"Good Kid, you're coming with me and the others—except the netrunners and the snipers. It's gonna be chaos down there, so stay sharp and don't get yourself killed. That's an order." Erik grinned, but his eyes were steady as he headed toward the team.
I followed him, watching as the others slipped on climbing harnesses and anchored six ropes down the cliff to the base. Mila tossed me a harness while securing her own. I mirrored her actions, clipping my carabiner to a rope and stepping behind her.
"On zero."
"Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One."
We leapt over the edge together, descending swiftly and silently. Once on the ground, Mila signaled for me to follow her lead. We ducked behind the first crumbling house at the base of the cliff, readying our weapons—my Copperhead and her Tactician—and lining up our sights on the raffens lurking around the corners.
"To all units, once the signal is given, you're free to split. But keep eyes on each other and avoid friendly fire." The unfamiliar merc's voice crackled in our ears just as the operation began.
A digital hum signaled the netrunners' coordinated attack—hacking into the enemies' cybernetics, forcing them to turn on their own, commit suicide, or endure the hell of corrupted implants set ablaze. Snipers picked off raffens who tried to warn their allies or who lingered outside the hackers' reach.
I opened fire on the tagged raffens, their screams cut short as they collapsed, lifeless. When the area was clear, I moved to the next shelter, taking cover again as the remaining raffens scattered and regrouped.
Crouched low, I edged closer to the corner, my scope locked on a crimson raffen outline.
The instant I spotted him, I squeezed the trigger twice, lethally aiming for his head. He crumpled helplessly to the ground. As I kept firing at the enemy, my eyes caught sight of the mines I had planted earlier, just in time to see a group of raffens rushing toward them.
The ground shuddered beneath a series of deafening explosions, sending jagged, burning debris and torn bodies spiraling through the air. The harsh scent of smoke and blood mingled with the damp, metallic tang of liquid nitrogen from the mines and charred flesh.
A low-hanging blood-red fog began to drift, creeping along the terrain and swirling amidst the chaos. It wasn't thick enough to shroud our view entirely, but the eerie haze lent a haunting atmosphere to the village.
The raffens, caught off guard by the mines and the shifting tide of battle, staggered through the crimson mist, their glowing silhouettes casting ghostly shadows. Their panicked shouts and the groans of the wounded blended with gunfire, creating a hellish symphony.
Yet more raffens crawled from their hiding holes, joining the fray. The gunfire intensified. I ducked behind a battered car; from my position, I fired at a group across the street when suddenly I was struck. A bullet pierced the outer layer of my mask, narrowly missing between my brows.
For a fleeting moment, an absurd urge to laugh and shout, "Scotty, beam me up!" flickered through my mind, but I shook it off.
Uggh, I hate being half-drunk, especially from adrenaline.
The relentless swarm of raffens seemed to swell with each passing second, their numbers defying the casualties we inflicted. I could feel the weight of my rifle growing heavier, each shot more cumbersome than the last. More than a hundred fifty—no, closer to three hundred—more like a horde.
Taking a breath behind a crumbling wall, doubt crept insidiously. The raffens appeared endless, a relentless, determined horde. Around me, faces bore cracked masks of resolve, veiled with the faintest cracks of uncertainty, hints of doubt about survival.
A wave of despair threatened to drown me. Hope seeped from my limbs, replaced by a dull numbness. Just as I considered retreat, a flicker of movement caught my eye.
Suddenly, a fresh group of mercenaries slid down from the opposite slope, their weapons blazing as they caught the raffens off guard from behind. Bolstered by this surprise, I gripped my weapon tighter and opened fire once more.
Pinned from both sides, the raffens started to falter; their numbers dwindling, ours growing more confident. The tide shifted—the enemy fell into disarray, pushed back by our relentless assault. Yet our fleeting moment of victory was fragile.
"TAKE COVER!!!" blared a voice through the comms.
I scanned my surroundings and spotted the decrepit patrol boat at the docks, suddenly roaring to life. Its mortar mounts aimed skyward, while side-mounted machine guns trained directly on us.
Debris and dirt erupted around me as I threw myself down for cover, the shockwave pulling me into its embrace, chaos's deafening symphony filling the air. I found myself buried in shrapnel and mangled body parts, lying amidst the wreckage before the noise and confusion cleared enough for me to breathe again.
As the enemy forces pressed forward, I dove behind cover once more, fumbling for the Copperhead—I reached for it only to realize it wasn't in my hands. Panicking, my grip found the Unity and a sharp knife. I peeked out, gun ready, only to dodge sideways as a hulking, borged-out Raffen slammed into the car with a thunderous crash.
This chrome behemoth loomed over two meters tall, sporting a predatory grin and clutching an HMG like a toy. He looked almost identical to Adam Smasher from 2023. I hurled the knife at his face, firing my weapon in a desperate attempt to create space. But he stood there, unyielding—bullets pinging off his armored hide, the knife lodged shallowly in his flesh by its tip.
"What are you gonna do now, little meat?" he sneered, voice disturbingly familiar—eerily Smasher's tone. Frantically searching, I spotted an arrow mine about ten meters to my left. Before I could move, the borg tracked my gaze and began advancing, slow but relentless.
Suddenly, a new sound sliced through the chaos: rattling chains and screams of terror. I whipped my head around and saw a submarine rising from the river's depths, firing harpoons at the patrol boat, capsizing it in a torrent of metal and spray. The borg's attention too was momentarily diverted by the screams; he turned to look. "No, not the boat. Fucker bags of meat!" he cursed, wildly firing his HMG in the sub's direction.
Seizing the opportunity, I sprinted toward the arrow mine, sliding across the ground to snatch it before it was out of reach. Spinning around, I disabled the motion sensors and armed the detonator with a single, practiced motion. Nocking an arrow to my bow, I aimed it straight at the raffens chest as he turned back to face me.
"Astalavista, Mother-Fucker," I spat, triggering the device.
A blast of nitrogen mist instantly froze the cyborg into a colossal ice sculpture. I drew in a ragged breath, warily eyeing the battlefield, bow still ready with a fresh arrow, watching for more of the Raffen horde.
But a cracking sound tore my focus away—ice shattering. The borg tore his arm loose from the frozen shell, blood and shards of ice streaming from his body as he staggered forward, an angry glow in his eyes. I fired again, but he charged like a berserk beast, raising his frozen HMG, ready to crush me.
I dodged desperately, but a glancing blow tossed me hard into a wall. Darkness blurred my vision momentarily before I was hoisted into the air, the borg's brutal metal hand clenched around my throat. I fought to breathe, oxygen scarce.
"What are you gonna do now, little meat?" he taunted, eyes locked on mine, blood seeping from cracks in his chrome shell.
"Waiting for your friends to save you? Forget it. No one's coming. But I can make your death painless… if you tell me how many others are with you." Shit, if I was going down, I was taking him with me. Subtly, I slid my hand behind my back, grasping my last resort—a liquid magnesium bomb coated in smart glue, its timer set for five seconds.
"Talk, meat!" he roared, tightening his grip. I armed the bomb and hurled it with my last ounce of strength, a mocking grin on my face as he scanned the device.
Suddenly, a glowing axe blade sliced through his arm, wrenching me free. Before I could register my savior, the bomb detonated. A shockwave nearly knocked me off my feet, followed by a searing heatwave that almost scorched my skin.
The figure who pulled me away dodged debris flung from the borg's direction. I turned, eyes locking on the impossible—flames licking at the monstrous, burning borg, screams of agony fueling his staggering, relentless advance.
I scrambled back, fumbling for the Unity, but my ammo was empty. Just as he raised a smoldering fist to strike, the sharp crack of HMG fire shattered the chaos.
I spun around to see Erik with the HMG in one hand and a still glowing great axe in the other, unleashing a relentless hail of gunfire at the borg's frame—sparks and molten metal flying with each shot.
The borg roared in defiance and charged, undeterred, as Erik held his ground, aiming for the fiery fissures in his opponent's exoskeleton, pouring rounds into the weak points.
Enraged screams turned to pained howls as internal components burst under a barrage of bullets. Still, the borg kept coming, a testament to his cybernetic endurance. Finally, Erik emptied his clip into the cracks surrounding his chest cavity.
For a brief moment, the borg froze—the flames licking at the bullet-riddled edges of his armor. Then, with a muffled boom, the borg exploded, unleashing a blinding fireball. I shielded my face from the searing heat and shrapnel, the shockwave rippling outward.
When the dust settled, the borg was nothing but a twisted, smoldering heap, his metal frame still recognizable but nothing more.
Erik gazed at the wreckage, his HMG still smoking, and gave me a nod before turning away to deal with the other raffens.
I gathered my weapons and stumbled afterwards along a wall, weakened by the intense battle. Lowering myself to the ground, I leaned against the rough surface for support. As I lowered my gaze, I noticed a piece of plastic sticking out of my stomach.
What is the rule when you have a knife in a wound? Wasn't it something along the lines of "Don't remove it if you want to live"? I withheld a groan of pain as I fumbled through my jacket pockets, searching for a combat stim until I found one.
I put it in the opening of my mask, hating drugs but knowing I had no choice. "Fuck it," I muttered as the stim took effect, granting me a temporary reprieve from the pain and letting my strength return to me.
Where the hell am I even?
Around me was not a single intact house to be seen other than the biggest building in the village. Which should either have some raffens or something worthwhile in it.
Shaking my head I limped through the ruins with the axe in my hand, my body aching as I made my way towards it. The building loomed before me, its walls pockmarked with bullet holes and scorch marks.
Cautiously, I pushed open the heavy metal door, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. Inside, I found myself in a warehouse filled with a haphazard array of crates and boxes, though there was too little dust in here on the boxes. A sudden movement caught my eye, and I whirled around, my axe at the ready.
There, in the far corner of the warehouse, stood a young woman with raffen insignias on her clothes, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. She held a makeshift weapon—a length of pipe—in her trembling hands, poised to strike at me.
As I took a step closer, she let out a shout, her eyes filling with resolve as she charged at me with an overhead strike. I raised my axe in a parrying motion, taking a step to the side to dodge the strike. The woman's pipe crashed down where I had stood just moments before, the force of her swing causing her to stumble slightly off balance.
Seizing the opportunity, I stepped forward and delivered a swift axe stike to her midsection, She managed to leap away from the blade, but landed awkwardly, giving me the chance to press the attack. I closed the distance between us, and striked at her with a overhead swing, while she parried the blow with her pipe.
As our weapons got locked in confrontation she pushed me back and turned to ran back. As she rushed towards the corner, I sprang forth, cutting down on her shoulder and tearing her arm from her body. She let out a pain-filled scream and fell to the ground, her other arm still clutching the pipe as she crawled past me.
It was then that I realized her gaze was not on me, but on the door behind me. It was then that I realized she wasn't alone. From behind the door, I could hear the muffled cries of at least one child, the sound tugging at my heartstrings despite the circumstances.
This is what Erik meant when he said he will show me the worst. I only saw them as what they are: rapists, murderers, word breakers and psychopaths, not thinking that they could be anything else.
Children .... who would have thought that there are children among raffen.
As I lowered my axe, in silent acknowledgment of her plight, I however had no idea what to do now. The mother eyed me warily while trying to steady her breathing, after she crawled past me to the door and leaned against it while holding the pipe in her other hand as I stood there silently.
I shook my head, taking a cautious step forward. But before I said anything something glimmered on the ground next to her arm. There laid a rosary on the ground, its surface smooth from either constant use or simply being old. I looked at her arm again to see if I had missed something else and found under her jacket another layer of black fabric.
I picked it up and glanced at the woman. "Yours?"
"Like I'm gonna tell some raffen to go and fuck yourself," she spat out with all her wrath and pain.
The hell. She spoke as if she wasn't even a raffen. I looked at the rosary clenched in my hand, then back at her.
"Are you perhaps a hired nanny?"
"Why yes, you raffen scum. First, you slaughter all the nomads who can fight, then you come to rape the kids. Sick fiend. God will bring judgment on you and drag you through every layer of hell."
Her curses… the black cloth… definitely a nun. Closer inspection revealed traces of smudged makeup trickling down her face. She was probably a year older than me, now that I examined her more closely. I stood there, stunned, words failing me for a moment.
"Hold on. I'm a merc. Along with about thirty others, I was tasked with wiping out this Raffen base. Not a nomad place." I sheathed my axe at my belt and raised my hands to show I was serious.
The warehouse fell into a heavy silence, broken only by distant echoes of the battle that had moved on from this place. She looked at me, jaw slack, shock lingering before her expression shifted into something like defiance.
"If what you're saying is—if I worked for Raffens for nearly a month—how the hell did I miss it? The signs were there all along. I just thought they were some weird clan. But the kids—They don't deserve to die for what their parents did. I won't let you hurt them!"
"I'm not planning to hurt them because of their parents," I said calmly. "Move aside, please." I stepped toward the door hiding the children. She looked at me skeptically, lowering her pipe and shifting enough to give me room.
Pushing open the door, I found a playroom filled with at least fifteen kids of varying ages. The oldest was maybe ten. They huddled together, eyes wide with enough fear to weigh heavy on my conscience.
I retreated and spoke into the comms. "Hypothetically—if I found fifteen kids and a trainee nun in a warehouse—what should be done with them?"
The response exploded across the comms. "What the fuck did you smoke, kid?!" "Leave them behind, who cares!" "What the hell does a nun in training do in a Raffen base?" "They're trouble, just ignore them and kill the others!"
Then the gender-neutral voice of the netrunner cut in, "Let's put it to a vote. Those in favor of bringing the kids and the nun to an orphanage, say 'yes.' Those against, say 'no.'"
Votes flooded in quickly. Five for bringing the kids to an orphanage, five against, and five abstentions. The group looked to me for the final decision, as I was last to vote. I took a deep breath, weighing my options.
Bringing them back was risky, but leaving them to die here was unthinkable. With a heavy sigh, I spoke. "I'm bringing them out," I said firmly. "I can't leave kids to die in this place. The nun might be a threat, but the kids aren't. And maybe she has info on the Raffen group we don't."
The chat went quiet, then Erik's voice broke through. "Alright, majority's to bring them away."
"What's the plan? Can we move them all out without leaving anyone behind?" "The kid stays there for now—the kid will handle it for the moment. I'll talk to the fixer after we neutralize the Raffens," Erik said in the chat.
I listened to their words. I understood that my decision would carry weight, but there was no alternative for me.
Turning back to the nun, I found her nearly passing out, her face pale and slack. Panic surged through me; I hurried to her side. I knelt beside her and gently but swiftly yanked the belt from her pants, improvising as a tourniquet to stem the bleeding from her arm.
In a flash, I handed her one of my bounce packs, praying it would help stabilize her. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and sleepy at first, then gradually sharpening into awareness. "What about the others on the ship?" she whispered, her voice fragile.
"Which others?" I prompted, struggling to keep my focus steady.
"The kids and my fellow sisters—they were on the boat, watching over the children before the shooting started." I sighed, updating the team through the chat. "Update: there are more nuns and children aboard the ship. How many, I don't yet know."
A frustrated shout crackled through the coms. "What is this raffen base—a kind of religious kindergarten? Why are there so many children and nuns here? And why did no one tell us they were present?"
I shook my head, equally bewildered by the bizarre situation. "I don't know, but we can't just abandon them."
Mila's voice cut in. "The kid's right. We may be mercenaries, but we're not monsters. We can't risk the children's safety—and possibly the nuns'—by leaving them behind. We need to secure the ship fast and eliminate the Raffens."
More murmurs of agreement followed, some more hesitant than others. I understood their hesitation; this turn of events had thrown us off course, and the presence of kids complicated everything. I shifted my gaze back to the injured nun, who was still weak but alert enough now. "Can you tell me more about the ship? Its layout, how many are on board?"
She took a deep breath, summoning her strength. "There are about thirty children—ranging from infants to teens—and three nuns. The children are all innocent, please—help them. I can't say much about the interior, just that it's a ship to me. Before the shooting, there were about ten Raffens onboard." Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes were resolve.
I nodded firmly. "We'll do our best to get everyone out safe, but I can't promise anything." I relayed what I knew to the group, and plans began forming to storm the capsized vessel and eliminate the threats.
I kept watch by the injured nun, my eyes flickering between her and the surrounding shadows, alert for any threats. Distant gunfire and explosions echoed through the air—a grim soundtrack to chaos.
Suddenly, the comms crackled again, Erik's voice cutting through. "Kid, we might need you on the assault team for the patrol boat. The netrunner will take over guarding the nun. We're going to need all the firepower we can muster to secure that ship."
"Understood," I responded, tightening my grip on the Unity. "I'm heading out as soon as the netrunner is in place." Moments later, the netrunner emerged from the shadows, nodding sharply.
He took position beside the nun. "I'll watch her. You focus on helping the others. And you lost this." He tossed me my Copperhead—still intact, but battered with dents and scratches. I hesitated briefly, suspicion flickering—something about trusting them didn't sit right.
With a final nod, I moved out, weaving through the Raffen base. The place was a labyrinth of half-standing buildings and narrow alleyways—perfect for ambushes. My weapon was ready; instinct told me danger lurked around every corner.
Turning a bend, I was instantly faced with four raffens, their eyes wide with surprise. Without thought, I sprinted to cover and opened fire, dropping two before they could react. The remaining two scurried for cover behind crumbling walls.
Their comrades soon arrived—three more raffens joining the fight. They instantly shot at me, forcing me deeper into cover while the two original ones slipped to my side. My heart pounded as I pressed onward; bullets whined past my head, ricocheting off the brick and metal as I ducked and swept through the tight alleys.
I pressed a button on the folded bow strapped to my leg, ejecting an arrow mine from the quiver in my hand. Turning a corner, I drove the arrow hard into the wall beside me, then sprinted forward to a parked car ahead. I vaulted over the hood, spun back, and saw the five Raffens rushing past the corner—just as my mine exploded behind them. They had moments to scream before the flames consumed them.
Calmer now, I continued toward the docks, passing the aftermath of my mines—frozen and charred bodies of more than a dozen Raffens, their faces twisted in pain.
Soon, I spotted a group of mercs pinned behind a stack of crates near the boat. Moving quickly into position at their flank, I opened fire on their unguarded side. "We need to get on that boat!" I shouted over the chaos, my voice barely rising above the clash and crash.
One of their group, a rugged old man with a scar running down his cheek, shook his head, signaling me to wait. I looked at him doubtfully as he gestured to hold position. The Raffens were entirely focused on shooting at us—completely oblivious to the submarine lurking nearby, from which I saw figures rising up from the water—silent, deadly.
"Covering fire!" the old man commanded, and we opened up on the Raffens on the docks and the ship. Meanwhile, shadowy figures slipped behind the cover behind them, knives flashing as they slit Raffens' throats with practiced precision. "Reloading," the old man barked, ducking into cover again. The battle raged fiercely, bullets flying thick and fast until I finally heard the fire diminishing—then a deafening shout: "Clear!"
The Raffens on the dock and aboard the ship were wiped out, the gig nearly complete.
Clenching my jaw, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat as I made my way to the ship, the submarine's harpoons finally slackening to let it float upright. The deck was a gruesome tableau—slick with blood, bodies of raffens strewn across one side like discarded shadows.
Descending below, my heart hammered against my ribs, each step heavy with dread as I searched for the children and nuns. The distant sound of sobs and hushed, frightened whispers led me to a locked door at the ship's far end. With a swift, decisive strike of my axe, I shattered the lock and swung the door open, revealing the huddled forms inside—children and nuns trembling as one.
The children looked up, their faces etched with terror and rage, tears mingling with dirt and grime. The nuns, though mostly unscathed, bore bruises and cuts from the chaos of the ship's capsize. They would survive, but the wounds to their spirits would linger long after.
I spun on my heel and strode out, leaving the others to tend to the frightened souls.
I had had enough of this nightmare—for now.
'Rorys PoV'
The interior of the boat was battered and shadowy, the air thick with the scent of salt and stale food. Together with three other nuns, I changed into the clothes the nomads had given us, the fabric rough against my skin, and applied makeup to appear older—an inexplicable pretense we'd been told was necessary.
Once dressed, we moved into the mess hall, where we began tending to the children. I settled on the floor amidst a cluster of toddlers, their small hands reverently stacking vivid blocks. Sister Abigail gently held a trembling infant, rocking her softly while humming a lullaby beneath her breath.
A lively little crowd. I genuinely liked them—these kids. Their parents, not so much.
Sister Miriam and Sister Esther worked silently in the galley, preparing a humble meal of bread and fish for the children. Every movement was practiced, precise—an unspoken choreography born of necessity and routine.
A few mothers lingered nearby, their faces glowed with joy as they huddled together in a corner, whispering softly, their voices light and friendly, sharing quiet comforts.
Hours passed silently until suddenly, the sharp crack of gunfire erupted outside, shattering the quiet, followed by screams of terror and pain.
The mothers leapt to their feet, eyes wide with panic, rushing to a nearby cabinet to arm themselves. "What about the kids? Should we take them somewhere safe?" I called out, voice trembling, but it was too late.
The mothers pushed past me, guns clenched tightly in their hands as they headed for the door. As the last of them disappeared into the corridor, heavy footsteps boomed outside. A moment later, Cain—the nomad leader, wild-eyed and bloodstained—stormed into the room, gun raised, voice furious.
"Rory, get to the warehouse—now! Keep the children quiet and safe!" His words were hoarse, commands issued with ferocity. I nodded, heart hammering in my chest, summoning what courage I could muster. Without hesitation, I stepped off the boat, ready to face whatever came next.
As I dashed towards the warehouse, I caught sight of a group of nomads ahead, weapons drawn, rushing toward the outskirts of the village. In their path were a series of strange metal rods in the ground. Horror gripped me as I witnessed the rods changing into mines and exploding, their screams silenced abruptly by the violent detonations that shattered their bodies.
I turned my gaze away, nausea clawing at my insides, but the ground beneath my feet told a gruesome story of mutilation. I forced myself to run faster, the warehouse looming like a sanctuary ahead.
I burst inside and slammed the door shut behind me, gasping for breath as my eyes took in the children gathered close, their wide eyes glimmering with terror. I attempted a comforting smile, but it felt hollow, feeble.
With trembling hands, I grabbed the communication device the nomads had given me and voiced my distress to Cain. "I'm in the warehouse with the children," I stammered, voice trembling. "What now?" His voice crackled coldly through the device. "You stay put and protect the kids. We'll handle the raffen. Arm yourself." Swallowing hard, I nodded even though he couldn't see. "Y-yes, I understand." Flipping through the crates, I found only a length of pipe.
I pressed my back against the door, clutching the makeshift weapon, senses sharpened to a razor's edge. Then, the heavy metal door groaned open, halting me in my tracks. My heart thundered in my chest as a figure emerged, shadowed against the faint glow beyond. Features obscured, but a glint of weaponry caught my eye.
The figure hesitated, scanning the warehouse until finally fixing on me. A young girl, her black hair falling around her face, stepped forward—wearing a jacket, jeans, combat boots. Her face was hidden beneath a semi-transparent mask. An axe was gripped tightly in her hand, a pistol hung at her left thigh, a bow was poised on her right as she approached.
Panic surged like wildfire through me. I screamed and swung the pipe overhead in a wild, desperate arc. She raised her axe to block, sidestepping at the last moment, causing me to stumble wildly. I recovered just in time to dodge her next swinging blow aimed at my midsection. My footing faltered, and in an instant, she pressed forward, delivering a revengeful overhead strike.
I barely managed to deflect it with my pipe, arms trembling from the impact's force. Sparks of tension flared as our weapons collided in a brutal contest. I shoved her back and bolted toward the door where the children were hidden, needing to stay close, to guard. But she was faster. She lunged again, her weapon slicing into my shoulder with a sickening jolt. Pain exploded through me, my arm feeling as if it were being wrenched from its socket. I collapsed to the ground, clutching the pipe desperately, crawling past her in a frantic retreat.
My mind was fixed—not on my attacker, but solely on the door behind her. I had to protect the children—nothing else mattered.
From beyond the door, I could hear the muffled cries of the children, their voices tugging at my heart and igniting a newfound resolve. As the girl lowered her weapon, I glimpsed a flicker of understanding in her eyes—she recognized the purpose behind my fight. But what would she do with that knowledge? I could only hope for mercy, though I knew raffens wouldn't hesitate to kill me and hurt the kids.
Leaning against the door, the pipe trembling in my grip, I watched her with cautious eyes. Fear surged through me, tempered by a fierce determination to protect the children behind me. I had never felt so utterly at the mercy of someone else—an anguish I despised.
Then, when she bent to pick up my rosary from the ground, our eyes locked, sparking a glimmer of hope within me. Perhaps some humanity still lingered in her—some sliver of decency I could reach. "Yours?" she asked, her voice muffled behind the mask.
"Like I'm gonna tell some raffen to go and fuck yourself," I spat, anger and pain thickening my words.
Her expression shifted; confusion flickered in her gaze. "Are you perhaps a hired nanny?" I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "Why, yes, you raffen scum. First, you kill all the nomads who can fight, then you plan to rape the kids? God will bring judgment upon you—and let you burn in every layer of hell."
To my astonishment, the girl recoiled, stunned by my words. She stood there, frozen, as if the very idea of my intentions had never entered her mind. "Hold it," she said, her tone changing. " I'm a merc. Along with about thirty others, I was tasked with wiping out this Raffen base. Not a nomad place." Disbelief flooded me as I watched her sheath her axe and raise her hands, signaling she meant no harm.
A long silence settled over the warehouse, broken only by distant echoes of distant battles elsewhere. "If what you're saying is true—I worked for Raffens for nearly a month?" I whispered, my voice trembling with dawning realization.
"How the hell did I miss it? The signs were there all along. I just thought they were some weird clan. But the kids—They don't deserve to die for what their parents did. I won't let you hurt them!" Her eyes softened with understanding as she met my gaze.
"I won't harm them because of what their parents did. Please—step aside." I hesitated, torn between caution and a fragile trust. Yet something in her voice compelled me to believe her.
I lowered the pipe and sidled aside, granting her access to the door that concealed the children. As it swung open, I was greeted by the frightened faces of the young ones—eyes wide with terror as they peered at the girl.
A deep ache clutched at my chest for them, mourning the innocence so mercilessly shredded by a world steeped in cruelty. Yet, as I watched the girl's reaction to their fear, a flicker of hope sparked within me.
The girl stepped aside to communicate with her team; I felt my consciousness slipping, my vision blurring at the edges. The agony from my severed arm was relentless, and the warm, sticky blood seeped beneath me. I knew that without medical aid soon, I wouldn't survive.
Just as fainting threatened, the girl returned to my side, her eyes wide with concern. Swiftly, she fashioned a tourniquet from my belt and cinched it around my arm, staunching the bleeding. Then she handed me a bounce pack, which I accepted weakly, a faint glimmer of hope stirring as the pain receded.
Gradually regaining consciousness, memories of the others aboard the ship—children and my fellow sisters—rushed back. I mumbled, barely able to speak, "What about the others on the ship?"
She looked at me, confusion shadowing her features. "Which others?"
"The kids and my sisters—the ones on the boat, tending the children before the shooting started."
She sighed, relaying the information to her team via comms. I caught the frustration and anger in their voices as they discussed this unforeseen crisis. Despite initial hesitation, they ultimately decided they could not abandon the children and nuns behind. Turning back to me, her voice soft and steady, she asked, "Can you tell me more about the ship? Its layout, how many are on board?"
Drawing a slow breath, I summoned what strength I had. "There are about thirty children—ranging from infants to teens—and three nuns. The children are all innocent, please—help them. I can't say much about the interior, just that it's a ship to me. Before the shooting, there were about ten Raffens onboard.."
The girl nodded with resolve. "We'll do our best to get everyone out safe, but I can't promise anything."
As she relayed the details to her team, I heard the planning unfold—a careful, tense assault on the capsized vessel. She kept watch over me, her eyes flickering between me and the surroundings, alert for danger's shadow. I couldn't fault her for that—she knew her limits, and promised nothing she couldn't guarantee.