But these people aren’t the ones in real danger, Wonlar. You have to keep your head on, can’t stop for every scared mother. If you stop now, how many will die in the storm?
These people on the edge—they were already safe, but didn’t know it. The ones that really needed help were the ones in the storm, unaware inside their homes, those who didn’t know they were in danger or were too infirm to get out, or too stubborn.
First Sentinel tried to direct traffic, shouting over the crowd, calling for order. After a minute of failed attempts to calm the crowd, Wonlar cursed under his breath and raised his grapple gun. He was needed elsewhere.
“Keep moving, and keep your neighbors safe.” he swung away ashamed, watching the shuffling crowd covered by the long shadow of a rib. He hoped he’d done enough for them.
As he got closer to the storm, First Sentinel saw the reality of the damage. Buildings had been stretched thin like taffy, then toppled under their own weight. Several attenuated greystones had fallen already, rubble warped like candy left out in the sun, melted and re-formed.
The air around was filled with brief, ungrounded sounds—chirping birds, buzzing saws, and ecstatic screams. The phantom noises mixed with the real shouts for help, tearful prayers to the gods, and the cracking, shifting, organtwisting sounds of the Spark wreaking havoc on reality.
First Sentinel had seen hundreds of Spark-storms, but each time they froze him for a moment as a needle of fear stabbed into the back of his neck. The Spark-storms tore away the city bit by bit, replacing his home and neighbors with strangers and unfamiliar landmarks.
The street was lined with dozens of new Spark-touched. The recently-transformed lay sprawled or run spasmodic in the streets, still in the throes of metamorphosis. An Ikanollo man banged his head against a wall, screaming in pain. With each blow, his head bloated and hardened, shifting into an armored shell with lacerated spikes. He slammed his head through the wall, still screaming. His voice dropped an octave, then another, until it was too low to be heard.
First Sentinel had seen countless transformations, each stranger than the last, but they never got easier to watch. Each one reminded him of his first Spark-storm, the one that had changed his life and set him on the path of losing aria.
But without the Spark, could I have saved her at all, or would I be widowed that much sooner, with no son to keep me from despair?
The peoples’ threads raged like another storm, colored ties between brothers, lovers, and friends. Each person’s threads stretched from their heart to the emotion’s source. The street was filled with yellow threads of fear connecting citizens and their freshly-changed neighbors.
He couldn’t see Blurred Fists’ telltale red haze of speed moving amidst the storm.
The cobblestones of the street had become volcanic rock, uneven mounds of jagged stone with striations in red, grey, and brown.
First Sentinel landed at the edge of the storm to start pulling people out. The Spark-touched man’s head had grown to three times its normal size, too heavy for First Sentinel to haul over his shoulder. Instead, the Shield held him around the middle and dragged his stone-crushing skull across the rough ground. First Sentinel winced in sympathetic pain as the man’s head skipped across the rocks, but the exoskeleton didn’t yield blood.
The storm stopped after he’d plucked another dozen victims from the center. First Sentinel didn’t fear the Spark’s effects. He’d been touched once, and the Spark did not touch those it had already twisted.
The Spark left a mangled neighborhood in its wake, lying dormant until the next storm. It could be that night, the following week, or a year later. Given the recent pattern, it’d be within a month.
The district of Audec’s Bowels was under the control of the Smiling King, a madman who had appeared after the Senate fire and carved out a kingdom with his Spark-touched thralls.
There would be no municipal assistance for this disaster or its victims. Instead, the Smiling King would send in his Spark-touched servants to claim their new comrades, cart them off and lock them in dank cages that they would soon call home. Once the Smiling King had his new pets, he let the horror of their change boil over into madness, until only he could soothe their pain, using his power over the Spark. Eventually, they all joined his “family.”
First Sentinel had seen friends taken by the Spark and then found them across a battlefield, their faces familiar but distant, crazed.
Once inducted into the Spark-touched family, they could not be deprogrammed. He’d tried everything, even had Ghost Hands bring him into their minds to talk through the pain. He’d spent a year visiting Red Vixen like that, until Ghost Hands forced him to step away and leave the former Shield with her madness.
But this time, there would be no recruits.
He’ll have to come through me to claim them.
But he couldn’t shield them all, not from the Smiling King, and not from their neighbors.
Always too many to save, and too few Shields for the task.
A red shape settled into focus beside First Sentinel. Blurred Fists was thin, but heavily muscled, a life-long athlete. Beneath his mask, his hair was receding, or would be if he hadn’t taken to shaving his head the year before.
To any but another of the red-skinned Pronai, Blurred Fists’ movements would be twitchy, spastic. Their race’s metabolism put all others to shame. They matured faster, moved and reacted more quickly, and died sooner. But despite his incredible speed, Wenlizerachi was one of the most reserved men First Sentinel knew. The Pronai had learned at a young age to slow down for the other races, talk at their pace so he could be understood, and even more, so he would be taken seriously.
Blurred Fists’ raiment was a tight, red running suit with a painted pattern of a black fist on a red background on his chest. A red mask hid his identity, his features distinct unlike First Sentinel’s.
The Pronai nodded to his old friend. “You made it.”
“Where are we needed most?” First Sentinel asked.
Blurred Fists shifted through five poses in an instant, pondering. “The school. It’s alive, the doors are mouths. It’s already digesting them.”
Children. City Mother, spare them.
The City Mother was hidden away in the tower on The crown, her ears and eyes shut to the voices of the people. For decades, she’d heard and obeyed only the oligarchs. Once, she’d spread compassion and maternal love. Under their power, the City Mother kept people afraid, placated. First Sentinel doubted that she heard him since the tyrants bound her, but still he prayed.
“Take me there.” Blurred Fists dashed to the corner and waited for First Sentinel, who followed in a run, aching as he went. The
dounmo
was wearing off. He’d left in too much of a rush to make the elixir he drank before missions, so his collection of injuries were making their presence known, old companions he couldn’t be rid of and never liked.
Some of the unchanged were helping the new Spark-touched; others took up clubs and knives to drive them out. First Sentinel learned long ago that he couldn’t help everyone, but it didn’t stop the guilt. These days, guilt was all that was left to him. And rage.
Without Selweh to put it to good use, I’d burn out in a year, and take the Shields with me.
When they reached the school, it was chewing on something that First Sentinel prayed was a chair. Pointed teeth burst from a crimson mouth, its lips as long as a fullgrown Ikanollo was tall. The building itself had turned a sickly shade of green, square walls replaced with a bulbous mass of mottled skin, oozing sores, and random scales.
The school walls sported more mouths down the street, similarly arrayed with leg-length teeth. The walls of the school rose and fell as it breathed through wheezy nostrils where the windows had been. Youthful cries for help echoed from inside, along with the sound of mastication.
First Sentinel turned to Blurred Fists. “Get inside and start pulling the students out. I’ll try to break some of these mouths open to provide exits.”
“Good luck.” By the time First Sentinel felt the slap on the shoulder, Blurred Fists had disappeared into the maw of the school.
I should be used to that by now.
First Sentinel had fought alongside four generations of Shields from Blurred Fists’ family, ever since he met Blurred Fists’ great-grandmother during a food riot.
First Sentinel drew his fighting staves from his belt and stepped forward to study the door. It spat out a pile of bones and licked its lips as he approached. First Sentinel took a step back, recoiling at the stench.
The teeth were large, the enamel thick and tough. The sticks wouldn’t do anything, shock gloves barely more. The maw opened to reveal three rows of teeth, ingrown on one another, covered in grime despite being less than an hour old.
The mouth distended out from the fleshy wall and took a bite at him. First Sentinel jumped back, the teeth tearing off one corner of his longcoat as it billowed under him.
Dammit. I just mended that last month.
First Sentinel reached into belt and grabbed two stone spheres, each the size of a small lime. He pressed a small button on each stone and then tossed the bombs into the mouth. He shuffled back as fast as he could, favoring his hip.
The teeth closed on the enchanted stones. A second later, they detonated with a muffled boom, sending shards of bone and teeth flying across the street. First Sentinel ducked under his longcoat, feeling blunted cuts as the shreds clattered on the street and bit into doors and walls opposite the school. When he looked up, the mouth laid slack and open, teeth shattered and mouth bloodied. A quick glance around the street told him that no one else had been caught in the explosion.
Much better.
* * *
The stench of the school’s interior sagged in the air, worse than the breath of a dog who feasted in the sewers. First Sentinel wore a re-breather usually saved for poison gas as he walked down the hall. The youthful wails continued from down the hall and to the left. The school was nearly empty, tiled floors now mottled soft tissue. With each step, First Sentinel’s boots sank nearly to the ankle.
A red streak settled into the form of Blurred Fists at the corner. “Up here. They’re stuck in the teeth.”
First Sentinel pushed down the hall, pulling his feet out of the suction of the floor. Blurred Fists waited for him at the door to the classroom, no marks on the floor from his footfalls. First Sentinel huffed to himself, wishing for not the first time he’d been born a Pronai. Their gift of speed he’d take, but the power was not worth the short lifespan. As a Pronai, he’d have died barely after the tyrant’s rise, might’ve never had a chance to serve as a Shield.
As the two Shields stepped inside, the stench hit First Sentinel like a wet slap to the face. It was nearly unbearable, even with a re-breather.
The classroom was a dentist’s nightmare. The chairs were rows of jagged teeth that topped a yard tall. A spotted red carpet stretched the length of the room, rolled over on one end. Several folded over clusters of ingrown molars trapped the dozen children left moving.
First Sentinel’s mind raced, trying to sort out how to save the children without hurting them, and fast. They’d need to crack the enamel, delicate work with them squirming and crying. It would take time, but it shouldn’t be too dangerous. A boy of no more than seven cried out for his mother, and sympathetic pain arced down his spine.
He sounds just like Selweh did at that age.
First Sentinel dashed forward to the children, but two steps in the floor rolled underneath him. What First Sentinel had taken for carpet licked up at the two men from the far wall, lashing out like a thick tentacle.
Fantastic.
First Sentinel rolled off to the side, glanced off a stand of teeth, and rose to his knees. He stuffed the staves back into his belt and pulled out two alchemically-sharpened knives. He held one in reverse grip high by his face for defense and the other out in front to slash and stab. He stepped between the children and the tongue, trying to read its movement.
The tongue lolled at First Sentinel. He dodged back and buried his forward blade in the thing as it crashed down on him. Ignoring its wound, the tongue slammed First Sentinel into a cluster of teeth, the cuts glancing off of his magically-hardened longcoat.
A wave of lighter red flashed in front of First Sentinel as Blurred Fists pushed the abomination back with a barrage of punches. The Pronai raced around to the other side of the tongue. First Sentinel pressed forward, spinning his knives in an advancing figure-eight. He cut gashes out of the frenulum at the tongue’s base while behind the tongue, Blurred Fists’ gloves made the sound of a boxer pounding frozen carcasses.
Dodging the spastic swings of the tongue, First Sentinel landed several more blows, the tongue seeping bright red blood. After the last slash, the tongue twitched, dropping to the floor.
First Sentinel sighed.
Now to put this thing out for good and get back to the children.
instead, the tongue twisted end-over-end and lashed out at First Sentinel as he stepped forward. Reacting with decades of experience, First Sentinel leapt into a forward flip, digging the knives into the tip of the tongue, riding the cut down the other side. He removed one knife and stabbed again, fresh blood seeping down his arms as the tongue slammed into the ceiling.
The impact squeezed the air out of his lungs like a bellows. First Sentinel rolled to the floor, gasping. Blurred Fists appeared in above him, hammering away at their foe. After a few moments, the tongue twitched again, started to raise toward the ceiling, and then dropped to the floor, lifeless.
First Sentinel wheezed for a few seconds as Blurred Fists pummeled the tongue a few more times for good measure.
Sitting up, First Sentinel caught his breath, looking to the children. Several had massive bruises where the pressure of the teeth had started to crush their arms, legs and sides, and a few more had cuts from the edges of the teeth.
Please be all right. City Mother protect them, keep them safe.