Interlude
Later
Things have gotten worse for her. I am unable to assess why, but this week she’s begun to sleep less. She won’t talk to De Luca, but her clear infatuation is likely the source. She deserves better, if you ask me.
Arya’s body fits nicely along my arms despite her exceptional height. She’s lighter than I expected. Thinner. Angles along her skull cast shadows down her cheeks.
Her face has splotches of bruises that heal far slower than they should. The same goes for the several fractured ribs and spine that I could only partially remedy by nullifying Darkrend’s attacks. Every hit from the behemoth was laced with Affliction and it seems she is insistent on dying today.
The siphon sedated her nicely, but I now wonder if her breathing might already be too labored for an induced sleep. Though I hardly doubt she would allow me to bring her to Tempest willingly.
The elevator dings and opens to several guards who do not appear to be Remnants. In fact, despite their imperious armor with fully covered helmets, they only radiate fear.
“Stop!” the first man shouts, his voice modulated by the helmet.
I examine his armor, then the other three that level nasty-looking weapons at me.
“I do not wish to harm you,” I say, shifting Arya’s weight slightly. If I drop her, it will undoubtedly lead to further head trauma, and I do not wish to be blamed for that. “But I will tear you all limb from limb should you try to touch me.”
Their leader freezes and I see the other three give him a sideways look. He tilts a little to look past me at where Harlot, Tyrant, The Angel, and twelve other Remnants are gruesomely strewn across the meeting hall.
“Who are you?” he asks, backing up a step.
“No one of importance,” I grin at him, hoping it disarms the soldier like it did Arya.
Instead, he just backs up into the elevator and jams his thumb at what must be the “close door” button.
I heft out a gentle sigh and stride towards the shattered windows overlooking the northern side of the city.
My form shifts again and I feel the hefty weight of power begin to course through my veins. Arya’s body settles as my forearms and hands become knotted muscle and claw.
Centuries of assuming this form has made it like a second skin, but the claws are always sharper than I expect. So, I carefully roll her closer to my palms, so the claws encompass her rather than rest upon her.
My huff of warm breath blows the loose tendrils of Arya’s bangs from her face, revealing the faintest of freckles that litter pale skin. Her strong, kind eyes and angled jaw would have made her the envy of any celebrity. In another life she might have been famous and popular.
Instead, fate has deemed she be burdened with tremendous purpose. Responsibilities no one single being should ever have to endure.
And I need to ensure she knows she is safe now. That she can finally find herself.
I launch from the fractured meeting hall and soar above the cloud coverage. It wouldn’t do now to be spotted by the media or other Guild members.
Darkness has begun to creep into the horizon as the Old Father clock tower comes into view.
This section of the city is flush with Remnants and people that mind their own business, but I still land in an abandoned alley before shifting back.
The blouse and slacks reform and, thankfully, look as if I hadn’t just been in a battle.
I wind through the narrow Old Chicago streets that press up against the Badlands. Abandoned buildings and decimated infrastructure pockmark the region that had once been affluent.
In the last century, it had been deemed “Remnant-infested” by the NCPD. The Guild had, of course, followed marching orders.
Except it wasn’t the Guild that policed this place. And it wasn’t the NCPD, either.
The Old Father clock tower looms ominously in the overcast clouds and fog. If put beside the shortest building in New Chicago’s commercial district, it would hardly be noticeable, much less visible.
Yet, down here, the structure is a beacon. A display of perseverance and strength. The bulwark against the rising storm.
It is Tempest itself.
Figures appear from the shadows around the tower’s base. At first, they’re only somewhat recognizable as humanoid, but as they near, their silhouettes develop inhuman features.
“My lady,” Gregor bows low despite his hulking form. “We heard of the battle at the Guild. Are you harmed?”
“No,” I say, nodding down to Arya. “She is, though. Have Morgana assemble her best and meet me at the infirmary.”
Gregor’s human appearance flickers and, for a brief moment, I see the hint of fur along his face.
“Yes, my lady,” he nods before pulling a device from his pocket.
The other figures nearby form a front guard as I follow Gregor into the clocktower and to the elevator.
It shakes open, displaying the reinforced Affliction-powered carriage.
I step in and Gregor stands in front, his form far too bulky to stand beside me and Arya.
The elevator rattles to a start and begins to descend into the bowels of Old Chicago.
“Is it her?” Gregor gravelly voice sounds equal parts concerned and confused.
I don’t blame him, nor those on the council. The Seers had spoken to me and me alone. Finding Arya had been outside my normal duties, but I had felt compelled.
“Yes,” I whisper, looking down into a face that, for once, seems innocent and carefree. “She’s the one.”