Remembrance

Chapter 2 - Aurelia

I spin back to face the crumbling structure, eyebrows raised, but nothing seems to have changed. Only now, Adam's coolly walking towards me, a holopad resting in his neatly gloved hand. 

I can't help but shake my head. He seems to be clean and precise as ever, with his perfectly pressed uniform. It looks like he chose to step into a well-ordered military office instead of an active terrorist site. 

Despite the plumes of dust and debris, his black boots are still shined to perfection, as are the double row of silver buttons lining his tunic. Even his blonde hair is neatly slicked, with that ever-present curl. I'm not sure of his age; Adam has a particular way of looking like he could be any age, from early-twenty to mid-thirty. 

He's served as my personal adjutant for the past two years, and I've never seen him as anything other than the most disciplined officer. Sometimes I wish I had that level of restraint. We may be wearing identical uniforms, but his undoubtedly looks (far) neater than mine.

My eyes catch on his right sleeve, and I suddenly understand what caused the small group of people to flee in panic. Our clothes aren't perfectly identical, after all. Where I have only grey fabric, he's affixed our standard-issue black armband, with the neat ISP Secret Police lettering. 

Once in earshot, he offers a precise salute. "I have two additional deaths to report, Regiment-Leader." I'm still not used to Adam's voice, and I don't think I ever will be. It's coolly modulated with the slightest English accent, and his words are each precise and unfeeling. It sounds unnatural, somehow.

I nod at the information and wave to proceed. 

"One has been confirmed to be a Viztula operative," Adam continues. 

I raise my eyebrows, and am about to reply, but several unexpected shouts distract me. They're coming from the Viztula girl, several dozen feet away (sixty-five, to be exact). I spin to see what's going on, and only have a quick second to take in the scene. 

A dark-haired, short, athletic-looking boy has appeared and is charging towards the group of solders guarding the girl. He's wearing only black layers (pants and a shirt) like he might somehow be trying to blend into the shadows, even though it's the middle of the day. 

The logical side of my brain immediately flares up in contempt. Is he trying to fight eleven well-trained army officers? He's much younger than the uniformed men (a disadvantage) and doesn't even appear to be armed. They all carry heavy assault rifles. His probability of success is extraordinarily low. Maybe he's crazy.

But then, with a powerful leap, the boy arrives at the group of officers and I'm forced to reconsider.

The closest officer raises his gun to bear down on the boy, but he sends it flying from the man's hand like a trinket with one kick. The boy then flings his elbow into the officer's head, sending the man crumpling to the ground. Two other solders quickly raise their guns, only to suffer similar fates. I blink several times, not believing what I'm seeing, but I'm not insane. He just snapped one of their rifles straight down the middle, like a cheap toy. 

I start running at full speed towards the boy, my hair streaming out behind me. My heart's already begun frantically beating in my chest, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping in my blood. I'm still surprised, but now for different reasons: no one takes down three armed officers in four short seconds.

I instinctively reach for my handgun, but stop myself. I don't want to kill this boy. I want him alive, for questioning. I need answers. If he's a Viztula operative, he'll likely have a great deal of valuable information.

He kicks another solder who crumples like a piece of aluminum foil. Just as I reach within ten feet of him, an ISP officer in full combat armor manages to fire off several shots, one of which hits the boy in the leg. But, despite the injury, he still manages to fly forward at the agent. He throws a closed fist hard at the man, hitting him through the armor. The agent still crashes unmoving into the ground like the rest.  

I'm close enough now to catch the boy off guard. With a smooth slice of my leg, I sweep his feet out from under him. He crashes to the floor, but he doesn't stay down for long. After a half-second, he flips back onto his feet and lunges at me. He swings his fists down at my neck in a smooth arcing motion. I manage to dodge both his strikes, but I'm not prepared for the well-placed kick he sends snapping into my stomach.

I stumble backwards, momentarily out of breath, but he doesn't let up. Instead, the boy throws two punches at my left shoulder. I dodge one and manage to block the other. He tries to kick up at me again, but this time I'm prepared, and I firmly grab his ankle with both my hands. Just as I'm about to yank him forward, he slams an elbow down my wrists with inhuman speed.

I clench my teeth. I try to ignore the pain, but my grip still loosens on his leg and he manages to rip it from my hands. I swing a hard fist at the side of his head, trying to keep the upper hand, and it connects. He hardly acknowledges the blow. Instead, he spins his body around in a smooth circular motion. I hardly have time to react before his foot appears out of nowhere,  aimed for my chest. I just manage to block it with my arms. Still, the kick sends me twisting to the ground.

I cough, my lungs sore from the impact, and the copper taste of blood tinges in my mouth. The boy's fighting is careful and precise—I've been meticulously trained in hand-to-hand combat, and he's easily keeping up with me.

I wait until he's close enough, then swing my legs out with all my strength. The move catches him unprepared, and he falls to the ground like before. But this time, I don't give him the chance to stand. Instead, I pop back onto the balls of my feet and shoot my leg up high off the ground, sending all my strength into a kick. My foot catches the side of the boy's face with a hard thud just as he begins to rise from the cement, and he stumbles backward. Still, he somehow manages to stay upright. 

I don't press the attack. Instead, I prepare a steady defense, waiting for him to fling himself towards me. I carefully place my feet shoulder-width apart, rest on the balls of my feet, and bend my knees, ready to absorb the impact of his attack. My lungs scream in anger, but I don't pay them any attention. A small rush of relief runs through me as I see the girl in the corner of my eye, unmoved from her place on the curb. 

The boy turns back towards me, a small trickle of blood running down the side of his temple. I meet his eyes for the first time and raise my hands, preparing for another strike. He doesn't step forward, like I expect, though. Instead, he freezes, stuck in place. A strange expression seems to ripple across his face, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He stays motionless like that for a whole second before he opens his mouth.

"Aurelia?" He says, a slight waver in his voice. "Wh—" 

I hardly have time to react. Several feet behind me, a loud crack rings out before the boy has a chance to continue. The deafening sound reverberates in my ears and, at first, I think someone has tried to shoot me. But then I recognize the sound of the weapon: a XTM-9 handgun, standard Issue for ISP agents. 

After that, a tingling feeling courses over my skin, and everything seems to happen in slow motion. 

I see the boy instinctively step back, a look of fear appearing in his eyes. Then, as if struck in the face, his head snaps to the side and he begins to collapse backward, his arms limp. I see blood, bright red, explode from his forehead. The thud as his body lifelessly hits the ground echoes in my ears. 

Several feet away, the girls eye's go wide in surprise, and then in anger. I see the muscles in her arms flex as she instinctively pulls against the binders, and her mouth opens as she shouts. Tears have started streaming down her face, but I don't hear a sound of her yelling and crying. Before she has a chance to move from her spot on the ground, another gunshot rings out. She too collapses towards the ground, crumpling into the concrete. 

I turn, desperately searching for the source of the two shots, the world slowly spinning around me like some sort of amusement ride. I don't have to look for long. Ten feet away, Adam's standing with a slender weapon clutched in his extended hand, a plain look on his face. No anger, no concern. No satisfaction, even. He's just. . . expressionless. 

He keeps the sidearm trained on the girl for a beat longer, until he's sure she has died. Then, he carefully returns it to his hip in once precise motion. "My apologies, ma'am," he says, his cool English accent quiet over the ringing in my ears, "for the delay."