Brady Tyson's Walk Along the Precipice

The Things That Humans Cannot Bear - 13

 A sea of people stretches out in front of me. They're lit by dirty, old, yellow light bulbs that hang unprotected from the bare ceiling above. This place, this abandoned gymnasium, couldn't be further from where I started this... mission.

God, that sounds so corny.

'Mission.'

Like I'm from some run of the mill spy novel. But usually in those books the heroes at least know that whatever they're fighting is a threat to the world. We're fighting, what? Abstract concepts of human fears personified in alien flesh? Not only is the entire concept unbelievable, the stakes are completely blown out of proportion. Even if these things succeed in... whatever it is they're doing, I can't even picture a world 'ruled' by them. Maybe this 'virus' that they're infecting people with will actually make them stay young forever, or something.

Well, maybe that isn't a blessing either...

...

Regardless, here I sit. Pretending to be a secret agent under these yellow bulbs. With another dead man staring at my back as I keep moving forward. Even if this place had those blindingly sterile white lights from the cave base way back when, I don't think that I would be able to make out the faces in the sea of people in front of me.

"Ahem." Eight taps the microphone on the podium in front of him. It makes a low-pitched droning sound, likely from age, but otherwise seems fine.

I'm sitting behind him and to his right on the stage in front of the gymnasium. Tarrance, likewise, is sitting next to me on my right. He's shifting awkwardly in his seat. Must be the first time having this many eyes in front of him.

A wry grin twists onto my lips. I know exactly what he's feeling right now. I first felt it when I had my first professional cage match for Mr. Argyros as a kid. Of course, it's something I got over quickly. Not that I had a choice.

"...reported back to the brass that we've arrived in Cairo and are preparing to continue our mission." Eight has started talking, and I pull myself out of my head to pay attention. He shifts his interlaced fingers around on the podium. "But of course, this is to be expected. Now, sadly, I have to do something that I--thankfully--haven't had to do in a while now. In Brazil we lost a good soldier. Akil Ibrahim. Of course, you're all familiar with him. He was one of the great representatives in a war far beyond comprehension. He was chosen specifically for his aptitude, his understanding, his resistance to these beasts that we have created.

"And he resisted them until the very end. Tragically, he succumbed to an injury sustained in the Eien space in São Paulo. However! This man. This noble man. He helped us fell two legs before he left. Two! Two, with no casualty barring his own! Before, we lost men by the dozens. Now... Now, thanks to people like Akil. Thanks to his bravery, we might just be able to win this thing."

Before I know it I have launched myself into Eight's side. My cheek buries into his spongy shoulder as my hand claws at his shirt. His arm, flailing as he falls, catches onto the microphone, knocking it over. A shrill ringing emanates throughout the vast room as my fist slams into his face again and again.

"You- fuck!" Slam. "Akil didn't fucking die in some noble sacrifice!" Slam. "He killed himself because of that magic you showed him!" Slam. "That mirror absolved his guilt!" Slam. "And left him with what?" Slam. "Nothing!" Slam. "Nothing but the torture that is this 'mission!'"

With fist of crimson falling down once more, my eyes widen as Eight's own hand darts up incredibly fast, catching mine with it.

My fist covered with his blood.