"Where is the last human?" a sick, almost warbly voice croaks through the gloom. There's a pause, followed by the snapping of more bone.

"There!" I hear Ragyle finally scream. I can't actually see what's going on.

The foot next to me shifts, and suddenly a massive, long fingered hand bursts down through the smoke, grasping me by the back of my tunic pants. I'm lifted like a hare caught in a snare. I scream. The face before me is worse than my childhood nightmares could have ever conceived. The skin is bluish, bloodless, lips red as if it had indeed been feasting on blood recently. It smiles at me, revealing multiple rows of needle-like teeth made for boring holes in flesh. Its breath reeks of rotting meat. White hair hangs around its face, falling nearly to its butt.

Attempting to put on a brave front, I stare the creature dead in the eyes. Except…I can't see its eyes. A pair of goggles, dark and round, cover them, encircling its head. With a further grin, the creature, this true mutant of Everwinter, raises its other hand to its face and grips the goggles, pulling them upward to rest on its marble forehead. Its gaze is terrible and red, without a tinge of color.

"I have her, Pilcrow," the creature says, carrying me over to the most massive of all the creatures in the room. They all look very much alike–like clones–their hairstyles the only thing distinguishing them. Pilcrow has a set of twin mohawks shaved into the sides of his head, holding up what's left of Ragyle–a pitiful, wretched creature. Both her arms are broken.

I can see she's in agony.

"I'm sorry," she mouths to me. With that, Pilcrow snaps Ragyle's back, as if breaking kindling for a fire. The body slumps lifelessly to the floor.

"NO!" I hear Agoma scream. Out of the smoke, two more Everwinter mutants stalk forward, carrying Agoma by the shoulders three feet off the ground. 

"Pilcrow?" one of them asks, in nearly the exact same voice as Pilcrow himself. Whatever these creatures are, they are all very closely related, if not duplicates.

Pilcrow shakes his head, then Agoma screams as two massive mutant hands grab him by the head and twist. The movement is almost delicate. Agoma's body joins his sister's on the floor of the lab, together in death. The mutant carrying me holds me up to Pilcrow who, like the others, sports a pair of dark goggles. He doesn't remove them though. He eyes me up and down, sniffing. Then he lifts up my shirt, looks down my pants, examining the skin. His touch is cold and revolting. 

The sick thing is, it reminds me of Tien.

"You truly are pure, aren't you?" Pilcrow asks, his expression unreadable. "You are the last human."

Panicking, I look around. Where the hells is Traylor?

"Yes," I finally say. "I am the last human. Just me. As pure as they come."

Pilcrow's face nearly explodes into a smile. "Your Father has been a very busy man indeed," he says.

I'm stunned. "My... My Father?" I ask. "What do you know of my–" 

Pilcrow slaps me. Hard. I feel blood flow from my lips.

"Get her out of here," Pilcrow orders his henchmen. "Torch the place." I struggle, screaming, but to no avail. It's hopeless. As I'm being carried out of the room, I see yet another figure I thought must be dead.

Ursa.

She's being held on her knees by a final Everwinter mutant as Pilcrow approaches her.

"Don't hurt her!" I scream. "I'll... I'll kill myself! Then you won't have any humans at all!"

Pilcrow just laughs at the empty threat. He kneels down before Ursa, who will not meet his eyes. Pilcrow forces her, lifting her chin. "You know why I'm leaving you alive, don't you?" Ursa nods, tears forming in the corners of her tumored eyes. "Tell Jonathan I will be seeing him very soon."

Jonathan? My Father? What in hells is going on here?

"Go!" Pilcrow gives a final order to the mutant carrying me. Then I'm gone, carried out of the lab.

"Altair!" I scream.

 

 

 

 

40.

 

It's like that word. What's it called again? 

When you feel like you're reliving something you've already experienced.

Déjà vu, that's it.

Altair and Glamis are positioned at the end of the hall just outside the elevator, having coming back down from level seven. The hall itself is deserted, but the lab at the far end is emitting a soft glow. 

Fire. Again.

They pause a moment, taking stock. Altair hears voices, followed by the unmistakable smashing of glass and equipment.

Someone is trashing the lab. 

He checks the floor and sees multiple sets of six-toed footprints–some coming, some going–through the dust.

Everwinter mutants.

Where are his friends?

The footprints leading back to the elevator make him uneasy. What if his friends have already been taken out of here?

He gestures to Glamis. "We do it your way this time," he says, flashing his throwing stars threateningly. "We go in, shooting irons blazing. Get it?"

Glamis nods, wringing his hands together. "Lets us kill us some midgets!" 

With that, Glamis charges, shoulder lowered as if he's going to simply smash his way through the wall instead of using the hole already blasted through it. The mutant is fast for his bulk, but Altair is faster. He slips past Glamis just before the lab and leaps through the opening, his Assassin's eyes surveying the scene in milliseconds. The place is a disaster, the central cumpewter smashed, the glass table cracked. Instruments formerly lining the walls and ceiling are now torn down in heaps. There's another heap, indistinct, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's composed of organics.

The bodies of Agoma and Ragyle.

He cringes but doesn't let it stop him.

Two creatures whirl at his entrance, one tossing debris onto a fire in one corner, another ripping wires from the wall. Ursa is there as well, cowering in the opposite corner, but there’s no one else.

No Traylor. No Juno.

The creatures–Everwinter mutants, of course–are familiar to him, and not just from a physical perspective.

He knows these creatures personally.

They are agents of Pilcrow.

"Assassin!" one of the mutants hisses. Altair can't remember their names, though they do have them. The one who’d just spoken is wearing a shoulder harness, loaded with grenados and shooting irons. It reaches for a grenado.

"Not this time!" Altair sneers, sending a throwing star with deadly accuracy into the dead center of the creature's hand. It screeches, nerves severed cleanly. The hand is dead, just as Altair had intended. With its other hand, it reaches for a shooting iron.

Not fast enough.

Altair lets fly a second star, taking the creature in the throat, slicing almost directly through its thick, blue throat. The mutant collapses in a gurgle of dark blue blood.

A screech sounds from behind.

Altair whirls but this time it’s he who is too late.

Two massive, clawed, and cold hands close around his throat, crushing without prejudice. The world goes quickly dark...

But then there's light.

Two new hands, more massive than those belonging to the Everwinter mutant, streak out of the smoke and darkness, glowing incandescently. They come together like a hammer striking an anvil, the Everwinter mutant's head literally exploding in a spray of brain and bone. Altair is released and falls to one knee, coughing hoarsely, covered in gore.

"I'se tells you midgets is no matches for me!" the familiar voice of Glamis gloats. Altair looks up into his eyes and smiles weakly. He gets to his feet. Ursa is still cowering in the corner, clearly in shock. 

"Ursa!" Altair cries, grabbing and shaking the mutated woman by the shoulder. "Where are Juno and Traylor?"

Ursa shakes her head, bursting into tears. "They took her! Pilcrow..."

Altair hesitates. How does Ursa know the name Pilcrow?

"What about Traylor?" he continues, keeping his fear in check–something he is well trained to do in a crisis. 

"Here!" a new voice suddenly announces. Altair is about to produce more throwing stars from his sleeves when he sees the small boy, crawling from beneath the now crushed central table of the room.

"Traylor!" Glamis exclaims, grabbing the boy in an enormous embrace. For a moment, Altair worries the mutant will accidentally crush him.

"I'm okay!" Traylor admonishes, pushing away with a smile. "They had no idea I was here! They only knew about Juno."

Altair turns to Ursa for confirmation. "It's true," she says. "They only wanted Juno."

"Where are they taking her?" Traylor asks, worry coating his every word.

Altair doesn't answer. He thinks he knows the answer to the question, but something has caught his attention. He gets up, walking over to one of the Everwinter mutant bodies–the one wearing an ammunition sling. There's something clipped to the belt besides the ammo. He plucks up the small black device and flicks a switch at the top. A hissing crackle of static is the result. 

Glamis jumps. "What hellscraft is this?" he exclaims.

Altair waves him down. He's used these long distance communicators before. He presses the send button.

"Pilcrow," he says, voice calm, firm.

Silence, seeming to stretch on to infinite.

"Greetings, Altair," a seedily cold voice finally replies. He hears gasps from his companions; no doubt they are wondering why he is on a first name basis with this villain.

Explanations will have to wait though.

"What do you want with Juno?" he asks, knowing the answer, but thinking of nothing better to say.

"Don't insult me, Altair," Pilcrow responds over the communicator. "You know exactly what I want. And now I have it. The last human! The last chance for humanity. You know I can't let a cure get out! Juno will pay for the sins of her Father!"

Altair closes his eyes. "Pilcrow," he begins, "I understand your anger, but know that you are wrong in this. Juno is not the last human. She never was." Altair turns his gaze to Traylor, who is turning pale.

"You bluff," Pilcrow responds. "I destroyed the samples of Juno's blood myself before leaving. The lab is destroyed. Ursa's lab in Venecici is destroyed. Humanity is doomed, Altair."

"Those samples were old," Altair continues, lying for real now–another facet of his training. "The cure has already been synthesized. You didn't know Juno had a brother, did you?"

Silence. Then: "What is his name?"

"Traylor Quinn. Son of Jonathan."

A curse issues over the communicator, and Altair smiles. Juno must have confirmed the information.

Gods, I hope she is okay.

"We have the cure, Pilcrow," Altair continues. "Bring Juno back, and we will trade. As you said, this lab and others have been destroyed. All the research. The scientists who synthesized it are dead. We cannot make more without it. We will give it to you in exchange for Juno." Altair hesitates. "It's the cure you want, isn't it? Not Juno. Don't punish her for her Father's mistakes. You want to make sure humanity never recovers from the Final Judgment." It's a flimsy argument, Altair knows, but it's all he's got. He just hopes Pilcrow doesn't know Ursa is still alive–a scientist who could potentially carry on the work of the Doctors Agoma and Ragyle. 

Why hadn't they killed Ursa anyway?

He would have, just to be thorough.

More silence, then: "Why would you risk so much–the future of your race–for just one human, Altair? Why not take the cure and run with it?"

Altair hesitates once more. This won't be easy to say.

"Because I love her," he finally replies.

 

 

 

 

41.

 

"What the hells did he just say!" I exclaim, thinking that I'd surely misheard Altair over the crackly little communication device Pilcrow holds in his hand.

I get a slap in response.

I sneer at the mutant that struck me, but my hands are firmly bound behind my back. I can't even make a cursory physical threat. 

"Take us down!" Pilcrow bellows, speaking to the creature at the front of the vehicle. Below us, the Fringe city of Takay appears in miniature, like a toy. The view makes me nauseous and I have to turn away.

The machine we are riding inside is like every Forerunner fantasy I've ever had rolled up into one. For one thing it flies, gliding noisily but effortlessly through the skies of Takay. The body of the machine, bruise purple in color, is pill shaped, with seating for a half dozen in the back and two seats in the front for pilots. There's only one pilot right now, however, and Pilcrow and two of his henchmen are with me in the back, watching me like hawks. A layered series of wings protrudes from each side of the vehicle, all flapping furiously in unison, not unlike the hummer birds I see so often back home. The wings are slowing now, the pilot taking us down into a deserted but trash ridden field just outside the city. 

"Are you there, Pilcrow?" Altair's worried voice sounds over the communicator once again. 

Pilcrow curses, ignoring Altair for the moment. 

"What should we do?" one of the henchmen asks Pilcrow. The mutant has a single mohawk, grown long down his back. Other than those weapon belts and dark goggles over their eyes, these mutants wear no clothing to speak of. "If they really do have the cure and another pureblooded human," the mutant continues, "then this female is useless to us!" He gestures to me like I'm garbage. 

A million things are running through my mind in that moment. First, I know it's a lie. Agoma and Ragyle never got any further than drawing my blood, so there is no fully synthesized cure yet. Ursa might be able to continue that work, but she seemed unfamiliar with the Doctor's techniques. Altair is just trying to lure Pilcrow back so that he can kill these mutants and save me.

He doesn't really love me. Does he?

And why is this Pilcrow so obsessed with my Father?

The memory of Agoma and Ragyle, broken like ragdolls on the floor, flashes through my mind. Even Altair and Glamis together would be no match for these mutants. I mean, look at them! They're freakin' huge! If we go back, my friends are just as dead as I am. And the knowledge of Traylor’s existence is out now too. They'll probably take him as well.

My mind is made up in that moment.

"Don't do it!" I blurt. "It's a trap! There is no cure! It's like you said! It was all destroyed!"

I cringe, hoping Pilcrow doesn't see fit to slap me again, but he just eyes me thoughtfully. 

"I know," Pilcrow finally replies. "It very likely is a trap, and Altair knows that I know that. I just can't figure out his angle." He hesitates. "Do you really have a brother who is pureblooded like you?"

I sigh and nod. "Yes, unfortunately."

Pilcrow smiles. "It's settled then. Your friend Altair thinks I want the cure–and I do–but you are just as valuable to me, Juno. It may shock you to learn that this cure has been your Father's pet project for over twenty years. He's had labs all over the world working on it. Originally, I had planned to capture it and destroy it before his very eyes. But that was before I learned that you escaped the Final Judgment. Now that I have you..."

I'm stunned. "What do you know of my Father?" I snarl. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Pilcrow just smiles knowingly.

"Jacobi," Pilcrow yells, addressing the pilot at the front of the vehicle. "Cancel that last order. Take us back up. I have a better idea."

"Yes, Pilcrow," Jacobi obeys. My stomach whirls once more as we ascend over Takay.

"What are you doing?" I ask, starting to hyperventilate. I feel a panic attack coming on.

Pilcrow ignores me. "Ready the Atom Smasher, Skarix," he says to the mutant with the long mohawk. Skarix gets up from his seat and moves over to the side of the vehicle. To my shock, he pulls open a sliding glass door, letting turbulent air rush in. The mutant then climbs out onto the side of the cab, using a rail for support. There's something mounted to the rail. It's long and sleek, shaped like a bullet with fins. Crude words are painted along the side of it:

Megaton Death From Above!

I don't know what they mean exactly, but I don't have to.

I know what this thing is.

A Forerunner weapon.

I've heard of them, of course, from the old stories. They say the Great Poison of the northern ocean was a result of one of these weapons. An Atom Smasher. A weapon capable of leveling an entire city with one deadly blast. I never believed such a thing could be real. Where had Pilcrow gotten it? This Atom Smasher is old and rusted, but Skarix, the mutant on the side of the flying machine, seems unconcerned with that. There will be no deal between Altair and Pilcrow. Pilcrow plans on simply killing everything that can pose a threat to him.

"Level the Thopter over the lab," Pilcrow orders Jacobi, the pilot. Apparently, this flying machine is called a Thopter.

Jacobi does as ordered, pulling and turning a steering device at the same time. Mutants in the desolate streets of Takay bolt as our shadow passes over them, a harbinger of death. I immediately recognize the crumbling warehouse that Glamis had taken us beneath earlier. There's a small hope in the back of my mind that since the lab is underground, it will be somewhat protected from the Atom Smasher.

It's not much of a hope though.

Pilcrow surely would have considered that already. The Atom Smasher will likely create a crater halfway to the core of the planet!

Jacobi settles the Thopter over the street, the warehouse directly in front of and below us.

"Um, won't we be blown up too if you fire that thing?" I attempt to stall. "We're pretty damn close to it!"

Pilcrow shakes his head. "You have no idea what the Forerunners were capable of," he says. I stare at him, not really sure what that means. Pilcrow smiles, revealing his needle-like teeth. "This machine is shielded," he boasts. "Nothing can harm us once it is activated." He reaches over, flicking a switch on the wall. A faint, metallic blue skin seems to grow over the Thopter. Pilcrow smiles and sticks his hand out the open door, blue light dancing on his pale fur.

"Just make sure you stay inside the Thopter," he states.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes. "I really hope you're wrong," I snarl.

Skarix climbs back into the cabin, sliding through the blue light of the shield and resuming his seat next to Pilcrow. "The Atom Smasher is ready," he announces.

Pilcrow nods. "You might want to close your eyes for this," he tells me. "I've heard the explosion can actually burn your eyes out." He taps the goggles on his face, indicating that he and his mates are protected. I already know that they wear those goggles because their eyes are light sensitive, having evolved in the eternal darkness of Everwinter.

"Great," I say, my panic reaching a fever pitch. I need to do something–anything–to stop this, but haven't a clue what.

Pilcrow turns back toward the pilot. "Fire when ready, Jacobi."

"Yes, sir," Jacobi answers. I watch in helpless horror as the mutant reaches for the console in front of him, flipping up a cover with a red button beneath it. Jacobi makes a final adjustment to the Thopter's altitude then seems ready. 

His hand moves for the button.

Everything seems like it’s happening in slow motion, time stretching to infinite. His hand is just inches from killing everyone I have left in this world...

I don't think. I act.

"NO!" I scream, leaping forward from my seat.

My hands are still bound behind my back, but Pilcrow and Skarix, staring out the front of the Thopter, are so surprised by my movement that I manage to slip between them into the cockpit, slamming up against Jacobi's cold back. My hands are useless at the moment, so I use the only weapons available to me.

My teeth.

I bite down, slicing into the cold flesh on Jacobi's face, taking the leather strap of the goggles he wears at the same time. Jacobi screams, his hands still on the steering column, jolting and sending the nose of the Thopter straight upwards. At the same time he hits the red button, firing the Atom Smasher. I'm grasped from behind by rough hands, pulling me backward like I'm a bag of air. I keep my teeth firmly clasped, despite the foul taste of blood and raw flesh in my mouth. Jacobi's goggle strap snaps, dangling from my mouth like seaweed. I'm torn into the backseat, but I catch a last glimpse of the Atom Smasher, streaking a trail of smoke harmlessly straight up into the sky.

Then it explodes.

I'm in the back again, being pummeled by Pilcrow and Skarix. My eyes are closed.

But Jacobi's are not.

His goggles are gone.

The light of the explosion flashes full into his sight, causing another scream, this one sounding a million times more agonized. The pilot falls forward against the steering column, the Thopter sent straight into a dive. My world spins. I still feel Pilcrow on top of me, screaming too, but in rage not pain. His grip on me tightens. It feels like he's trying to pop me like a bubble.

Then inertia takes over and suddenly everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

42.

 

"Juno!" Altair screams. 

And he's not the only one.

Ursa, Traylor, and Glamis are right behind him, witnessing the same thing he just had.

They're standing in the alley directly next to the warehouse, having just climbed out of the sewer to street level. A Thopter, a fantastic machine Altair has seen only once before in his miserable life has just streaked overhead, falling in a terrible nosedive. There's an explosion of some sort up in the sky. However, from where they stand, they can't see it directly. It's bright as hells, but it's dissipating.

"Come on!" he urges the others, keeping his throwing stars at the ready. Two are stained with the blood of the mutants he'd already killed. He leads the way, darting down the deserted streets. It's as if the residents of Takay evacuated centuries ago. Smoke rises from an intersection dead ahead, and he's the first one there. The Thopter is engulfed in flame and black smoke, its purple, pill-shaped body now like a crumpled sheet of paper.

"Juno!" he cries, trying to get closer. The heat forces him back. They need to get those flames out!

Suddenly, Glamis is at the wreckage, diving in heedlessly, pulling the thin metal of the craft apart like tissue. Altair cringes as the hulking mutant cries out in pain–he's burning, there can be no doubt–but then he finally reaches in, pulling something from the carnage.

A corpse.

He leaps away, pulling the body with him.

Even charred to a crisp, it’s clear that the body is big.

Too big to be Juno.

Glamis stumbles back over to his friends, his hands and arms cracked, blackened, and bleeding. He's coughing and breathing heavily. "'Tis only midgets I can see inside," he huffs, gesturing to the Everwinter mutant's corpse. "There's might be more insides but..." He doesn't have to finish. They all know what he means.

There are no survivors.

"Juno's dead?" a voice squeals from behind. Altair doesn't have to turn around to know that it belongs to Traylor. The little boy's anguish mirrors his own. "No!"

"What's wrong?" a new voice asks from out of nowhere.

Altair whirls around, astonished.

Impossible!

He has to be hallucinating...

Juno strides toward them as if she hasn't a care in the world. She's all dirt and soot from head to toe, her hair a disheveled mess. She's covered in cuts and scrapes, but to Altair, she's an absolute vision.

"J-J-Juno?" Traylor trembles as she approaches.

"Hey, buddy," she waves, all smiles.

Behind Juno, a massive ambling figure shambles along. It's limping, barely able to walk, but it's carrying something over its shoulder. Something equally big.

It's an Everwinter mutant carrying the body of another.

Altair has his stars ready in an instant.

"No, Altair!" Juno admonishes, finally reaching her friends. Her mutant companion stops near the Thopter wreckage. "It's alright," she says. "I think." She smirks. "He won't hurt us. He had a chance to kill me but didn't." She turns to the mutant and gestures.

"Juno is a good human," the mutant says, defying all logic. His eyes are bleeding and pussy; he must be half blind.

"But... How?" Traylor asks as Juno reaches him, leaning down to embrace her little brother in the tenderest of hugs. Ursa is there now too, sobbing, expressing her own relief at Juno's miraculous reappearance. Glamis seems not to notice Juno; he's staring at the Everwinter mutant like he wants to rip its head off.

The Everwinter mutant, exhausted, finally collapses against a wall for support, dropping his charge. The limp body he'd been carrying falls and Altair gasps, seeing the familiar visage of Pilcrow, smeared in blood from a gash on his head.

"He's not dead," Juno says, seeing Altair's scrutiny. "I... I had a chance to kill him but..."

Altair finally tears his gaze from the unconscious Pilcrow and heads over to Juno. He stops before her, face sullen. She stares at him, unsure how to greet him perhaps. She sticks her hand out, as if to shake. Altair just laughs and pulls her in, hugging her tightly. It'd been a long since he'd held another human being so close.

"I'm so glad you're alright," he says, feeling tears well up but forcing them back down. He is a master of suppressing emotion.

"Me too," Juno agrees. She hesitates.

"Well?" Altair asks. "Are you gonna tell us what happened or not?"

Juno laughs. "There's not a lot to tell really," she answers. She gestures to the wrecked Thopter. "Pilcrow and his cronies took me up in that machine. I heard you talking to him over the communicator. They assumed you were trying to set a trap for them, so they decided they were just gonna blow up the entire city instead."

"Impossibles!" Glamis exclaims from nearby, nursing his wounds to which Ursa is now tending.

Juno shakes her head. "They had a weapon," she explains. “Forerunner technology they called an Atom Smasher." Everyone gasps at that. "Yeah, I've heard the name too. From the stories. But I never thought they actually existed."

Altair grits his teeth, baring them at the Everwinter mutant still resting next to Pilcrow. "What then?" he asks.

"I knew I had to do something," Juno continues. "So I did the only logical thing possible." She grins. "I attacked the pilot." Her eyes fall on the Everwinter mutant.

"Him?" Traylor asks.

Juno nods. "Yeah. He was about to shoot the Atom Smasher into the lab but I leapt on him, knocking the Thopter off course. The weapon shot harmlessly into the sky, but the Thopter went into a nosedive. I was thrown out of it, along with Pilcrow and Jacobi here." She gestures to the pilot, who smiles weakly.

"In the name of the gods!" Altair proclaims. "How did you..."

Juno laughs. "It wasn't anything miraculous," she answers. "We were only about ten feet above a rooftop. We landed right on top of it, me on top of Pilcrow. He smashed his head pretty good. When I came around, I was still on top of him. He was out cold." Juno hesitates, getting obviously choked up now. They all give her the time she needs.

"There was a knife," she says, "on Pilcrow's shoulder belt. I pulled it out and cut myself free." She pauses, reminiscing. "I held it to his throat. I knew he was still alive, and here was my chance… He’d just tried to kill everyone I love in this world!" She gestures harshly to Pilcrow. She sighs deeply. "But I couldn't do it. I thought of all the death I'd already witnessed. I thought of Tien. Would killing Pilcrow really make a difference? Would it change anything? I dropped the knife."

Silence descends on the group, no one really sure what to say.

Then: "I makes it easy for yous!" Glamis proclaims. "I crush midget skulls right now!" He grinds his burnt hands together in his characteristic way.

"No, Glamis," Juno waves him back. "When I dropped the knife, Jacobi here saw everything. He approached me and told me I was an honorable human being. He told me I deserved very much to live, and that he was sorry for what happened. Pilcrow is a creature of hate, he explained, and that he himself was just following orders. I understood. I'd been following my Father's orders my entire life, despite how I felt about them."

She turns to Jacobi now, giving the mutant a sympathetic look.

"It's true," Jacobi says, holding himself upright now. "I am sorry for all of this. I will take Pilcrow with me and go. You will not be bothered by us again." He stoops down and reshoulders the unconscious mutant leader once again.

"I can't let you do that," Altair cuts in, holding a throwing star up. "Not after this." He gestures to Juno, but she's suddenly in front of him, gently pushing his hand down.

"Let him go," she says, softly, not bossily. "There's been enough death here for one day."

Altair shakes his head but acquiesces. "This is a bad idea, Juno," he says, his every instinct railing at letting a potential threat just walk away. “You keep letting our enemies live.”

"He can barely see," Juno tries to convince. "He has no goggles, and that blast nearly blinded him. It's over. Let's get on with our own mission." She turns to Ursa now, still tending to Glamis. "I assume any chance of synthesizing that cure here is out of the question."

Ursa nods. "With the Doctors dead and their facility destroyed we must continue to Everwinter. The lab there is our only hope now."

Juno nods, taking Altair by the hand. "Come on, let's get ourselves cleaned up and get the hells outta here."

Sagging, Altair realizes that she’s right. He smiles at her.

"I knows safe place to fixes ourselves," Glamis says, leading them away from the now smoldering wreckage of the Thopter.

Such a wonderful machine, now ash.

The others follow Glamis, but Juno tugs at Altair's arm, keeping him behind for a moment. She looks him dead in the eyes. "What you said when Pilcrow had me," she pauses. "That you loved me. That wasn't true, was it?"

Altair laughs, high and throaty. "I had to do what I had to do to save you, Juno. That’s all."

Juno smiles weakly, her expression disbelieving.

"Sure," is all she says.

 

 

 

 

43.

 

"Gods, I miss the sun," I say, pulling the collar of my newly acquired coat up a little higher.

Not that it does much good.

"Never thought you'd ever say that, did you?" Ursa chides me, trudging up the road beside me, leaving shallow, trailing tracks in the snow. There's just a light dusting of it here, two days outside of Takay, and already I'm sick of it. 

The road we're on is well worn, but it doesn't look like anyone's used it in days. Skeletal, leafless trees line our way, most having dark green needles like the sentinel pines back home but much more sparse. After everything that happened in Takay, we stayed two more days, nursing our wounds, gathering our bearings. Then Altair kicked our butts into gear. I could see the agitation in his eyes; he was worried about Pilcrow returning. I was worried about that too but, gods, it felt awesome to just relax and do nothing for once.

And I wasn't the only one to feel that way.

But, according to Altair, we were still a good few weeks from Everwinter, and the going is only gonna get tougher. We did find a supply of food and heavier clothing though, which Glamis provided–wooly coats and hats he calls 'tooks'–but they definitely don't feel adequate enough.

"I never thought I'd see snow," I say bleakly. "It's no wonder those Everwinter mutants are so pissed off all the time." Altair laughs behind us. "What?" I ask, annoyed.

"Nothing," he replies. "Everwinter mutants feel the same way about Eversummer."

I roll my eyes. "I was being sarcastic," I reply.

A coarse coughing echoes up to us from the back of our little troupe. I turn to look forlornly at my little brother. He's riding on Glamis' shoulders, eyes barely open, head bobbing. He only appears conscious now when he's coughing.

"He's getting worse," I say to Ursa, trying to keep my voice low.

Ursa nods. "I know. Unfortunately, antivirals were not among the stash of medical supplies I found in the Doctor's lab. He'll have to fight the infection on his own for now."

It sounds harsh, but there's nothing for it.

"And what if he can't?" I ask, realizing I'm being cynical.

Altair suddenly butts his way between us. "I'm going to get him some medicine," he says, eyes not meeting mine but remaining dead ahead.

I look at the desolation around us. "Um, okay. Where?"

"The next Fringe town is just a few more hours up the road,” he replies. “But we're going to stop before that. I have a friend who can shelter you guys while I go and get the antivirals."

"You have friends?" I ask, sarcastic again.

Altair rolls his eyes. "She's a fellow Assassin," he sneers, “though she abandoned the life long ago. She lives a quieter life these days."

"Where do you Assassins come from anyway?" I ask; I'd broached the topic before, but hadn't truly cared.

Not until now, I guess.

Altair eyes me. "You know I can't tell you that."

I huff. "Can't you give me anything else? I only know what everyone else in the world already knows: that the world fell into chaos because of the Forerunners, and an elite army was trained to reestablish order. The Deacons and the True Body Plan religion was an offshoot of that. I know that the Assassins are relatively few in number now, but how did you fall in with my Father? He never had a need for an elite killer on his staff in Krakelyn. The Deacons took care of that well enough." I pause, watching Altair expectantly. "So, what's the deal?"

"Let's just say my purpose crossed paths with your Father's at one time," he replies. It doesn't sound like I'm gonna get much more than that.

"Purpose?" I echo. "Does that ‘purpose’ have something to do with the genetic experimentation my parents put me through before I was even born?"

Altair shakes his head. "Let it go, Juno."

I curse. "This isn't finished," I say, and I pull ahead of him.

We continue on in silence for a time, the only sounds accompanying us the crunching of light snow underfoot and Traylor's incessant coughing. I try not to worry about it. Altair said he'd take care of it. It's kinda hard to stay mad at him for that reason.

About an hour later, the pines edging the road thin a little and we come to a massive bridge spanning an equally massive river.

Frozen, of course.

I've never seen so much ice. The construction itself looks old, rusty and rickety.

"We're not crossing that, are we?" I ask, knowing the answer must be yes.

"Actually," Altair smirks knowingly, "we're not."

He heads for the side of the bridge, where a beaten footpath winds its way down a steep bank to the river's edge. Cursing, we all follow. Altair, of course, makes it to the bottom without incident.

I can't say the same for myself, however.

Halfway down I slip, grabbing Ursa and taking her down with me. We slide to the bottom together, coming out on the river. Ursa laughs and I can't help but join her. Glamis, still carrying Traylor on his bulky shoulders, makes it down without a problem. Glamis is wearing just a light tunic, but he's a resident of the Fringes, and used to colder temperatures. His arms are bandaged where he'd used them to rip into the flaming wreckage of the Thopter back in Takay, but the wounds hardly seem to bother him. Altair helps me and Ursa to our feet then continues to lead us downriver, along the ice.

I can hear water gurgling below.

"How thick is this ice?" I ask, suddenly aware of the potential danger. It's something I'd never had to consider before.

It scares me.

"Thick enough," is the only response I get.

The ice cracks beneath us now and again, causing me to jump, but Altair hardly flinches. A short time later, the river opens out, seeming to spread to the horizon across a flat white plain.

"Is this a lake?" I ask. The amount of ice just staggers my mind. The wind is biting now that we're out in the open.

"We're almost there," Altair says, heading straight out from the river. The direction seems arbitrary to me.

After about ten minutes, I see it.

A small log structure, little better than a hut, comes into view through the blowing snow. A curling wisp of smoke puffs lazily from a chimney, and I can almost feel the heat of the fire that is creating it.

"Oh, thank the gods!" I proclaim.

As we get closer, I see that the structure is actually made up of multiple rooms, tiny though they may be. I'm staring at it when I suddenly fall though the ice.

I'm dead.

"Ahhh!" I scream, my leg frozen cold with fire.

But it’s just my leg.

I look down, confused.

My leg is in a hole, drilled perfectly through the ice. Clumsily, I pull myself out, leg soaked but otherwise fine. "What the hells?" I say. I look around and see that there are other holes drilled all over the place, all around the hut. Some of the holes have sticks stuck in the snow above them, with a string going into the water. It takes me a second, but I finally figure it out.

"Are these fishing holes?" I ask, flabbergasted that someone would dare drill a hole in the ice in the first place.

Seems kinda dangerous to me.

"They were," a completely new voice sounds from the direction of the cabin, "until you scared all of the fish away."

We squint, all looking through the blowing snow to see a slight figure, bundled head to toe in animal skins, rounding the cabin toward us. The voice is feminine, but all we can see is her eyes.

"I wondered when I'd see you again, Altair," the woman says, greeting him warmly. Her eyes seem to be smiling.

"Hello, Navani," Altair replies, embracing the woman wholly.

Navani pulls away from him and eyes the rest of us. "What band of ragtag trollops have you fallen in with now?" she asks, pulling her face covering down. She has a harsh rash across her face and a few boils, but I can see that she had at one time been beautiful.

"I'll explain inside, if you'll have us," Altair says, gesturing to the cabin then looking at me. I'm shaking uncontrollably from the cold.

Navani laughs. "Come on in," she says.

 

 

 

 

44.

 

Cozying up by the fire, my leg still feels like its burning, but I can handle it.

I'm more worried about Traylor.

He's in the other room–the only other room–sick in Navani's bed. I can hear him coughing again. Ursa is beside me, sitting on a deer skin rug before the hearth. The main room contains just the hearth, a table, a couple chairs, an old couch, and a bookshelf. There's a curtained partition in one corner, where I learn there's another hole in the ice.

A peehole, as Navani cheekily refers to it.

Altair, Glamis, and Navani are conversing at the entrance to the bedroom, talking about Traylor.

"Glamis and I are going to head into Endura," I hear Altair say. Endura must be the Fringe town he was referring to earlier. "I assume the hospice is still up and running?"

Navani nods, but reluctantly. "It is, but I hope you don't expect the doctors to simply hand you some antivirals," she says. "Times are tougher than ever, as you know." She runs a callused hand over her rash-stricken face.

"I won't be asking," Altair smirks, his intentions clear from the expression. Navani looks unimpressed. "I wouldn't do this if there were any other choice, Navani," he soothes.

"I know,” the woman nods. “Just don't hurt anyone. You'll be hearing from me if you do."

Altair embraces his friend again. "Thank you," he says. "We'll be back in a day. Count on it."

They pull apart and Altair comes toward Ursa and me.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," he says. He looks at Ursa. "Keep Traylor as comfortable as you can in the meantime."

"Of course," Ursa smiles. "In fact, I'll go check on him now." She gets up, heading for the bedroom.

"I have a fish stew brewing," Navani says as Ursa passes. "It will help bring his fever down."

"Thanks," Ursa says, disappearing into the bedroom.

I get up and embrace Altair, then Glamis. "Be careful you two," I say, giving them both a quick peck on the cheeks. Glamis blushes but Altair is characteristically stony. He brushes a warm hand across my cheek and then he's gone, out the door with Glamis.

It's just me and Navani in the room now.

We stand by the fire together.

"He cares about you," the woman tells me, coming closer. The proximity makes me uncomfortable.

"Oh, um, I dunno," I say, shifting where I stand. "We have been through a lot together." Navani stares at me, but I have trouble meeting her gaze. "Um," I say, "you and Altair aren't a...thing, are you?" I realize then for the first time that I have no knowledge of Altair's romantic entanglements whatsoever.

He could be married, for all I know.

Navani laughs, uncontrollably almost. "Me? And Altair? Gods no!" She hesitates, considering something. "How can I put this? We were raised together. We're not siblings, but we're the closest thing to it, I suppose."

"He told me you’re an Assassin too. Or were."

"That's right," Navani confirms. "We trained together, but I left that life behind a few years ago."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely interested now. I'm finally getting some dirt on Altair.

Navani shrugs. "It wasn't necessary anymore. Every assassin has a purpose–a lifearc, we call it. I completed my lifearc, and am now working on a new one outside the Assassin’s Guild."

"There's a Guild?" I ask, incredulous. "Where?"

Navani breaks her gaze from me and her focus seems to drift skyward. "Far, far from here," she says. An awkward silence descends for a moment. "There are so few of us left..."

Harsh coughing from the next room breaks the tension. We hear Ursa fussing over Traylor. She sounds motherly; an uncharacteristic trait for her, in my opinion.

"Is it dangerous where Altair is going?" I ask, changing the topic. I'm kinda weirded out by Navani's suddenly spacey demeanor. "What's it called? Endure?"

"Endura," Navani corrects, then shakes her head. "No, it's not dangerous. Well, no more so than anywhere else in the Fringes. Altair can handle himself." She smiles. "I think the sight of his companion will ensure nobody messes with them anyway."

I return the smile. "Yeah, Glamis is definitely someone you want on your good side. I feel bad we took him from his home. I think he really loved it in Takay, despite how dumpy the place is."

"I know what you mean," Navani agrees. "Takay is pretty...rustic. Endura is much the same. There's an old Forerunner building there that's pretty much intact though. The town is built around it." My eyes go wide and Navani takes note. "Do you have Forerunner constructions where you come from?"

I shake my head. "Not exactly. We've got buildings made from Forerunner buildings, if you get what I mean." Navani nods. "I've seen my share of Forerunner stuff though." I laugh to myself. "Actually, that's a bit of an understatement." Navani stares at me expectantly. "I'm kind of obsessed with them. In my old life I was anyway, before the Final Judgment."

Navani puts a quizzical look on her face, touching her cheek where the rash is most prominent. "Is that what they're calling it in Eversummer?" she asks. "The Final Judgment?"

"Yeah," I confirm. "It's a religious term." I hesitate. "It's funny. I've always been told that the ways of the Forerunners are the ways of death." I shake my head. "Our society really hasn't done much better since they fell."

Navani tilts her head as she looks at me. "You're really interested in the Forerunners, aren't you?"

"Oh yeah," I say. "There's this beach in Krakelyn, where I grew up, where old Forerunner artifacts used to wash up all the time. It was a forbidden place, but my Father was a powerful man and he used to send me there to collect them. Then he’d make me watch him destroy them." I shake my head. "I guess he thought if I saw all that stuff turned to dust I'd just accept it as the way things had to be." I smirk. "But I never did."

Navani moves suddenly, her joints popping as she crosses the room from the hearth to the book shelf on the other side. I'd only glanced at it cursorily since arriving here, but now I notice that the shelf is literally stacked with books, ranging in all shapes and sizes. I had plenty of books back in Krakelyn, but most of the stuff I'd read was fiction written by locals.

And, of course, the True Body Plan.

I'd only read that once though, despite my Father's insistence.

Navani comes back with a fairly thin volume with a plain leather cover. Stamped into the leather in black lettering are three words: The Forerunner Archives

My eyes pop and my heart feels like it's gonna leap from my chest.

Navani hands it to me. "I think you might find this interesting," she says with a knowing smirk. "It's a firsthand account written by the people who lived during the time of the Forerunners." My jaw is nearly on the floor. "It's fragmented, but the truth about our world is written in those pages, Juno." Navani heads to the door, grabbing her animal skin coat from a peg next to it. "I have to go check on my fishing lines," she says. "Stay here and relax. Read. I'll be back soon." Then she's gone.

Still stunned, I look down at the book resting in my lap, running my fingers over the soft cover. I look toward the bedroom but it sounds like Traylor's fallen asleep.

Taking a deep breath, folding myself on the rug in front of the hearth, I open The Forerunner Archives.

 

 

 

 

45.

 

June 2nd, 2075

Why is this happening?

Our best and brightest still don't know.

It's been a gradual thing, to be sure, but things are starting to escalate. At first it was no big deal. The length of the days changed by only minutes. But those minutes soon turned into hours, hours into...

Well, you can probably guess. 

Why has the world stopped spinning?

 

 

July 12th, 2075

The havoc this has wreaked on our biological clocks has been staggering! I can't get enough sleep! No one can. Not with that blasted sun stuck in the sky for months on end! And then it's night for months!

I feel like a zombie.

There were people who used to chase the sunrise, constantly moving around the world to stay with the light. Now that's become all but impossible.

The face of the world has changed.

 

 

August 5th, 2080

They just broadcast the first images of the Earth from space in over five years.

The people on the space station must be losing their minds with grief!

Needless to say, we're all a little overwhelmed.

The oceans have flowed toward the poles. They say the inertia of the planet's spin is what kept the water and air centered at the equator. Without it, it's all gone toward the poles. Cities at higher elevations, like Denver, have been abandoned, the air too thin to breathe. There are only certain places in the world with enough air to breathe now. And with those oceans flowing north and south, the lands above and below the Tropics are all but flooded. 

Gone. Billions dead. 

New York, gone. Boston, gone. London. Paris. Tokyo.

I don't know if I want to live in this world anymore.

 

 

November 23rd, 2081

The earthquakes have been devastating.

Apparently, with the erratic shift in the planet's spin, the Earth's layers are constantly rubbing up against one another, creating terrible friction. Earthquakes and lava flows.

The Earth is literally ripping itself apart.

During the light half of the year, the sun scorches us. During the dark half, the night freezes us. Our society is becoming more and more fractured. There's rumors of cities that still have power, food and water.

I'm finding that harder and harder to believe.

Things are getting desperate.

If we didn't have the few firearms that we do, we'd have been murdered long ago.

We're all just trying to survive. 

There are also rumors of a new colony forming out on what used to be the ocean floor. 

I might try my luck there soon.

There's nothing left for me here.

 

 

February 8th, 2083

I made it.

It only took me a year and a bit.

And the rumors were true, for once!

A group of oceanographers and other like-minded sea folk have acquire some ships and started an ocean bound colony on the old sea floor. They catch lots of fish, but fresh water is a problem. It only rains a few times a year–so they tell me–but when it does, it rains for weeks. After that, they're stuck with the rations they can collect.

Winter is going to be a lot tougher.

The Earth's spin is still erratic.

Sometimes the light half of the year is longer, sometimes the dark half. Some of our scientists think the planet might be speeding up again. With so little communication with the space station, it's impossible to tell.

We haven't heard from them in over a year.

Are they even still alive up there?

 

 

September 17th, 2085

Jonathan is dead.

He's been dead for over a year now.

Skin cancer. 

A lot of us get it during the light half of the year.

I found this journal among some old things of his that never got thrown out. I started reading it and thought I'd pick it up where he left off.

I don't know why.

Nobody's gonna read this stuff anyway.

Well, it helps to get things out, I guess.

The colony is surviving. Barely.

We call it Pacific Floor. Funny, right?

Our current population is somewhere in the range of five thousand, but it’s hardly stable. It's declining slowly.

Winter's are brutal, but there's a silver lining–if you can call it that.

They're getting shorter.

Time is so erratic now.

We don't even use months to count the passage of time anymore, only hours and days. There's twenty-five hours in a day, though the sun never leaves the sky. We call each hour by its numbered designate. 

Right now, it's the tenth hour of the day.

The few scientists we have left figure that the Earth is settling into an orbit around the sun much like the moon revolves around us. We only ever see one side of the moon. Pretty soon, there's gonna be one permanently dark side of the Earth and one permanently light side.

And they figure we're gonna be on the light side.

I'll take that any day over eternal night.

It still messes with our biological clocks, but we're adapting.

We're the lucky ones, I guess.

It's the people who are gonna end up on the dark side that concerns me. What's gonna happen to them?

We still get stragglers from out that way, making their way toward Pacific Floor. They tell us there are still a lot of people over there.

Thousands. Maybe more.

If they stay there, they've got a lot of adapting to do...

 

 

3015

I found this journal in my Mother's things.

Just like she found it in my Father's.

She barely knew him. 

They hooked up briefly after he came to Pacific Floor.

He died just over a year later.

She made it up until last year.

Over thirty years she lived here.

She saw it all, right from the beginning.

Me, I haven't known anything else.

All I have are tales of how great the world was before it stopped spinning. Humanity was on the right track. We were finally figuring out how to use our knowledge and technology for the greater good. War was all but a memory in most countries. Same with sickness. We were living very long lives. Renewable energy was making things easier in every way. There were restrictions on breeding, but nobody said Paradise came without a cost. It's even said that we were stretching our wings, getting ready to colonize other planets.

I can’t even imagine that we ever flew at all.

Aeroplanes they called them.

I've seen the remains of a few.

Pacific Floor is nearing twenty thousand in population now.

There's talk of expanding southward.

Who would have thought that was possible thirty years ago?

Certainly not my Mother.

There are other colonies out there, rumors of war over resources. We've had a few attempted raids here, but thank god the wall was built before they got really bad.

Pacific Floor has a lot of forward thinkers.

We have agriculture.

Trees are starting to sprout in the fertile soil around us.

There's talk of changing the name of our town.

Pacific Floor doesn't really have a lot of meaning anymore.

There's only two oceans now, north and south, and the world has only one continent–a strip of land circling the equator.

We're on the northern coast.

We pull up a lot of two headed fish from the northern ocean, and our scientists say it's ‘cause there were a lot of atomic factories in that part of the world before it went underwater.

I don't know what to believe.

I can't imagine that old world. 

Even though my Mother was one of them, I find myself further and further withdrawn from the world of our forerunners.

 

 

3020

I'm pregnant and terrified.

Remember those two headed fish I was telling you about?

Well, it's starting to happen to people now.

There's not a lot of wind in our world–seasonal, mostly. But when the winds do come, they're powerful and from the north, carrying that atomic poison with them. People are saying we're gonna have to all move south if it gets any worse.

There's no way I see that happening.

Not with twenty-five thousand people settled here.

And that's not even the worst part.

A body washed ashore the other day.

That's not out of the ordinary, in and of itself.

It does happen now and again.

But this one was different.

It had pale skin, almost blue, with reddish eyes. I've heard the term albino used, but I don't know exactly what it means. It's unnatural, whatever it was, and it came from the direction of Everwinter. That's what they're calling the dark side of the world now.

And we're Eversummer.

Kind of cool, right?

Anyway, nobody's been over to Everwinter in decades now. There's no reason to. We have no idea what's going on over there–who's alive–if anybody. But if this albino body really did come from that side of the world, it's got a lot of people scared. It means that the people there are evolving.

And not naturally.

I know about evolution; it's supposed to take millions of years. It's been less than fifty since we lost contact with Everwinter. Are they manipulating their genes somehow, making it easier to survive in a harsh climate?

It hardly seems possible given the primitive conditions we live in here, in Krakelyn. But there's a theory that a colony of our forerunner ancestors survived the Great Cataclysm in Everwinter and that they still have all the old technology and stuff.

I don't know what to believe. 

But I do know one thing.

I'm scared.

 

 

3051

The mutants are growing bolder.

A half dozen got over the wall yesterday before the Peacekeepers were able to push them back. They were trying to get the gates open. Juhani Navaro, the High Deacon, figures they had a whole army hiding out in the forest surrounding Krakelyn, though nobody actually saw anything.

What do they want from us?

These mutants are unlike any we've ever encountered before. They’re HUGE, for one thing–twice the size of a normal man, with bluish-white skin, hair to match, and red, penetrating eyes. I saw the corpse of the one the Peacekeepers managed to kill. It triggered something in me. I went home immediately and found Mom's old diary. I'd read it before as a child, but there was something about the appearance of the Everwinter mutants that gnawed me about it.

Sure enough, I found it.

A body washed ashore in Krakelyn, thirty years ago.

My Mother's description of it had always been etched vividly in my mind. An albino, they called it.

A precursor to the Everwinter strain of mutant.

This has been happening for a long time.

There's talk of mounting an expedition to Everwinter, just to see what the hells is going on over there. The southern cities have reports of raids too, but communication is sparse. It takes weeks to travel because of the Bleaklands.

People are scared.

They're starting to take solace in a new faith that's sprung up. It's centered on a hatred for mutants. All mutants. I guess I can't blame them for it, but I cannot be a part of it. I shudder to think what would happen if they found out Solari has only three toes on each foot.

I heard a new saying the other day: "Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live."

Gods, I hope it doesn't catch on.

 

 

3063

Solari's Journal

I started training today.

This army will be unlike anything the world has ever seen!

An amalgamation of Krakelyn, Apollyon, and the other southern cities.

Everwinter won't know what hit it!

Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live!

I remember first reading that quote in my father's journal when I was young. He wasn't happy when I enlisted, especially considering I'm a mutant and all, but I know it's the right thing to do. 

Nobody knows about my toes. 

I just want to do my part.

If we don't fight back, there will be no Eversummer left for any of us.

I want to be an Assassin.

Just watching them in the training yard, with their swords and their throwing stars…it's unbelievable!

There's a new technology out there now too. They call them shooters, or irons, and gods they can be devastating!

Everwinter won't know what hit it!

I should go though. There's a Judgment scheduled at the sixth hour, and I have to be there for it. All recruits have to attend Judgments now. It reminds us of why we're doing this.

Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live.

 

 

3065

Solari's Journal

It's over! It's finally over!

It's taken two years of brutal, relentless fighting, but we've finally pushed the mutants back into Everwinter!

I'd like to say that it was our training, coupled with the shooting irons and Assassins that brought us here, but that wouldn't be the truth.

It was the numbers.

In the end, there were just way more of us than them.

One Everwinter mutant equates to ten human soldiers.

We learned that lesson the hard way in the beginning. I lost a lot of friends that first year. But the people of Eversummer banded together. They saw what would happen if they didn't.

Enlistment swelled. Our armies grew.

Most of the recruits we sent out there were pretty raw, but again, the numbers prevailed. 

We still have to be vigilant, but the worst is over.

Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live!

Long live the True Body Plan.

 

 

3066

Solari's Journal

How did it come to this?

Who was it that betrayed me?

I've kept this secret hidden for twenty-one years!

Gods! I fought beside these people in the mutant wars!

I'm one of them, can't they see that?

So I have three toes?

So what?

Are they upset because I got past them?

That I was able to keep it a secret?

No one will tell me anything.

I'm to be Judged on the morrow.

How could I have been so stupid? So blind?

Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live. Ha!

The True Body Plan has infected their minds!

I should have moved south after the war. I hear they're not so intolerant down there. They can't be. The southern cities are huge, and policing mutations is a little trickier than up here in Krakelyn.

Well, it's too late now.

All I have is the pages of this journal, and the knowledge that I will live on through my words. Father is coming to collect my things soon. When the time is right, he'll pass them on to Jonas.

My son will know me through my words.

My biggest regret is that I will not live to see him grow up.

But my love for him will never die.

 

 

3078

Grandpa gave me this journal today.

He said that it's time I knew the truth.

I know about my Mother, of course.

A decorated war hero, murdered for a flaw she couldn't help.

I'll never succumb to the True Body Plan.

I can't.

Not now that I've read the Forerunner Archives.

All I can do is be thankful. The threat of Everwinter was extinguished, and now we live a world of relative peace.

There's even talk of outlawing shooting irons!

I really can't see that happening in total, but I think a lot of people will give them up.

What do we need them for anymore?

Yeah, we get the odd Everwinter mutant in Eversummer, but they're society is so fractured, they won't rise up again.

Maybe we can even make peace with them.

Wouldn't that be something?

It'd be a step in the right direction.

Now if only we could get this stupid religion to go away.

Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live? Ha!

What do we have to fear from mutations within our own ranks? The true threat was extinguished before I was even born.

The True Body Plan has no relevance in this bold new world. 

Why can't anybody see that?

Well, maybe I'll make them see.

 

 

3088

Well, it happened.

I can't say they didn't warn me.

A group of Assassins raided the house last night.

They took all of us into custody.

Even little Jonathan.

My greatest fear is not the Judgment that is sure to come, but for the future of my son. He'll be an orphan, and likely raised in the Monastery by the Deacons. He'll never know the truth about his father. He’ll never know how he tried to make the world a better place by rooting out the cancer within.

The True Body Plan.

One man with a few followers just isn't enough to make a difference.

Well, at least I can die with a clear conscience.

I did what was right.

I wonder what will become of these words.

The Forerunner Archives.

What will the Assassins do with it once they discover it on my body? Will they even search me before the Judgment?

They didn't bother when we were taken from home.

Oh, Jonathan. Please. If you do manage to make something of yourself in this wreck of world...

Suffer a mutant to live.

 

 

 

 

46.

 

"Juno! Juno! Wake up!"

I open my eyes.

I'm greeted with a familiar smile, a runny nose, and bloodshot, watery blue eyes that are a twin to my own.

"Traylor!" I exclaim, bolting up into a sitting position. I'm still on the floor by hearth, the fire smoldered down to nothing but coals. The others are here too.

Ursa, Navani, Glamis, Altair.

All my friends are with me.

"What happened?" I ask, still disoriented with sleep. I'd been having the craziest dream about the Forerunners...

My hand brushes something beside me and I look down.

I gasp.

It wasn't a dream.

The Forerunner Archives sits in my lap, like an ember burning through my legs.

"They did it!" Traylor exclaims through a stuffy nose, the pure joy prevalent in his every aspect. He's clearly still sick, but recovering. "Altair and Glamis got me the antivirals!" He looks up at Altair with the reverence he'd previously reserved for our Father.

"How... How long have I been out?" I ask, recalling that it was supposed to take them a day to get to Endura and back.

The others all defer to Navani. "Thirty hours," she replies. "I went out to check my fishing lines and a few other traps I have in the area and, when I got back, you were out cold. I was only gone for a few hours." She smirks. "I let you sleep."

I shake my head, incredulous. "I guess I needed it," I say.

"We all did," Ursa comes in. "The darklag finally caught up to us, I think. Even I slept for a good eighteen hours. Traylor just woke up a few minutes ago." She gives the little guy a rub on the head.

I get up, my spine popping as I stretch. Then I wrap a startled Altair into a death grip hug.

"Thank you," I whisper in his ear.

He pulls away from me and smiles. "Anytime," he replies.

I turn to Glamis too, expressing my gratitude.

"How'd it go out there?" I ask.

Glamis shrugs. "Nothing we's could not handles. Midgets in Endura very accommodatings. We's did not have to threatens any of thems!"

Altair laughs, a rare sound. "Yeah, I think just about anyone would be accommodating after taking a look at you, Glamis," he says.

We all laugh.

"So what now?" I ask. I'd be happy enough just staying here for the rest of my life with these people.

Altair shrugs. "We stay a few more days, let Traylor get healthier, then we move on. Everwinter is just over the horizon."

I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. 

I exchange a few more hugs with the others, including a huge one for Traylor. He pushes me away after a full minute of squeezing him tight. I let him go.

As the others laugh and smile and get reacquainted, I sneak back over to the fire. There, I stoop down and pick up The Forerunner Archives. I'd read a lot of it already, skipping over a lot of the filler–it's hardly a thick volume–but what I had gleaned from it will haunt me for the rest of my life. 

The Forerunners weren't terrible at all.

They were victims of circumstance.

The world stopped spinning…

I look up at the ceiling of the cabin, imagining the sky beyond. There used to be cycles of light and dark on this planet, day and night. And each was only a matter of hours long. A world like that is just unfathomable to my mind. Well, at least I can take solace in one thing: I was right to love the Forerunners.

They didn't destroy the world. The world destroyed itself.

I stare at the cover of The Forerunner Archives, running my fingers over the supple leather.

"You alright?" a soft voice suddenly asks from behind me.

I turn to greet the concerned face of Navani. "Yeah," I nod. "Just a little overwhelmed, I guess."

"How much did you read?" she asks.

"More than enough," I recall. "More than I'd ever hoped for." I hesitate, still staring at the book. "Are there other copies?" I ask.

Navani shrugs. "There were, at one time. Now...I doubt it."

"How many people know about it?" I ask, the implications for my world just now coming clear in my mind. "If this gets out, it could change a lot of things."

Navani nods. "That's why so few know about it."

I nod back. The last few entries in the book come flooding back to mind. Well, the last one, particularly. The man who'd written it, he'd mentioned a son named Jonathan. A child orphaned by a Judgment and raised by the Deacons.

Was that my Father?

My Father never talked about his childhood.

Ever.

I know almost nothing of it.

"You should take it with you," Navani's voice cuts into my thoughts, bringing me out of my reverie.

"What?" I ask, shaking my head.

"The book," she says. "I want you to have it." I open my mouth to protest. "I insist," she says before I get anything out. "I've read it so many times, I've practically got it memorized anyway." 

I sigh and nod, accepting the gift.

"Thank you," I say, running my fingers yet again over the cover. I look to the other side of the room at my friends. Traylor is up on Glamis' shoulders, laughing hysterically while Ursa and Altair look on.

"Does he know about the book?" I ask, referring to Altair.

Navani nods. "All Assassins do. It's part of our heritage."

"Yeah," I say. "I know."

I smile and, at that moment, as if he somehow knows we are talking about him, Altair's gaze meets my own from across the room.

 

 

 

 

47.

 

"What is this stuff we're walking on?" I ask, kicking at the hard packed, cracked surface.

Altair shrugs. "I've heard it referred to as crete," he replies.

"So it's manmade then?"

He nods. "Supposedly the Forerunners covered the face of the world with the stuff at one time in order to accommodate their vehicles."

"Cool," is my only reply.

It's been three days since we left Navani. 

I barely got to know the woman, but already I regret not having done so better. Of course, we’d asked her to come with us. And, of course, she'd declined. She'd built a life for herself out on that frozen lake, lonely as it is. I don't blame her. There's only chaos where we're headed.

The crete road crunches noisily under our feet–me, Altair, Traylor, Ursa, and Glamis. Traylor still coughs now and again, but the worst is behind him. It's dark and bitterly cold, the sun just a few painted rays above the horizon to our rear. There's a good dusting of snow on the ground now, and it's steadily building. It's starting to look like the sand dunes on the beach near Krakelyn. 

The sight of snow still blows my mind.

I've had that happen to me a lot recently.

The world used to spin...

The landscape around us is bleak and barren.

After leaving Navani's lake, the forest thinned considerably, eventually giving way to wide plains broken by thrusting rock outcroppings. The road branches now and again, but Altair seems to know where he's going. The Fringe town of Endura lies ahead, but Altair says we're going to bypass it, just to be safe. We pass a few desiccated buildings on our route, mostly rundown factories or the like, but come across few other signs of civilization.

No other travelers on the road, that's for sure.

"I'm hungry," Traylor complains from Glamis' shoulders. The big brute reaches into a satchel he carries around his waist, pulling out some of the dried fish and game meat Navani provided us before setting out. It's salty stuff, but good.

We all partake in a little.

An hour later, we hear growling.

It's echoing toward us from a point not far up the road. The path rises there, and whatever's making the noise must be just on the other side.

Altair pushes in front of the group. "Stay fifty paces behind me," he tells us, moving ahead, throwing stars at the ready. A passage from the Forerunner Archives–stashed safely in my pack–comes to my mind. It mentions that the Assassins used swords at one time. Altair doesn't have one though, and I've seen very few of the weapons in my lifetime. Knives are much more common.

I can't help but wonder why that is.

Altair crests the rise, stopping at the top. He studies whatever is on the other side for a good minute, then waves for us to join him. I want to run up there, but Ursa urges caution. We move slowly. The growling sounds become more pronounced as we get closer to their source. I can't help but imagine a pack of wild dogs at a feeding frenzy. We get to the top and I see that I'm actually right. 

Sort of.

There's a massive vehicle stalled at the side of the road, unlike any I've seen before; a Forerunner remnant sitting on eight massive balloon tires. There's an equally massive cab, behind which is a large, open air container. The container is tilted, filled to the brim with corpses, half of which have been dumped onto the ground due to the severe angle. Around the pile, a pack of six wolves tear at the carcasses, ripping already rotten meat from crumbling bones.

The wolves are mutants.

We haven't seen a lot of animals since this journey through insanity began, but the few we have were relatively normal. There were a few mutant birds I remember seeing in the southern cities, and one horse, but it seems the Final Judgment had been mostly reserved for humans.

Mostly.

The wolves are huge, their backs arching at our appearance, growling protectively over their scavengings. Their fur is falling out in clumps, revealing red, rash-ridden skin beneath. Boils cover the scruff around their mouths, leaking clearish fluids. A few are limping, obviously injured, making them all the more dangerous. They move away from the vehicle and start up the road toward us.

My heart pounds. "Um, Altair..." I whisper toward my Assassin savior.

Altair remains cool and collected, opening his black tunic and pulling something from an inner pocket. It's a small, round object, with a wick like a candle coming off the top.

It looks like a cherry.

He holds the cherry and a throwing star in one hand, another star in the other. He strikes the stars together swiftly, creating a brilliant spark. Nothing happens. He tries again. This time the spark is larger, and immediately the wick on the cherry starts burning rapidly.

"Stand back!" Altair warns, then he throws the object.

It bounces down the road, landing squarely at the center of the pack of wolves. The animals sniff at it curiously.

Big mistake.

The cherry explodes, the sound loud and sharp, sending a crackle of sparks blasting outward. With a yelp, the wolves bolt, spooked completely by the miniature bomb, disappearing into the rocky landscape.

I smile wide at Altair. "That's a new one," I say, gesturing to the blackened patch of ground where the bomb landed.

"It was my only one," Altair reveals. "I hate wasting it."

I look off into the distance, the wolves hardly visible now. "I'd hardly call that a waste," I say.

Altair shrugs and I roll my eyes at him.

Would he have rather fought the beasts hand to paw?

With the danger passed, we approach the vehicle containing the pile of bodies. Luckily, the smell isn't too bad; these corpses are old, already rotted.

Traylor, ever curious and without fear, approaches the bones on the ground, looking at them with his head tilted. "There's a shooting iron in there!" he exclaims, pointing. We all look at each other then approach as well. 

Altair pushes Traylor back, who huffs in indignation. "Hey, I found it!" he complains. 

Altair crouches by the pile, eyeing the shooting iron closely. Indeed there is one, and it looks to be in good shape. Cautiously, slowly, he reaches a hand out for it...

"I wouldn't do that!" a sudden and completely strange voice sounds from somewhere off the road. We all whirl, Altair on his feet with his throwing stars raised in milliseconds. 

The silhouette of a man approaches from the dark, climbing down a rocky bluff at the side of the road. "It's a trap," the man explains as he gets closer. We have yet to see him clearly. Altair pushes everyone behind him, excepting Glamis, who is just as threatening as the Assassin himself.

"Stop right there," Altair orders as the man comes onto the road proper. He's tall and thin, with pale, rash and boil covered skin, and gaunt features. It looks like he hasn't eaten much lately. He has a nice crop of blonde hair though, neatly combed, and he wears a pair of grease smeared bib overalls like some of the farmers back in Krakelyn.

"Hey," the man says with more than a hint of indignation at Altair, "I'm just trying to save your life. Or a limb at least." He pauses. "But if you wanna risk it for yonder shooting iron, be my guest. I won't stop ya."

Altair sighs, lowering his throwing stars. "How do you know it's a trap?" he asks. "Is it yours?"

The man shakes his head. "No, t'ain't mine. Belongs to the gang that controls this territory. The Grimms they call themselves. They showed up here shortly after the Final Judgment. They had weapons. Lots of 'em. Forerunner stuff. They drove off or killed most of the people in this area, but they kept me around 'cause I know how to fix things. I'm a mechanic." The man hesitates, seeing Altair scowling at him. "Hey, don't worry, I ain't one of 'em!" he explains. "I just do what I have to to survive. I fix their machines, they don't kill me. Seems a pretty fair trade, if you ask me." He smirks.

"What's your name?" I ask, stepping forward now. "I'm Juno. This is my brother Traylor." Traylor waves.

The man's eyes go wide. "My gods but... It ain't possible! You'se... You ain't mutants!"

"That's right," I confirm. "Traylor and I are the last humans left." I gesture to the others. "This is Ursa. Grumpy here is Altair." Altair grunts at me. "And this brute," I finish, "is Glamis. Don't worry, he's not the monster he appears."

Glamis straightens himself. "I is no midgets either!" he exclaims.

The man eyes us all, as if weighing his options. Finally, he extends a hand toward me. "Ativan," he says, "pleased to meet ya, Juno. And the rest." He nods at the pile of bodies by the Forerunner vehicle. "You's're lucky I heard that banger you set off. What was it, a shooting iron?"

Altair shrugs. "Something like that."

"We had to scare off some wolves," I explain.

"Aye," Ativan nods. "I seen 'em. I was out scavenging nearby. I always carry an iron out here." He turns, revealing a shooter hanging in a holster at his back. "Don't take much to spook wolves."

"Thank the gods," Ursa grumbles behind me, finally warming up to the newcomer.

"Well," Ativan says, "you might as well come by my place for the nonce. You won't be getting much further up the road today."

Altair stiffens. "What do you mean?"

Ativan shrugs. "That gang I told ya about, the Grimms, they'se got a roadblock about another click ahead." He points. "They been camped out there the past couple weeks, not lettin' anybody by. Not without a hefty toll anyway. They got all their firepower set up there. Tanks and such." He hesitates. "You'se know tanks?"

I shake my head, and so does Ursa, Traylor, and Glamis. 

Altair, of course, does the opposite.

"A Forerunner death machine," he answers, almost whispering in disbelief. "How in the hells did they get their hands on one of those? Does it even work?"

"Aye, it works," Ativan confirms. "I'se the one that got'er runnin'." Altair curses. "Hey, I had no choice," Ativan explains. I nod sympathetically at that, but Altair stays stony. "As to how'se they got it, I can't say. They don't tell me nothin'. I just do my work, keep my head down. Only way to survive out here, my friend."

Altair finally relents. "Where's your place?" he asks. He turns to us. "You guys can stay there while I reconnoiter this roadblock, see how we're gonna get around it."

Ativan laughs at that.

"What?" Altair asks, annoyed.

"Oh, you ain't gettin' around it," he says, still giggling. "Hells, a group a Deacons came through here not two days gone. They'se was armed to the teeth as well. The Grimms blew the crap right outta them. Saw it all myself. They'se got sentries posted for miles around too."

"Deacons?" I say. I turn to Altair. "What the hells would Deacons be doing all the way out here?" He shakes his head.

He has no idea.

"Them Deacons was all killed, right then and there," Ativan says, "while the Grimms took only a couple wounds. I was there changing the oil on one of their big engines."

"They have wounded?" Ursa asks, seeming genuinely concerned for some reason.

"What?" I ask.

Ursa shrugs. "Nothing, it's just... Well, maybe we could barter with them. Medical care for safe passage."

Ativan shakes his head. "I wouldn't count on that,” he says.

Ursa scowls, but says nothing more. She's getting more and more agitated the closer we get to Everwinter.

I'm gonna have to have a talk with her about it soon.

"Look," Altair interrupts, "we're not doing anything 'til I get a look at that roadblock. Until then, Ativan, we gladly accept your offer of shelter." He holds his hand out, which Ativan takes gleefully.

"Excellent!" he says. "It's been ages since I'se had company! Gets pretty lonely out here. Come on!" 

And with that, Ativan leads us off the road and into the rocky hills. 

 

 

 

 

48.

 

"What is this place?" I ask as we come down off a stone outcropping into a nestled valley. A large flat area lies before us, paved wide with crete, cracked and crumbling. A rusted, eight foot high razor wire fence surrounds the compound, but it's flattened or bent in many areas. Hardly secure. A number of dilapidated buildings line the compound, some leaning precariously, others looking ready to fall at the slightest touch. The largest building has a number of tall, thin chimneys protruding from its top.

A factory, of some sort. 

The corpses of various vehicles, Forerunner and not, rot all over the yard.

"This is where I put my feet up," Ativan answers my question, leading us through a gate in the fence. He doesn't bother to close it behind us. "I know it don't look like much, but she's kept me afloat the past few years."

He leads us to the front of the factory building then around the back where we encounter a pair of large, horizontally segmented doors. Ativan leans down and grips one of the doors at the base, pushing it upward with a gentle grunt. The door protests, but finally it slides upward on a side mounted track.

"Come on in," Ativan welcomes us. "Hang just inside the door for a minute while I get the gennie up and running." He disappears behind a smaller building nearby. Seconds later, we hear the familiar rumble of an oil fired engine sputtering to life. Lights inside the factory suddenly flicker to life, giving off a weak but warm yellow light. A large open space is revealed to us, with a smooth crete floor stained with oil and grease. Machinery and tools literally crams the place, piled high in some places. A large, four-wheeled vehicle sits on a lift directly ahead, half its components scattered in a ring around it.

"This is the garage where I do most of my work," Ativan explains. "Come on, I'll show ya the office and living quarters." I grunt. This place is filthy. I shudder to think what the living quarters look like.

Ativan leads us through a door at the side of the garage into a room lined with windows on all sides. They're so filmy, one can hardly see through them. It's a large room, with a desk, chair, and filling cabinet in one corner, sagging couch, cot, and water closet in the other. There are also shelves stacked with canned goods and other foods–nothing fresh though–and a sink that looks like it should only be used for washing up.

I imagine Ativan uses it for everything.

"Help yourselves to the sink and toilet," Ativan offers. "Make yourselves comfortable. I don't have much in the way of food, but you’re welcome to what I got."

"Thank you," Altair intercedes, "but actually we have some fresh stuff that you may be interested in." He unshoulders his pack, reaching in and producing the dry salted fish Navani provided us. Altair hands a chunk to our new friend.

The man sniffs it warily then takes a bite. His eyes go wide. "Gods!" he exclaims. "If this ain't good! Fish, is it?"

"Yeah," Altair confirms.

"Gods damn! It's been a long time since I had such!" He plops down on his cot, then gestures. "Please, make yourselves comfortable!"

I shrug anxiously, but Traylor literally leaps onto the old couch, dust puffing up at his landing. I sigh and take a seat next to him. Glamis joins us too. The couch lifts off the floor a bit at the other end, causing Traylor to giggle uncontrollably.

"Oh 'tis goods to get off midget feets!" the hulking mutant exclaims.

Altair grabs a seat at the desk, the chair creaking madly.

"Might I use the toilet?" Ursa asks in an atypically meek tone.

Ativan nods. "I said ya could, didn't I?"

Ursa shrugs and goes over the water closet, closing the door behind her. She's been so quiet lately; hardly her normal self. 

I wonder what's eating at her?

We dig into our rations, Ativan partaking in some of it, cracking open his own canned food and offering it around. To my surprise, he’s got something called 'Mela Fruit'.

Good. Sweet as sugar. 

We all have a helping.

Once we're satiated, Altair is all business again, as usual.

"Tell me more about this roadblock," he asks Ativan, his eyes inquisitive and intense.

Ativan purses his lips. "Well, whataya wanna know?" he counters. I smile at his forthright attitude.

"How many are there, for starters?" Altair continues. "How many men? How many weapons?"

Ativan contemplates a moment. "About a dozen men, last I saw–which was last week. They got scouts though, all over the plains. They come and go all the time, so it's hard to know their exact numbers."

"Guess," Altair suggests.

Ativan sighs. "Fifteen if I'm estimatin', but only a dozen at the main camp at any one time. They come up here 'bout once a week if they need sumthin' fixed."

"When was their most recent visit?"

Ativan considers. "Couple days ago," he replies. "There's somethin' else you should probably know too." Altair turns his hands out, gesturing for the man to come out with it.

Ativan hesitates.

"Well, the thing is... They'se got slaves up there."

"Slaves?" I ask, butting in now. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly as I said it," Ativan counters. "Those that they don't rob and kill at the roadblock, they sometimes take as slaves. Women mostly, if ya catch my meaning." His gaze falls on me and I shudder.

"Gods," I whisper, my hand going to my mouth.

"How many slaves?" Altair asks, unaffected.

Ativan mulls it over. "I really don't know specific-like," he replies. "I only seen a couple, now and again. They keep 'em locked up most the time. They look pretty bad though. Estimatin', I'd say they got three or four, but I know they'se always lookin' for more." He hesitates. "If I was you, I'd keep young Juno here as far from them as possible. Wherever you'se is trying to go, don't. Head back. Find another way around."

I look at Altair expectantly. "Maybe he's right," I say. "I mean... Why risk it? We could take one of the other roads, go through Endura instead of bypassing it."

Altair shakes his head. "There was a reason I wanted to bypass Endura. It was for this very same reason. Endura has a rogue element running things there, very much like this Grimm group. They could even be an offshoot."

"Aye, I'd considered that as well," Ativan offers.

"Is there any other way around?" I ask, suddenly feeling helpless at the situation.

Ativan opens his mouth to answer, but Altair cuts him off. "Perhaps, but it would take us weeks from our current path. We've been delayed enough on this journey. We need to get to Everwinter soon if we're gonna–" He eyes Ativan suspiciously. "Um, if we're gonna do what we came here to do. Winter is fast approaching."

"Everwinter?" Ativan pipes up. "Why in the gods names would you be wanting to go there?"

Altair ignores that.

"I thought it was always winter in Everwinter," I interject. "You know, hence the name?"

Altair shakes his head. "It is, but the snow comes in cycles. In a few more weeks, the roads will be all but impassable for months."

"Oh," is my disappointed response. "Bloody ashes."

"He's right," Ativan confirms. "Though I still don't know why you'se're wantin' to head that way. Even after the Final Judgment, Everwinter mutants don't take kindly to our type." He brushes a hand over the rash on his face. The room becomes uncomfortably silent. Traylor and Glamis have said nothing this whole time. And Ursa...

Is she still in the bloody bathroom?

"Tell me more about the weapons they have," Altair breaks my train of thought. 

I want to know about this too.

Do the Grimms really have Forerunner weapons?

"Well," Ativan replies, "they got two of them ‘tanks’ I mentioned. Massive things, nigh indestructible. They could blow this entire factory to bits with one shot." My jaw is on the floor. Ativan smirks. "Think of 'em as a giant shooting iron that you can drive around in."

"What else?" Altair asks. "What about shooting irons, specifically?"

Ativan nods. "Oh yeah, they got those and then some! They got some shooters I bet you never even heard of! Ones that fire a hundred shots a minute!"

"Yeah right!" I blab, making my opinion loudly known. "I've never seen–"

"Juno," Altair cuts me off with a raised hand. "Such weapons do exist. But most were destroyed when Eversummer demilitarized after the defeat of Everwinter centuries ago. They didn't need the firepower any longer."

I gasp. I'd read about that in the Forerunner Archives, but this is the first time Altair has made his knowledge on the subject known. I need to get him alone, probe his brain, let him know what I now know. 

Ativan just looks confused. "As you say," he replies, "though I ain't no student of history. All I know is that they got some nasty stuff over there. And nothing short of an army is gonna stop 'em."

The room goes silent again.

Altair looks at a loss, but he's deep in thought. We all are.

I shrug. "Well, maybe what Ursa said earlier might not be such a bad idea. If we can give them something they want. If some of them are injured..."

"I'd rather just find a way to sneak past them," Altair shoots me down. "Avoid confrontation altogether. I'll have to go spy them out first. We can take it from there."

"Where is Ursa anyway?" Traylor suddenly speaks up, looking around the room.

"She must still be in the bathroom," I say. "Maybe she's not feeling well." I stalk over to the water closet door. The room is little better than a stall, but the door provides complete privacy.

I knock. "Ursa? You okay in there?"

No response. 

"Ursa?" I knock again.

Again no response.

"There's no lock," Ativan says, getting up from his cot.

I twist the doorknob. The door swings wide.

An empty room greets our astonished faces.

However, a small window, but definitely large enough to accommodate a woman, stands wide open, admitting a freshening breeze.

I turn to Altair, eyes wide.

"What the hells did she do?" I ask.

 

 

 

 

49.

 

"I want to make a deal!" she screams, hands fully extended skyward, legs spread wide in a submissive posture. She thinks she must look about as threatening as a grain mouse. More spotlights flash into her eyes, fully illuminating the dark road and landscape around her. She covers her face defensively.

"Turn around!" a harsh voice orders her. "Keep your hands up!"

"Okay," Ursa agrees, doing as commanded.

Immediately, she hears the crunching of heavy boots on the crete stomping toward her. Her heart pounds erratically.

Gods, let this not be a mistake...

Rough hands grab her, forcing her own behind her back where they are securely bound with a pair of manacles. She'd expected that. Then she's searched, hands probing every nook and cranny of her body. It almost tickles, and she has to suppress a giggle. She's spun around, facing her captors fully for the first time. There are two of them, sent to greet her. Two mutant men with tumor covered faces. One has a nosebleed, seeming to drip constantly. 

"Move," Mr. Nosebleed commands her with a shove. She complies, not wanting to aggravate these people in any way. Once they find out who she is and what she can offer them, she'll be too valuable to mistreat. 

Well, mistreat harshly anyway.

"I'm a doctor," she says as she's moved toward the spotlights set atop a pair of vehicles much like the one she and her companions had encountered on the road earlier. On either side of the machines are the 'tanks' that Ativan had spoken of; massive, hulking things set on tracks instead of wheels. They're ancient, rusted, but she has little doubt they still operate. The canons at their fronts are pointed directly up the road from where she came.

"I can offer you medical treatment," she explains. "Please, let me help with any wounds you may have."

"Shut up!" one of the men screams, hitting her between the shoulder blades with the weapon he's carrying–a large rifle unlike any she's familiar with. The pain is intense and immediate, so she shuts her mouth.

For now.

There will be time for negotiation later.

She's prodded forward between the barricade, coming out in a large flat area lined with a dozen or so canvas tents. A flag on a pole flaps lazily in the breeze, revealing a symbol with a skull and crossbones beneath it. The symbol of the Grimms? The camp is on high alert, every man (and even a few women) standing at attention with weapons at the ready. Every eye seems to stare at her hungrily.

This is starting to feel less and less like a good idea.

She's pointed in the direction of the biggest tent in camp, directly at the center of the compound. One flap is pinned open, revealing a soft, flickering candlelight within. A figure steps out of the opening, a very tall, thin silhouette. As she's brought face to face, Ursa sees the man is a skeleton, gaunt to the extreme, with most of his hair having fallen out, including his eyebrows. A large boil pulses above his right eye, causing swelling that almost forces the organ closed.

"Welcome," the man greets in a surprisingly high pitched voice. "Come in, come in." He steps aside to let Ursa duck inside. "Were there any others?" he asks the soldiers accompanying her.

"No, Magis," one of the men answers immediately. "Not that we saw. We've already dispatched the scouts to scour the area though."

"Good," Magis says with a wicked grin. "If she has friends, we'll find them soon enough." 

Ursa gulps at that. Then she's pushed inside the tent.

It's surprisingly warm inside, a pleasant contrast to the chill, snowy air outside. There's a desk and chair at the far end, piled high with books and papers. There's also a collapsing couch and a few sparse blankets on the gravel floor.

The blankets are occupied.

Two women sit side by side, chained together by a pair of collars at the neck. Their hands and feet are also shackled, but with longer chains between to provide some freedom of movement. These must be the slaves she'd heard Ativan referring to before sneaking out his toilet room window.

She'd listened to about half of that conversation before finally shoring up the courage to actually do this. As bad as things looked right now, she had to remind herself that there was no choice. It was her fault Juno and Traylor had to go through all this mess in the first place. Ever since they'd come into her life back in Venecici, the guilt had slowly gnawed at her.

And now time was running out.

She'd lived in Everwinter a long time, and knows that the snowier season is only weeks away. They have to get past this roadblock now, or this whole journey will be for naught. There won't be time to backtrack and go around.

And Altair and Glamis, formidable as they are, would be no match for this heavily armed group calling themselves the Grimms. No, the only thing that was going to get them through this mess was negotiation. Safe passage in exchange for services rendered. She was a doctor, and what could be more valuable in a world fraught with disease than medical care?

The slaves, sparsely clothed, avert their eyes as soon as they see Ursa, one even bursting into tears. The woman probably thinks she knows what's in store for Ursa.

Not if I can help it, she thinks.

"Hey, none of that now!" the voice of Magis sounds from behind. He pushes into the tent past Ursa and swiftly kicks the crying slave woman in the leg. The slave yelps and pulls in on herself, curling up like a turtle.

Poor thing, Ursa sympathizes. But there's nothing she can do for her.

Magis strolls over to the desk at the back of the tent, taking a seat in a creaking wooden chair behind it.

"Have a seat." He gestures Ursa to the couch.

Hesitating, Ursa sneaks a quick peek out the tent opening. The guards are there, standing watch. Sighing, she does as commanded, lowering herself awkwardly with her arms still bound behind her.

"Now," Magis says, lighting up a tobacco tube and taking a puff, "what's a pretty gal like you doing wandering out here in the Fringes all alone?" His tone is friendly, conversational.

Ursa hesitates again. She'd gone over what she would say to these people a million times in her head. Now, she can't find word one.

"Um," is all she manages to stammer out.

"Are you alone?" Magis asks, still laid back in his chair.

Ursa sighs. "No. That is why I am here."

Magis smiles. "Good. That's good. You didn't lie, and that helps build trust." He takes a puff on his tube. "Now, where are your friends?"

"Nearby," she answers as delicately as possible. "In hiding. You won't find them easily."

Magis grins. "Well, that remains to be seen." He stares at Ursa a moment, making her uncomfortable. "So," he finally says. "I assume you and your friends were on your way to Everwinter when you came across our little toll booth here." Ursa nods. "And you want to, um, trade something in exchange for safe passage. Am I in the ballpark so far?"

Ursa nods, though she has no idea what a ballpark is.

"I'm a doctor," she explains. "A genetic scientist, specifically. I can treat anyone in your camp for almost anything that ails them."

Magis touches his face, the boil pulsing above his right eye. "Can you cure this?" he asks, pressing the growth with a bony finger. "Can you cure mutations?"

Ursa gulps then shakes her head. "Well, not exactly, no." She replies. "I could treat it though. Make the swelling go down." She pauses. "Do you have any wounded?" Her tone is hopeful.

Magis frowns for the first time. "We did," he replies sternly, "until we executed them yesterday." 

Ursa gasps, all her hopes for this expedition immediately fleeing. "But... Why would you–"

"Wounded men slow things down," Magis explains, as if the answer should be obvious. "Can't have resources taken from the rest of the camp in order to treat a few men who may end up being useless to us anyway. We've got an empire to run here!" He laughs, arms spread wide.

You're a bloody monster! Ursa screams in her mind. She hadn't anticipated such heartless disregard for human life, even from bandits. She scowls at Magis.

The man laughs hard. "Not the way you hoped this would go, is it?" His rotten teeth are fully exposed. He claps his hands, the Grimm soldiers at the entrance to the tent coming in. They grab her, one of them holding something round and metal in one hand.

A collar.

"No," Ursa whispers, tears forming as the massive manacle is clasped firmly around her neck. She's never wanted to die more than she does in that moment. "Your training begins now, um..." Magis pauses. "I'm sorry, I haven't even gotten your name yet. What is it?"

Ursa shakes her head, lips pressed hard. One of the men punches her, square in the gut.

"Ursa," she finally says when she's caught her breath.

"A pretty name," Magis admits, smiling again. "I'm Magis," he formally introduces himself. "But you can call me Master." He nods to his soldiers, and they start pulling Ursa from the tent. Ursa sobs uncontrollably.

"Oh, and don't worry about your friends," Magis calls in a friendly parting tone. "They'll be joining you soon enough."

Ursa screeches. She can't help it.

Juno, I'm sorry!

 

 

 

 

50.

 

"Here, take this," Altair says, handing me the smooth, cool metal object.

"Really?" I ask, stunned and a little bit flattered. I never thought I'd see Altair part with one of his throwing stars. How many of these things does he have anyway? The metal is stainless, without a scratch or a chip on it. Perfect. What the hells is it made from? I press a finger softly against one of the five points, feeling it slice effortlessly into the skin. A little bubble of blood wells up. At the center of the star is a symbol of some sort, one I've never seen before:

☯

"What does this mean?" I ask, stunned.

"This isn't time for a history lesson, Juno," Altair admonishes, folding my hand carefully over the weapon. "This is not a toy."

"I know," I say, rolling my eyes. 

I can't wait to chuck this thing at something!

"I'm giving it to you just in case." He nods his head toward the opposite side of the room where Ativan is conversing with Glamis and Traylor. He pulls me in closer. "Look," he says, "I know Ativan seems like a good guy, but we don't know him from a hole in the ground. I think it best not to trust anyone at this point."

I roll my eyes yet again. "You Assassins are so uptight," I reply, but I pocket the throwing star without protest. I smile. "Don't worry, I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he smiles back and, for a wonder, he kisses me on the forehead. "Be careful," he says.

"You too." I reluctantly let him go.

"Glamis," he calls across the room. "Time to go."

Glamis had been in midst of recounting his life to Ativan, who seems genuinely rapt in the story.

"I shall finish story presently upon our returnings," the mutant hulk apologizes, giving Ativan a rough pat on the shoulder.

"Oomph! Yeah, sure," Ativan smiles sheepishly.

Altair takes a last look at me, nods, then he and Glamis are gone out the door.

It's just me, Traylor, and Ativan now.

The room becomes uncomfortably quiet.

Ativan stares at his shoes, as if intimidated by me.

"So," I say, breaking the tension, "what do you do for fun around here?" I'm all smiles.

Ativan perks up then laughs to himself. "Not a helluva lot," he admits, looking around the room. His eyes fall on Traylor. "Say, son. You ever fire a shooting iron before?"

Traylor's eyes go wide. "Hells no!" he exclaims.

"Traylor!" I scold. "Watch your language!"

Ativan laughs. "Come on," he says, and leads us both out of the living quarters and into the garage proper. Despite the lights provided by the gennie, it's still dank and dark in here. We come to a locked cabinet off in one corner. Ativan produces a ring with so many keys on it that I have to wonder if he even knows what half of them do. He unlocks the cabinet, revealing a rack with a pair of shooting irons set upon it: one handheld, one larger one.

Ativan pulls the smaller weapon out and hands it to Traylor.

"Wait a minute!" I say, not liking where this is going already.

"No worries," Ativan says, waving me down, "it ain't loaded yet. Just lettin' the little guy get a feel for it first."

Traylor takes the shooter with his jaw hanging slack. Immediately, he points it like he's gonna shoot it, making little BANG! noises with his mouth.

"Awesome!" he exclaims.

I laugh. "Now look what you've started," I half-heartedly chastise Ativan.

He shrugs. "Boy's gotta learn sometime," he says. He pulls a small box out of the cabinet, the contents making a clanking noise. "Here," he says to Traylor, holding his hand out for the shooter. "I'll show ya how to load 'er." Traylor grins wide and hands the weapon back.

Ativan kneels down, popping open the cylinder at the center of the weapon, revealing a half dozen bullet-sized shafts. Indeed, he opens the box and slides a bullet into one of the chambers.

"Easy enough?" he asks. 

Traylor nods quickly. "Oh yeah," he replies.

"He's a fast learner," I add, "too fast sometimes."

Ativan grins and stands back up. Then he points the shooter across the garage. I'm not really sure what he's aiming for but–

BANG!

The sound is deafening in the closed space. I hear a clang as an empty can situated on a metal workbench flies away, crashing to the floor.

"Good shot!" Traylor says, astonished.

"Aye," Ativan admits. "I've had a bit o' practice in my spare time." He hands the now empty weapon back to Traylor, along with the box of bullets. Immediately, Traylor opens the cylinder, letting the spent cartridge fall to the floor. Then he opens the box, reaching for a fresh bullet.

Ativan stops him with a hand. "There's a fence out back," he says, pointing to the garage door. "I got some cans and bottles set up there. Why don't you give'er a go out there?"

"Sure!" Traylor screeches with delight.

Ativan smiles. "Only one bullet at a time though, okay? If I hear more than one shot per minute, I'll know you're using more."

"Yeah, you can trust me!" Traylor says.

"Famous last words," I grumble at him. He sticks his tongue out at me then bolts for the door. 

"Hey! Be careful!" I call after him. "We'll be right behind you."

I move to follow him.

I'm stopped by Ativan though, a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Can I show you something first?" he asks, his tone somewhat bashful. I look toward the door again and my departing brother. "Don't worry," Ativan assures, "he'll be fine for a minute. Trust me, you're gonna wanna see this."

His words creep me out a little, but at the same time there's something about Ativan that makes me want to trust him. Is it his piercing blue eyes? Maybe it's his pretty blonde hair. Yeah, okay, he's not the handsomest guy I've ever met–he's no Jude (shudder)–but I think I've found a kindred spirit in Ativan. For the first time, I realize I've been lonely since Jude betrayed me.

Yeah, maybe Altair cares about me, but he sure doesn't show it much. I have no illusions that he's gonna come and sweep me off my feet when this is all over. 

Altair is an Assassin, married to his calling. His lifearc.

"Lead the way," I say with a sigh.

Ativan's eyes light up like an oil-fired electric light.

 

 

 

 

51.

 

THWACK!

The blows continue to rain down.

But the upside is that she's growing numb. 

The pain all blends together, her entire body a broken, bleeding mess. 

"Where are your friends?" the Grimm soldier screams at her again. She's surprised she hasn't gone deaf yet. THWACK! "It's just a matter of time until we find them, Ursa. If you give them up now, we'll go easier on them."

Ursa looks up between puffy, bruised eyelids. Blood runs into one of them, forcing her to shut it. "Do you promise?" she asks, trying to sound hopeful. 

The solider–Mr. Nosebleed–steps back, grinning widely. "Of course," he reassures. "You can save them a lot of pain." He pauses. "I promise, Ursa."

Ursa sighs, pulling with dismay at her manacled hands, bound behind her to a creaky wooden chair. A chain runs from the collar around her neck to the manacles, forcing her head to stay upright lest she choke. There are four other slaves in the tent with her, all forced to watch her 'training'. 

They’d all endured a similar fate at one time or another.

Nosebleed raises a hand to strike her again. 

"Okay!" she exclaims, trying to sound desperate. "I'll... I'll tell you!"

Nosebleed smiles. "Good." He crouches down in front of her. "Go ahead."

"Spitblood..." she whispers, so low that Nosebleed cannot hear.

He leans closer, raising his fist warningly. "Say that again, love," he requests, sweetly almost. His fist goes higher. "I couldn't hear you."

"I said," Ursa replies, "spit blood!" Then she horks, a concoction of saliva, phlegm, and blood flying directly into Nosebleed's eye. The man screeches in disgust, wiping it away.

"Your choice," he growls with disdain. A storm of fists that makes what she'd already endured seem like a sun shower rains down. When it's over, she's barely holding onto consciousness. Fluid is constantly leaking into her eyes. She knows that at least one of the boils on her face has burst open. The pain is excruciating. Nosebleed is huffing, having exerted himself tremendously during the beating. He's far from done though.

"I think it's time we took your training to the next level, don't you, Ursa?"

Ursa moans, wondering what could possibly be worse than this. The other slaves in the tent groan too. They know what's coming.

Mr. Nosebleed starts to unbuckle his pants.

Ursa cringes, trying to suppress the tears, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she thinks she must be hallucinating.

"About time you showed up," she grumbles.

Nosebleed stares at her, confused. Then he hears someone behind him and whirls to face the newcomer.

Too late.

Mr. Nosbleed's head collapses like a rotten pumpkin, all blood and brains between the brick fists of Glamis. The hulking mutant pulls his hands apart, flinging the gore from them with disgust. "I hate midgets bloods!" he stammers, moving to wipe his hands on the canvas of the tent.

"Remember what I said about being quiet?" Altair comes in, chastising the mutant in a low tone. He moves over to the chair where Ursa sits bound and stunned.

"Sorrys," Glamis apologizes. He moves over to the slaves, still quivering on the tent floor. He grasps their chains and snaps them apart like cheap twine. Altair has already picked the lock on Ursa's manacles, now working on the collar.

Ursa bursts into tears. "I'm so sorry!" she mumbles between broken lips. "I... I thought I could..."

"Not now," Altair cuts her off. "There'll be plenty of time for apologies later. And explanations. We have to get you out of here first." Ursa is finally released and Altair helps her to her feet. She feels like she's been put through a meat grinder.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

Ursa tests her footing, shaky though it is, and finds that she can. "Yes."

"Good." He pulls out one of his throwing stars and stalks to the rear of the tent, slicing the weapon effortlessly through the material. "We're sneaking out this way. Glamis, you're in charge of the other women."

The slaves all cower before Glamis, but he helps them to their feet with a gentle touch. "I'se no hurtings you," he whispers. "Come. We's getting you'se out of here." Three of the women don't have to be told twice, but the last one still whimpers on the floor, shell-shocked. Glamis grunts and simply picks her up and carries her like a newborn babe. "Let's go," he tells Altair. 

Altair goes first, disappearing through the hole in the canvas. Ursa goes next, slipping out into the dark.

Immediately, she's struck from behind.

The ground rushes up to greet her face, knocking the wind right out of her. She opens her eyes and Altair is next to her, on his knees, cradling a gushing wound on the back of his own head.

They hear screams and then a shooting iron goes off.

One of the slave women collapses to the ground next to Ursa, a hole in her chest.

"Midgets!" the angry voice of Glamis screams, making an aggressive movement toward their attackers–whom Ursa has yet to see.

"Glamis! Don't!" Altair orders, staggering to his feet with his hands raised. "Weapons! They'll kill you in a microsecond!"

Glamis hesitates.

"Thank you," a familiar voice coos from out of the darkness. "It's best we keep this from getting messy."

Ursa finally looks up, her dizzy head clearing. The skeletal form of Magis stands over them, surrounded by a dozen of his Grimm soldiers, all pointing their Forerunner irons directly at them. Glamis growls like a caged animal.

"Come to think of it," Magis states matter of factly, "shoot the big one in the leg. Just to be safe."

"NO!" Altair screams. But it's too late.

Shots echo in the night.

 

 

 

 

52.

 

Another shot echoes in the night.

But it's muffled, just like all the others.

"Maybe we should check on 'im," I suggest, my words starting to slur.

Ativan scoffs, taking another swig of the clear liquid in the glass bottle. "He's fine," he assures. "He'll just want to join in on our fun anyway, and I have a feelin' you won't want your little brother partaking in an adult beverage."

I laugh, taking another sip from the cup Ativan provided me. "Yeah, you're probably right," I say, though I'm not sure why I'm agreeing with him so readily; I've been pretty damn protective of Traylor during this whole adventure. 

I drink again.

But why should he get to have all the fun?

The room starts to spin a little.

"What's this made from anyway?" I ask. I've had alcohol plenty of times in Krakelyn, but usually it tastes like fuel oil and has to be mixed down with something in order for me to enjoy it. We're drinking this stuff straight up, and it's sweet as syrup!

"Fermented mela fruit," Ativan explains, taking a deep whiff from the bottle and shifting next to me on the couch in his living quarters. "The nectar of the gods!"

I laugh at that. "Yeah, if only I could give the gods credit for this." I take another sip.

Ativan scowls just as another muffled shot rings outside.

Traylor must be just lovin' that shooting iron!

"Whataya mean by that?" he asks, seeming genuinely intrigued. The couch creaks at his end.

I shrug. "I don't believe in the gods," I say, speaking plainly. I laugh. "Ironic, considering my Father is High Deacon of Krakelyn."

Ativan goes suddenly pale. "Really?" he asks, disbelief painted all over his face.

I laugh again. "Yeah. Oh, don't worry though. He's probably dead." My laughter is uncontrollable. 

Why do I find this so funny?

Ativan laughs now too, but it sounds forced. "Ha, yeah, probably," he says. He inches closer and our eyes meet. It's not uncomfortable though.

"You know, Juno," he says, "you may be the last human woman left, but you'd be beautiful no matter what you looked like."

I scrunch my face, trying to decide if that's a compliment or an insult. I just laugh some more and smile. "Thanks!" I say. He moves closer. I can smell his breath.

Okay, now I'm getting a little uncomfortable. 

Thoughts of Jude–the last and only man I'd ever been intimate with–flood my mind. Ativan is no Jude in the looks department, but I've never really been that shallow anyway. 

It's the trust thing I'm having trouble with now.

"I've been told I'm beautiful," I reply, not sure what else to say. "I don't think about it too much though. There's more important things in life to worry about."

Ativan nods, as if I'd said something truly profound. "That's a refreshin' point of view," he agrees with me. "But nonetheless, it is true. You are beautiful, Juno." He puts a hand on my lap. I don't push it away.

"I don't..." I sigh, emotions welling up. "I don't think I can do this, Ativan." I’m struggling with every urge in my body. Jude's face overrides them all.

"Don't think," Ativan suggests, a smooth talker when he's drunk. "Just do what feels right."

He leans in, his mouth inching ever closer to mine.

My heart hammers.

I close my eyes.

As soon as our lips touch, I know that it's wrong.

"No!" I say, pushing him back. "I'm sorry, Ativan, but I can't. I thought maybe I could but..."

Ativan's face seems to melt, a gamut of expressions flowing over it. It starts with disappointment, but it ends in anger.

He jumps on top of me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, not yet panicked but getting there. It's hard to act clearly with alcohol saturating my every thought.

"I'm sorry too," Ativan says. Then he's kissing me, holding me down at the same time, forcing himself upon me.

"No!" I scream again. I ram a knee upward, going for the sweet spot.

I miss.

Oh hells...

His anger intensifies and then he's trying to pull my tunic top up over my head.

"Stop!" I plead, fighting however I can. But he's so strong. He doesn't look it but, in this moment, he seems stronger than Glamis. My tunic is almost over my head and–

BLAM!

For a moment, I think maybe my head has exploded from terror and anxiety. Then, all of Ativan's strength leaves his body, becoming a rag doll on top of me.

A bloody heavy ragdoll.

I feel something wet soaking me around the midsection and, fearing I know what it is, I roll my body, falling off the couch directly on top of Ativan. Disgusted, I push myself up, my suspicion confirmed.

I'm covered in blood.

The crimson liquid starts pooling from the wound in Ativan's back. I whip around and there's Traylor, pale as a ghost, still holding the shooting iron with an arm extended, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. Tears escape his eyes.

"I... He... He was trying to hurt you, Juno!" He's positively vibrating now. I rush over to him, wrapping him in a warm embrace. He drops the shooter and starts bawling into my shoulder.

"Shhh," I soothe. "It's okay, buddy. It's gonna be okay." I stroke blood streaked hands through his messy wet hair.

"He was gonna hurt you, right?" Traylor asks, the question muffled because he's still crying into me.

"Yes, Traylor," I say. The room still spins with the mela fruit alcohol but, in that moment, I've never felt more sober. "He was trying to hurt me."

I glance over at Ativan's corpse and guilt swamps me.

Was he really gonna do what I thought he was?

I mean, yeah, it was starting to go that way, but the alcohol...

I was just as willing to get drunk as he was. 

And I have to admit, I knew there was a possibility of where it was going. I almost wanted it. 

And then Jude invaded my mind.

Finally, I start to cry too. 

Maybe there was no excuse for what Ativan tried to do, but did he deserve to die for it?

I shake my head. 

I really don't think so.

I pull away from Traylor. "Thank you, little brother," I smile warmly at him. "You saved me."

He tries to emulate the smile, but just ends up bawling again. "I... I liked him! I didn't want to kill him!"

I pull him in tight again. "I know, buddy," I say. "I liked him too. But you didn't kill him."

Now it's Traylor's turn to pull away from me, his expression a pile of confusion. "Wh-what?" is all he manages to stammer out.

"It was me," I say, leaning down to pick up the shooter. "I killed him, and that's all anybody needs to know. He was trying to hurt me, so I grabbed his iron and pulled the trigger. It had nothing to do with you, Traylor."

Traylor shakes his head, burying it into my shoulder once more.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Gods, I hope he's gonna be alright. 

This guilt is gonna eat at us both for a long, long time. 

We embrace in silence for a time then, when Traylor's finally calmed, we come to a decision.

We'll bury him together.

 

 

 

 

53.

 

"There is no points in botherings," Glamis protests, trying to push Ursa away. "Midgets is coming and we be deads within hour."

Ursa shakes her head, wincing in pain at the same time. "Don't say that!" she protests, tying the tourniquet tight around the giant mutant's leg a little tighter. "We need you in fighting shape for when we escape..." She bursts into tears.

Altair, watching the exchange from the darkest corner of the box, finally comes over, offering whatever comfort he can to the beaten woman. She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry!" she wails. "This is all my fault! All of it! Juno. Traylor. The mutations. Everything!" She's hysterical, and Altair is unsure exactly what she's talking about.

After their botched escape attempt, the Grimms had shot Glamis in the leg then thrown them all in this...box. There is no other way to describe it. It sits on the back of one of the large eight wheeled vehicles, all corrugated metal, no windows, locked from the outside, pitch dark. The only reason they can see anything at all is the glow of Glamis' skin–now much weaker than last Altair had seen it. Despite the wound to his leg, however, the hulking mutant seems hardly the worse for wear. He'd allowed Ursa to pull the slug from his calf–with her fingers no less–and dress the wound. He'd hardly complained.

They'd been interrogated and beaten by the Grimms, of course, asked questions about what they were doing here and if there were any others with them. Altair is sure they’ll be paying Ativan a visit soon, just to check in. Gods willing, Juno will realize something went wrong and get out of there. 

Gods willing.

The three of them had managed to keep Juno and Traylor's existence a secret though; Altair had thought for sure that Ursa would break under the torture. She'd been through so much already.

But she hadn't. 

Why had she risked so much anyway?

Well, it doesn't matter now, he supposes.

The Grimms would be executing them within the hour.

When Ursa finally calms herself, Altair sits down with her, sitting face to face.

"Okay," he says, "it's truth time, Ursa." Ursa's destroyed face becomes sullen. "Since you've joined our mission, slowly, you've become more and more...erratic. Irrational. Something's eating at you, and I think it's time you confessed what it is." He pauses, letting that sink in. "You know something about the mutations–the Final Judgment–that we all don't. Don't you?"

Ursa nods. "You have no idea," she admits. She sighs, shoring herself up to drop the hammer. "There is a machine," she says, "in Everwinter, at my old lab. It's what caused all these mutations to happen. I created it." Altair nods; he already knows this though. "That's not all," Ursa continues, giving him no time to dwell on it. "Juno and Traylor..." She hesitates, tears leaking from her bruised, puffy eyes. "I'm... I'm their mother."

Altair's eyes go wide, Ursa's last words echoing throughout the box that is their prison.

Echoing inside his head.

Surely he must have misheard.

Suddenly, the box opens.

Harsh, artificial light streams in, assaulting their vision, followed by the crisp air of the outside world. 

Altair shivers. This is it.

He has no weapons–his throwing stars have been taken from him–but his hands can be just as deadly when they need to be. 

It's fight or die.

Or not.

They're swarmed, at least a dozen Grimm soldiers piling into the box, immediately going to work on Altair and his friends. He's struck five times with the butt of five different Forerunner shooters. He can barely stay conscious.

"Bring them out!" the cold, calculating voice of Magis orders.

Altair feels himself lifted by two pairs of arms, dragged toward the entrance to the box. Then he's thrown out, a five foot drop to the ground. He lands on his feet but crumbles to his knees, which take the brunt of the impact. Ursa falls next to him seconds later, flat on her face.

There's a commotion in the box, and Altair grins as he hears the furious voice of Glamis. "Bloody midgets!" he screams. Two shots go off. Glamis falls to the ground moments after, a pair of fresh bullet wounds in his leg and arm. As before, it hardly seems to faze him.

Amazing.

The three captives are all dragged to their knees before the gathering. Altair glances around quickly, counting fifteen soldiers in a ring around them. If Ativan's estimation of the population of this 'army' is correct, then they must have pulled in all their scouts from the surrounding area.

It's probably not every day they get to make such a show of an execution.

Magis shouts an order and his soldiers cock their weapons.

Speed shooters. Forerunner technology.

"Drink it in boys!" Magis announces. "It's not every day we get to take out a bona fide Assassin! And this brute," he gestures to Glamis, "I think I'll have him stuffed and turned into a couch!" He laughs hysterically, and so do his comrades. Glamis bares his teeth. His skin is starting to glow brighter. Altair just shakes his head. It'll all be over in a few seconds.

He fixes Juno's face firmly in his mind.

Might as well die with a happy thought.

Run, Juno. Get out of here. Don't go to Everwinter. Live what little life is left to you and–

"Do the brute first," Magis orders, smiling at Glamis' defiant sneer.

"Do your worst, midgets!" Glamis snarls.

The last words he would ever say.

A dozen shooters go off, lodging at least a hundred bullets into the mutant's bulky body. Ursa screams as Glamis slumps to the ground, face in the dirt.

Magis laughs. "I have to admit, boys," he says. "I wasn't sure that thing could be killed!" The Grimms all laugh too. Magis gestures. "Okay, let's finish this." A dozen weapons cock and aim at both Ursa and Altair.

Altair takes the poor woman by the hand. "Close your eyes," he whispers, squeezing her fingers tightly. They both do.

A shot goes off.

Altair feels nothing.

And Ursa hadn't cried out in pain...

"Bloody hells! Shoot him!"

Altair opens his eyes. 

Immediately, he pushes himself and Ursa flat to the ground. "Stay down!" he orders.

More shots go off, followed by screams of pain and a screech of pure, unadulterated rage.

Two Grimm soldiers fall dead to the ground.

Glamis!

The ground shakes as the hulking mutant stomps around, grabbing Grimm soldiers by the neck, squeezing until their heads loll sideways. Bullets slam into his body. Blood pours from the wounds. But he doesn't stop. By the time that the soldiers realize that they are the ones in danger here, ten of them are dead, rag dolls in the dirt.

"Run!" Magis calls. "Get the hells out–" His words are choked off.

Altair looks up, seeing the skeletal man being held in the air by an arm that's a tree trunk by comparison. Glamis spits in his face. "Now you knows this thing not so easily killeds!" he growls. And with that, he slams Magis over his knee, snapping the man's back like dry kindling. Magis falls limply to the ground.

Altair pushes to his feet, sore but alive. He takes stock, his Assassin's eyes probing every square inch around them. There are no more soldiers. The few that survived have fled into the night. He steps toward Glamis and, as he does, the bulked out mutant collapses to one knee. He's literally leaking blood from everywhere, holes riddling his body.

"I'se... I'se just needs to lie down a moments," he says, falling hard on his side. His breathing is becoming labored.

Altair kneels before him. "Rest easy, friend," he says. "You've earned it." He hesitates. "You saved our lives, Glamis."

Glamis scoffs. ""Twas nothing midgets did not deserves. I... I... Tell Juno and Traylor that I loves them both very muches. It was nice to have friends again. I looks forward to meeting the Doctors Agoma and Ragyle in Paradise."

"I will," Altair replies, finding his own emotions welling up. Behind him, he hears sobbing. He turns to see a nearly destroyed Ursa stumbling to her feet, coming toward them. She joins Altair on her knees next to Glamis and, when Altair turns back to the mutant who had saved them, there's no life left in his eyes.

Glamis is dead.

 

 

 

 

54.

 

"Someone's coming!" Traylor warns me.

I raise the shooter, six bullets already loaded in the chambers. Two dark silhouettes stumble out of the dark, seeming to hold one another afoot.

"It's Altair and Ursa!" I exclaim, lowering the weapon and slipping it into the waistband of my tunic bottoms.

"Where's Glamis?" Traylor asks, worry permeating his every word.

We rush over, storming across the flat crete surface of Ativan's former compound. The people who greet us are not the same ones who'd left us only hours before.

They're zombies.

Walking dead.

I don't have to ask it. I know that Glamis is gone.

Traylor intuits the same, for he starts sobbing immediately. "Oh, Glamis!" he wails. 

It's been a rough day for the little guy. 

For all of us.

Altair and Ursa look like ground up cattle beef, Ursa the worst off. She looks like she's been doing experiments on herself again, or something. Dried blood cakes her face, some still seeping from cuts and gashes. Many of the boils on her face are burst open. Altair is roughed up too, but he's got nothing on the poor woman. 

"What happened?" I ask, grasping them both in a massively tight hug. They both grunt in pain. "Oops, sorry!" I say sheepishly.

Ursa starts to sob uncontrollably. "Glamis saved us!" she blubbers. "I... It's my fault he's gone but..." She starts to wail.

Altair picks up where she left off. "Glamis' death was not in vain. The way is clear for us. We can continue to Everwinter."

I frown. "But I thought there was a whole army blocking the road."

Altair nods. "There was. Glamis killed them all."

Traylor's eyes go wide and my jaw drops. "He... He killed them all?"

"Yes," Altair replies. "They shot him, but he just kept going. Gods, if he wasn't the toughest mutant to ever live." Altair hesitates. "But in the end, he wasn't invincible."

"Where is he?" Traylor asks, his lower lip trembling. "You didn't just leave him out there, did you?"

Altair shakes his head. "We covered his body as best we could. As you can see, we weren't exactly in the best physical shape to bury him. We will rest here a spell. When we pass through again, we will give him a proper send off." Traylor seems to accept that, turning around to face the freshly turned dirt pile and pair of shovels behind us.

Ativan's grave.

The ground had been nearly frozen on top, but once we'd broken through the tough crust, the going was easier. We'd even erected a little wooden cross to mark it.

Altair frowns at the mound. "I take it things were not uneventful here either."

Traylor starts to say something, but I cut him off. "I killed him," I say. "Ativan was drunk. He had a shooting iron and..." My heart hitches, emotions swelling. The man had tried to force himself on me and yet, I still feel guilty about it. "I was able to get the shooter from him. I had no choice."

I glance at Traylor and I can tell he's feeling about as good as I am about this. Altair looks skeptical, but he doesn't press the issue; he knows there's more to it though.

"It's been a rough day for all of us," Altair says. "Why don't we head inside and soothe our wounds?"

"Not yet," Ursa suddenly speaks up, pulling away from Altair for the first time since their return. "I have something I have to confess."

Altair's eyes go wide. "Ursa, I don't know if this is the best time..."

"No," Ursa disagrees, "On the contrary. I think it is the best time, Altair."

Altair huffs, relenting. "Go ahead then," he says.

We all face Ursa. "What is it?" I ask. At this point, there's really not much that can shock me anymore.

Ursa sighs then begins. "You know what caused the mutations, right?"

Traylor and I exchange a glance and we both nod. "Yeah," I say. "They were caused by an object Jude and I found on the beach back in Krakelyn. The Box. I've told you this before."

Ursa nods. "Yes. But, Juno, have you given any thought as to where that Box came from? Who built it?"

I pause, considering. "Yes and no," I reply. "I was told it came from Everwinter, a leftover from the time of the Forerunners when the people altered their genetic structure to better survive the harsh climate." I pause again. "I read about that in the Forerunner Archives." My friends all know about that book now.

Ursa shakes her head. "You are correct in that it came from Everwinter," she confirms, "but the Box, as you call it, is not an artifact of the Forerunners, Juno. It's much, much more recent."

"Okay," I say. "How do you know that?"

Ursa drops her eyes. "Because I built it," she says. "It was my invention."

I let that information sink in. I'm taken aback, for sure, but not really all that shocked. Ursa is a scientist; an inventor who tried to cure her own mutations by experimenting on herself. It really isn't all that much of a surprise that she's the one who built the Box. I don't blame her for it.

There's just one thing I don't get though.

"How did it end up in Krakelyn?" I ask, a million possible scenarios running through my head. Did Ursa put it there herself? Is that why she's acting so guiltily?

If not, it's a hells of a coincidence.

Ursa shakes her head. "That I do not know," she admits. "Last I saw the Box was when we decommissioned the lab in Everwinter. The Box, as you call it, was part of a larger machine, which was decommissioned too. I really don't know how it ended up in Eversummer and back in working order."

I look at Altair for his perspective on this, but he's stony.

As usual.

"Well, if you really did decommission it, Ursa," I say, "then someone must have, um, recommissioned it. That's not your fault."

Ursa shakes her head. "You don't get it, Juno. Do you know why the Box did what it did when you opened it? Why it caused mutations on such a massive scale?"

I turn my gaze to Traylor and scowl. "Actually," I say, "it was my brother who opened it. I still wasn't sure what to do with it." Ursa nods, as if she'd just made a connection. "Jude just touched it, and it gave him a rash on his face."

Ursa nods. "But the Final Judgment, the full scale mutation of the human race, didn't happen until Traylor opened the Box completely, correct?”"

"That's right," I confirm. "We still don’t know why."

"Because, Juno," Ursa replies, shoring herself up for the big reveal, "when I created that Box, I used your DNA to encode the pulse that it gives off."

I look from side to side, unsure of what I’ve just been told. "M-my DNA?" I ask, completely skeptical. "But, what would you be doing with my–" I break off. Ursa has just bent over, untying the laces of her right boot and slipping it off. She slips her sock off too, revealing a human foot that looks relatively normal.

Except...

"No," I say, shaking my head. "It... It can't be!"

"What?" Traylor asks, looking back and forth between myself and Ursa's foot.

A foot that is missing a toenail on the second toe.

"You're supposed to be dead!" I scream, backing away now, growing hysterical.

"I know," Ursa replies, stepping forward to compensate. "All those years ago, when your Father had no choice but to have me Judged, he was devastated. Of course, he'd known about my defect for years, but his love for me forced him to live a lie. The day before I was to be Judged, he had the Deacons beat me to a bloody pulp. I was barely recognizable." Ursa hesitates. "Then he kidnapped a woman from the streets of Krakelyn. A transient. No one missed her. He beat her as well, then had the woman take my place at the Judgment. No one knew.

“Of course, I was forced to flee Krakelyn. That's when I headed to Everwinter, where I set up my lab and began experimenting to find a cure for human mutations. We used your DNA as a base, Juno. It was perfect because I’d made it that way. Your Father knew that the religion of the True Body Plan was too deeply ingrained in Eversummer culture to ever be overthrown by a revolution, so we had to find another way. A cure for all mutations. The True Body Plan couldn't survive if there were no mutations left to justify it. The Box was the result of my efforts."

I shake my head, just trying to process all this. "But the Box caused the mutations," I say. "It didn't cure anything."

"I know," Ursa nods. "And as I said, I still don't know how that happened. Our relationship with the mutants of Everwinter had always been tenuous at best. They never knew what we were actually trying to do. As long as we provided them with food and provisions, they tolerated our presence there."

"But the word got out, didn't it?"

"Yeah," Ursa confirms. "The mutants of Everwinter, having been formerly suppressed by the True Body Plan, believed mutations to be nothing to be ashamed of. They were proud of what they were. When they found out that we were actually trying to cure mutations, they didn't take it so well. We were forced to abandon the lab and decommission, as I said.

“We tried to pick up where we left off once we reestablished ourselves in Eversummer, but most of my team was killed during a riot, just before we left Everwinter. The plan was abandoned. But by then my body had been altered so severely that I became a recluse. I couldn't face your Father. My existence was just too dangerous for the wellbeing our family. We separated."

My teeth are grinding, my fists clenched tight.

My whole life has been a lie! My childhood!

Not to mention the story Ursa had fed us when we'd first met her!

"If the Box was programmed with my DNA," I say, trying to keep calm, "then why did it go off when Traylor touched it?" I look at my little brother, who's looking from me to Ursa, back and forth. Lost.

"Because you have nearly identical DNA sequences," Ursa replies. "Close enough, anyway."

I frown; there's something not quite right about that statement.

"I admit I'm not an expert," I say, "but I do have some knowledge of genetics from school. Traylor and I aren't twins. How could he set off your machine if it was coded to me specifically?"

Ursa shakes her head. "The Box was altered somehow, as we already discussed. That might have something to do with it." I scowl; I don't entirely buy that, but don't know what else to say. Ursa smiles. "You always were a sharp one, Juno. You truly are my daughter."

A loud gasp issues to my left and I turn to see Traylor, mouth almost on the floor.

He hadn't figured it out until now.

"Come again?" he says.

 

 

 

 

55.

 

A few hours later, we're all resting comfortably in Ativan's former living quarters. It's here that Ursa bandages our wounds and explains everything so that Traylor can understand it.

I still don't know if I understand it myself.

My Mother is alive!

"This whole trip to Everwinter wouldn't even be necessary if we still had that Box!" Ursa admonishes to Traylor. "I could just reprogram it and release a new pulse! Gods! I thought it was long gone! I can't believe it was my one of my children who found it!" She hesitates. "That's why you two were left unaffected by it. It was coded to ignore your DNA sequences."

"But you know another way to cure the mutations, right?" Traylor asks, finally understanding the situation fully. "Using mine and Juno's pure blood?"