From Whence Cometh Iron? Part 3

From Whence Cometh Iron? Part 3


My sisters were dead. The traitorous bitch who murdered them held me in her arms, like a mother holding her babe.

You'd think I'd be trying to rip her treacherous throat out, or push her off and crush her with my hammer, or -something-, anything other than just sitting here quietly weeping into her shoulder. But I...I just couldn't do it. I felt the eyes of my dead squadmates on me, judging, yet their silent cries for vengeance couldn't stir the embers of rage.

Inside, I was as dead as my sisters.

I don't know how long I sat there, taking numb comfort in a traitor's arms, but eventually her cloying warmth left me as she stood from my kneeling form. It was quickly replaced by the biting cold of the saw-toothed sword.

“Now, let's see...” said Softheart. Her voice was the saccharine sweetness of honey. “Redeyes took two and a half minutes to die. How long will you last, I wonder?”

“Tell...tell me,” I rasped. Speaking was hard when you were choking on your own tears. “Tell me. Why did you do it?”

The sword had started digging into the flesh of my shoulder when I spoke. It stopped, leaving a rivulet of blood to course down my back.

“Why?” said the traitor innocently. “Because I wanted to test you. You were my greatest student. My pride and joy. I took you when you were just a scared little girl, fresh from her contract, and I molded you and tempered you and thrust you into the red-hot heat of battle until I forged you into the best Magical Girl I could imagine.” She began sawing with the slowness borne of indulgence, but I barely felt the blade tearing into my flesh.

“All this...for a test?”

“Of course!” she said brightly. Then she let out a sigh. “But it looks like my best wasn't enough. You failed, my sweet Ironskull. You forgot the most important lesson of all: you forgot the Litany.” I could almost hear her mouth twisting into a smile. “And that deserves punishment.”

“But...but why did you betray us for just a test?” I said. “I don't understand.”

The sawing, which started slow, began to take up speed. “Because they ignored me,” hissed Softheart. The warm smile turned bitter. “The Rank Leader and the rest. They laughed at me behind my back, saying that I was weak, that I was unworthy. Bullshit!” The sawing got faster. “-I- am the best trainer of novitiates in the Officio. -I- am the only one capable of taking on any mission, any time, any place. Everything -they- know I taught them! Did they think I learned how to shoot guns and lay traps for fun? They were weak. I was strong, and I could make others strong, too. But they were too jealous to see the truth.” Panting, she suddenly brought the sawing to a halt.

“That's why I chose you, Ironskull,” she said, a mix of glee, satisfaction, and bitterness entering her words. “You were my greatest student. You endured the harshest training I threw at you. I knew you loved your squadmates—that's why I went through so much effort to kill them before I killed you, one by one. Not you first, even though that would have broken them and made dismantling them much, much easier. And no multiple kills, either, that would have made things move along too quickly.” Then she chuckled. “I admit, though, Chandra and Brynhilde did throw a wrench into things. You trained them well, Ironskull.”

Don't...don't say their names. You don't get to say their names...

Softheart let out a melodramatic sigh. “Alas, now the game is played out. If you'd simply gone after me after I killed Brynhilde, I dare say you might have taken me down. But you broke. You forgot the Litany.” She frowned. “A shame, that. I was hoping things would end on a far more satisfactory note. You can't have everything, I suppose.” She tore her sword out of my shoulder and placed it at my neck.

“And now I grow tired of this,” she said. She had her trademark smile on her face again. “I don't even feel like extracting a delightful little death from you now. Oh well. I suppose I'll have to try with the rest of my inevitable pursuers.” Her smile turned into a grin. “Any last words?”

I looked into her stone-grey eyes. I looked down at my hands, still stained with Doghair's blood. With Squad Ferrum's blood.

I whispered, “So petty.”

Softheart's face scrunched up in confusion. “Hmm?”

“So petty. You turned against your Officio, your Incubator, and your sisters for...your ego? Your wounded pride?”

Confusion became irritation. “I just told you—”

“That's what it boils down to. Your damn ego.” I stared into her eyes. Limp limbs filled again with strength; despair gave way to cold fury. “You murdered Redeyes. Blacktongue. Leadfoot. Doghair. For your own. FUCKING. Ego.”

She snarled, “I said—”

“I respected you. I loved you. I wanted to be you.” I clenched my fists, which trembled with emotion. “Not just me, either. Did you know what Redeyes said when I said I'd take her to meet you that first time? Did you know why Blacktongue and Doghair kept trying their damned hardest on missions? What Leadfoot looked forward to the most when we got back from them?” Through clenched teeth I hissed, “Did all of that mean nothing to you, when you murdered us because of you weren't big enough to take the Rank Leaders' insults? Were they even insults in the first place, or did you just get pissed off because they weren't bowing and scraping at your feet?”

I fixated her sputtering form with a glare. “Did you ever consider that -you- are the one who's weak?”

“You little bitch!” she screamed. “Shut the fuck up! Shut the FUCK UP! You don't know shit!” She pulled back her sword to take off my head. In her rage, her windup was just half a second too long, giving me just enough time to grab my weapon and defend myself.

Softheart brought her sword down like a club, again and again, rage driving her to try and batter me down rather than employ finesse. A sword's not a hammer, though, and I managed to block a few blows I rolled aside, letting the saw-toothed blade carve into the cement where I was.

I got to my feet, hammer in hand. The traitor didn't waste any time continuing her assault. She charged at me as best she could, screaming—fuck me, even with an arm and a leg out of commission she was fast—and I blocked and parried, backing up and giving up ground. I had reach and power, but she had speed, and without the rest of Squad Ferrum to back me up there simply weren't any openings for me to exploit with my cumbersome weapon.

I realized, I'd have to make them myself.

I ignored her shrieking as she rained blows down on me. A cut from the upper left—parry. Another one from the lower left—block, jab with the hammer haft to ward her off. Thrust to the middle—twist aside, quick swing to make her back off.

It went well at first, but without any means to go on the offensive, she worked her way through my guard.

“What's wrong, my dear Ironskull?” she said, her rage now replaced with a self-satisfied sneer. She said in a sing-song voice, “Sounded like you after my blood just a little while ago. You won't get anywhere if you just sit and block all day!”

I gave her no answer save silence, stoically turning aside blade-blows even as they slipped through and tore gashes in my flesh.

“I get it...you can't,” she cackled. “I'd always wondered about those looks you gave me, when you thought I wasn't looking back. You can't do it, can you? Kill your beloved mentor?” She put on a face of false pity and cooed, “That's so sweet, Ironskull...or should I call you—?”

“Shut up,” I said. I was shaking with fatigue and blood loss, but I still glared at her with utter hatred. “You don't get to say my name. I won't let you. A weakling traitor doesn't have the right.”

Softheart twisted her face into an ugly sneer and lunged, sword first. At the last second I...

...lowered my guard.

The saw-toothed sword felt cold and hateful and heavy in my gut. It ran me right through, sawing through my intestines and parts of my upper digestive tract. It was also right where I wanted it.

Before the traitor could react, cry out in triumph or pull her weapon free, I grabbed the sword by the blade and yanked it towards me. The sword entered deeper, and, caught off-guard and with her leg lamed, the traitor stumbled forward, until we were practically face-to-face.

“Wha—”

I knew I didn't have much time. I reached my arms around Softheart and grasped my hammer with both hands, holding my weapon horizontally. That left the traitor caught between my body, my arms, and the hammer haft. I could have ended things with a swift flex of my arms, snap her spine in half, but I decided to make things more personal. So instead, before the traitor could squirm out of my bearhug, I headbutted her.

Once. My forehead crashed against her face, leaving her nose broken and teeth caved in. She sputtered and squirmed, desperate to get away.

Twice. Her left eye was a mess, the cartilage in her nose shoved into her cranium. Squirming became spasms.

Thrice. A shot to her forhead, leaving her dazed and concussed.

I let her go. She stumbled backwards like a drunkard. I leveled my hammer, pointed its head forward, and thrust it right into her chest. She crashed to the ground, the wind taken out of her. Then I swung my hammer around and brought it down like a meteor on her chest.

There was a meaty *THUMP* as iron met flesh. My hammer tore skin, pulped meat, shattered bone, and drove fragments of ribs and solar plexus into lungs and arteries. The blood of a traitor spewed out of a serpent's lips.

Breathless, I paused.

Softheart lay prone, twitching. There was a very prominent indent in her upper torso, where her breastbone used to be, an indent shaped like the head of my hammer. Blood spurted out of a ruined face as what functioning limbs remained waved feebly about.

“I-I-Ironskull...”

I blinked. I didn't think she could still speak.

“I-Ironskull...ghk...please...”

Her one good eye met mine. Fear: desperation: pleading. I never once thought I'd see such things in the woman I once so admired. My body felt like lead, but I managed to drag myself over to her body and kneel on top of her, straddling her middle. I rested my hammer upside down on the roof, shaft clutched in my right hand, leaning on it for support.

I gazed at her for a moment before I began.

“You were the one who forgot the Litany.” The reply was a choked gurgle. I continued, “Do you remember what you said to me once, three years ago? 'Inner iron'. The most important thing for a Magical Girl.”

Beneath me, gurgles became choking sobs. An arm weakly clawed at me.

“You gave in, didn't you?” My voice dropped from one of condemnation to one of pity. “I've heard the whispers too. I've heard what they've said, the rumors they made in the locker rooms. It...it can't have been easy, I admit. You deserved better.”

I leaned in, closer to the sputtering, devastated face, cupping a blood-soaked cheek with my hand. “But you -forgot-. -You forgot the Litany-. The most important thing is inner iron: but from where does that iron come from?” I leaned back and held my hammer with both of my hands, the head pointing downwards, hovering above Softheart's face like the fabled Sword of Damocles.

“Think on that as you die.”

I brought the hammer down. Her body spasmed for the first two blows, then went still after the third. I can't remember how many times the hammer head rose and fell, rose and fell—by the fourth I think I was lost in a berserk rage. By the time I was done, the only thing left above Softheart's neck was sticky red paste.

Exhausted, I tossed aside my weapon. It hit the rooftop with a *clunk*.

I paused, staring at the corpse for a moment, and then I took up the Soul Gem attached to Softheart's neck by a choker.

It was once a bright gray, almost silver, edged with gold. But now it was almost completely dark. Teetering on the threshold of Witching Out. Briefly, I contemplated holding onto it, bringing it back to HQ to render proper judgment.

'Tell me, my dear, what's the most important thing for a Magical Girl?'

I gazed at the Gem and whispered, “The iron within.” I squeezed until it broke.

Her name was...

...was...

…

No.

The mentor I once loved is no more. The traitor I killed today deserves to be forgotten.

Let that be the end of it.

-

The last to die was me.

Well, that was  only technically true.

I bled out after a couple of minutes—having your upper digestive tract ripped open does that to you— but that sort of thing isn't a huge deal. The Incubator revived me soon enough, and after a couple of days in the Apothecarion I was released. The Rank Leader debriefed me, I filed my reports, and I was given a few days off to...collect myself.

It was rough, those first weeks after everything wound down and I finally had the chance to stop and realize what the hell had just happened. Thankfully, although I wasn't exactly Miss Popular, I still had a few good friends outside of Squad Ferrum. If it weren't for them, I probably would have Witched out already.

Recovery after that was pretty smooth. I got back into things. Stopped visiting the Grave Warden except every once in a while, instead of every day. Started things off with some exercise—moving around is good for letting off stress. As my mind cleared, I regained my focus, my resolve. I was willing to go out on missions again, and the Rank Leader was nice enough to let me ease back into the job for the first few outings. And one day...

“Ma'am!” said the mousy girl. She couldn't have been more than thirteen. “I-I apologize for my incompetence, ma'am!”

I regarded her for a moment. “How is it,” I said in a monotone, “that you have a spear—a weapon used by men to butcher other men since before history—yet you're having trouble breaking the skin on this training dummy?”

She swallowed. “N-no excuses, ma'am!”

I nodded. “Stand to attention, Candyarm.”

It took her a moment to realize what I just called her. “M-ma'am?” she said, confused.

“To remind you,” I said, “of your weakness. Until the day you grow out of that callsign, your squadmates and I will call you 'Candyarm'.” I tilted my head. “Insulting, isn't it?”

The other squadmates sniggered. Candyarm looked down, blushing a furious red. I fixed the others with a look, and the sniggering stopped.

“Each of you, over the next few weeks of training, will earn a similar name, a name that points out your weakness and displays it for all the world to see. To gall you into becoming something stronger.” I pointed to the blushing novice. “One day, Candyarm will shed that insulting name. As will the rest of you. But I assure you, you won't be doing that without me, and especially without the sisters who stand next to you.” I clapped my hands twice, quickly.

“Squad Ferrum!”

They stood smartly to attention. Candyarm was no longer blushing; indeed, her face was now filled with something approaching determination.

“Dismissed!”

“Aye, Squad Leader!”

My name is Kaneko Park, callsign Ironskull. I like books, training, and showing the newbies the ropes, and people say I'm as stubborn as a mule. I like to think, though, that my stubbornness is what's kept me alive and going all these years, so I suppose I'll never quite be rid of my callsign.

And whatever happens, I won't forget the Litany.
---

Caller:
My daughters, my good daughters,
From whence cometh Faith?

Congregation:
'Tis from Will that cometh Faith,
For the Will is the blade of the heart
It cuts through the fear that poisons
And ensnares the hearts of the faitfhul

Caller:
My daughters, my good daughters,
From whence cometh Will?

Congregation:
'Tis from Strength that cometh Will,
The strength within in the flesh and bone
That bears the sword that slays the unrighteous,
That bears the shield that defends the weak

Caller: My daughters, my good daughters,
From whence cometh Strength?

Congregation:
'Tis from Iron that cometh Strength,
The unbreakable inner iron
That endures all trials that life may give,
That endures the harshest blows to the heart

Caller: My daughters, my good daughters,
From whence cometh Iron?

Congregation:
'Tis from Faith that cometh Iron,
Faith in the Lady Thrice-Blessed,
Faith in thy sisters and comrades-at-arms
Through battle and through fire

Caller:
Then hear my words my daughters,
My good and precious daughters:

All:
From Iron cometh Strength,
And from Strength cometh Will,
And from Will cometh Faith,
And from Faith cometh Iron

-The Litany of Unbreakable Inner Iron, 'The Epistles'