia to investigate a possible point of entrance."
Taylor took a deep breath, then let it out. She'd been careless. Underestimated this new enemy. It wouldn't be a mistake she made again. "I'm on my way. Guardian out."
=+= Chapter 53: Who Needs a Key, Anyway? =+=
Sector E5 was part of what was once Ellisburg's downtown district and thus a warren of office buildings and subway stations. Once Nilbog had murdered everyone and taken it over, he'd kept it that way and replaced all the symmetrical, right-angle constructions of actual humans with his brand of sickeningly colorful, Seussian style. The arrival of the Enemy, and the stone dome they built, didn't that. The attack, on the other hand, did. Now, much of the place was a debris field; everything taller than a story had been leveled in an effort to give their foe fewer places to hide. All it had done was drive them underground, in her opinion, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant that they were one step closer to being eradicated once and for all. Victory was that much closer. On the other, it put them in and on the ground they were most familiar with. And they had no way out.
She found the three heroines in front of a former subway station entrance, arrayed in a loose arc – facing outward with tense postures and wary eyes. Narwhal looked immaculate, as was typical, with nary a physical injury to be found. The blue-white fields of crystalline energy she had arrayed around her person like armor were somewhat more vague than usual, and less of them to boot, spoke louder of her exhaustion. Spike's armor was scuffed, stained, scorched, and dented. The entire front of her was caked in black ichor and gore, hinting at at least one engagement with their new Enemy. Miss Militia looked the worst. Several bandaged wounds on her arms and legs, bruises and scrapes and an angry burn on the side of her face spoke of her battles. What looked to be a drum-fed shotgun was slung over one arm, the other cradled against her stomach and seeping red into a makeshift bandage.
In the interest of not being shot, she called out "Friendly!" as she approached. Upon hearing the low-key shout, the heroines almost attacked her anway on reflex. Spike raised fists that Taylor knew for a fact could tear through steel, the air before Narwhal filled with starbursts of crystal force, and Militia did an impressive maneuver to have that shotgun readied in moments. A few long heartbeats of holding very still followed as Taylor hoped their brains caught up with their instincts in time before the three of them shared a look and relaxed. Somewhat. They were still as tightly wound as before, but no longer teetering on the edge of violence.
"Sorry about that," Narwhal kept her voice low as Taylor approached. "we've been hit hard a few times, so we're still a little jumpy."
Taylor touched her stomach and grimaced as a memory of pain came at the older heroine's words. "I know the feeling. How are you all doing?"
Spike snorted, the sound echoing from within her helm, sounding angry and amused at once. "Well, Militia here is pretty banged up. What was it; two broken ribs, some burns and cuts, and that hideous arm injury?"
Miss Militia, when she responded, slurred her words ever-so-slightly. This close, Taylor could see a cloudiness to her gaze that was worrisome. "And a concussion. Let's not forget the concussion." A moment's pause was followed by, "You twisted your ankle, Spike."
"You hateful bitch," Spike did not sound at all upset by this betrayal. "I can't believe you'd rat me out like that."
"I'm a villain." was the sleepy sounding reply. "Watch your back."
Narwhal addressed Taylor, letting the other two heroines squabble quietly in the background. "You came here about the entrance?"
Taylor nodded. "What's the story with that? Has there been trouble finding one?"
"Yeah." Narwhal ran a hand through her hair. "Lots. They keep setting traps, digging tunnels that lead to nowhere and jamming them full of screamers and the like. Then, after we clear the place and realize the tunnel doesn't go anywhere, they collapse it on us. Sometimes it's just a little hole that explodes when someone steps foot in it. We've lost way too many trying to find a way down."
"Couldn't we just make one?"
Narwhal shrugged. "Where to? Nilbog could be anywhere. And since we gotta get this done by hand, they've had us sweeping the city looking for a way down. Which we might have just done. Problem is, we're in no shape to confirm it." She gestured to her companions. Miss Militia had begun to lean on Spike, who was jostling the other woman in a seeming effort to keep her conscious. "Can't go in with these injuries, and I'm not about to leave them."
Taylor nodded. "Understood. You need a scout. You have one. Where am I going?"
Narwhal was quiet in a brief second of regard, emotions flickering across her face quickly, before closing her eyes for a moment and saying, "This way."
=+= Chapter 53: Who Needs a Key, Anyway? =+=
The subway entrance was caked in concrete dust and marred by ashen scorch marks. Despite her best efforts, rubble crunched beneath her boots as she descended into the dark tunnels. She kept her rifle up and tight against her shoulder, every nerve wound tight. She moved past the melted knot of metal that was once a turnstile and came to the T-junction. Daylight from above had illuminated her way to this point and would be of no help at all further on. Everything down here was untouched by Nilbog. The walls were caked in grime, the floors; dust. The ceiling was cracked and sagging, a intermittent drip of fluid made gentle plinks on the stairs to her right, leading down into impenetrable dark.
"Narwhal." She spoke as quietly as she could, barely a murmur of sound, yet it still sounded unnaturally loud. "I'm almost to the platform."
Understood , came the reply, keep moving forward, and be careful. They're a lot smarter than they used to be.
"I will. Moving forward." Taylor clicked on the light attached to her vest and brought a cone of red light into being in front of her, going some ten feet beyond before fading into nothing. She went first to the stairs without the fluid drip and peered down to see them become a landing and make a sharp turn out of sight. No movement. Back to the other set. Same landing, same sharp turn. Flip a coin, she thought. Then she went back to the stairs without a fluid drip and started down. Each foot, each step made with utter care. She breathed shallow, through her nose, reached the landing and turned.
Her back hit the filthy wall as she all but threw herself back around the corner. She scrabbled to turn off her light, plunging her into darkness. If only for a moment. Seconds dragged past, heart pounding in her throat, and a slow, almost gentle tide of green light crept up the stairs. Towards her. Closer and closer it came, washing over the landing now and crawling up the wall. Brighter, the witchlight became, brighter and brighter still until she thought for certain she would be found.
Then.
It stopped. Turned away from her and plunged her back into darkness. She forced the muscles in her jaw to relax, loosened the white-knucked, trembling grip on her rifle, and tried to conceive a way to contact Narwhal without being heard. She couldn't think of one. She couldn't think . She couldn't...the thing on the platform. Seeing it had sunk claws into her mind , dragged their tips across its surface. She didn't know why. She didn't know why, of all things, that was what terrified her.
Maybe it was the menace, the air of death that hung around it like smoke 'round a fire. The almost tangible aura of ending that clung to its form. Maybe it was the black blade it carried. The brutal, thick metal weapon; single edged, formed from a light-drinking blackness and etched in runes that hurt to look on, that glowed in the dark. Maybe – maybe it was the way it moved. Languid. Unhurried. Casual, as if out for a stroll. As if all of the war and destruction and death above it was no more important than a late afternoon walk in the park.
Or – and she only caught a glimpse of this, and couldn't be sure, but she was, she was sure – the intellect in its eyes. In all of its green, glowing, malevolent eyes. It was smart. It was smart like she was smart, like a human was, like its fellows weren't .
Maybe more.
The worst part about it, that thing down on the subway platform. Worse than its sword, than its walk, than its aura of death and decay, than its hatefully intelligent eyes, was the simple, inescapable fact that it was standing guard over something. Passage, perhaps, further down? Perhaps not. It could just be another trap, to lure in the heroes and kill them. It probably was. Probably. But she didn't know for sure.
She was a Guardian. She had to know for sure. She took a breath, deep and slow. Stepped away from the wall.
Be brave.
She stepped around the corner, and faced it.
"Oh," it said, "there you are. I thought I smelled Light."
=+= Chapter 53: Who Needs a Key, Anyway? =+=
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