A Stitch in Time

[Saxon]

The slums of Rkam sat in wreckage as buildings sagged into ruin and the streets ran slick with blood. Corpses littered the street like trash, each and everyone posed in gruesome macabre. It was as if Hell itself had descended upon the city and held it in its jaws, ravaging it to the core. Except for the occasional drunk, the port was a ghost town. It was as if the citizens themselves had scurried into the shadows like cockroaches upon Paulus' arrival.

Crouching low against the back of a butcher's shop that had been looted, a tall, hawk-faced man held a carbine tight in his hands. Appearing to be in his early forties, Eustus Metzger was the oldest of all the mercenaries to have been recruited onto Paulus' convoy. He had entered the service just before Zaya, and had been a drunken farmer beforehand who had a knack for pot shots," Where'd they all fucking up and go to," he asked.

Squatting next to him, Zaya took a peek around the corner and held her scorpion close as she signaled Smitty and his team the 'all-clear'," Dunno, but I don't like it. Chaos like this doesn't erupt in a city out of the fucking blue, it festers. Look at the corpses; they've been mutilated. Look at the buildings; they're being burnt to the ground. No mob runs the streets red with blood then takes off. Somethin' is up," the warrior said with a bitter tone. Smitty and a pair of lean, enamored twins, each gripping a B76 beretta quickly followed after him into the alleyway.

Paulus and his group had ducked into an abandoned tavern across the street while Darrel and his team circled around the back. It'd take a couple hours to make it to the warehouses at the port, but when the mercenary looked at it, it was the smart play. Whatever Wkigi was up to was going to end up being messy, and from the merchant's point-of-view, the rebel leader probably would've gathered his men at some sort of public place to re-group. No matter how they looked at it though, the entire city would have converged upon them in a matter of minutes when the first shots went off. Crossing over the threshold and into the alley, Zaya didn't waste a second as her comrades followed quickly after her.

Pulling up behind her, the pair of mercenaries stood stock still as they saw Smitty and the others ahead of them, everybody glancing up in horror. Holstering his revolver, the survivalist walked up to the bricked wall and whispered," What in Hromag's name..?"

Zaya pulled the slide back on her gun as she felt herself stifle a breath. The warrior was tough as nails, but what she saw could make even Darrel, the demolitions expert, shudder. Scaled far above the wall, hanging in rows, men and women were eviscerated and dangled like withered grapes upon a vine. Dried blood stained the graying bricks and crimson, sticky lifeblood dripped to the ground. Horrible gashes had been savagely cut into the victims' faces, mutilating them into horrifying grins. Tied to the pole stretching over them by their own rubbery entrails, the bodies hung like broken marionettes waiting to be playing in whatever grim puppetry they were meant for.

Pushing through the men, Zaya raised her arm and shouted," Look, one of them is still breathing," Pointing at a husk of a man, whose chest was spattered in scarlet which slowly rose against his organic tethers. Unsheathing her kukri, the woman rushed forward and started to climb the heaps of trash that sat against the wall. Gaining a foothold she turned back and roared," Don't just stand there!"

As the various members from both parties sprang forward to help, they were halfway up the mound of trash and to the emaciated victim when a loud boom echoed into the bend. Several cries rang out as a series of muffled coughs from an automatic rifle caused Zaya to freeze. As quickly as realization trickled into her mind, a drop of scarlet lifeblood hit the warrior in the face. Halfway to saving their first casualty, the groups of mercenaries were caught with blood on their hands as the fight for Rkam had just begun.

~*~

[Saxon]

The soft pitter patter of rain dripped and pooled inside the cracked window sills as a small toe headed boy, barely old enough to walk, stared out into the slumbering city of Radasanth. The sun began to crest over the horizon and the first rays of daylight peered into the small hovel. Surviving a family of six, the four bedroom apartment was riddled with age. Pock marks made from bruised wallpaper littered the walls while water leaked methodically into iron buckets from the splotched ceiling. Littered with furniture and possessions usually accustomed to a family, the sitting room was cluttered and aged. Faded orange shagged carpeting stretched across the room and competed with hardwood planked hallways for dominance of the household. Wearing the same teal, water-stained frocked coat his father had left him, the boy didn't stir as the sounds of footsteps upon rugged carpet reached his ears. Pale, withered hands touched the boy's shoulder and a voice gently called out," Noah?".

Without turning, the boy looked down and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper," Go away, Gramma."

Moving over to face him, the elderly woman with wild, snow-white hair sat upon the edge of the window sill, still clutching her bathrobe. This caused the small boy to glance off to the side, trying to get a better view out onto the soaken sidewalk. Staring up into cavernous dining room where the boy was sure her mother would be sitting, his grandmother mouthed a few words and shook her head before looking back down at her grandson," Com'n, Bubby. Let me get you some warm milk and read you a story. You need your sleep," she reasoned in a way only a grandmother could.

Breaking his gaze at the sound of his pet nickname, the boys once rosy cheeks didn't change as he clutched the hem of his jacket all the tighter," No, Gramma. Papa is coming home, I can feel it."

Quickly, the old matron's expression soured at the mention of the child's father. Tightly clutching her faded lilac-hued robe with rheumatic fingers, the grandmother shot a venomous glance upward and said," Child. He isn't coming back; he quit his only family and ran like a coward. Forget him!"

" Silvia," a shocked voice called out from the dining room, the name underlined with tones of absolute disgust.

" What? It’s true! Fibonacchi has abandoned you, your children, and me because of what he has done. Why doesn't the boy just realize that in move on," the matron snapped at an age-old argument.

There was a shuffle of feet as an olive-skinned woman with curly, basalt hair that fell to her shoulders picked up the small boy," He's six, Silvia," she hissed.

" And? Fibonacchi abandoned him as well as the girls! Let the Thaynes' bless Louis, because if he hadn't taken a leave from his studies in Fallien, we might very well be having this conversation in the streets," the grandmother screamed, more hurt than angry.

" Fibonacchi is your son," Daliya reminded plaintively," Don't yell at Noah for what his father did. It ain't his fault! And another thing, Lou is sacrificing his dreams to support this family until word gets to Viktor about Fibonacchi's disappearing act!"

Looking to find any sort of chink in her argument, the grandmother squinted and opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of raps upon the front door. Jerking their heads towards the source of the noise, the two women fought for who would hold the boy as they rushed to the doorway. Making it to the door first, Dailya put her hand upon the cold, brass knob when she heard a sound atop the stairs to the next level of the apartment. Rubbing her eye as she roused from slumber, a small girl with plaits of beautiful brown hair looked to her and said," Mommy?".

Attempting to console her youngest and put her back to bed, Daliya lost the advantage as Silvia rushed forward and gripped the door knob, holding the small boy like a suitcase," Aha!".

Wrenching the door open, the old woman gasped while Daliya had to do a double-take before taking a step back with her hands covering her mouth," Oh my God.."

Two sets of watery, gray-stained eyes looked longingly at the stranger upon the doorstep and screamed in unison," Papa!"

[Saxon]

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Fibonacchi lifted his battered fedora from his head and continued to pant as he attempted to catch his breath. The storyteller had broken into a run the moment he entered the crowded city, and had not stopped until he reached Daliya's doorstep. Gazing upward into the household he abandoned what seemed a lifetime ago, the peddler stood stock still as he stared into the gray-stained eyes of his little boy. His mind raced and his vision blurred as tears flooded his eyes, spilling over the purple, sickly bags and onto his gaunt cheeks.

It had been almost a year since he had run from his family, he remembered the day to its exact detail. He had saved a newfound friend from certain death, who had helped him dupe a mercenary from a small fortune in a botched card game. Fibonacchi had made his way slowly home before dawn arrived and to his horror, his daughter, barely three years old, had been murdered upon the steps before his household by the same man he had cheated in cards. Unable to face what he had done, the peddler had ran headlong out of Radasanth and from his family in the hopes that he might be able to one day cope with what he had done. He hadn't.

" Daliya," he rasped as he clutched onto the threshold of the door and began to hack weakly. Holding the ancient grimoire in one hand just out of view of his loved ones, the peddler could only be grateful that his soon-to-be ex-wife had not slammed the door in his face the moment he had shown his ugly face.

" What're you doing here," Daliya managed to whisper in a bitter tone. Expecting a look of inexplicable rage, of unknown sadness, or a combination of both, the only thing Fibonacchi saw in his wife's eyes was pity.

The words didn't seem to come as storyteller felt himself swoon, unable to keep a grip on reality as he remembered the horrifying images that had plagued him. He had been right, the traveling books were a curse upon the world, and whoever had chosen him was eager to watch what was left of his sanity slip away. Devastated by how really pathetic he must of been, the peddler took one painful step forward as he turned and saw his withering mother not even consider him as she looked abruptly away. As his foot landed over the threshold, however, the storyteller realized that the only thing that had kept him going was the safety of his family, and now he had taken one step too many.

Crumpling to his knees, Fibonacchi found the hard, maple floor as it hit him in the face with a loud smack. There was a collective of gasps attempting to be stifled, but he was too tired to care who had shown sympathy upon his wretched soul. To his surprise there was a soft thud followed by a patter of feet, and as he summoned the last of the strength to tilt his head upward, his head swam and the sight of Noah caused him to lose whatever grasp of consciousness he had left," I'm finally home," he whispered hoarsely.

~*~

Beads of water trickled over the rusted gutters and onto the glossy windows as daylight passed Fibonacchi by. Slowly opening his eyes, the storyteller felt heavy linen covers over him and glanced around the familiar, shadowed room that had once been the bedroom he had shared with his wife. Cabinets and dressers lined the walls where their clothes sat idly by, piles of junk and other knick-knacks reminded him greatly of what a slob he had always been. Starting up, the peddler gripped his head and growled as his brain bobbed dizzyingly inside of his skull. Clenching his matted hair, he attempted to drive off a jarring headache when the peddler heard a familiar voice far across the small bedroom," Careful now, wouldn't want you to collapse a second time."

Startled, Fibonacchi stared upward and peered into the shadows of the far-end of the room where a figure rested in the shadows. Pulling himself backwards until he hit the headboard of his bed, the peddler forced the words from his jibbering lips as he whispered," W-who are you?"

Pulling itself upward, the figure that remained hidden behind the adjacent cabinets stepped forward so that the sunlight traced an outline of its body. Holding some sort of cigarette in its hands, the stranger scraped a match against the cabinet and waved it across its vice, strange eyes glowing wickedly under the weak light," Fibonacchi, you know better than to ask that question, don't you?"

The storyteller was terrified, and he had no idea why, the fear seeped into every pore of his being and muddled what courage he had left. Something about this stranger didn't seem safe in any sense of the word, and even though he hadn't slept in days, Fibonacchi wasn't stupid enough to even hazard a guess who was watching him," What do you want?"

" All in due time, boy," the figure mused in a thick accent that was unknown to the peddler. Taking a step forward, the stalker's bulk slowly appeared in the dim light, revealing his masculinity. Waving the cigarette in his hand as he spoke, the stranger gave an air of somebody that knew what he was talking about," Fibonacchi, you and I are facing a problem here."

" Yea," the peddler mumbled as he followed the figure while he moved around the shadowy realm of his room. He was petrified, and any cunning the storyteller possessed slipped from his mind's grasp.

" You see," the stranger began as he wandered over to the darkened mirror and gazed at his shadowed reflection," You’re a man of convictions, son. I can see that in you, and I admire that. But one thing I've been quickly reminded of, time and time again, is how stubborn you people can be when you aren't persuaded to do as I ask."

Feeling the nostalgic feeling of sleep ooze out of him, Fibonacchi didn't have the courage to answer as the figure continued to prattle on," Now, when put in a position such as you’re presently in, I would think that a man such as yourself would be able to recognize what is at stake. That book of yours isn't a toy, Fibonacchi, and you shouldn't be ignoring something as old and powerful as a traveling book, do you understand?"

A long while passed before the storyteller registered what the stranger was asking him, and hesitantly he felt the terror that had seeped into him bolster and press forward. He couldn't run, he couldn't think, all the peddler could do was nod silently. Stopping in mid-motion, the dim shadow's voice grew in a tight, tense whisper," Then why haven't you read? Why are you waiting here? Why have you entered the only place where we don't think you're welcome. Hm, Fibonacchi? You're a coward, and you should be following your best interests by doing as I ask," he growled.

Unable to retort, the storyteller's thoughts were lost to him as he felt the strange presence begin to fade away into the void it had crawled out of with an unintelligible whisper. As he let out a long, painful sigh, the storyteller stooped forward with his head in his hands and attempted to make sense of his madness. Who is following me? No, a better question, who sent me this fucking book, and why won't they leave me alone?!, he reasoned pathetically.

Suddenly there was a stirring out of the corner of his eye followed by a loud thump. Summoning his enfeebled courage, the peddler called out," Whose there," Feeling the move to be a complete mistake as he heard a soft patter of feet against the wooden floors and terror trickling within him, Fibonacchi couldn't have even guessed what he had stirred.

Pulling the covers off himself after a long moment, the storyteller grappled with his fears as he swung himself towards the end of the bed and whispered," Show no fear, com'n, Nachi' quit being a coward and stand up for yourself!"

" I wouldn't do that," the same, strange voice whispered directly behind him, the man's voice now deeper and more sinister than before. Continuing without a beat the man spoke," Don't bother yourself by turning around. You won't like what you see."

Compelled to follow the wishes of the stranger, Fibonacchi kept his eyes affixed upon the door as it sat slightly ajar as something scrabbled across the shadows of the hallway, out of reach of both recognition and reason. Standing upward, the peddler growled," I can't do this anymore."

" Oh yes you can," the man laughed jovially as the peddler spun around to see nothing but empty air and the dreaded rays of sun as they poked through the glass," I told you," he cackled.

Fibonacchi only made a quarter of a turn before the horror that had been stalking him burst through the door with a screaming howl and shoved him onto the bed. Unable to see his assailant, the storyteller swung his right arm backwards and caught the creature off guard and glanced back to see the jeering face of his wife, shoving a thick pillow onto his face. Gasping in fright, the peddler couldn't help what he had seen as he tried desperately to wrestle his way out of Dailya's suffocating grasp.

Softer and softer the curses from his wife grew as Fibonacchi began to feel himself lose the fight with his enraged Daliya, the peddler's mind unable to understand what was happening to him. Slowly slipping from life's grasp, the darkness slipped from his vision as his eyes snapped open and he could see his withered hands upon his wife's long, thin neck. Reason flooded within him, and as soon as he released his grip, Fibonacchi felt a savage kick as Daliya flopped backwards off the bed and gasped for air.

Leaning over the bed, Fibonacchi watched his wife flip over onto her back and crawl quickly to the wall, staring at him in horror as what had been a dream slowly oozed into reality. Trying to make sense what had happen, the peddler could only whisper," What've I done?!"

~*~

[Camella]

Let's try to put things into perspective, Camella thought, trying to calm herself down. When I arrived in this place, I was immediately introduced to the discord of the town via a cripple and a kid who thought he was a thief. I really shouldn't be shocked with how much blood there is around here because of all the thugs, mobs, and murderers that seem to be dominating the place. Those soldiers may look dangerous, but I have no Idea of their intentions. The bathroom was a bloody hell, but It could have been from multiple fights over the years. Honestly, I see no reason I should be afraid yet.

This seemed to calm her down for a bit. She had somehow convinced herself that she had blown the whole situation way out of proportion and that anything she encountered here was nothing compared to having around thirty assassins on her ass at all times. Just as she was beginning to relax, though, Camella heard a loud bang. It was unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was similar to an explosion, but less drawn out. Something like a door being slammed, but twenty times louder. She did not know that it was the sound of a gunshot, but at the same time She was sure the sound couldn't be good.

"FUCK ME!!!" Camella yelled out before she could stop herself. The fear that she was trying to hide quickly turned into panic, the panic into paranoia, the paranoia into mental instability. This had to be the scariest day of her life. There was no way this day could get any worse for her, was there? Camella knew what she had to do, she had to get out of this city no matter what.

[Saxon]

Clarence Smultz had been the local creditor to Rkam for decades, and he had remained loyal to the city-state until the bitter end. Plump and a man in his early fifties, Clarence was of small wealth, and he had lived in an estate with his family upon the Hill, where the rich sat in judgment over their serfs and fiefdoms. For a heavy set man, the creditor had lived comfortably and had his fair share of setbacks. By no means had he ever been a man of virtue; he had evicted many families from their homes within the city, ignored men and women alike who had groveled at his feet like followers supplicating to their lord and master, and it was the creditor who had watched hundreds of the citizens wallowing in the streets as they died from starvation during the Great Famine a decade back. But despite his shortcomings and his greed; Clarence, the father of four children and a beloved husband, hadn't deserved to see his own innards as he hanged alongside his colleagues and family.

The emaciated man could barely breathe as sharp stabbing pains kept reminding him his body, his sacred temple, had been ravaged and left for the world to see. Unable to feel the cold, barren soil beneath him, the former creditor knew he was going to die. He had known it when the rioters had stolen him and his family from his home kicking and screaming into the filthy streets of the lower city. He had known it when the dull, rusty sickle cut into him and countless hands pulled and wrenched his organs free from their slumber. He knew it when he felt the first flies weather the cold in the streets to nest within the warmth, lengthy recesses of his body. He had known it when he felt frostbite set in upon his extremities and maggot larvae feast upon the gooey, grisly portions of his physical being. Clarence Smultz, a creditor and loyal member of the Rathaxian commonwealth, was going to die in this shithole of a town that he and his colleagues had produced with the coupling of virtual slave labor and petty greed.

Withered and upon the verge of death, the creditor's jibbering lips and shattered psyche barely allowed him to speak. He couldn't even share his story with the people who had saved him, the same people who looked so similar to those that had left him and his family to die. Watching as a young man with wispy blonde hair shake his head at the one-eyed woman who cut him loose, Clarence felt his warm tears freeze upon his wretched face. Slowly looking to the young woman who had been so kind to him, the man parted his purple lips, crusty with dried blood, and began to sputter incoherently. Slowly the men and women around him parted as the steely warrior bent over to try and shush him, comforting him upon his death bed. Unable to stop him, the woman leaned over and listened to the pathetic whispers of a servant of the fallen nobles. With his last remaining breath the creditor felt it his duty to share the deepest, darkest secret of the man who had killed him.

~*~

" Should we tell him," Smitty asked as he followed Zaya out of the alleyway and watched her pull a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her vest. The nipping cold bit at their faces as the burning sun refused to rise and dispel the greasy darkness, the weather far more harsh in the wasteland than usual. The pair knew each other like the back of their hands, and their short, terse conversations meant far more to one another than the one night stands they had had with various members of the crew since they had gotten aboard.

Plucking two cigarettes from the pack, the mercenary proffered one to him and nodded," Coffin nail?"

Taking it and pulling out his lighter the mercenary nodded," Thanks, Zaya."

" No problem," she said as the warrior puffed away and tried desperately to digest what she had just been told. After a long while she looked up from the ground and considered Smitty carefully," What if we don't?"

" We're going to have to," the survivalist said as he looked away from the tavern his employer was holed up in," He needs to know and if we don't tell him, he’s going to find out anyway. I don't know about you, but I don't want lashes after this shit has gone down."

" If you make it through," Zaya corrected. The woman felt a pang of anger as her single eye burned with fury while she tried to contemplate the ramifications. Giving a bitter sigh the warrior looked from street to street and took another draw on her cigarette," I'll tell him. In person."

Smitty's eyes widened as he instinctively thought of the devices called radios they had been given and whispered," You sure?"

Tossing the stick of tobacco away she snorted," Like I'm gonna tell that to Paulus over the radio. Get the men and move to the next block and set up on the rooftops. Streets ain't safe anymore with Wkigi's men. Gonna be on our ass any minute now," before her fellow captain could respond, Zaya straightened the collar of her duster and took one last look at the alley before jogging to the tavern, she grimaced as she saw her fellow mercenaries prepare to burn the gruesome scene to ashes.

~*~

From the greasy tabletops to the thick layer of filth that covered every corner of the tavern, the Crow's Wing was a mess. Nobody had been around in ages since Wkigi got his claws into the city, and with the rioting and the looting, the tavern was the only thing that seemed to be left untouched. That was until Paulus and his men came. Flickering torchlight cast a dim radiance upon the grim scene, spatters of scarlet left the decadent floors slick and ragged bodies, all ravaged by gunfire, were scattered around the bar.

The tense, bitter silence was shattered as the tall, ebony man carefully placed the smoking barrel of his AK-47 onto the small of the bartender's neck, causing a bloodcurdling scream that was mixed with the stink of roasting flesh. Seated in a chair, Paulus leaned forward and raised his hand," Alright, alright. Darrel, that’s enough," Watching his second-in-command pull the barrel away with a sickening pop, the merchant considered the wretched creature they were interrogating. The skeleton of a man hissed through clenched rows of grimy, green teeth as he tried desperately to tug himself free from his bonds that tied him to the chair he had been forced to sit on. Far older than most residents in lower Rkam, the bartender who had been called Slash knew too much for his own good. Watching him writhe like a worm, the entrepreneur already knew he couldn't get the slimeball to say anything more, but he'd try anyway," Would you care to run the last bit by me again?"

Tilting his head mockingly on his neck's good side, the bartender stayed silent for a minute before he spat," Make me."

" Aren't we a little old to be playing that game," Paulus said as he held Darrel's heavy hand back with an icy stare," One way or another, Mr. Slash, yer gonna tell me what I want to know. Or else I'll turn Darrel here loose on ya'," Not waiting to see how his captive would choose to retort, the merchant continued," Tell me what Wkigi stole from my warehouses, and I'll let you go."

" Liar," the bartender growled under his fetid breath," You'll kill me like you did all my patrons. We ain't never done anythin' to you or yer kin."

Picking up a 9mm glock that was standard issue for all his men, Paulus waved it in front of his face and looked at him indifferently," Then where'd you and your bastardized version of 'patrons' find these?"

Staring at the weapon longingly, Slash made an effort to close his mouth and grinned devilishly at his captor. Pushing the chair back, the merchant stood up and sighed as he looked to his fellow commander and shrugged," Do whatever you can to open him up. If he doesn't talk within the next ten minutes, shoot him."

Turning to the rest of the tavern as he forsook the gratuitous screams, Paulus slowly looked about his men until he settled on the pair he had been looking for and moved to them in a few long, powerful strides. Taking a long swig from a bottle of whiskey, a curly redheaded male stood attentively over a woman who clutched a bloody cloth against her arm that hung listlessly by a few strands of flesh and bone. The slanted-eye beauty clenched her teeth as her face darkened while she watched her caretaker," Ey' Paulus," she said as she turned and saw her boss saunter over to them," Tell this bastard to stop chugging the alcohol and use it on me, will ya'?"

" You heard the woman, Stan," the merchant smirked as he felt himself in the shallow pools of thought. Taking a seat next to them he sighed," Whats the prognosis?"

Arching an eyebrow she growled," How bout' I cut into yer arm with a rusty sickle and see how you li-"

Throwing a dash of the burning spirits into the woman's wound, more to shut her up than anything else, Stan watched as she bit her lip and hissed at him," Can't treat this thing here, chief. Gonna have to take her back to the rig," he said.

Looking around, Paulus nodded to the door and tried to look away from the ugly gash as he spoke," Go ahead and get goin'. Can't use either of you anyway when your wasted and the other is about to have one of her arms fall off. Be sure to let Norman know I'm in need of more men, and have them armed with some of the 'rifles. I have a feeling there won't be a place that bastard can hide when we have our sights on him."

Staring at him complacently, the mercenary wasn't even aware of his companion as she laughed at him in victory. Quickly gasping in pain as her companion helped her support the wounded arm, Dya tried her best to pull herself to her feet," Easy," she growled as the she snatched the bottle of whiskey away and began to chug it. Slowly walking to the end of the bar they opened the bolted door and nodded to Zaya as she slipped by and walked briskly over to the merchant.

Glancing at her and knowing the moment she walked in that the mercenary didn't have any good news to share, Paulus leaned back and offered her a chair that wasn't blood spattered," What is it," he said finally as she sat before him.

A long moment passed as she looked at him with her single, jade-hued eye before the warrior said as she tried to ignore Slash's screams," Paulus, we've just discovered something about Wkigi."

Offering his attention to her, the merchant spread his hands and said plaintively," And?"

" And.." Zaya continued as she tried to search for the words to say what she and the crew had dreaded the most," I don't know how to tell ya' this, Paul. So I'm just gonna say come out and say it; Wkigi's got hold of the warehouses. He's usin' em' to fuel his little war with the nobles."

" Shit," Paulus had managed to growl before a loud shot rang out in the bar that caught the pair by surprise. Slumping over in his chair, the crater in Slash's head wisped with smoke as Darrel glanced at them and shrugged before holstering his revolver and walking back to the bar. Looking at each other, the merchant and captain knew there was little left to do now but to act.

~*~

[Camella]

Camella was in more than just a bit of a panic at the moment. She was going to need to be a miracle-worker if she hoped to escape the city with her life. It had gotten to the point where she was unable to even move without half-expecting someone to jump her. She was an extremely dangerous woman at all times, but now she was even more so. Walking around with her hands on her daggers, she was ready to attack anything that made even the slightest movement toward her.

The caravan was still outside the entrance to the city, and she wasn't about to go near that thing, so she was stuck in this hellhole for a while yet. A dog barked at her as she passed by, and she nearly had a heart attack from the scare.

This is not good, Camella thought to herself as she trudged her way through the snow. I'm losing my composure and my sanity in this extreme display of survival of the fittest. I may as well already be dead if this keeps up.

It was the truth and she was unable to hide from it any longer. Her struggles over the past years seemed like nothing compared to this. What she needed was something to distract her from these problems. Some blood dripped down from a rooftop onto her shoulders, it was not the type of distraction she needed.

"You aren't helping any!" Camella yelled at the blood as it hit her.

"That's the Bitch!" A familiar voice yelled out from behind her. Around twenty feet behind her, she saw the man she had crippled earlier using crutches to hold himself up. He was standing next to what appeared to be a well armed friends of his. The man was outfitted with a weapon she had never seen before. To her it looked like a black crossbow minus the bow part but modified to be quite mechanical.

Come to think of it, there were similar weapons aboard that Caravan. She wasn't sure how it worked, but she was pretty sure it made him extremely dangerous. Camella charged in to attack the man with her daggers, only to get shot by the man with the pistol. The same man she had been attacking just sent some condensed lead into her right shoulder almost instantaneously forcing her to drop her dagger. At least she knew what that loud noise was from earlier.

Camella continued to close the distance between herself and the man as in a panic, he fired off three more bullets, two of which narrowly missed her head, while the third hit her in the right shoulder. The pain was getting to be too much, but she was now in his face. Camella tackled the man and knocked the gun out of his hands. When the man went to reach for it, she nailed his hand to the ground with a her dagger.

The Cripple picked up the gun and shot one bullet in each knee, sendin Camella to the ground. He aimed at her head and attempted to fire only to realize that there were no bullets left in the gun. It didn't take Camella long to realize this either. It was the only reason he wouldn't have fired his weapon.

Camella had to chuckle at the fact that there was an opening, and she could DO nothing about it.

[Saxon]

A crisp, bitter wind whipped at the torches that hung affixed to the dilapidated rooftops, causing the fiery embers to bite and nick at the cold gale in a futile attempt to survive. Concealed by the greasy darkness, a shadowy figure leveled the barrel of his weapon at the scene below him. Looking through the dark, troublesome scope of the rifle, the sniper heard wretched gunfire break the eerie silence and cause him to choke up on the weapon. Below him on the dismal streets, a woman slashed and cut defiantly at a pair of ragged looking men as they advanced on her. She acted and fought like a wolf that had caught itself in the jaws of a bear trap, biting and growling at everything around it as it tried desperately to gnaw its own leg off. Staring at her coldly, the mercenary grit his teeth as blood spewed from behind her, a bullet ripping a gaping hole through her shoulder.

Moving into a better light, the man scratched his shoulder as he stared intently down at the trio as they fought and wrestled like the ebb and flow of a small inlet river bleeding into the cold sea. The woman grappled with the assailant as more shots rang out, and she closed the gap between them in one last ditch effort to charge. Staring in mild amusement, the sniper gazed at the mysterious woman as she knocked her attacker off his feet and onto his rear, leaving him helpless as the gun flew from his hand as she wrenched it and pinned it to the floor with her a silvery, metallic flick that had to be a dagger.

" Too cocky," the mercenary breathed with a wheeze as he watched the other attacker circle behind her and stumble to pick up the weapon, and popped off two shots in each knee of his victim. The woman screamed as the bullets ripped through her knees, and caused her to fall to the ground as the man continued to pull the trigger of the pistol only to hear several quiet clicks. Upon his crutches the figure staggered towards her, continuing to pull the trigger as he cackled at her. The other assailant wrenched the dagger free from his palm with an agonized gasp, the whites of his eyes rolling towards to his victim as he tried to stand.

Often when the mercenary saw scenes like this, he felt like a god weighing lives in his hands as he witnessed terrible deeds with the option to intervene. Putting his finger upon the trigger, he watched as the familiar black lines painted upon the lens of the scope etch across the back of the head of the rioter who gripped the gleaming dagger of the woman. Out of habit the sniper stifled a breath as he saw the alien look upon the wretched woman's face as she laughed at the rioters. Had she known she was about to be saved? Did she understand the gravity of her situation? The sniper gave one last dismissive grunt as he squeezed the trigger and a terrific shot rang from between his ears.

A gaping hole upon the forehead of the sniper bled as he slumped, his eyes growing listless and his face placid. Melting from the darkness, the dense shadow of Zaya came into view as she moved quickly across the roof and wrenched the rifle from the grasp of her victim," That one was for Chuck for shooting him in the back, you fucking coward," she said coolly.

Biting on a cigarette between her teeth, smoke whistled in front of the warrior's face as she gazed upon the alien insignia of one of Paulus' top competitors plastered upon the mercenary's back," Shit," she growled under her breath. Alarming thoughts coursed through her mind as a part of herself made the warrior glance instinctively over the edge. Leaning over the woman, the man raised the dagger high into the air and over the woman as she sneered at him. Realizing her plight, the mercenary raised the stolen Dragunov SVD and leveling it at the scene below her, Zaya squeezed the trigger and a powerful blast ripped through the air and the assailant's head exploded in a crimson spray.

The crippled rioter caught sight of the mercenary before he toppled over with a wet slap as a bullet ripped through the darkness and bit into what Zaya thought to be his good leg. Parting at the knee, the bloody leg gushed as the cripple fell pathetically to the ground. Across the grisly scene, the mercenary lowered the rifle and nodded to the woman as their eyes met before disappearing into the darkness again. Making it the other side, the warrior pulled a strange device called a radio from her pocket and pressed the button as she said," Got a civilian down in the alley on the southeast corner of Main Street. She's wounded and needs a lift back to the Rig to be treated. Over."

Pausing for a moment as she listened to the crisp, unintelligible static across the radio, Zaya waited a couple moments before a haggard voice called over the link," Yer growin' soft, Zaya. Savin' civilians from problems they've caused. Yew sure it ain't time to retire?"

" Fuck you, Nick," the mercenary said playfully into the radio, her thoughts wandering towards the familiar insignia as she felt Rkam becoming too hot to handle.

" Roger that," a mechanical voice wheezed over the radio before static hissed into Zaya's ear. Putting the radio back into her pocket she reached the other end of the roof and peered over the edge before climbing over the cold granite. Taking one last breath in the biting gale, the woman flicked her cigarette away and leapt into the shadows and was engulfed into the darkness of waning nightfall.

~*~

Moving quickly across the alley upon booted feet, a tall mercenary nodded to his team as he broke off and slipped into the dull light of the grisly scene. It had taken them minutes to respond, and as far as they knew, the woman could've been long gone by now. Standing like faceless sentries, the mercenaries watched from the shadows as their leader moved towards the girl. He was a head shorter than Darrel, and his curly black hair gave a natural shadow over his hazel eyes. Standing in a thick, woolen jacket, dark-green cargo pants and steel-capped combat boots, the warrior looked completely devoid of any appearance of where he had hailed from.

Relaxing his grip on his beretta, the man saw the two corpses of the rioters but no woman that needed saving. Holstering the weapon, the man looked from the mounds of waste and filth and into the dark shadows where he saw something stir. Raising his hands in neutrality, the mercenary gave a soft smile," Hello? My name is Nick, hello? Yeah, you can come out. We're not here to hurt you. You are that girl that needed helped... right?"

[Camella]

Right after she was saved, Camella also realized she was screwed over big time. She couldn't move anywhere very fast, if at all. She knew that if she didn't hide herself, more would likely come along to finish her off. With a lot of difficulty, she managed to hide herself beneath the snow, or at least the injured parts of her body. She then turned her body completely white with her chameleon-like abilities. It was the perfect camouflage until she could heal enough to move again. In the meantime, she closed her eyes to completely blend in.

When Nick announced his presence, Camella's hopes of surviving went downhill. She was scared and more than a bit paranoid. In her opinion, this guy was likely going to kill her as soon as she showed herself, despite what she said. It didn't help any when she heard Nick call in on the radio.

"I don't see her. You sure this is the right place?"

"Just keep searching, she can't be too far away, what with her injuries and all."

Nick started to head back behind the house to see if she had hidden there when he accidentally stepped on Camella's right shoulder. Camella couldn't keep herself from screaming out in pain. She was royally fucked over unless Nick was telling the truth about wanting to help her.

-----------

Nick pulled Camella out of the snow and looked her up and down. Her wounds seemed pretty bad, and she was lucky to have survived at all. Snatching Camella up, he was quick to realize that she was heavier than he expected. After a bit of a trek, he brought her back to the Caravan. It was the safest place he knew of, and they had the supplies to help her wounds heal stored away there as well, but even with the best medical aid, she was in no condition to fight for at least two days. Nick pulled out his radio to update Zaya on the situation.

"She's pretty banged up, but I got her to the caravan. You want me to meet you at the warehouse or take care of her here?"

[Saxon]

Almost by clockwork they had come en masse. Carrying weapons ranging from pistols and rifles to pitch-forks and sickles, the poor peasants of the city that had been touched by morality and stricken with poverty had been reduced to a heathenism that knew no bounds. To Paulus' credit, the sacking of the Crow's Wing had proved to be the thing that rattled Wkigi's rebels like angry hornets from their nest. The narrow, filthy streets were flooded with a sea of jeering peasants, armed to the teeth in what had to be the merchant's reserves. They had been lucky to have gotten off the streets when they had, because the rioters traveled across the city like a pack of wild wolves, tearing and ravaging whatever victim came their way, and the intoxicating scent of blood nipping at their nostrils. They had turned everything upside down in the search of the people who had destroyed the tavern, which had been one of the many ammo dumps Wkigi had strategically placed.

Drawing a sharp breath, Smitty looked on in horror from the safety of a rooftop as the men, women, and children of this bloody rebellion blew each other to pieces, banged and damaged anything they got their mangy hands on, and pulled what innocents there were left into the undertow of the fanatical swarm. Virtually torn limb from limb by muffled spray of bullets, a woman crumpled to the ground as a series of knee-jerking coughs sputtered from what had to be one of the sub-machine guns while blood splurted from the masses like a severed limb attempting to clot. Witnessing the rebels in the throes of their lunacy, the warrior's blood ran cold as several rioters splintered from the chaotic mob to feast on the scarlet ruin of the female. This wasn't madness caused by war, Smitty thought, No man's will shatters like glass that easily.

" Savages," the mercenary growled under his breath as the wrinkles upon his face crinkled in disgust. Turning his back to the scene, the survivalist walked down the mound of trash he had been standing on and passed many of his fellow mercenaries. They sat or crouched in wait for the next order with dark, sinister hopes that made their trigger fingers twitchy. Blocked from view by a wall of aged tin and a mound of filth, the rooftop of what had once been a pharmacy sheltered the bulk of Paulus' forces.

Looking over to the crowd huddled by a nearby crate, Smitty watched as the merchant pushed a tin can over a make-shift map. Paulus had been circled by many of his captains once more, and though his voice was low, everybody around the merchant could hear his every syllable over the sound of clashing steel and rumbling slaughter," The left quadrant here is under heavy guard, don't think the turret is still operational, but I wouldn't count on anything since those monkeys moved in."

Glancing at Smitty as he approached, Zaya pointed with her chin to the space of the map where the tin can now squatted on," You sure that's the right play, chief?"

" What do you mean," A curly-haired captain tried to ask from over the sounds of gratuitous gunfire.

Tracing the lines of a large rectangle with a finger, Zaya looked to her fellow captains," Look. The perimeter for our old guard issue was on the rooftops, it doesn't take a scientist to figure out that they'd have an advantage over the rest of us if we were to approach from the south side of the docks. If we were to cut through the fencing there, we'd be riddled full of holes before we even made it to the door."

" What about here," Smitty said as he traced a line from the street they stood a few yards away from to a large half circle around the docks and to the warehouses," With the turrets guarding the entrance and the south side being watched, the eastern side wouldn't even have been considered as a possible entry point."

" Course'," said the curly-haired captain as he nudged a fellow captain and pointed to the spot," Thats where we put a lot of the tripwire. The poor bastards who don't know where they're goin' will be blowin' to pieces before he makes it six yards from the wall."

" We wouldn't have to deal with the pricks if we blew a hole in the back of the 'house," Zaya interjected as she calculated the risks," Could take em' by surprise and overwhelm them."

Looking at each other in muddled amazement, the captains turned their attention to Paulus who was stroking a stubble of graying whiskers. Nodding in approvingly, the merchant shrugged," Suppose so. Take a few folks to blow a hole on the east side and have the rest of us flank the west with another explosion ten seconds later. Would knock all the sentries off guard and give us enough time to make a pincer movement."

" I'll be damned if Wkigi isn't in the control room listenin' to the pipes," Smitty said as his shadowy face grimaced in the dim candle light.

" If we got to the controls in time, we could turn on the security and cut down whatever lay in wait at the front of the warehouse. After that, I've got a little somethin' in there to carry the supplies back to the rig if those bastards hadn't already managed to get to it already," Paulus mused as his old mind began to churn like a thresher with the inkling of a plan.

As Zaya opened her mouth to retort, her pocket hissed with static as her radio flickered with life. Pulling it out she heard the faint voice of Nick and his request. Handing the device over to her boss, the mercenary watched as Paulus held the button and said," Nick, this is Paulus. Maintain your position, tell Norman to rev up the Rigs and tell Chase and Alexa to circle the city with the humvees towards either side of the docks. We're gonna need an escort. Over."

" Roger that, chief," Nick said after a long pause and then the radio died with a hiss of static.

Handing it back to Zaya, Paulus nodded to the map," Well then, its settled. Suit up and get ready to ship out in ten minutes. We're getting into that warehouse, one way or another."

~*~

[Saxon]

Under the cover of darkness and chilled to the bone as the temperature plummeted while dawn slowly approached, massive shadows painted the walls under the dim torchlight. The port of the city was virtually abandoned during the riots; most of the rebels were content with pillaging and raping the lands of their oppressors, and had no need to come back to such a place. The howl of the biting winds and the sharp, teeth-chattering snap of cold was all it took for most of the mercenaries to figure out where they stood. Safe in the shadows, every single one of the warriors scurried for cover as flashes of white-hot streaks of lightening contrasted against the murky, black gloom.

Massive, elongated buildings constructed from granite and thick, steel checkered roofs that sat atop the building as it was wedged in the remains of the barren landscape. Rolls of the rumbling seas crashed against the decadent shipyard, the groan of the remaining wooden vessels ringed within the residents' ears and rattled their ignorance. Upon every flicker of lightning, Zaya could almost see the shattered masts of a graveyard of ships and wide, planked docks that were being buried under thousands of pounds of frigid, brackish waves. The rancid stench of fish was almost unbearable; heaps of what was left of a once populous and successful fish market were left to rot and carried atop the smell of the salty air only to waft in the nostrils of the steadfast mercenaries.

Able to see wisps of her hot breath, even in the black darkness, Zaya stole a glance behind her to check the progress of her squad. Divided right down the center, Zaya and Paulus each led a score of mercenaries across the constricted, clogged streets as they searched for their vantage point. Darrel had managed to grab a couple of explosive devices known as claymores from the ruined stores of the Crow's Wing and had given Paulus and Zaya one each before taking his squad to meet with the cavalry if they were truly needed. Feeling the heavy burden within the knapsack strapped to her back, the mercenary knew all too well of the awesome power and destruction such devices were capable of. Images of chunks of granite masonry whipped in and out of her mind as Zaya had imagined a gargantuan hole being punched into the warehouse's foundation as if a giant, all too-curious, had poked a hole into the building to get a better view.

Flickering, diminished torchlight revealed the web of tall, steel-meshed fence that circled the merchant's property. Light flooded from amber-hued windows into parts of the apparently wide perimeter with florescent light, revealing chunks of red, frozen meat tossed haphazardly upon the white, powdery soil. Zaya and the entire crew knew better then to assume anything of Paulus' was that easy to get a hold of, as black soot that was scorched in a blast pattern stood apparent for all to see. Grenades and other devices called land mines laid buried under the cover of frozen, meaty soil and powdery chunks of snow. Each had been armed by the mercenaries themselves before the foundation of the masonry had time to even gel under the bitter cold. Every trap was deep enough to ignore the attention of Salvar's hazardous weather, but shallow enough to blow up on contact if enough pressure was applied.

Warriors in our own wasteland, Zaya thought, Trained to fight in alien ways and with weapons as foreign and sparse as the nations themselves. One day the mercenary would work up the nerve to ask Paulus the question she dreaded the most. Who was he? A benevolent figure that owned a trading company that had its hand in almost every sentient nation upon Althanas, and yet he was far more alien to his crew than they were to him. Each warrior had once been a peasant or citizen slowly strangled by poverty, many hailing from either Corone or Salvar, some even from the blistering sands of Fallien. Handpicked, trained in combat, and trusted with her boss' very life, Zaya took every bit of her job seriously.

Slowly slipping from the familiar sense of nostalgia, the warrior dismissed her suspicion. There would be no questioning of Paulus' generosity, at least not while Zaya and the captains were still around, and to think otherwise left a bitter taste in her mouth that tasted like the grim fruits of sacrilege. Pulling out a pair of long, scarlet shears designed to cut into the wiry mesh, the mercenary and her colleagues grappled with the fence as they peered into the darkness of the rebel's blindspot.

" Take it, and careful with it now!" Zaya whispered harshly as she and two others passed a giant piece of wiry web of steel off to the rest of their squad to dispose of. Tucking the shears back into her knapsack, Zaya fished around for a moment before she managed to pull a single black goggle from the shadow depths of her belongings. Lowering her hood and holding her fur cap in her arm pit, the mercenary carefully slung the single goggle over her eye and stifled a breath as everything seemed to be cast in a bright, unnatural green.

" Lens workin', boss?" a crewmate whispered quietly as the squad watched their leader tuck the cap over her dark, raven-hued scalp.

With a rush of vertigo that filled her head when she snapped her head too quickly in the direction of the voice, Zaya's vision swam dizzyingly as it attempted to level itself out," Like a charm," she snapped.

Steadying her sights upon the strip of cold, narrow strip of ground between her and the crew's collective objective, the mercenary saw the familiar slivery twinges of tripwire meant to guide the crew across the mine field and into the building. Keeping her gaze fixed ahead of her, the captain took one crunchy step forward and stopped. Looking back into the dozens of sickly green orbs that stuck out of the shadows like sore thumbs, Zaya whispered," Stay here and stick to the shadows. Can't be huddlin' against that wall when the 'more goes off."

Without another word Zaya turned back and drew one final breath before she forsook her squad for the mine field. Each step caused the mercenary's heart to leap as she made her way across the maze of tripwire. Slowly but surely, her footsteps rippled like rumbling thunder as the warrior could distantly hear the steel twine tinkle in a sharp gust of wind.

~*~