Scorcher (WoH)

"Help me..."

The voice emanated from within her mind. At first it was a mere whisper, a sound that could be easily dismissed as a stray imagination and ignored. It repeated for a second time; a nagging thought, perhaps. She still turned a deaf ear to it. However, it began to be frequent. The repetition started to become a hindrance from a mere backdrop thought until the volume soon grew.

"Help me...help me...help me!"

The thought grew in intensity that it doesn't feel like a random thought anymore. For the first time, it sent her reeling off balance until one of her knees hit the ground. A pain pounded against her temple. She touched it tenderly with her fingers.

"Agent Cross, are you alright?" Her colleague called as she tried to regain her balance.

Ornella Cross used the wall as a support to stand back up. She shook her head and glanced at her partner, Agent Charlie Vance, who was looking at her with a concerned look on his face.

"I'm fine," she said. She looked away from him and at the end of the corridor where the insignia of the Agency was plastered on the wall, lit up by a pair of fluorescent lamps along the roof. "I think I am under psychic influence."

"By whom?"

"I don't know, a mentalist-class maybe?"

"Shit," Vance said. "Let's get you down to Hall-B and have you checked up."

"I've never been involved in an operation against a mentalist-class in the past six months now, Charlie."

"I know," Vance said. "That's why we'll have you checked up."

The trip to the Hall-B was a short one with a few steps across the corridor and a turn to the left where the elevators are. They pressed the floor number and quietly waited for the lift to arrive there when the voice in Ornella's head spoke again.

"Help me, please!"

She screamed in pain as she accidentally fell towards Vance's direction. The lift also shook while the lights within flickered before it resumed operation. Upon arrival, the lift chimed and Vance quickly dragged her towards the corridor. He glanced at the guides on the wall and found Hall-B, which he followed with Ornella in tow.

Squeezing past fellow operatives and researchers in lab coats, the pair managed to arrive at a pristine hall which smelt of disinfectant. An array of strange machineries dedicated to the research of thought-space, the oneiroi and anything related to dreams and noosphere were aligned along the wall, with cables running from behind them towards the large ports on the walls.

"Richards!" Vance called. "I need assistance over here?"

A bald man with a thick-lensed black glasses rushed towards them, the ends of his lab coat fluttering behind him. He set his clipboard aside and halted before them.

"What happened?"

"Strap her to the geokinesis machine, I think she's under mental assault. We'll find who's behind this."

"Are you sure about that? We haven't even tried that thing!"

"For Pete's sake just do it!"

As they bicker back and forth, Ornella screamed as a grainy vision of a girl appeared in her mind. It looked like a poorly made film with low quality. It was red, as if the background was burning. She was chained from wrists to ankles. Something enormous, glowing, appeared behind her and began attacking her with a whip. The painful connection of the blow made Ornella also feel the strikes. She thrashed on the ground.

Vance and Richards quickly dragged her to a nearby machine. They locked the headset onto her head with a chin strap. Richards quickly sedated her with a syringe, allowing her to finally relax. When the chemical took effect, she began to doze off and the machine powered up to display what they needed to see.

#

Senior Agent III Timur Yaroslav walked across the brightly lit corridor leading towards Hall-B, flanked by a pair of junior agents who had participated in more than three operations under their belt. One of them even fought side-by-side with a Protectorate in a daring raid on a La Fiura stronghold somewhere in Southern Chile.

Yaroslav received a word that one of his operatives fell ill, or under psychic influence by an unknown enemy, which explains his presence here. The man pulling the strings behind the Agency's Special Purpose Task Unit, or SPTU, made everyone in the vicinity flinch from his direction. The SPTU was different than any Mobile, Special or Elite Infantry Divisions that the Agency has in its disposal, nor the other combat-specialized unit for that matter. The SPTU was known for undertaking missions that are downright suicidal when a lack of Protectorate availability arises.

Yaroslav made a turn to the right, towards the Thought-Space Research Section of Hall-B where a sight of strange machineries parked along the walls greeted him. The first machine on the left was occupied by Agent Ornella Cross, who was currently strapped onto the machine's gurney. The large monitor attached to a computer beside her bed displayed a grotesque and grainy scene of a child in chains, whipped by a large figure. They could hear its pleas.

"What the hell is going on?" Yaroslav asked as he approached Richards.

"Right now, all we can tell is that she is under psychic attack, not control. The manner of this 'attack', however, is not malicious in nature but more of a call for help. A desperate help."

"Why her, specifically?" Yaroslav inquired, concerned that Ornella might be targeted for the knowledge she knew regarding the Agency.

"Actually, she was not being targeted specifically, but randomly." Richards corrected with a matter-of-fact tone. "As I have said earlier, the conjurer is 'desperate'."

"Is the mentalist even aware that they are contacting a--you know what, nevermind. We must run this through geokinesis machine to locate the conjurer and be done with this."

"As we speak, the machine is powering up and is currently at..." Richards paused as he looked behind him where several more researchers in lab coats were busy activating a nearby machine. "...fifty-nine percent."

"Well, hurry the fuck up." Yaroslav replied.

#

The telepathic connection between the conjurer and the recipient, Agent Ornella Cross, was triangulated on an isolated forest at Connecticut. For some reason, the telepathic connection suddenly disappeared the moment the Agency managed to track down the originator.

It is possible that the person was coincidentally discovered asking for outside help, though the possibility that the message could have been a trap also exist. Whichever that might be, an unmanned reconnaissance drone was sent to verify the location of the originator.

A thermal reading of the location's vicinity revealed what appeared to be a bonfire in the site, along with some structures of unknown design. It was already taken in as an intelligence, resulting in the deployment of a squad-sized SPTU Team.

Composed of nine men and divided into two fireteams, the squad was onboard two 4x4 All-Terrain Recon Buggies. They were supported by a pair of combat drones, one was a Seeker-class: a sleek flying object with a pair of .45 caliber guns beneath its wings as well as an elongated nose for kamikaze maneuvers, and a Gunslinger-class: a blocky flying object with 5.56mm guns beneath its body and its wings.

The reconnaissance team was approaching the direction of the site. Through the cameras of the flying drones, Senior Agent III Yaroslav watched without blinking. His primal instinct to know the answer behind all of this surfaced to a great extent that he almost requested many elements to support the operation.

When the Buggies reached a beaten road leading to the site, the lead Buggy suddenly exploded, throwing the second one off to the side. The surviving fireteam quickly disembarked and formed a circle around the ruined vehicle where they opened fire at unseen targets. Yaroslav could hear guttural roars from the video feed. The men on the ground suddenly opened fire at unseen elements hidden by the canopies of trees in the immediate vicinity. Glowing arcs of light emanated from the trees and reached some of the elements, instantly burning them.

The surviving ones managed to dodge an arc or two. However, they were soon dragged by slender entities with horns into the trees, their screams fading in an echo. Soon enough, the engagement area fell silent.

"Shit," Yaroslav said. "What the hell was that?"

"We wouldn't exactly find out if we do not send anyone on the ground, Agent." A voice came from behind.

Yaroslav turned his swivel chair to face the unwelcomed guest. He stood up with a frown.

"Captain Cooper?" The greet was more of a question as to why the Company Commander of an Infantry Division suddenly entered an SPTU personnel-only area. The Captain simply grinned at him.

"Relax, Agent. Gamma-71 was now attached with the SPTU. I thought you got the memorandum?"

"We don't need an Elite Infantry Division." Yaroslav said dismissively as he turned back to face the screen. "What do you want?"

"I've got an intel about a threat group lurking in Connecticut. Frankly, I think it matched our boys here."

Yaroslav casted him a sideways glance.

"Should I pry that information out of your cold dead fingers or will you share it willingly?"

Captain Mace Cooper laughed heartily.

"Yaroslav, the grim joker. We are a team now, Agent. Of course I will share it to you willingly, however, the intel doesn't say much because we still needed to conduct further deep surveillance."

"What do you expect me to do with that information?"

Cooper placed a folder on the table beside the Agent. Yaroslav decided to skim through it but found no relevant information other than a name and their modus operandi.

"It is not possible to find out about them, Agent." Cooper said. "Not if we are humans."

"What are you suggesting?"

Cooper grinned once again. Yaroslav wanted to punch him for his sly smiles.

"A Protectorate asset was assigned to us a few weeks ago. The bastard was fresh from the Italian Front, specifically Nevermourn."

"The Altered Space?"

"Yes," Cooper replied. "We won't achieve anything if we do not use him."

Yaroslav was distrustful with personnel from other units, moreso with the Protectorates. However, seeing no other choice, he reluctantly agreed.

"Do I even have a choice? Send him in." Yaroslav stood from his seat. "Next time you enter this room, I'll shoot you in the head, no questions asked."

#

He quietly gazed at the painting of the Notre Dame de La Salette before him, already memorized it detail by detail with the image burned in his mind. Behind the orange eye lenses impaled vertically by a red line, his eyes gazed at the glowing woman in white robes whose face was buried in her palms. Not far from the scene, two children were pointing innocently at the woman.

He knew them as Maximin Giraud and Melanie Calvat.

He quietly bowed his head and recited an "Our Father" and a "Hail Mary" while keeping in mind the nature of the message of the weeping lady. He felt hopeless in his dedication to carry out the Lady of La Salette's message, but a small progress is still a progress and he made it his duty to execute it even if the steps were little.

A loud bang was heard from the door.

The Protectorate stood up. The man encased within the black and orange Praetorian Battle Gear quietly turned around and made a sign of the cross. His shoulder guard, knee guard and helmet faceplate was painted vertically with red, making his color scheme unique from his brothers. A nandao was sheathed on his back, a unique weapon with an S-shaped cross guard that protected both his fingers and gave it with a capability to lock with an enemy blade in close quarters. The blade has a golden finish, inscribed with a short prayer in Minor Enochian. Beneath the hilt was a red tassel, plumed like a Roman Legionary's head.

His sidearm, a Ray Pistol, was attached on his right thigh while his Blast Rifle was magnetically attached on his back, beside the nandao. He gave the sword a name, replacing its original one after he blessed it in the Basilica of La Salette in France, where he got his devotion of the apparition from. In her honor, he named it, "Weeping Warning".

He pressed the button on the door panel and the chamber opened with a loud hiss. Before him, a uniformed Agency operative stood in attention.

"Lieutenant," the man greeted. "Your presence is requested--"

The Protectorate simply walked past him.

Abandoning the mortal, he followed the maze-like corridor which smelt of disinfectant. The walls and floors were white. Bundles of cables ran across the ceiling, snaking along behind the overhead grate. He arrived at the room where both Captain Cooper, Senior Agent Yaroslav and a few other Agency officers are present.

He bothered not greeting at anyone, though he approached he only person he knew.

"Cooper," his voice, spoken from his helmet, made him sound like a Demon with a sore throat.

It made everyone uneasy, with the exception of Cooper since he was already used to him.

"Gentlemen," Cooper stood up and gestured at the Protectorate. "This is Scorcher, our Protectorate asset."

Scorcher didn't like the label which Cooper spoke. It made him feel like the Agency was trying to categorize them as their properties when in fact the relationship was supposed to be mutually beneficial. Scorcher was there when the Protectorates sent the Agency on its knees thirty years ago and when they killed its Soviet rival, the Upravleniye. He could still recall the image of their former director pleading on his knees just as they were about to drop the killing blow.

Now, it felt different.

"What can he do?"

Scorcher glanced at him as if he was about to burn the man. Cooper cleared his throat to diffuse the situation.

"We have a situation, lieutenant." Cooper motioned at the monitor which played the last moments of the SPTU squad moving towards the location where the mentalist contacting Agent Ornella Cross was supposed to be.

Scorcher leaned forward, his eyes were squinting. He recognized the presence of enemies even if they were hidden. He straightened back up and heaved a sigh.

He knew what must be done.

"How much do we know about them?" Scorcher asked.

"Minimal," Yaroslav replied. "Unless Cooper here is withholding something."

"What we know about them is that they are a cult." Cooper replied. "The intelligence-gathering elements of Gamma-71 managed to find out they are a composite mix of humans and Demons. They are serving something far greater, as seen with the shrines they erected throughout Connecticut."

Images of the enemy activity and their weird statues appeared on the screen. The images were grainy and in low quality, but their silhouettes still gave Scorcher a sense of dread and fury.

"Send me in."

#

He walked seven kilometers away from the disguised cargo truck from the roadside. Beneath his armored boots, the soil felt dead, even the dried leaves sounded wrong when crushed. Beyond, the wind blew in a differently and the horizon appeared to be veiled by a pink mist which reduced visibility greatly.

Scorcher wondered if the area was normally like this or his presence triggered something else.

He moved forward with empty hands. He scanned the area from left to right but found no anomalies within. The sound of the road grew quieter as he gained more distance. The setting sun in the sky disappeared, giving Scorcher an impression that he entered a different world.

As he reached the middle of the forest, Scorcher heard a rustling noise. He halted at once and glanced at its direction.

"It is pointless to keep yourself hidden. I have seen you now." Scorcher said as he drew his nandao and assumed a cat stance.

The entity chuckled as it revealed itself among the treeline. It was humanoidly shaped, devoid of fur and hair, but its limbs and torso were muscular. It was pale pink; its legs were bent backwards and ended in hooves. The head of the entity were elongated and outlined with black fur. Its eyes were red while the horns that protruded on its forehead were swirling.

It was a combination of a Satyr and a Baphomet. The Demon was slightly hunched back, its left hand glowed in purple flames.

"I never knew you had an alliance with them!"

Scorcher didn't say anything. Without a word, he lunged at the Demon. The latter fell back and launched a purple fire at Scorcher's direction. The Protectorate weaved out of the way with a graceful whirl before attacking with a diagonal slash from left to right. The Demon's torso was instantly cut open. Without hesitation, Scorcher conjured a flaming whip from his palm and lacerated the Demon with it. The temperature of the flames seared the muscles of the entity apart. He crushed its head with a stomp.

Without looking, he deflect another purple fire coming towards his back. He faced the direction of the enemy and found two similarly looking entities, ready to attack.

Scorcher assumed a bow stance with his feet apart and his legs bent in a squat. He watched the enemies approach before he launched himself at the nearest one.

He rolled forward, avoiding a streak of purple flames that almost consumed his armor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he swung his sword in a horizontal motion. The mo dao was clean and swift; blood gushed forth from the Demon's serrated waist. Scorcher sent a flaming punch at the Demon, sending it flying in two pieces.

His movement was continued with a thrust to the side, towards the other Demon standing close. The tip of the blade entered the skin of the Demon's sternum. The zha dao was followed with a pi dao after Scorcher withdrew the bloodied nandao. Its killing edge cleaved through the Demon's skull. He hacked it further downwards and withdrew the blade. With a flaming knee strike to the chest, the Demon came flying away.

His movement ended in a butterfly stance. In the distance, he could sense more presence but none of them bore the sulphuric smell of an unholy entity. He quickly sheathed his nandao and pulled his Blast Rifle. Rolling forward, he met the enemy head on.

They wore pink tattered robes or cloak. The symbol of their cult was etched on their back. They advanced with suicidal fury, carrying nothing but bolos and a sidearm.

As the cultist with a gun opened fire at Scorcher, the Protectorate assumed a standing position. He steadied his aim and attacked the cultist with a few shots. The plasma spheres sailed through the air with a bluish glow and hit the cultist's body squarely. The fabric burned away, along with the skin and flesh. Blood vessels were cauterized and tissues were blackened. For a few agonizing moments, the cultist let out a painful scream. His companions halted and paused to look at him with shock.

Scorcher advanced a few meters closer. He raised his left hand at the direction of another cultist. He concentrated his energy towards the tip of his fingers until it sparked in flames. The cultist's neck erupted in flames.

"Come here!" Scorcher yelled as he pulled her close. She hit the ground before Scorcher, who proceeded to burn her at close range.

Upon witnessing what had transpired, the last cultist decided to run away. Scorcher simply opened fire, burning a hole through the man's back. He fell on the ground, face first, his screams muzzled by the dirt of the soil.

Scorcher walked forward. As soon as he came close to the dying man, he genuflected and touched his head. For a moment, he was caught in a trance as he entered the man's thoughts. He sifted through his polluted memories, absorbing those that would be useful while discarding the other ones. Soon enough, he learned everything he needed to know.

He stood up and fired at the back of the cultist's head at pointblank range.

Scorcher learned that the entities he faced earlier were known as Satyraphon, and the cult he was facing was known as the Children of the Fifth Sister. He found more information that ended openly. If only he could find the relevant people holding that information in their head, Scorcher would be able to learn more.

The Protectorate advanced further, towards the direction of their supposed camp. Overhead, the unmistakable buzz of a surveillance drone flew. He knew whose eyes were watching through its cameras. Scorcher wouldn't mind as long as they wouldn't send any operatives to follow him around.

His flames burn friend or foe alike. If a human operative ended up getting caught in it, Scorcher believed that it was their fault for presenting themselves as collateral damages. Humans always do so.

The path led to a clearing, illuminated by the glow of a bonfire. Beyond the tree lines, Scorcher could see a strange effigy of a creature, which also looked like a letter in a long-forgotten alphabet. Scorcher realized that it was actually the cult's symbol.

Scorcher sensed movement from his left. He quickly moved out of the way; a Satyraphon with a pair of claws swept the air where he had been. Scorcher executed a liao dao. The rising cut which traversed from his left hip to the upper right cut through sinews and flesh, exposing the Satyraphon's ribcage. Scorcher's left fist blazed once more. He sent it across, punching a hole through the Demon. A flaming right knee slammed against the Satyraphon's chin, sending it onto its back.

Scorcher drove the tip of his nandao at the neck of the Satyraphon. The blade of the Weeping Warning was slicked wet in red. Before Scorcher could react, a purple glow managed to hit his backside and sent him rolling far from his weapon. He quickly regained his stance and whirled to look at the attacker.

He turned and saw a pink-skinned muscular Demon. It was larger than a Satyraphon. It possessed four hands and a pair of sturdy legs. Every inch of its skin was scarred.

Scorcher realized it was not a mere Demon, but rather a tier stronger. A Lesser Satan, considered to be a subtype of a Demon but not powerful enough to be classified above its current class. The infernal creature advanced with a roar which sounded like a thousand voice screaming in agony.

The Protectorate assumed a preparatory stance. The Lesser Satan advanced with an unnatural speed, but Scorcher could still see its approach in normal motion; one of the perks of his enhanced eyesights. He raised his right leg in preparation for a kick.

The hooking kick came quick the moment the Lesser Satan came within range. Scorcher's heel slammed against the neck of the unholy entity, sending it reeling backwards. Scorcher spun in a counter-clockwise motion, gaining a momentum before sending a back kick at the Lesser Satan.

The enemy took a step backwards. It was about to attack again when Scorcher hurled a fireball at the Lesser Satan, scorching its bare torso.

The Lesser Satan attacked with a side-step. Before Scorcher could react, a fist went to his left rib. Warning messages flashed across his display link as the enemy's fist made contact with his armor. Pain shot through him, but Scorcher simply ground his teeth in response.

He retaliated with an uppercut and a left hook. The Lesser Satan's head shook back and forth as Scorcher's knuckles bruised its face. The moment his left hook reached the entity, Scorcher swung the same hand towards left, slamming the blade of his forearm against the Lesser Satan's  temple. Blood gushed forth as the Demon let out a cry.

One of the enemy's fist was covered with a purple flame and sent it at the Protectorate. Scorcher reeled backwards as his armor took another brunt of the damage.

"Die!" It simply yelled.

Scorcher dashed beneath its third blow. He sent a pair of elbow strikes at both the enemy's knee caps starting from left to right. It made the Lesser Satan fall to its knees. Scorcher extended his right armblade and swung it downwards in a chopping motion, directed at the enemy's skull.

Blood sprayed in the air as the entity fell to the side.

Gunfire soon erupted from the encampment behind the tree lines. Scorcher took cover and consulted his helmet's in-built map if there are any other humans present. Seeing none, it only meant that the cultists were firing at his direction.

He moved out of cover and advanced at the encampment with his Blast Rifle drawn. Scorcher detected a cultist accompanied by another, both were armed with M16s. The rounds simply pinged off against the surface of his Battle Gear. Scorcher returned fire. The exchange was brief as plasma shots burned their bodies into melted flesh.

More bullets were fired from his left. Some managed to hit him while others hit the tree barks surrounding him, sending bits of wood in the air. Scorcher whirled and opened fire; the center-most cultist was hit in the chest. The second and third fell down in the same manner.

He continued. The encampment consisted of a few huts and what appeared to be an altar in the middle, which was nothing more than a slab of stone and some chains. Above it was a sphere, suspended a few inches from the slab itself. He could see a faint image of a female child, glowing in orange.

It was not alive. It was a construct, a trick. Scorcher could see the truth behind its purpose. It was nothing more than a dumb artificial intelligence conjured by cultists to victimize.

The girl looked at Scorcher before its face transformed into something hideous.

The Protectorate simply grinned.

In the northern part of the encampment, a group of Satyraphon advanced. From the eastern side, a pair of Lesser Satans and from the south, a choir of cultists. Scorcher set his Blast Rifle at high and opened fire at the sphere. The first shot dented the sphere inwards with high temperature. The second punched a hole through it while the third broke the section with an explosion.

He reverted the Blast Rifle at low and opened fire at the Satyraphons. They responded back with purple flames of their own. Scorcher dodged with graceful whirls and spins, firing at every pause in his movement until the last one fell with a shot to the head.

Scorcher detached a magnetic grenade from his waist, primed it by sliding a finger across its vertical slot, and hurled it at one of the advancing Lesser Satans. It stuck on the Demon's torso. He set his Blast Rifle at high and targeted its companion at the left leg. A quick shot sent it tripping towards its doomed brethren. They realized a moment too late when the ordnance exploded with a bright flash.

Whirling behind, a cultist managed to attack him at close range with a broken pipe. Scorcher stepped aside before ducking when another cultist swung a bolo blade. He tilted to the left when a third cultist sent thrust a spear at his direction.

Scorcher's nandao escaped its sheath. The Protectorate swung upwards, amputating a limb. He swung diagonally; the kan dao ripped another body apart. Assuming a butterfly stance, he thrust to the side before whirling and executing a hooking cut which sent three intestines spilled onto the ground.

He stomped on the ground and sent forth a gush of flames with a thrust of his fist at the direction of his enemies. The fire consumed the remaining cultists whole, turning them into black charred corpses before the fire died.

Silence soon emanated. For a moment, Scorcher felt peace. He was exhaling loudly but his respiration soon returned. Quietly, he clasped both hands together and prayed. He sheathed his nandao and stood up.

"Scorcher, this is Command. What's the status?" A voice came in his radio.

"Burned." Scorcher replied. "Everyone is in flames." He paused. The other line was quiet too. "I will be presenting to you a lot of information. Do what you will with it but let me tell you that you have earned yourself a very powerful enemy."

[END]