The Attack

The last box had been finally wrapped, marked, and recorded. Ulan just needed to send this last parcel to the Constant and the Director’s orders would finally be complete. Steam came off the Constant Transportation Device in wisps.

“We should give the machine a rest.” The circuitry in Ulan’s neck glowed slightly with concern.

“Not until all this stuff is bagged and tagged. Maliq said it was of the utmost importance.” Bal’Darin didn’t look up from the green void-glass of her multi-tool, “Besides, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go get that drink.”

“You continue that inquiry, yet the probability of such an event occurring is astronomical.” Ulan hefted the finally package and stiffly passed by the distracted Bal’Darin, bumping one of the arbiters that circled the head of his Void colleague. The little floating piece of tech spun out of orbit, but quickly corrected itself.

Bal’Darin finally looked up, “I have the coords programmed in. All we need to do is hit send, and all this stuff will be uploaded.” With a push of a button the void-glass screen snapped out of existence. “I do some of my best thinking after a few rounds. You might find the epiphany you have been looking for.”

With a measured grace the Android placed the package in the glowing double helix that made up the uploading matrix of the Constant Transportation Device. It held its own weight in mid air, floating there with just a gentle spin, as Ulan turned to Bal’Darin, “I do not have any reason to believe that I would find anything at the bottom of a drinking glass.”

The Void walked to the control panel, absently pushed a few buttons, “Sometimes, this tech stuff... well it's beyond reason.” The floating box began to distort as the machine started to hum. The hum turned to a manic thrumming. A flash and the box started to distort. Growing and shrinking in size, flipping inside and out, and finally turning to a translucent blue before leaving this world entirely. “Sometimes, my old steel friend, its closer to magic.” Bal’Darin flashed her friend a sarcastic smile.

Ulan didn’t reply as he stood there staring at Bal’Darin, though the circuitry in the Android’s neck flashed telling Bal’Darin everything she needed to know. They worked together for too long at this point, there wasn’t much the Android could do to hide his emotions. Bal’Darin placed her hand on Ulan’s shoulder, “Just—- “

An explosion ripped through the room. Ulan started to collapse to the ground, as glass from the windows rained down around them. Bal’Darin tried to hold him up, but the Android was far heavier than he looked. The two of them fell together. Bal’Darin sat with Ulan laying across her knees at an odd angle. Ulan’s wiring was glowing all over his body, and he was frantically trying to paw at his own chest.

“I am damaged, Bal’Darin.” The calm of his voice was a painful contrast to the panicked clawing.

“What the hell?” The Void didn’t get to say much more as another explosion filled the room, though she would never hear it. The bullet that entered her head took all that there was of Bal’Darin and delivered it all over the wall behind her.

“Bal’Darin?” Ulan’s vision started to fade. His systems where shutting down. His organic side was screaming.

“Are you still there?” He was on fire.

“Friend?” His optics started to turn off, “ Where are you?”

The darkness took him.

“Bal’Darin? I would like to get that drink.”

Maliq threw himself into his office chair. It was late. The Director had given him a daunting task. Pack up or destroy every piece of evidence that PRISM ever existed. Ulan and Bal’Darin took to their task with no questions asked. Maliq liked that. Made my job easier. Ume, though. Ume fought him. He never met a person filled with more scrap and fire, and he had met that flaming tree the Director liked to keep around. Eventually, she caved. The smell of the bonfire that took all those books, all those records, drifted in from open windows. It reminded him of his childhood.

The twin swords hung on the wall before him. Not trophies; they held more pride than that. Not decoration; Maliq had intimate knowledge of those blades. These were something more. Friends was the best word he could think of, but that still felt off.

A gentle knock came from the oak door as it was softly pushed open. A small halfing stood in the room. Tears left streaks down her soot covered face, but her voice was solid as she spoke, “All the records. Books. Lore. The task is done.”

Maliq stood, and knowing Ume, he simply gestured to the chair across his desk. Ume walked across the room and lifted herself up into the wooden chair, “Why, Maliq?”

With his arms crossed Maliq shrugged, “Something big is coming,” Maliq turned from his desk and grabbed a clear glass jar from the bar behind him then continued, “Pack up your personal effects. Get somewhere safe as soon as possible.”

Water filled a metal bowl, and Maliq slid it across the table to Ume, along with a white handkerchief, the letter ‘M’ embroidered in the corner. She picked the bowl up with care and started to dab the white cloth in the clean water, and rubbed at her ashen face, removing the soot and bringing back some of the life. She looked better already, Maliq thought. He hated to see his friend so distraught.

“Thank you. Perhaps, I’ll go finish my work. I had over half of the Harmonium’s ‘Treatise on Prisoner Conditioning’ translated before Silver convinced me.” Ume smiled as she spoke, remembering something about that day, though Maliq wasn’t sure of what.

With a start, Maliq reached under the desk between him and Ume, lifted the sturdy wooden table and sent it hurtling towards the open glass windows on the side of the room. It slammed up against nothing, but nothing quickly turned into a black-clad intruder, their chest left caved and heaving. The heft and momentum of that old desk kept it moving, now spiraling, as it smashed into the windows sending another intruder out with the sailing glass. Maliq leapt over Ume, and had both shortswords pulled from the wall and in his hands before the thud of the agent and the desk hitting the asphalt reached them from outside.

Maliq stood in front of Ume, twin swords at the ready, their weight familiar in his hands. He knew what was to come next. His breathing slowed as two more agents materialized out of nothing, quickly followed by a hail of gunfire. Maliq stood his ground, deflecting what he could away from himself, and more importantly, Ume. One bullet ripped into his shoulder. That heat never become familiar, no matter how many times he got shot. Another hit his side. That could be bad, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. Now they had to reload. Now was the time to fight.

Maliq took off in a mad dash. One twin blade slid across the stomach of the nearest agent, leaving a bloody smear along its well oiled metal. The second blade was aimed for the neck of another agent, but they raised their rifle just in time, and managed deflected the blade to the side. These aren’t nobodies, Maliq thought. Cloaking tech, and the forethought to stop a blade with their gun. With a spin, he brought the blood covered short sword around and cleaved at the agent’s knee. Not enough forethought, as the blade slide clean through muscle and bone. The two agents hit the ground at the same time, one clutching the stub of their leg, the other dead just not aware of it just yet. Maliq ended them both with a sharp thrust of his blades. The room empty except the two PRISM members, and three dead assassins.

He turned towards Ume, “Does that look like Ammon te—-” his sentence was cut short as three more intruders slid into the broken windows from ropes suspended from above. These ones weren't built for stealth. Each one held a heavy rifle, that even at a quick glance, had been extensively modified. When they fired it sounded like punches of Goodlight himself.

The munitions tore through Maliq. His body convulsed, being held up simply from the pure force of those shots. Even when he fell Maliq never let go of those blades.

Ume screamed. Some ancient words of power, filled with anger, loss, and pure halfing rage. She tossed the water from the bowl. It sprayed out in a large fan, but it never fell to the ground. It coalesced in the air. Started to take form. Like a crashing wave but with arms. Bullets sailed towards Ume through the growing deluge but never made it, they were left floating in the chest of the living water. With a roar it surged forward crashing into one of the hanging heavily armed agents. The elemental tore the enemy free of their ropes and they both sailed out into the blood filled night.

That was all Ume had prepared this day. Ume was not expecting a fight. She was spent. She slowly walked over to where Maliq lay. She could hear the agents reload their heavy rifles, but she didn’t care. Maliq was dead, the records were gone. This was obviously an orchestrated attack, and they wouldn’t be the only one to die this night. She placed her hand on that of her friend, and whispered a small prayer. The last thing Ume saw was the inhale of Maliq’s ragged chest before the onslaught of cold emotionless bullets.

Maliq lifted one of the blades up and looked in the metal surface. It was gore splattered, and a bullet had left a fist sized dent in the metal, but it still stood strong. In the reflection of the blade he could see Ume slumped beside him. “Family.” Maliq gasped the word in between short frenzied breaths. Barely a whisper but to him it was a thunder crash.

Maliq raised himself up to one knee. The blades were not old tools. He barely managed to lift himself up on both feet. The blades were even more than old friends. He looked down at Ume, where she died next to him, and unleashed all his pent up fury. Maliq let the rage consume him.

Maliq charged the two remaining agents. Charged against a torrent of gun fire. Charged for family.

The agent sat in the corner, his trigger finger steady as knocked arrow. He made the gesture for “all clear” to his waiting allies at the end of the hall. They had managed to get this far into the compound, and have yet to meet any resistance. The voices in his sliver all had declared their targets, and where waiting on the signal from their team that they were in position. Light peaked out from under the door and the agent heard movement from within. A faint click and darkness took its place. He sent a mental message through his sliver. They were in position. The signal made.

With a loud explosion, the door to Jarg’s quarters flew off its hinges, slammed into the opposite wall, finally fell to a stop on the floor directly left of his bed. Four assassins, wearing all black with peakers and heavy rifles burst into the room. Two agents immediately opened fire in the bed, the other two took point at the entrance. The stuffing from his bed flew all over the room, and Jarg laid their silently in his hammock, only a few feet above their heads. A Corlian never slept in a bed, not if they spent any amount of time in the jungle, these amateurs should have known that.

The shooters carefully inched forward, their onslaught against the metal springs and cloth blankets temporarily suspended as they investigated the mayhem they unleashed. While the assassins had ceased firing, Jarg could still hear gunshots coming from all over the compound. Wordlessly they made some sort of group decision, and they began sweeping the small room. If they looked up Jarg would find himself full of more holes than his box spring. He would need to act first; that suited him nicely.

Carefully, he slipped his Gallows knife from the sheath tucked inside his small pillow, and waited. He had to act quick. Surprise was his only advantage, and Jarg intended to make full use of it. Slowly, the agents made their short rounds of the room, and as one started to make their way back towards the door Jarg launched himself up and over the edge of his hammock, directly on top of the back most assassin. The bulk of Jarg fell directly on top of the agent, as well as the knife Jarg held in his clenched fist. His weight slamming the blade directly into the spinal column of the enemy combatant. He collapsed without a sound, but that didn’t matter. The crash of two people onto the cement floor was enough to alert the other three agents.

Jarg ripped the knife out of the dead agent’s neck, and sent it flying with deadly precision. It buried itself between the eyes of the nearest agent, but before he fell Jarg was already there wrapping the body up. Like it was choreographed, the two lookouts pulled their triggers, sending bullet after bullet into the back of their dead ally, held up by an angry Corlian. With a surge, Jarg charged using the bullet shield as a battering ram, and slammed the dead assassin headfirst into the agent directly in front of him. The two bodies fell back against the wall one dead, the other simply stunned.

The surprise of the maneuver gave Jarg a brief moment to act. He pulled the sidearm from the belt of stunned agent and placed two shots in their gut, twisted, fell to one knee, and placed three rounds into the chest of the last and final agent. The room was eerily silent, except for the rumbles of explosions and gunfire off in the distance. Jarg decided to do something about that. He placed one shot in the skull each of the agents, reclaimed his knife, a heavy rifle, and all the ammo he could find. With his knife in one hand, and a heavy rifle in the other Jarg Braul went to work.

The path of dead assassins Jarg left in his wake was a testament to Corlian training. Yet, still they came. He needed to find their leader. A full scale assault of this caliber would have a commander of some kind. He pushed into the techno-hall, a squad of agents were leaving the experimental tech room. He knew Maliq had set Ulan, and Bal’Darin to some important task; he didn’t pay much attention to the details of their orders. He wished he had now.

The assassins came in first, taking out immediate resistance, and then the heavies followed up. Slower, but the gear they carried was a lot more fun. One such piece of gear was an earth void-grenade. Jarg pulled the pin and sent it down the hallway towards the approaching agents. A concussive blast sent an agent shooting down towards Jarg like he was shot out of a cannon, only to find a solid concrete wall the only target. To the credit of the remaining agents they tried to react but the nature of the nade made that difficult, as the ripples it sent out into the earth made it almost impossible to stand. Jarg simply had to stand there and empty his clip into the staggering and flailing agents.

Jarg stepped over their bodies, grabbing a few clips as he passed, and headed into the lab in search of Ulan and Bal’Darin. The room was full of smoke; the only thing he could see was two blue glowing points in the haze. They faded as a voice filled the room, “They are dead.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jarg said absently as he scanned the obscured room before him. He needed the voice to keep talking so he could identify where it was coming from though the thick smoke.

“A wraith from the past.” The voice was deep, and almost mechanical except something was off about it. An echo just on the edge of Jarg’s hearing.

“Do you have a name, wraith?” Jarg thought he had found the bastard, but he had to be sure. He circled the room, keeping his back to the wall. The lab was completely empty from what he could tell. That meant Ulan and Bal’Darin did their job. Good.

“Dead men carry no names, Jarg Braun.” The voice seemed to echo from all over the room, though Jarg was sure he had the cryptic asshole now. Gallows, how he hated when they tried to be clever.

Jarg aimed his gun in the direction of where he though the voice was coming from, “Cut the shit. Let's do this.” Jarg opened fire.

The bullets sent smoke twisting and twirling in their path, though all they found was the other side of the room. Two blue lights faintly began to glow right where he had fired.

An android with a clean and powerful chassis broke through the smoke with a slow and methodical stride. If Jarg had to guess it looked like a Balanced Engineering design, though beyond anything he had seen in the field. It was humanoid in nature, though taller and much more lithe than anything he had seen. The shape of its face whispered at something else, morbid, angry, but like the voice it was just at the edge of his perception.

Jarg reloaded with almost unnatural speed, that spoke of a familiarly with the weapon that bordered on obsessive. He tried to pull the trigger but before he could get a shot off the wraith was upon him. Impossible. A strange three bladed weapon had found purchase in Jarg’s shoulder. He felt the blade rubbing against the bone each time he moved. Looking down upon him, the wraith made no sound, and twisted the blade. Jarg screamed and grabbed the arm of the android. He twisted with all his strength trying to dislodge the blade. The pain grew so intense his vision started to grow white at the edges, and yet he pried.

“You are not weak,” the wraith lifted the screaming Corlian by the blade, “You simply lack fortitude.”

Hanging by his shoulder put Jarg at a strange angle, with his right arm hanging down, which suited Jarg just find. He reached into his boot, and pulled out a seeker pistol, and put it against the metal stomach of the android, and pulled the trigger. The bullets never found their target. Jarg looked down and saw that his wrist was wrapped up in that of the wraith, his shot pushed just enough that he could see the scratches of the bullets along the side of the metal chassis.

“You are not slow,” Jarg was twisting in the air, before he was slammed into the ground, a metal clawed foot pressing down on his chest, “You just simply lack talent.” The wraith reached down pulled the blade out of Jarg’s shoulder. The clawed foot held Jarg to the floor. He started to lurch upwards, gallows knife in hand, but before he could connect the wraith struck.

Faster than anything Jarg had ever seen the tri-bladed weapon sunk deep into his abdomen. Jarg grabbed it, has hard as he could, knowing that if the wraith pulled it out he wouldn’t live for much longer, but as long as it was stuck in there he had a chance. In one hand he held the claw blade lodged in his gut, with the other he gripped his Gallows knife.

The android lifted, with barely a show of effort, attempting to pull the blade from Jarg. Jarg’s muscles strained as he held onto the tri-bladed claw pulling himself up with the blade. The two, Jarg and the blade, lifted up off the ground, and where brought before the wraith’s baleful gaze. “You might kill me. But you will never finish PRISM.” Jarg grunted between strained breaths.

As Jarg spat the last words out, he thrust his knife into the shoulder of the wraith. It bit deep.

“You are not wrong.” the android spoke, his face barely an inch from the straining Jarg. Not a single look of pain on his metal face. “You simply lack scope.” With a jerk the wraith pulled his clawed weapon sending Jarg sprawling to the floor. Jarg looked up at the wraith, as it pulled the knife from its chest, and flicked it absently to the floor. The wraith slowly become one with the smoke, the blue eyes fading from Jarg’s vision.

Jarg reached down to grab where the claw had once been, but all he found was strange red snakes, slimey and warm, slithering around in his hands. His head rolled to the side, to where his dagger fell, and laying there was Ulan and Bal’Darin.

Jarg started to laugh, blood spraying his lips and face, “You won’t last long in the jungle, you idiot.” He tried to sit up but those awful snakes wouldn’t let him go. The night sky above him appeared starless, and unfeeling. Not much tree cover, he must have landed in a rare clearing. There was barely any clearings this far in the jungle.

“Just. Need. To. Get. To. High. Ground.” Jarg sputtered. God it was cold. Night must be coming soon. The fog would get him if he didn’t find a tree or something. He reached for his knife, but the sheath was empty. Oh, I dropped it, he thought. Jarg started to look around, if he could find his knife he could cut himself free, and then he would be alright.

“I’m sorry, Helia. I know I promised the jungle wouldn’t get me, not like the others. Not like the others. Gallows, not like the others.”

“Even victory starts to become trite.” Tyfe Rayland yawned as he leaned against an Ammon Hedron Vehicle. It had just recently delivered twenty heavily armored assault personnel. There was fifty more of vehicles dotted around the compound, as well as four Ammon Air Assault units circling above him, their spotlights pointing out runners that quickly fell to the snipers hidden in the thick forest cover beyond.

A limping and gasping Ammon agent in black assault gear ran up to Tyfe. Her helmet was missing, and blood ran from a wound in her scalp. “Sir,” the agent stood tall, and saluted Tyfe before continuing, “there is a Corlian. He has taken out five squads already, and appears to be unharmed. Even our heavies are no match for him.”

Tyfe stood upright, and put his hand on the shoulder of the young soldier, “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I will deal with this matter immediately. In the meantime, head over the med-truck, get that wound looked at, and then the supply truck and see if they have a replacement helmet. I need you back in there soldier.” With a smile the agent took off at a jog, that appeared almost lively. A new resolve planted itself in her heart.

Tyfe was already aware of the problem that was Jarg Braun. He had been aware since the first squad fell. No need to tell her that, he thought. There was a special solution already set in place, that should be coming to a head any minute now, and as soon as that was taken care of he they could get to the grand finale. Bastion Silver. He was tucked in that burning and broken building hiding. Probably drinking a glass of something strong, enjoying the last few moments of his life before his castle came crashing down around him. Just another day to Tyfe Rayland. What's one out of an eternity?

Twenty minutes had passed since the soldier came to him. Tyfe had spent that time mentally arranging his agents. Moving them around the compound for the coming confrontation. A nudge here, a pull there, and soon everything would be in place. So subtle his own agent’s didn't even feel his mental touch. For Tyfe, this came as natural as breathing. Even as a wraith appeared out of the smoke Tyfe never lost his concentration.

Agents scattered before the path of the wraith as it made its way towards Tyfe. He was familiar with this spectre, and was very much aware that the wraith was made of metal. An android and another piece of Tyfe’s plans.

It’s eyes flashed a cold blue as it approached Tyfe. “Unattended, that Corlian would have upset the whole invasion. You were right to send me.” The voice of the android seemed to echo just at the edge of Tyfe’s hearing.

“Of course I was. I hope your dealings with him are finished.” Tyfe didn’t need to point out the hole in the android’s chest, and scratches along his side to make his point understood.

“He no longer breathes.” The android did not try to hide the annoyance in his tone.

“Good!” Tyfe clapped his hands, walked over to the vehicle, and pulled out a longsword housed in an unadorned sheath, “I would hate to be late for my three-O’clock.” Tyfe Rayland and the Wraith walked into a burning and besieged PRISM.

Lights flickered on and off, as the two walked down the halls of PRISM. Agents both Ammon and PRISM darted from room to room. Each time a PRISM agent got their sites on either Tyfe or the wraith an Ammon agent would end the enemy before they got a shot off, or if they were not fast enough, would take a bullet for them. All mostly a reflex for Tyfe that he didn’t consciously think about anymore

The two reached a small waiting room. The only place they had seen so far that appeared to have been spared in the siege. A young lady sat behind a desk, typing frantically on a void-glass screen, and answering calls on at least three different h-comms. When she noticed Tyfe in his business suit, and the metal wraith enter the room she waved them towards the massive oak doors beside her, “The Director will see you now.” she said without skipping a beat. It was obvious to Tyfe that she was directing the defense of PRISM.

“Ma’am. If you leave now, I promise no harm will come to you. You have my word.” Tyfe spoke with both authority, and an unnatural calmness.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I will not be able to comply with your request. Now, If don’t mind I have much work to do.” As she spoke the doors beside her opened.

Standing before the three of them Bastion Silver motioned to Tyfe, and the android, “Please, Ms. Crow, listen to Mr. Rayland. In this I believe his word, you will be safe.”

Tyfe Rayland took a shallow bow, “What use are lies when you’ve already won?” as he rose he added towards Bastion, “And that is Lord Rayland, Director.”

"I am no longer acting director, Lord." Bastion spoke with poise, and dignity. He refused to show them an ounce of emotion. Though, he was definitely hurting. Tyfe was sure of it.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Tyfe gestured to the crumbling building around them.

“It would appear that way, but I had given up the title a few days ago.” As Bastion spoke Tyfe just studied him. He was up to something. There was always some last gambit by people like Silver.

"Will your associate be joining us, Lord Rayland?” Bastion motioned towards the android.

“Yes, he will.” Tyfe gave a crooked smile, “I hope you don’t mind the unannounced visit.” Tyfe’s jabs where constant but Bastion Silver never seemed to let them through his armor. Tyfe didn’t mind as this was half the fun.

The office Bastion led them into was filled with boxes, some labeled with ink, some others with arcane marks. In the middle of the room was a sizeable desk made of an exotic dark wood. Sitting on the desk was a bottle of fine brandy, two glasses, and a chess board; the pieces already in various states of play.

“Forgive my rudeness, I was not prepared for the extra guest. But, we can make due.” Bastion moved behind the desk and brought forth a chair. “Please, sit, I will get us some drinks, and then I will properly introduce myself.”

Tyfe took a seat, crossing his legs, and took note of the room. The boxes had been labeled with the contents, a few said ‘diplomas’, others said ‘photos’ but most said ‘books’. The walls now barren. An expensive carpet rolled up in the corner. Tyfe always fancied that rug, perhaps be would take it.

“So, you stepped down? Who would be the lucky S.O.B that gets your job?” Tyfe was jovial. This was a good day.

“Toronga,” Bastion started going through boxes.

Tyfe didn’t reply. That was not who he was expecting. The halfling maybe, but the Artorian? He seemed so...unstable. He would have to look more into this guy. He tucked that away for later.

Bastion had his back turned to the two, as he rifled through a box labeled ‘bar’. One glass, two chairs, one game. All the rooms but this one have been cleared out moments before Ammon forces arrived. Somehow Silver knew he was coming. “How did you figure it out?” Tyfe asked, genuinely curious.

With a crystal glass in his hand, Bastion turned to Tyfe, “The wine. One of the oldest bottles I have ever encountered.” Silver walked to the table and placed the glass among the other two, and proceeded to pour the brandy in each of the glasses as he continued to talk, “From the Reth Empire. Still enchanted, too. A declaration of war, though subtle is still a declaration.”

“You are truly one of the most clever people I have had the opportunity to challenge, and yet here you are, with all your intelligence, defeated.” Tyfe crossed his legs, and leaned back in the chair. This was the best part, the moment to savor.

“And here I am, defeated.” Bastion Silver handed Tyfe a glass, as well as the android, raised the one he held and gave a toast, “To war.”

“To victory.” Tyfe proffered his glass.

The two drank as the Wraith just watched, his glass still in his hand, the contents untouched. He held the glass out and tipped it. The liquid slowly pouring onto the hardwood floor. “Enough.” The strange echo of the Wraith’s voice seemed to be exaggerated in the empty office.

Silver walked around his desk and stood behind it. Held his arms out in a grand gesture. “Pardon my rudeness, I am Bastion Silver. Ex-director —”

“I know who you are.” The wraith interrupted as he stood. His glass shattering in a closed metal fist. “And you will know me. Again.” He spoke as he took two steps towards Bastion.

The wraith leaned up against the desk. As tall as his android and as wide as the desk was, his metal face was a mere inches from bastion’s. Much to the credit of Silver he did not flinch at the android’s aggression. Bastion’s face was one of calculation. Trying to determine who this newcomer was, Tyfe guessed.

The wraith reached a long metal arm out and swept it across the table. The force shattered the bottle of brandy, and sent the chess pieces flying across the room. With a closed fist the wraith smashed a fist down onto chest board, and then pulled back, and stood staring at Bastion Silver.

Silver looked down at the damage. A chess piece was lodged in the wood of the board, about a quarter of an inch deep. There was no doubt to Tyfe that the piece could have been sent through the board, desk and into the basement if his android willed it. Tyfe sat and watched the events unfold. This was much more interesting than just the normal gloating and combat of words that came with this kind of victory.

Bastion’s eyes grew wide. He reached out and touched it lightly. Even from Tyfe’s relaxed position he could tell the chess piece was not ordinary. A strange symbol was engraved onto it, the piece itself was made of a strange crystal. Bastion managed to pull it from the wood and held it up for inspection. A bishop.

“No.” Silver simply mouthed the word. No sound escaped his lips.

“Yes, Bastion Silver.” The Android said, his voice excited, and angry at the same time. “Say it, Silver.” This time as he spoke the android grabbed the hand that held the bishop.

“Otimal Crost.” Bastion’s emotion finally broke through. “You should be dead. The world doesn’t need anymore of your kind.” Hate and fear both shone in his eyes.

Otimal laughed.

“Well, that was just delightful, but I think I am going to have to call this meeting to an end.” Tyfe stood and the world twisted in his vision. The room spun, and pain shot through his chest. The light burned at his eyes.

With a twist of one hand Otimal tossed Bastion through the air. He crashed into a pile of boxes. Otimal walked to where Tyfe stood, swaying slightly.

“Poison.” Tyfe spit up black viscous fluid as he talked. He looked at Otimal, and laughed, more black bile spilling from his lips. “He thought poison would end me?”

Tyfe moved to the pile of boxes Bastion Silver fell into. The man was still there, but breathing shallowly. A pool of green mucus and vomit under his head. Tyfe grabbed the man and hefted him up, “You are a fool, Bastion Silver.”

“You won’t take me alive.” Silver spat a green sludge in the face of Tyfe Rayland.

“You have never been so wrong, Bastion Silver.” Tyfe opened his mouth. More than humanly possible. Bones cracked as the jaws kepting widening. Skin tore, and split. A scream started deep in Tyfe’s chest. Not a scream. The buzzing of flies. Millions of small black flies poured from Tyfe Rayland. They swarmed the sick and dying Bastion Silver. In his eyes, his mouth, his ears. So many they all couldn't fit, so they began to burrow. The flies tore and scoured the flesh of Bastion Silver, revealing not flesh and bone but vines and tendrils. The flies disappeared into the body of Bastion. His breathing grew stronger. His eyes closed but moved with a frantic energy under his lids. The wounds the flies left began to heal, closing as the tendrils within reknit his skin.

Tyfe tossed the unconscious body of Bastion Silver to Otimal, “That was interesting. He will live, though I'm unsure if it will be because of me or his own inhuman nature. Let us leave. I’ll have the scorchers come in and clean this up.”

Tyfe picked up his blade and turned to leave, but something crunched on the ground as he walked. A glass frame, a picture of Bastion Silver and various members of PRISM shattered under Tyfe Rayland’s heel.

A small lychal lay hidden under a sink. His blue skin glowing green from the void glass of his multi-tool. One hand pressed to a grievous wound in his stomach. The words, “Upload Complete” flashed before him. Victory. He told the old man to trust a lychal with this. Zeteryx always wins in the end. And this was the end.