From Whence Cometh Iron? Part 2

From Whence Cometh Iron? Part 2

In our hunt for the traitor, Leadfoot was the third to die.

There was a good reason why we called her 'Leadfoot'; she was big. Really big. Almost seven feet tall, made up of slabs of muscle, carrying a sword so huge it looked like it came out of a bad video game. The idea that muscle-bound people are slow is untrue, but for every rule there's an exception.

We were inside the traitor's building by then. Every so often, we'd stumble across a trap—tripwires attached to crude explosives, claymores, basic stuff. Given how many there were, and how ineffective yet time-consuming making them had to have been, I realized they were a message:

'I'm not looking to run, so come and get me'

“Squad Leader...” said Leadfoot, “we're not going to, to -kill- the traitor, are we? Just bringing her in for judgment, right?”

“The fuck do you think, Leadfoot?” snapped Doghair.

Leadfoot was bringing up the rear. Not just on the account of her slowness, but being as big as she was meant she obscured the view for anyone behind her. That, and she was surprisingly timid—a real gentle giant. She wasn't a pacifist by any means, but she had a tendency to hesitate just a fraction of a second before swinging that huge fuck-off sword, always wanting to be absolutely certain that the thing she was about to annihilate deserved what was coming.

Such a bizzare juxtaposition: a sweet, gentle, dusky-skinned face with deep, soulful brown eyes, framed by dark brown braided locks , placed on a body that towered over just about anyone who wasn't a basketball player, wielding a sword that looked like it could slice a mountain in half.

“But, it's -her-,” she whined, “I-I don't know if I can just kill her like that...”

“Then go. Get the fuck out of here. And when we're done purging this traitor, I'll come for you next.”

“Doghair...”

“Leadfoot, Doghair,” I said. “Can it. Maintain vigilance, find the traitor, and get this damn mission over with already.” My reply was a sullen silence.

We were stalking through the halls for another few minutes when something beeped.

It was a small, box-shaped device, with a little red light on a corner, stuck on the wall to our left. On first glance, it looked very much like a phone, one of those office phones you see with big keypads and a little LCD screen showing the caller ID. A second look showed it was anything but.

It was a bomb.

Fuck me.

We dove out of the way the best we could. A pointless gesture, given the size of the bomb, but instincts are instincts. My last thought as I hit the ground was about how the hell we missed a trap like this.

…

Nothing?

I raised my head, utterly confused. Where was the explosion?

I glanced at the bomb: still there, just a red light left on. Then I glance at my squadmates. Near me were Doghair and...

Not Leadfoot.

The fake bomb, I realized, “went off” right as we were passing by it, right when it was between Leadfoot and the rest of the squad. That meant Leadfoot lept backwards, and everyone else lept forwards.

That meant Leadfoot was alone.

That meant a figure picked that moment to crash through the ceiling and impale the prone Leadfoot with a saw-toothed sword.

“FUCK!”

“Where did she—?!”

“Uh uh uh!” came the sugar-sweet voice. It was the voice of a sister we all once looked up to. The voice of a mentor who taught us everything we know. The voice of a traitor.

She wore her long red hair in a low ponytail. Her Magical Girl costume adorned her body—a dark grey, frilled skirt that came down to the knees, with a lighter grey blouse covered by a black vest decorated with bits of metal. Her hands, encased in leather gloves reinforced with yellow-black hazard-striped kunckledusters, held a wicked sword some five feet long, its cutting edge replaced by rows of saw-teeth.

And her smile. It was disgustingly warm. Disgustingly familiar. Every second we looked at it reminded us of happier times, times when we felt nothing could go wrong as long as we had -her- to watch over us.

She was the one who implemented the callsign system we use. Back then, we called her Softheart—an inside joke about how she took care of us and guided us through hard times. Now, the one we called Softheart had her cruel-edged sword impaling poor Leadfoot, slowly sawing up and down, cutting through living meat and bone, crouching over Leadfoot and supping her whimpers of agony like fine wine.

Curious, how things change.

“Right now,” said Softheart, her smile never faltering, “I'm in the process of cutting through Leadfoot's upper intestinal tract, and I have a foot on her Soul Gem which I know she keeps on her left braid. If you don't want Leadfoot here to die, please listen to what I'm about to say. Any movement and I will crush her Soul Gem. Any words outside of exactly what I want you to say, and I will crush her Soul Gem.” She glanced down, and gave Leadfoot a warm-honey smile. “And you don't want to die, do you, Leadfoot?”

“M-M-Miss Softheart,” whimpered Leadfoot, “w-w-w-why?” How was she speaking, with a ragged piece of magically-summoned metal in her gut? Softheart ignored her and paid attention only to me and Doghair.

Doghair and I went still, halfway between being prone and crouching. We watched Softheart and waited for her to speak. Softheart, for her part, just kept sawing through Leadfoot. Watching. Smiling. Not saying a word.

...

Fuck, I realized. Bitch didn't care about demands or telling us what to do, she just wanted to cut up Leadfoot some more.

Leadfoot seemed to realize this faster than us—or at least, she moved first. I don't know how she managed to do anything at all, given she was puking blood and almost unconscious from the pain, but Magical Girls didn't get much tougher than Leadfoot. Prone, with Softheart's crouched form above her and to her left, she rose and, gathering strength from an unknown source—maybe hatred, maybe sorrow—she wrapped her arms around her tormentor.

Leadfoot must have known. She must have known that she wasn't going to accomplish much before her Soul Gem was crushed, because that was what happened. She'd barely gotten her arms around Softheart  when the foot came down.

But Leadfoot didn't care, because getting her arms around the traitor was all she needed to do.

It took Softheart a second to shake off Leadfoot's arms, those massive, beefy arms that could crack walnuts with a good flex. They were just heavy enough that Softheart had to divert the slightest bit of attention away from the rest of us, devote the slightest bit of time to getting free of Leadfoot's entangling corpse. For me and Doghair, though, a second was enough.

We lept forward, weapons in hand, hearts burning with hatred. Doghair, with her lithe rapier, attacked first, forcing Softheart to make an off-balance attempt to block. My two-handed hammer came in like a rocket to exploit the opening.

The traitor tried to twist out of the way—shit, she was fast—but she didn't get away unscathed.  I clipped her elbow with the head of my hammer, crushing or at least very badly bruising the joint and rendering the arm inoperable.

I saw it there—her smile faltered, giving way to a grimace of surprise and pain. We had the traitor now.

As we sprinted after her retreating form, I threw back a single glance at Leadfoot's corpse, lying there in that slowly-spreading pool of blood.

Oh Leadfoot....

She was the nicest girl you could ever meet. I don't know why she signed up for a life of violence and death—she didn't deserve this sort of hell. Her pretty face was twisted by fear and pain. It was a death-mask unfit for a girl like her.

I shook all stray thoughts from my head and renewed my focus. I concentrated on the traitor's fleeing form.

Her name was Chandra Misra, callsign Leadfoot. She liked small fluffy animals, cookies, and weightlifting, and was far too sweet a girl to be hunting Witches and traitors. Out of all of us, she perhaps deserved to die the least.

She was the third to fall.
-

Next to die was Doghair

We were on the traitor's heels. We caught glimpses of her iron-grey skirt as she turned corners. We heard her breathing, wracked with effort and pain. We felt the tremors of her footsteps through the dirty carpets.

We had her. Me and Doghair. Or so we thought.

We told ourselves: even in a head-on fight, even with just two of us, we could take her. A side-effect of the traitor's Vindicare and Callidus training—she'd mastered the art of the gun and traplaying at the expense of her sword-work. An irony indeed that the one who was considered one of the best Eversors was “merely” very good with a blade, and a non-functioning arm would surely tip the balance in our favor.

The reality was, though, that we were still probably outmatched. It took us half the squad to land a hit on her; would it take the other half to finish her off? Reason dictated we should have tried to box in the traitor best we could, then vox in for reinforcements, wait for our sisters from other squads, who were already closing in on our location. But hatred and vengeance had a way with killing reason.

“Shit, fuck, fucking bitch,” muttered Doghair, her voice taught like a wire. “More than half the squad's dead, we're next, but fuck me if I don't shank that bitch first—”

I interrupted her cursing. “Cut the chatter, Doghair. Or am I going to have to call you Blacktongue, now?”

Doghair stumbled, but recovered and kept running. She wanted desperately, I knew, to stop, grab my shoulder, turn her around, and snarl right into my face. Or punch it. Maybe both. Good thing she had the discipline not to, or the traitor would have gotten away. Instead, she bit back, “That's not the slightest bit funny, Ironskull.”

“Wasn't meant to be,” I said. “Now calm down and focus on the mission.”

Doghair fidgeted . “Calm down? -Calm down-?” she said, breathless. “The traitor's taking the squad to pieces, Ironskull. Redeyes, Blacktongue, now Leadfoot. All we've got to show for it is a bruise on her arm. How the hell are we going to actually take her out?”

“You want to retreat, then? Wait for reinforcements?”

“Fuck no,” she scoffed.

“Then calm down. No use getting jittery.”

“I...but...ugh. Fine.” She threw her hands up. She was grumbling, but she seemed a little more sedate now. Good.

Good old Doghair. Out of all of Squad Ferrum she was contracted the second to last, just a couple months before Redeyes. Her blonde hair fluttered behind her like a billion strands of pure gold in the wind—her pride and joy. The source of her ridiculous callsign, and the source of her constant financial woes, given her tastes in expensive hair products. She always bore the name with pride, seeing it as a sign of our jealousy.

We kept running. Hot on the trails of the bleeding traitor, hopping over traps and dodging wires. Or more accurately, Doghair pointing out the traps before I blundered into them. I admit, I was never really cut out for this trap bullshit; that was more Blacktongue and Doghair's specialty. It didn't help I was almost seeing red.

Blacktongue was right: the traitor was going to bleed and scream for what she did.

Pretty soon, we reached the rooftops, and the traitor had nowhere to go. It was spacious and flat, a sea of drab beige with the occasional AC unit forming an island.  Just an abandoned office building on the edge of the city. And in the middle of that concrete ocean stood Softheart.

She was breathless. Strands of her copper hair, loosened from her ponytail, plastered against her sweaty face.  She clutched her damaged elbow, and every so often she winced. I got her pretty good, it seemed. But that damn smile was still there, despite the debilitating injury, despite the fact we had her cornered.

And her sword. The saw-toothed edge seemed to leer at us with a shark's grin.

Doghair and I started slowly fanning out, walking around Softheart in a wide circular patter so as to flank her before engaging. “End of the road, traitor,” said Doghair as she cut the air before her with her rapier in wide swings, warming up her arms. There was a mix of emotions dancing in her eyes: eagerness, fear, hatred, conflict. I wondered if my own cold fury reflected off my eyes.

“End of the road?” said Softheart. Her voice was sweet, so sweet just listening to it gave you a sugar-rush. The warm-honey smile grew wider. “True, I suppose. But not for me.” She turned her crimson-laced head towards me.

“I'm glad you decided to flank me from my left, my dear Ironskull.”

What?

Suddenly, I noticed the AC units. Big, yet at the same time such a natural part of the city's roofscape they seemed beneath notice.

A perfect place for a trap. Like a bomb.

There was a roar. Like the sound of thunder, like the sound of a mountain splitting apart, like the sound of some angry god bringing his fist down upon on the sinful, and the world fell away from me.

Blackness.

Silence.

…

…

…

…

I came to. There was a sharp ringing in my ears and the taste of blood in my mouth. I tried to move, and noticed something was impeding my limbs. Over the next couple of seconds, I realized I was half-buried in rubble and had somehow survived a bomb going off next to me.

I dug myself out and checked myself over: some bruises, some cuts. My head hurt like hell, I felt like puking, and the back of my head was sore—skull fracture, most likely. Nothing Eversor training couldn't suppress, though even the slightest disadvantage against Softheart was going to bite me in the ass.

Softheart...

...shit. I had to get back to Doghair.

I sprinted. I sprinted like the goddamn Walpurgisnacht was on my heels. I sprinted like I never sprinted before. I prayed to the Lady, the First Knight, the Blood Knight, anyone or anything who could hear me, to let me get back to the fight before it was too late.

I flew up the stairs, shattered doors with my shoulder. As I  ran, I pieced together more of what happened and why I'm still alive.

The explosives were low-yield, I realized, and probably arranged for demolition than outright killing. Designed to crumple concrete and compromise the structural integrity of the roof, just enough to make the roof give out but not kill me.

Fucking bitch. How many little traps did she lay? And how many were we going to run into before we finally killed her?

It felt like an eternity getting there, though it only should have taken half a minute. My pulse was pounding, my breath heaving, my blood singing in my ears.  My hand gripped the haft of my hammer so hard I felt one or the other would break. I burst through the door to the rooftop for the second time.

Doghair was...

Lady's teeth, how was she still alive? She was covered in ragged wounds, bleeding freely from a dozen different places on her body. There were chunks of her missing where the saw-toothed sword had bitten into her. Her left leg was a tattered thing, and without proper footing she wasn't going to last another three seconds. And her hair...

...her hair was probably the first thing Softheart went for. It was just like her to do something like that.

I charged. I didn't scream, didn't say a word, but my teeth were clenched so hard I felt a tooth break. Doghair must have heard me coming because she turned her head. That opened a window of opportunity for Softheart to impale her through the heart.

As suddenly as I charged, I came to a halt.

“So close,” cooed Softheart. Her voice oozed sympathy, so much it made me sick. “You wanted to save Doghair, didn't you? I suppose that callsign truly fits her now, after what I did with her beautiful, beautiful hair.” She ran her good arm through Doghair's ragged locks. My last squadmate, my last dear sister, was on her knees now, twitching, fighting off unconsciousness and shock, staring with eyes blurring with agony, breath sawing in and out. Her rapier fell from her nerveless grasp and disappeared into a flash of light.

It took me a few seconds to find my words. “Let her go,” I croaked.

“Say 'please'.” That smile. That -fucking- smile.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Softheart tutted, like a mother scolding a naughty child. “Oh, Ironskull, my dear Ironskull. Haven't you learned by now?” With one deft motion, she tore her sword out of Doghair's chest, unsummoned her weapon, and snatched Doghair's Soul Gem from its necklace-chain and held it in front of me, the gem resting on her palm. “I'm in control of this situation. You will all dance to my tune, and then you will die.”

At last, she dropped all pretense of kindness. Hers, now, was a murderer's grin. “Now say please~,” she said in a sing-song.

I hesitated. Doghair is dead, said the pragmatist in me. Her body is dead, and you can't possibly save her Soul Gem in time.

“I...”

“Say the words...”

But if Doghair dies, I thought, Squad Ferrum dies with her. She's the last of my squadmates, the last of the dear comrades I'd hunted and fought with. She's the last of my sisters I had yet to fail.

“I-I...”

Softheart savored every word. “Say them...”

“F-fuck you.”

We both started, because neither of us said those words. From her prone position, when everyone thought she was down, she re-summoned her rapier and jammed it into Softheart's knee. Yowling, the traitor tried to retreat. I lept after her. I thrusted with the iron head of my hammer, desperately, fervently hoping to knock the Soul Gem out of her hand before it was too late, but it was a wild swing and goddammit my hammer's too slow—

*CRACK*

...no...

Softheart opened her hand. In it was a small pile of bright yellow citrine mixed with gold. Blood welled from where the shards had cut into her hand. She smiled a sadist's smile, and laughed a laughter that stank of sick glee.

“Too late!” she cackled. “As always, just half a second too late!” She tilted her hand and let the Soul Gem shards spill out onto the ground. “Goodbye, Doghair.”

I looked behind me. Hoping against hope. Wishing against the arcane laws that governed the nature of our bodies and souls.

...reality was not so kind. Doghair's glassy eyes stared back at me, and in them I saw disappointment and judgment and the frustrated torment only the unavenged dead know.

Something...something inside me...broke. It had to have been something mental, something emotional, but I felt it breaking as sure as a rib-bone shattering in my chest. I knelt with my back turned to the traitor, my hammer rolling away from my slackened grip. I knelt, and I let everything go.

Anger bled away. With it went my resolve.

Softheart limped over to my kneeling form and embraced me with her one good arm. “Oh, Ironskull,” she cooed. Her voice was like...a mother's voice. The feather-soft voice a mother gives to her weeping child. One that could lull you to sleep, with the weight of the world ebbing away, giving you the sweet, sweet illusion that nothing bad could ever happen to you again. “You worked so hard, you'd gotten -so far-...did you know, I've never been this badly wounded before? Not even when we took down Witch Celestia and you had to save my life.” She gave me a light kiss on the top of my head. “But it wasn't enough. You failed. Your squad is dead, and I'm about to give you the most delicious death I can imagine.”

I felt her smile. “How does that make you feel?”

With my trembling hand I grasped Doghair's own bloodstained one. I couldn't muster the strength to squeeze it or do anything else.

Her name was Brynhilde Jarlsdottir, callsign Doghair. She liked talking about her hair, taking care of her hair, and showing off her hair, and she had a habit of being obsessive to the point of anxiety. And yet, she was my sister, and I had failed her.

She was the fourth to fall.
-

“Pain is an illusion of the senses, despair the illusion of the mind.”

-Common Officio saying