GRAVESKIES

Chapter 3

When Varian soldiers and prison guards stormed out of the truck, Ryu did what she always does. Willow took her time and thought herself stupid. Meanwhile, Ryujin positioned herself at the start of the race with every chance she got. I'll win this. Because God, I'm so fucking hungry to be great.

And sometimes she got this maniacal rush that made everything a little bit more intense and magical. Wings adorned with blades. Skies open and turbulent, falling over pretty, blushed cheeks.

(In moments of clear sight, Ryu would realize she'd always been complete and all that starvation was just a prolonged rite of birth.)

That day was exactly like that.

She plunged towards them like thunder. Spread her wings to scatter the enemy troops' formation. With an inhale, she pushed herself in the air to gain a vantage point over the canyon.

Fifty soldiers of Belvarre versus their thirty. A huge vehicle humming with chains and screams of pain and confusion. Canyon walls swelling like waves in the distance. Sunburn and dust clouds. Open field.

Varian weapons often hooked at the sharp end; some had multiple curved switching blades designed specifically for impairing and disabling Mutants. Their armors were fit for desert and dryness, and their goggles could automatically clear up their vision in case of a sandstorm. Many straps and protective layers were nailed to the thick, light-colored material of their gear.

Ryujin's feet dented the ground she landed on. Metal flashed at her wrists; her fingers tightened around black, leatherbound handles. Wings startled clouds of dust before gathering at her back. Ryujin spun on her heels, gaining speed and tensing her arms, steadfast, before slamming her sword sideways into the first enemy soldier she saw. The other woman had no time to escape; Ryujin's mace followed, and the body crumpled to the ground. Red splattered sand.

To the right, Willow had started melding her surroundings expertly. Her hands moved graciously; she squinted with focus and precision. Every motionless thing comprised her canvas. Hard ground bent into waves, and three enemy soldiers sunk up to their knees. Earth rippled around them. Each wave that rose to rip weapons away and immobilize adversaries keeled under her steel-hard control. The job was meticulous and volatile. Any slip, any crash would turn the forms into complete chaos. And because she couldn't dominate a wide outreach yet, Willow risked to be swallowed whole.

She slashed the heads of the soldiers who'd fallen into her net. Blood splashed her body; she stood tall and impassive behind the gushing stumps. The Guillotine, avid fans called her, because Willow beheaded her victims en masse.

When she turned her laser-sharp focus to Ryu, she knew it was time.

The waves fell back into place. Willow ran and leaped up. Ryu caught her in the air. They were flying, and the exhilaration on Willow's face made Ryujin feel an indescribable rising. Eyes sharp, muscles tight like knives, they zoomed over the battlefield.

"Three o'clock," Willow pointed. There, an Akan soldier struggled against three Varians. At a closer look, he had the ability to change the temperature of one's body, but it only functioned on one person at a time. Ryu held Willow's waist tightly; Willow shifted her hold of her swords. Three slashes was all it took.

A new enemy replaced them in no time.

Ryu grabbed her arm and felt Willow's muscles tense. Threw her in the air and Willow arched like a gymnast, before approaching the ground at the same time as Ryu did. For a split second, they synchronized, and then slash. A choir of metal. Steel-hard lighting bolts in tandem. The soldier's arms tumbled to the ground.

Someone blew out one of Willow's weapons and Ryujin seamlessly melted into their duel, mace in one hand and longsword in the other, taking over until Willow had time to pull out a spare. More soldiers jumped to the aid of that poor bastard. They had no chance. Where Ryujin couldn't reach, Willow had already arrived. What Willow couldn't see, Ryu had already run into the ground. Back to back, left to right, replay-retry, they functioned as a system. They had an instinctual knowledge of each other's blind spots, and filling those spaces was undistilled muscle memory. That was the meaning of opus.