Nobody's Servant, Act 1

Crack The Ribs [vore (briefly)]

Whatever happened in Jeden that day, we need not speculate. Now it is happening here.

This little bureau in view of the above-ground train line, once a quaint and cozy sight from afar on my commutes, blazes around me as the drifting storm of crackling firebombs overtakes it.

The sanctifier agent carrying me skids to a stop, their hidden face turning in short, sharp adjustments as if tuning into something, and then they bolt again, through the beginnings of an inferno.

"Where are we going?" I ask, raising my voice to be heard over the overwhelming clash of sounds that drowns the city now.

"Somewhere safer!" they reply, and I'm actually a little surprised I got an answer at all.

I lean my head back, looking past them to make sure the one carrying Yhana is still in tow. Good, they are; I think Samsara knew how much I'd object if we were separated. Kyra is left to catch up on foot but she's outpacing the stragglers at least. Most of the other subway survivors figured out they should be following the majority of the sanctifiers and vigil herding them out of the station, but a few have started to follow us instead.

We veer left, taking another street so as to stay out of the open, but there's still enough space between buildings and foliage here to take in the horizon.

It is dark as the evening now, as smoke fills the sky, wreathing up around the bulbous disk in the sky that rains anguish onto Iyakamraa, every few minutes striking again with its sunbeam and evaporating stone and bone with equal ease. The fireflies have come out, confused by the early dimness, dancing among embers and burning to death alongside the people who cared for them.

Aircraft slice through the low altitudes; Dominion gliders chase aberrated warkites, scanning the streets for survivors and barking propaganda.

"...and when the doctor cleanses plague from her patient, she is not called slayer..."

Warden Oleander howls his patriotic sermon in reply, his holograms barely visible in the smog, "...for our way is Prosperity and Prosperity has bred Strength enough to..."

It is overwhelming; blown-out loudspeakers echoing...

"...and when the farmer purges locusts from his crops, it is not called war..."

...against the endless, booming report of guns near and far, loud enough on their own to pierce the rising and falling drone of air raid sirens.

"...withstand any foe, any foulness, any arrogance that dares underestimate us as vermin!"

"...and when final gratitude is wrung by silk from the throat of the redeemed heretic, it is not called death!"

One of the kites draws near, short arms with sharp talons fidgeting as its single large, implanted eye refocuses.

It never catches sight of us.

"Nayreans! Crack the ribs and rip out what is owed!"

In time with Oleander's rallying cry, twin lances of scorching heat spear the body of the warkite and silence its recorded voice for good, like a viper's fangs impaling a bird mid-flight.

The pilot adjusts course, continuing their hunt as their kill spirals down; I could almost cheer about it except it's coming our way. The warkite smashes into a building just behind me, descending along with the rubble.

Most of the stragglers have it handled, casting to get themselves out of the way, grabbing up any spent fellows to ferry them to safety. Kyra does not.

Kyra dives, hitting the cobblestones in an attempt to get out from under the crushing weight that threatens to bear down on her but she won't clear it.