Post by Luke on Jun 17, 2006 3:15:07 GMT
There were many layers in this particular Archon’s mind. Many villainous organisations, of course, had the rank of ‘Archon’ in their hierarchy, but this particular Archon, who was known to all but himself as Archon Malice, was of the Council. What Alfred Bester found out in his mind, however, among other things, was that his real name was Norman Trotter. No wonder he hid behind the semi-fictional mental creation of ‘Archon Malice’.
He had once been a normal citizen, apparently – a computing teacher from Massachusetts. Whilst Norman had been born in Manchester, the break-up of his parents had meant that he had moved in with his American aunt (‘ant’, as his mind had it) at the age of three. After a reasonably uneventful life, which included becoming a U.S citizen, getting a job teaching computing, and becoming a hard-line Republican, he was captured and brainwashed (by what had then been the Fifth Column) at the age of twenty-nine.
As he had already been fairly conservative in his outlook, he readily took to the brainwashing, and soon rose quickly through the ranks. Now in his mid-forties, Archon Malice, as he now was, had been entirely surprised when his loyal, super-soldier bodyguard had suddenly gone flying off a cliff and onto the jagged rocks below.
Of course, despite his indoctrination, brainwashing, and the copious amounts of loyalty and performance drugs that circled his bloodstream, he was currently a gibbering wreck, pawing at the parts of his legs that lay just above the knee. While his knees were bent, the part above the knees also bent at a most unnatural angle. His mouth was agape, though thanks to his large, face-concealing helmet, this was not visible.
All this information, though, was nothing. Were it digitised, it would simply be an insignificant kilobyte amongst terabytes of data. The sheer vastness and majesty of even the weakest mind far eclipsed any computer. And yet this was what Alfred had to deal with daily, from so many different minds – each with its own thoughts, hopes, dreams, beliefs, emotions, fears…
Though admittedly, he nearly never had to deal with a mind in quite this manner. Despite the Archon’s injury, his internal mental conditioning had been strong. Like all barriers to the surface thoughts, this man’s had been permeable and weak, swept away by a light touch from Alfred’s mind. Whilst Alfred would usually not touch anything in a mind, special times called for special measures – and it was clear, also, that this Archon would not be redeemed from his crimes any time soon. Besides, the partial fragmentation of the mind would likely help the rehabilitators in the Zig do their work.
The second layer was still easy to get past. Despite all the reinforcing that Council minds received, the primary flaw in that plan was that the average mind was weak in the first place. It was similar to layering paper – you might double the strength of a paper barrier by adding another layer of paper to it, but it still won’t be particularly strong no matter how many more layers you add.
The important thing about this Archon, however (apart from the fact that Alfred was by now internally referring to him as Archon Norman) was that he had had personal communications with Lord Requiem. Whilst the encryption on the communications themselves had not yet been broken, the sender and recipient were not so well-encrypted. And so the sender and receiver had been clear as day on the computer screen. Lord Requiem to Archon Malice. Archon Malice to Lord Requiem.
----
And so, earlier that day, Kitmarch and Alfred had set off to the particular Council cave complex where said Archon made his headquarters. After the usual fighting and planting of further surveillance programs in the Council computer networks, they had come upon the Archon making some sort of speech to the soldiers. After Alfred telekinetically tossed the elite bodyguards off an enormous ledge onto the spiky rocks fifty metres below, Kit had set about fighting – no, demolishing – the remaining score of soldiers.
She, surprisingly, suffered not a scratch. Even if she had, it’d have healed within ten seconds or so, so it mattered little. Archon Norman, of course, had not done particularly well for himself either, having been slammed into the rocky roof of the structure and then right down into the floor by Alfred’s gift. But back in the present, Kit stepped up onto the platform where Alfred knelt beside the semi-conscious Archon, the excess cases from twenty fired machine-gun clips pooled around the unconscious soldiers on the main floor behind her.
Kitmarch crouched beside Alfred and kissed him on the cheek.
“Find anything in there yet?”
Alfred replied without even stirring, his eyes still narrowed towards the Archon.
“Not yet, Kit. Please let me concentrate.”
“Oops,” she replied, “Sorry.”
Again, Alfred did not stir for a few minutes, and Kit went over to peer down the long drop and look at the bodies of Archon Norman’s elite bodyguards far below.
Alfred spoke, rather distantly, as he sensed new minds nearing. The Archon’s head fell back a bit, his ringing against the metal floor, and Alfred looked up at his beloved.
“Kit? Roughly a squad of Council soldiers are coming – they’ll be in the adjoining chamber in a moment. Can you take care of them while I’m working on Norman here?”
She replied, slightly confused. “Norman?”
Alfred gestured down to the Archon, and Kit nodded. “Oh, right.”
She returned to Alfred’s side, crouching beside him again. He turned his head.
“Hmm… lemme think…” she said quietly, pretending to consider his request, and then she leaned over to kiss him gently on the lips.
Alfred returned her kiss similarly, suppressing the reflex to wrap an arm around her. If she hugged him whilst wearing her powered battle armour, the experience could not be described as ‘cuddly’.
In the kiss, as ever when they kissed on their missions such as this, was conveyed a mutual message – one that, at most times, never had to be spoken. The duality of ‘I love you’ and ‘Good luck’, along with a host of other feeling and hope. They broke the kiss after a moment, and then Kitmarch stood, an armoured finger softly trailing the back of Alfred’s hand for a second. She looked down at him, a grin forming on her lips.
“Okay!” she finally replied to Alfred’s request, and leapt down from the stage towards the door to the next chamber. He turned his attention back to the Archon and woke him slightly with a tiny mental jolt, then set about continuing deeper into the pit of evil that was this particular mind. The third layer crumbled before him like old mortar. The fourth and fifth layers were similarly easy, and he continued breaking through them like a crossbow bolt through a sheet of wood.
----
Meanwhile, Kitmarch waited, her vigil in the next room continuing. The sound of clattering boots on stone and metal reached her ears, and she turned to the doorway from which the slightly threatening noise emanated. Going over to it, she saw a long, down-slanted corridor with what appeared to be metal steps all the way at the bottom. She walked down the rough-hewn corridor, a hand on the wall to steady herself on the floor’s loose, rocky dust, and got into position, ready to launch herself at the first Council soldier that reached the top of those steps.
Alfred reached the seventh barrier and stopped, hard – the mental equivalent of emergency braking in a car, being pushed hard into the seatbelts. He took a moment to collect himself, and then had a look at the reason his precognition had stopped him from simply punching further into the Archon’s mind.
Whilst the mind is not something that can be described in any terms but its own, if at all, Alfred might have described what he faced as a fortress. Whatever it was, it stood, tall and menacing, dark and spiked. Even as he circled this bastion, he saw no opening, no way in. It seemed to leer at him like some ebon phantom in the gloom.
The first black-clad fascist emerged from the darkness ahead of Kitmarch, glowing-green night-vision goggles showing up first and then resolving into being attached to something moving. Kit leapt powerfully, in an almost catlike manner. She sailed through the air and her open palms contacted with the first soldier’s chest with a thump, sending him falling backwards onto the dirt. Kit continued her forward momentum and used it to somersault her legs over her head, bringing her armoured heels down on the head of the next soldier. He too fell to the ground with a marked thud, and she dropped her feet to the floor on either side of the second soldier’s head, now upright again. She lashed out a foot at the fascist’s helmeted head, knocking him unconscious, and, grinning maniacally, set about the third soldier.
Something malevolent lurked inside the seventh barrier. Though it was likely simply painted on by Alfred’s own perception, what seemed to be the Council symbol mockingly adorning the walls of the mental fortress an even more sinister aura. It seemed as if whatever was behind those high palisades would be a deadly trap, but he knew he must go on. Distantly, the sounds of gunfire, shouting, and laughter reached Alfred’s physical ears. He disregarded the physical and immersed himself in the mental realm. Slowly and surely, he began to chip away at the barrier, vaporising the dark tendrils that approached him with a lance of brilliant azure light.
Kitmarch was by now onto her sixth soldier, and had begun to laugh. Those who fought by her side would know that she was not quite herself in battle, but few, if any, knew the true extent of the alteration. Her kick, provided by her natural strength and then augmented enormously by her armour, slammed into the chest of the Cor Leonis in front of her and knocked all the air out of him with a loud ‘whumph’, sending him spinning first into the rocky wall and then down the flight of metal steps into his eighth fellow soldier. The seventh, meanwhile, had rolled under the sixth’s fall and now grabbed up at Kit’s leg. Too quick for him, however, Kit jerked her leg up and the gloved fingers that had clutched her on the reverse of the knee soon found themselves severed by the three blades on the reverse of her boot. His scream was muffled and thick blood began to pour from the stumps. Kit’s reply was simply constant, fearsome laughter as she loosed another kick at his helmeted head, sending his protected skull slamming against a rock. Then the seventh soldier felt no more pain – or anything, actually - for a long while.
The amount of dark Nictus tendrils assailing Alfred increased as he bored through the barrier. Their black-purple whips lashed at him painfully, striving with every core of their being to destroy the intruder. Alfred resisted. His shining lances often severed them, causing them to writhe with pain and retreat to die their slow death, but there were ever more of them surrounding him. He could not break this barrier and defend himself at the same time. In the physical world, his body still knelt beside the unconscious Archon, Alfred remaining perfectly still, his blazing eyes narrowed at the figure below him. No normal observer could possibly sense the turmoil in the mental realm.
She had begun reciting some inane, unknown nursery rhyme in her head, now. Even had she been herself, she could not have identified it, or clearly remembered what it was. The number of something increased by one each time another soldier fell. At the moment, she did not care what, only that she was up to nineteen. Her armoured foot slashed up into the groin of a flamethrower-wielding soldier, his weapon sending a gout of flame cascading over Kitmarch’s armour. It had no effect whatsoever, her face remaining twisted into a mask of rage, laughter, and concentration. The soldier realised this when what was meant to be an indestructible cup caved in between his legs. He fell forwards onto his knees in exquisite pain and she withdrew her foot, launching her armoured knee into the falling enemy’s chin. He lolled to the floor uselessly, a little blood seeping out from under his helmet. Twenty, counted the nursery rhyme.
There wasn’t any hope, now. The darkness was closing in, the Nictus of the Archon’s fragment feeling triumphant as it battered at the fading incursion of light. It was as if Alfred had been backed into a corner, yet he would go down fighting. His radiant mental rapier parried the blackened swords of the legion of enemies, but slowly, surely, more of the blackened blades came through, further weakening resistance. Soon, there would be none at all, and the brightness would be forever extinguished.
Combat had become a sort of obscure, enraged dance.
One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…
Each numeral was a blow struck. Bullets from a large machine gun began to tear their way up the steps, shredding some of the firer’s allies and doing little but impact with and deflect from Kitmarch’s armour. A bullet grazed her cheek and she snarled, a blow hurling a body down the way and knocking the gunner over like a living skittle. The dance was forgotten and fury became the focus. Had she been counting, her count would have reached twenty-four. Only a few now remained to face her wrath. She bounded down the steps, the wound on her face forming a scab, then a scar, then fading to clear skin in moments.
Alfred’s rapier and lances were of no more use. He was spent, his will to fight nearly gone. And then one syllable, alien in the mental realm of this violence, drifted across his consciousness.
Kit.
His lances and rapier formed themselves into an incandescent sphere, small at first but growing larger and larger. The dark Nictus energy battered against it, but found itself vaporised wherever it touched. Like a disease, or liquid soaking through cloth, the dazzling azure light spread through the Nictus until it was no longer dark. It faded away to nothing and the fortress disappeared, the entirety of the Archon’s mind instead bathed in light. Memory came freely to Alfred now, just as if they were his own. He sought out the Archon’s conversations with Lord Requiem and found them, triumphant.
----
The final Council soldier of thirty threw himself at Kitmarch, a deadly blade in his hand. The still-enraged woman leapt into the air, whirling her body around, and brought her boot in contact with the soldier’s helmeted head. There was a wet snap and the neck bent un-naturally to the side in the direction of her kick. A strange, clinical part of Kit’s mind noted that the spine had been severed and that the soldier was dead. She stood there, breathing heavily, the red mist slowly clearing. She looked around at the dead and unconscious bodies around them, but only gave them a cursory glance. She rushed up the steps, along the sloped corridor, and into the adjacent chamber, bursting through the threshold to where Alfred knelt.
Alfred smiled wanly up at her, now returned to the physical and somewhat disoriented.
“You look like you worked rather hard…” he said.
“So do you,” she replied, and looked down at herself. Scorch marks, bullet damage, and drippings of fluid adorned her armour. “Me maybe more.” She grinned slightly at the admission, then spoke again.
“Find anything in there?” she asked again.
“I have, Kit…” Alfred replied, standing slowly. “And whilst we won this battle, I am not sure we should be happy. For we have certainly not even begun to win the war.”
“What is it?” she said, curiously, head tilting to one side a little.
“Requiem has decided to augment the ‘Nictus Fragment’ system. He’s going to merge full Nictus with his most loyal Archons… like Norman there.”
Alfred continued.
“It gets worse, though… it doesn’t stop at Archons. His plan, eventually, is to brainwash heroes, then merge them with Nictus. Perhaps that is what they wanted with Ellie… a miniature Requiem…” Alfred sighed.
“I would rather we didn’t worry about this now, Kit. I need a rest after that…”
“Same.” Kit replied.
“Shall we?”
“Of course.”
Kitmarch stood on her tiptoes and kissed Alfred firmly. The kiss was soon broken when, despite her tail, her balance was lost and she rocked back onto her heels. She smiled slightly as Alfred arrested her fall with a hand.
They walked out of the cave-base together and returned to their home. There, they did indeed rest, as sleep overtook them both quickly and left them with each other in their dreams.
He had once been a normal citizen, apparently – a computing teacher from Massachusetts. Whilst Norman had been born in Manchester, the break-up of his parents had meant that he had moved in with his American aunt (‘ant’, as his mind had it) at the age of three. After a reasonably uneventful life, which included becoming a U.S citizen, getting a job teaching computing, and becoming a hard-line Republican, he was captured and brainwashed (by what had then been the Fifth Column) at the age of twenty-nine.
As he had already been fairly conservative in his outlook, he readily took to the brainwashing, and soon rose quickly through the ranks. Now in his mid-forties, Archon Malice, as he now was, had been entirely surprised when his loyal, super-soldier bodyguard had suddenly gone flying off a cliff and onto the jagged rocks below.
Of course, despite his indoctrination, brainwashing, and the copious amounts of loyalty and performance drugs that circled his bloodstream, he was currently a gibbering wreck, pawing at the parts of his legs that lay just above the knee. While his knees were bent, the part above the knees also bent at a most unnatural angle. His mouth was agape, though thanks to his large, face-concealing helmet, this was not visible.
All this information, though, was nothing. Were it digitised, it would simply be an insignificant kilobyte amongst terabytes of data. The sheer vastness and majesty of even the weakest mind far eclipsed any computer. And yet this was what Alfred had to deal with daily, from so many different minds – each with its own thoughts, hopes, dreams, beliefs, emotions, fears…
Though admittedly, he nearly never had to deal with a mind in quite this manner. Despite the Archon’s injury, his internal mental conditioning had been strong. Like all barriers to the surface thoughts, this man’s had been permeable and weak, swept away by a light touch from Alfred’s mind. Whilst Alfred would usually not touch anything in a mind, special times called for special measures – and it was clear, also, that this Archon would not be redeemed from his crimes any time soon. Besides, the partial fragmentation of the mind would likely help the rehabilitators in the Zig do their work.
The second layer was still easy to get past. Despite all the reinforcing that Council minds received, the primary flaw in that plan was that the average mind was weak in the first place. It was similar to layering paper – you might double the strength of a paper barrier by adding another layer of paper to it, but it still won’t be particularly strong no matter how many more layers you add.
The important thing about this Archon, however (apart from the fact that Alfred was by now internally referring to him as Archon Norman) was that he had had personal communications with Lord Requiem. Whilst the encryption on the communications themselves had not yet been broken, the sender and recipient were not so well-encrypted. And so the sender and receiver had been clear as day on the computer screen. Lord Requiem to Archon Malice. Archon Malice to Lord Requiem.
----
And so, earlier that day, Kitmarch and Alfred had set off to the particular Council cave complex where said Archon made his headquarters. After the usual fighting and planting of further surveillance programs in the Council computer networks, they had come upon the Archon making some sort of speech to the soldiers. After Alfred telekinetically tossed the elite bodyguards off an enormous ledge onto the spiky rocks fifty metres below, Kit had set about fighting – no, demolishing – the remaining score of soldiers.
She, surprisingly, suffered not a scratch. Even if she had, it’d have healed within ten seconds or so, so it mattered little. Archon Norman, of course, had not done particularly well for himself either, having been slammed into the rocky roof of the structure and then right down into the floor by Alfred’s gift. But back in the present, Kit stepped up onto the platform where Alfred knelt beside the semi-conscious Archon, the excess cases from twenty fired machine-gun clips pooled around the unconscious soldiers on the main floor behind her.
Kitmarch crouched beside Alfred and kissed him on the cheek.
“Find anything in there yet?”
Alfred replied without even stirring, his eyes still narrowed towards the Archon.
“Not yet, Kit. Please let me concentrate.”
“Oops,” she replied, “Sorry.”
Again, Alfred did not stir for a few minutes, and Kit went over to peer down the long drop and look at the bodies of Archon Norman’s elite bodyguards far below.
Alfred spoke, rather distantly, as he sensed new minds nearing. The Archon’s head fell back a bit, his ringing against the metal floor, and Alfred looked up at his beloved.
“Kit? Roughly a squad of Council soldiers are coming – they’ll be in the adjoining chamber in a moment. Can you take care of them while I’m working on Norman here?”
She replied, slightly confused. “Norman?”
Alfred gestured down to the Archon, and Kit nodded. “Oh, right.”
She returned to Alfred’s side, crouching beside him again. He turned his head.
“Hmm… lemme think…” she said quietly, pretending to consider his request, and then she leaned over to kiss him gently on the lips.
Alfred returned her kiss similarly, suppressing the reflex to wrap an arm around her. If she hugged him whilst wearing her powered battle armour, the experience could not be described as ‘cuddly’.
In the kiss, as ever when they kissed on their missions such as this, was conveyed a mutual message – one that, at most times, never had to be spoken. The duality of ‘I love you’ and ‘Good luck’, along with a host of other feeling and hope. They broke the kiss after a moment, and then Kitmarch stood, an armoured finger softly trailing the back of Alfred’s hand for a second. She looked down at him, a grin forming on her lips.
“Okay!” she finally replied to Alfred’s request, and leapt down from the stage towards the door to the next chamber. He turned his attention back to the Archon and woke him slightly with a tiny mental jolt, then set about continuing deeper into the pit of evil that was this particular mind. The third layer crumbled before him like old mortar. The fourth and fifth layers were similarly easy, and he continued breaking through them like a crossbow bolt through a sheet of wood.
----
Meanwhile, Kitmarch waited, her vigil in the next room continuing. The sound of clattering boots on stone and metal reached her ears, and she turned to the doorway from which the slightly threatening noise emanated. Going over to it, she saw a long, down-slanted corridor with what appeared to be metal steps all the way at the bottom. She walked down the rough-hewn corridor, a hand on the wall to steady herself on the floor’s loose, rocky dust, and got into position, ready to launch herself at the first Council soldier that reached the top of those steps.
Alfred reached the seventh barrier and stopped, hard – the mental equivalent of emergency braking in a car, being pushed hard into the seatbelts. He took a moment to collect himself, and then had a look at the reason his precognition had stopped him from simply punching further into the Archon’s mind.
Whilst the mind is not something that can be described in any terms but its own, if at all, Alfred might have described what he faced as a fortress. Whatever it was, it stood, tall and menacing, dark and spiked. Even as he circled this bastion, he saw no opening, no way in. It seemed to leer at him like some ebon phantom in the gloom.
The first black-clad fascist emerged from the darkness ahead of Kitmarch, glowing-green night-vision goggles showing up first and then resolving into being attached to something moving. Kit leapt powerfully, in an almost catlike manner. She sailed through the air and her open palms contacted with the first soldier’s chest with a thump, sending him falling backwards onto the dirt. Kit continued her forward momentum and used it to somersault her legs over her head, bringing her armoured heels down on the head of the next soldier. He too fell to the ground with a marked thud, and she dropped her feet to the floor on either side of the second soldier’s head, now upright again. She lashed out a foot at the fascist’s helmeted head, knocking him unconscious, and, grinning maniacally, set about the third soldier.
Something malevolent lurked inside the seventh barrier. Though it was likely simply painted on by Alfred’s own perception, what seemed to be the Council symbol mockingly adorning the walls of the mental fortress an even more sinister aura. It seemed as if whatever was behind those high palisades would be a deadly trap, but he knew he must go on. Distantly, the sounds of gunfire, shouting, and laughter reached Alfred’s physical ears. He disregarded the physical and immersed himself in the mental realm. Slowly and surely, he began to chip away at the barrier, vaporising the dark tendrils that approached him with a lance of brilliant azure light.
Kitmarch was by now onto her sixth soldier, and had begun to laugh. Those who fought by her side would know that she was not quite herself in battle, but few, if any, knew the true extent of the alteration. Her kick, provided by her natural strength and then augmented enormously by her armour, slammed into the chest of the Cor Leonis in front of her and knocked all the air out of him with a loud ‘whumph’, sending him spinning first into the rocky wall and then down the flight of metal steps into his eighth fellow soldier. The seventh, meanwhile, had rolled under the sixth’s fall and now grabbed up at Kit’s leg. Too quick for him, however, Kit jerked her leg up and the gloved fingers that had clutched her on the reverse of the knee soon found themselves severed by the three blades on the reverse of her boot. His scream was muffled and thick blood began to pour from the stumps. Kit’s reply was simply constant, fearsome laughter as she loosed another kick at his helmeted head, sending his protected skull slamming against a rock. Then the seventh soldier felt no more pain – or anything, actually - for a long while.
The amount of dark Nictus tendrils assailing Alfred increased as he bored through the barrier. Their black-purple whips lashed at him painfully, striving with every core of their being to destroy the intruder. Alfred resisted. His shining lances often severed them, causing them to writhe with pain and retreat to die their slow death, but there were ever more of them surrounding him. He could not break this barrier and defend himself at the same time. In the physical world, his body still knelt beside the unconscious Archon, Alfred remaining perfectly still, his blazing eyes narrowed at the figure below him. No normal observer could possibly sense the turmoil in the mental realm.
She had begun reciting some inane, unknown nursery rhyme in her head, now. Even had she been herself, she could not have identified it, or clearly remembered what it was. The number of something increased by one each time another soldier fell. At the moment, she did not care what, only that she was up to nineteen. Her armoured foot slashed up into the groin of a flamethrower-wielding soldier, his weapon sending a gout of flame cascading over Kitmarch’s armour. It had no effect whatsoever, her face remaining twisted into a mask of rage, laughter, and concentration. The soldier realised this when what was meant to be an indestructible cup caved in between his legs. He fell forwards onto his knees in exquisite pain and she withdrew her foot, launching her armoured knee into the falling enemy’s chin. He lolled to the floor uselessly, a little blood seeping out from under his helmet. Twenty, counted the nursery rhyme.
There wasn’t any hope, now. The darkness was closing in, the Nictus of the Archon’s fragment feeling triumphant as it battered at the fading incursion of light. It was as if Alfred had been backed into a corner, yet he would go down fighting. His radiant mental rapier parried the blackened swords of the legion of enemies, but slowly, surely, more of the blackened blades came through, further weakening resistance. Soon, there would be none at all, and the brightness would be forever extinguished.
Combat had become a sort of obscure, enraged dance.
One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…
Each numeral was a blow struck. Bullets from a large machine gun began to tear their way up the steps, shredding some of the firer’s allies and doing little but impact with and deflect from Kitmarch’s armour. A bullet grazed her cheek and she snarled, a blow hurling a body down the way and knocking the gunner over like a living skittle. The dance was forgotten and fury became the focus. Had she been counting, her count would have reached twenty-four. Only a few now remained to face her wrath. She bounded down the steps, the wound on her face forming a scab, then a scar, then fading to clear skin in moments.
Alfred’s rapier and lances were of no more use. He was spent, his will to fight nearly gone. And then one syllable, alien in the mental realm of this violence, drifted across his consciousness.
Kit.
His lances and rapier formed themselves into an incandescent sphere, small at first but growing larger and larger. The dark Nictus energy battered against it, but found itself vaporised wherever it touched. Like a disease, or liquid soaking through cloth, the dazzling azure light spread through the Nictus until it was no longer dark. It faded away to nothing and the fortress disappeared, the entirety of the Archon’s mind instead bathed in light. Memory came freely to Alfred now, just as if they were his own. He sought out the Archon’s conversations with Lord Requiem and found them, triumphant.
----
The final Council soldier of thirty threw himself at Kitmarch, a deadly blade in his hand. The still-enraged woman leapt into the air, whirling her body around, and brought her boot in contact with the soldier’s helmeted head. There was a wet snap and the neck bent un-naturally to the side in the direction of her kick. A strange, clinical part of Kit’s mind noted that the spine had been severed and that the soldier was dead. She stood there, breathing heavily, the red mist slowly clearing. She looked around at the dead and unconscious bodies around them, but only gave them a cursory glance. She rushed up the steps, along the sloped corridor, and into the adjacent chamber, bursting through the threshold to where Alfred knelt.
Alfred smiled wanly up at her, now returned to the physical and somewhat disoriented.
“You look like you worked rather hard…” he said.
“So do you,” she replied, and looked down at herself. Scorch marks, bullet damage, and drippings of fluid adorned her armour. “Me maybe more.” She grinned slightly at the admission, then spoke again.
“Find anything in there?” she asked again.
“I have, Kit…” Alfred replied, standing slowly. “And whilst we won this battle, I am not sure we should be happy. For we have certainly not even begun to win the war.”
“What is it?” she said, curiously, head tilting to one side a little.
“Requiem has decided to augment the ‘Nictus Fragment’ system. He’s going to merge full Nictus with his most loyal Archons… like Norman there.”
Alfred continued.
“It gets worse, though… it doesn’t stop at Archons. His plan, eventually, is to brainwash heroes, then merge them with Nictus. Perhaps that is what they wanted with Ellie… a miniature Requiem…” Alfred sighed.
“I would rather we didn’t worry about this now, Kit. I need a rest after that…”
“Same.” Kit replied.
“Shall we?”
“Of course.”
Kitmarch stood on her tiptoes and kissed Alfred firmly. The kiss was soon broken when, despite her tail, her balance was lost and she rocked back onto her heels. She smiled slightly as Alfred arrested her fall with a hand.
They walked out of the cave-base together and returned to their home. There, they did indeed rest, as sleep overtook them both quickly and left them with each other in their dreams.
