"Almost Green"

Brain Damage

Right hand on his heart, the left one instinctively groping for the feel of metal.

A flash from the clear sky, the message of gods. Explosions soon enveloped the street in their booming symphony – the kind of sound that would terrify even those of hearts chiseled from the toughest stones. Andy gazed upon the sight, upon the pale wide yonder, but alas saw nothing. No gods, no Law, no stars to guide him – no W, no Mostima, no voices of Ricketts, or Droz, or Seven, or anyone else he's lost – absolutely noone came to his aid. The severed legs of the L.G.D. officer offered no recluse either – their empty faces etched into the knee-pads stared blankly, nudging him to move. To run. To do anything but lie motionless.

Yells erupted from everywhere. Battle war-cries, shouts of terror, orders barked into shortwave radios – all blending into one soup of absolute and utter chaos.

Andy blinked again. His heart couldn't handle it.

He rose to his feet in an instant, whiplash biting his occiput. His first and foremost priority wasn't his fleeting life, but the poor girl by his side.

"C-... Fuck, Crossie? Crossie?"

He spat into the wind. In the time it took him to spill the words, his eyes witnessed three, maybe four slum-dwellers being impaled by steel-tipped L.G.D. spears. Retching and gurgling of throats slit wide open gave the air a faint shade of red. Footsteps erupted all around, shadows passing and throwing themselves past his shoulders. Nudged here and there, Andy felt their thirsty claws pulling him in all directions, trying desperately to tear apart the skin carapace and access the soft, tender flesh inside – the soft and tender soul.

A voice broke them all apart – parted, like clouds letting through a bright, beaming sunshine.

"B-... Andy? Andy, I'm g-good. I'm all good, baws." She huffed from the floor, soon being pulled to her feet. Thank the Law, her stomach wound seemed miniscule. Just a little cut, a tiny valley amidst a sea of purplish hurt. How did it get there? Andy couldn't gather the words to ask. His brain, a fly-catching net, couldn't grasp the whimsy letter-butterflies frolicking aimlessly about his brain.

"Thank Law... thank Law..." He murmured, eyes running wildly around the entire street. A street? Could you even call this place a street anymore?

The battlefields of Kazdel seemed more civilized at that point. At least there, slivers of the so-called "merc solidarity" shone through from time to time. A Sarkaz spared a life, a fallen Sankta took a stray in.

But here?

In Lungmen?

The beating heart of capitalism? The money-making capital of Yan?

Lights. Lights filled his eyes whole. Not neons for once, mind you.

Arts flew in every and each direction, being exchanged with bolts and throwing knives, spears and whatever else the dwellers had on hand. Rocks, bricks, bottles, Durin merchants, cutlery, bits and pieces of metal – it all passed the two, being flung in each and every direction. Andy directed his gaze at a group of L.G.D. personnel holding their ground in a circle-like formation, batons held high and upfront, beating the everliving shit out of anything that dared come close. Many mindless rag-clad extremists ran to break their ranks, but only one had succeeded. A caster, standing on top of a windowless car-wreck flung their arms high up into the air, conjuring a beautiful display of what Oripathy was truly capable of. A rain of pure, roaring fire rained down upon the turtle-shell, drowning out the screams with its sizzling screech. Before the caster could turn and take aim at another group of peacekeepers, his head came split apart, spilling the brain for everyone to see – like yolk from a broken egg, the whole thing splattered down his dusty cloak and stained the street. An L.G.D. sniper at work.