ARC 2: FEAR AND HATE
‘Any disturbances, Cleo?’ The captain’s face was as unreadable as ever – even more so in the dark of the room. The power was out, and the bases of Second Rank taskforces such as Taskforce Delta were never equipped with backup generators, as Cleo was ruefully remembering.
‘Nothing that we should concern ourselves with,’ she told the captain, her light-brown skin illuminated by the cool glow of her computer screen. Her shaved head glinted in the light. Shaved heads were all the fashion now in the west, but back home in China, any deviance from the “norm” – and shaved heads were a major deviance – would put her on the chopping block of the Maoist Union. She shuddered at the thought of China’s newest fascist government.
‘There was a small meteorite that crashed near the city,’ Cleo continued, ‘but that’s about everything my instruments have picked up. It’s not big enough to be on any major news stations, but it’s big enough the Society has taken an interest. Battlemaster Val has already sent the Spacefall Taskforce to investigate.’
The captain surveyed the monitor, blue eyes gleaming like miniature spotlights, the occasional sliver of his dark-grey hair shimmering in the light. ‘She should definitely send the Artefact Taskforce, too – especially after that drama with the Ynaev the last time they sent down one of their artefacts.’ The captain leant forward so that the light of the computer screen washed over his blue uniform; the gold star emblazoned on his chest glinted in the light. ‘Still, not like Val would take the suggestion of a Second Rank Taskforce though, eh?’ he remarked.
Though he hid it with a smile, Cleo knew the captain felt highly contentious about the issue of First and Second Rank Taskforces in the Reaver Society. A reaver as skilled as he should surely have been put in command of a First Rank Taskforce, not a Second Rank Taskforce like Taskforce Delta – and he knew it. Still, Battlemaster Val, the Reaver Society’s secretive leader, had her reasons.
Regarding the meteorite, Cleo judged he’d made a good point. The Artefact Taskforce should be sent, just as a precaution, though Battlemaster Val would never allow it for the simple fact that, if they found something, it could lead to conflict. Tensions between the Reaver Society and the Ynaev, historically, had always been high. They had fought together against Guhaka and the Seven under the banner of the First Alliance in the War of the Mad God, but tensions had enveloped them ever since that fateful war. In recent years, it seemed there was always some argument between the two, most often to do with the increasingly shady nature of the Ynaev’s clientele. Supplying wealthy collectors with magical artefacts was one thing; supplying terrorists with ancient weaponry was another. The Society had allow them to deal their artefacts on Earth with much reluctance, and if the Ynaev weren’t careful, those precious trading licences could be stripped away.
The captain patted Cleo’s shoulder. ‘Let me know if anything does come up – especially if there’s any word of when Hugh plans on checking back in.’
His voice was firm, its edge almost tangible. Hugh had gone against protocol in his mission to St Benedict’s Hospital and would surely face the captain’s ire when he returned to Base. Cleo shuddered, glancing at the ice-cold gems that were the captain’s eyes. The captain’s anger was famed throughout all the branches of the Reaver Society; she wasn’t jealous of Hugh one bit.
The captain turned to leave–
–and as he did so, Cleo’s monitor suddenly bleeped. He stopped in his tracks and glanced at the screen.
‘Disturbance in one of the pipes,’ said Cleo, tapping on her keyboard. Her stomach twisted. ‘Not one of the preliminary pipes, but close enough to be of interest–’
‘–or concern,’ the captain finished darkly. ‘I’ll go check it out. Think you can hold the fort alright without me?’
‘Annabelle’s in the hospital wing, David’s working on that speeder thing of his, and Fi is looking after Jonah for me.’ She smiled at him. ‘There’s not much to look after. I think I’ll be fine.’
#
To a chorus of mocking laughter from the other five men, a burly man shoved the cloth in George’s mouth, muffling his shouts. George grimaced: the cloth tasted like stale sweat left to fester for a month. He let out a muffled shout as he was shoved roughly to the floor, millimetres away from face-planting into the excrement lining the floor of the sewer pipe. His bound hands and feet prevented him from fighting back; the rope chafed his wrists and ankles. Again, the men laughed.
Droplets fell from unseeable heights, spattering his back. Water droplets, he hoped, though he suspected not. His knees scraped against something squishy, and he fought the urge to throw up, shuddering violently. The smell of the pipe was a thousand times worse than the taste of the cloth; it seemed to engulf him, drowning him in in its fetidness.
Cavernous and dark, the sewer pipes underneath Marsheton were each nearly fifty metres wide and tall, stretching out in a vast, interconnected network underneath the city. Unused for nearly fifty years (now replaced by advanced in-home water treatment facilities), the pipes stank of decades-old faeces and urine.
George could only wonder why the Reaver Society had decided to put the headquarters of their Marsheton branch in the sewers. I guess it keeps them hidden. Can’t imagine too many go wondering down here. Other than a couple rogue youths – and these men, George reminded himself bitterly – he and Hugh had found the sewers completely deserted.
The burly man crouched down in front of George. He was a big man, powerfully built, with tanned skin. Like the other men, he wore military overalls and donned a rough-looking buzzcut. His eyes were dark and piercing; George help but feel like a rabbit trapped under a hawk’s gaze. While he wore a hard look, there was a softness to the man’s face that didn’t quite fit his military outfit and rugged demeanour.
‘So, you’re the Ov’l.’ It was a statement, not a question, uttered in a gruff, almost disregarding tone. ‘A bit scrawnier than I imagined.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. Raising himself back to his full height – an impressive height that was – he nodded at the man stood next to him, his buzzcut dyed purple and his skin so pale he could almost light up the entire sewer. ‘What do you think, Gaz?’
“Gaz”, the pale-skinned man, chuckled. ‘Easy job, this. Quick flash of credits – not to mention the boost to our reputation it’ll have when people learn we took down an Ov’l.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ The burly man’s smile broadened into a grin. He raised a fist into the air. ‘We took down an Ov’l!’ he bellowed triumphantly.
His victorious cry prompted the other men to shout. They raised their fists into the air, displaying proudly the image of a red dragon tattooed on their knuckles.
‘Hail, the Red Dragon!’ the burly man bellowed. The other men cheered again, louder this time – if indeed that was possible. George’s eardrums felt fit to burst.
These men were rough and brutish. They called themselves the “Red Dragon Warriors” and appeared to be mercenaries serving this “Red Dragon”. Like the reavers, they were Spell Weavers. Hugh had detailed to George the intense moral scruples of the Reaver Society regarding Weaving, such as their no-killing rule; somehow, George doubted the mercenaries followed such moral guidelines.
He grimaced, remembering how he and Hugh had been ambushed by the Red Dragon Warriors. After entering the sewers through an old grate next to the Mechinaut bar, they had soon found themselves in the Warriors’ grip. He shuddered at the memory of the resulting battle – especially of the hooded figure, who had conjured into the sewers a fearsome red-scaled dragon. The dragon and its conjurer had split Hugh and George – leaving George as easy takings for the remaining mercenaries.
George’s mind whirled at the thought of the ease at which he had been defeated. Guilt seeped into his gut, guilt of not being good enough, strong enough to stand on his own. Ov’ls were supposed to be strong; but he was far from strong. I…I’m weak… His mind burned at the thought. I’m sorry Lilly…
With all that had happened, he still hadn’t fully comprehended Lilly’s death, and thinking on it now seemed to open the wound afresh. It was as if a knife of ice-hot fire had jammed itself between his ribs. His stomach churned.
His thoughts shifted to Hugh, away from Lilly and the mess of emotion there. He did not know what had happened to the gruff old reaver, and though he knew Hugh was capable of looking after himself, he could not help but fear the worst. He tried his best to keep his theories from his mind, glaring up at the burly, tan-skinned man who seemed to be the Warriors’ leader.
The tan-skinned man lowered his fist, and the other men silenced. No other sound echoed through the pipe but the gentle pitter-patter of liquid through the gloom. The leader had noticed George’s glare, matching it with one of his own – a glare which sent chills rushing down George’s spine.
‘Watch yourself, little boy,’ the tan-skinned man crooned. ‘You may be a big bad Ov’l, but you’re nothing gagged and tied up like that.’ He chuckled. ‘Our employer warned us about you Ov’ls. Said we ought to be careful.’
Another person who thinks I’m stronger – or should be stronger – than I actually am, George thought. Ov’ls are supposed to be powerful, but all I am is weak.
‘Dunno, Valiant,’ said Gaz, glancing at the tan-skinned man. ‘This Ov’l don’t look much of a threat.’
As the tan-skinned man – Valiant – laughed, rubbing the light stubble adorning his chin, a twinkle gleamed in his eye. ‘Don’t worry, little Ov’l. Won’t be too long before our Dragon Weaver finds your friend, Hugh Fisher.’
George frowned, heart plummeting. He knows who Hugh is?
At George’s shocked expression, the man laughed again; his grating laugh, which sounded like scraping rock, was growing increasingly more irritating. ‘Did you really think we didn’t know everything about you two? You’re an Ov’l and Hugh Fisher is a legend – a legend past his time, certainly, but a legend nonetheless. Hugh Fisher will die. Our employer was very adamant about that. Something about “Windermere Heights”, he said.’
George frowned. Windermere Heights, that old block of flats that got torn down years ago?
With a mocking ruffle of George’s hair, Valiant turned away to talk with Gaz. As the tan-skinned man strode away, George spied a tendril of smoke rising from the floor of the sewer pipe. In seconds, the smoke had coated the bottom of the pipe like a carpet and was quickly rising; it soon covered George entirely, all but shrouding the Valiant, Gaz, and the other Red Dragon Warriors from sight.
A couple of surprised yelps came from the Warriors as they noticed the smoke and assembled together. George could not see little more than the Warriors’ murky figures. The smoke was strangely cool and damp, like water on the tongue. George frowned.
Like water on the tongue… George nearly smacked himself in the face for missing something that obvious. The smoke wasn’t smoke at all, he realised, but water vapour. The sewer pipes, Hugh had told him, had cleaning systems which utilised water vapour. Where George worked – the space-garage on Cork Street – they used a similar system. However, what Hugh had also told him was that the sewer cleaning systems were not due to be activated for at least three hours – and George knew for absolute fact that he had not spent three hours down here.
There was only one possibility for what was happening: someone had activated the cleaning systems. He heard a scream, piercing through the pipe. He shuddered. There was a flash of purple light and another yell. Then footsteps. Frantic footsteps.
He heard another shout, cut short by a whoosh, itself followed by another flash of purple light. Murky figures moved through the vapour. A final flash of purple light, then silence.
Breath tickled the back of his neck. George flinched, and he turned sharply to see a man in a blue uniform behind him, chest adorned with a golden star. The first thing he noticed as the man pulled him to his feet was the man’s brilliant blue eyes…
‘Now then,’ the man started, in a pleasant enough tone; George could hear no deceit or hateful intent behind his words, but then again, as he was quick to remind himself, reading people had never exactly been one of his strengths. ‘You are the Ov’l Hugh found.’ The man paused, levelling his eyes with George’s, face grim. His voice hardened. ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
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