The Mak Toras Chronicles

Chapter 14 - Sentiment

Lights bleeped to each touch of men at work and systems ran wild as functions came from one operation to another. Electricity flashed upon screens like the dawn shining through the clouds within an instant. Their monitors simmered from one message to another as crowds of soldiers flooded the network with signals and commands or merely for the sole purpose of standard communication. Soldiers passerby managed to catch a glimpse of the lights and machinery before departing off to their duties
In the Atlesian military, everyone was busy-not a soul was left unappropriated with a task; an average day in the military. Ranging from cadets in training to the higher authorities tending to leading forces in missions many dare not venture, everyone was busy. Their computed minds focused onto their machinery and monitor displays, greeting the lights in such a blank stare that even they appeared as the robotics themselves. Helmets, battle armor, guns kept close as a drill to quickly bear arms, soldiers left and right were not only trained to manage systems in the military but armed to the teeth. There was no emotion, no dreaming of the days past and those ahead, no feelings uttered in thought but the set minds of men and women bored into their job as hollow vessels.
The doors to the main control room opened with a hiss, sliding to a presence of more atlesian soldiers. Yet amongst them was a being of higher authority, an atlesian whose stature was not mistaken for a mere footman. Men around paid their respects, standing up to salute his company before sitting back down to their ensuing data which ran the circuits never-ending its route. The man, on the other hand, proceeded to his terrace, watching over his troops as a lion would with its pride, carefully examining movements below of each individual. Soldiers left to right were hooked to the technicalities that are their computers and all which bleeped and sounded functions to one another.
Everyone had a different task at hand: one group of men kept the monitors and security on high alert; another sent to investigate personally as their presence left through the main doors in a wisp of dread. People scattered everywhere across the city and control rooms alike. Feelings were snuffed out by the mere art of wanting more-the desire to know. Information flooded to and fro since the tragic fall of Eterna just recently. Yet all seemed lost for a straight answer for every piece of data, no such result had qualified.
    The general kept a close eye at each monitor's visuals. His attention focused mainly on the devices rather than his own men, awaiting for data to come swiftly to his gadgets stowed away. Nothing was more heart-wretching than the yearning of good news, lest the bad news was inevitable to be present. Surely, something would pierce the veil of his silent waiting. A familiar voice rang through his tablet in fizzed static as if their connection would break.
     "General Ironwood, sir. This is Lieutenant Marshal reporting loud and clear, over." At last, some relief from the beckoning silence that haunted the entire room; in amidst of all the bleeps and circuits, there stood a discernable sound. Ironwood hesitated before making his next order. A team of his best men were sent to investigate the damage done, reporting that they had found something unusual: footprints-leading away from the rubble the compound once hailed.
    "Have you found any signs of life?" He questioned, hoping for there to be a 'yes'. One life found meant one more saved besides the lost lineage of Eterna.
    "Negative. Only footprints trailing off to who knows where," Marshal paused, "but recent evidence suggests it leads to Vale." Communications grinded to a halt for the next response, though every cut-off seemed like closed case. It reopened with haste, nearly catching the general off guard. "I've sent Captain Larson to follow the tracks. The rest of us have the perimeter checked out. They could be anywhere, sir." It fizzed out to the last slip of Marshal's voice.
    "Keep looking," said Ironwood, "there has to be someone still out there." Even though it appeared bleak and pointless to keep the relentless search on for just one person, Ironwood reinstated his haunting decision. Alive or not, finding a body outside the scene was imperative to the evidence furthering the Whitefang's involvement. Ironwood's heart sank to the dreadful thought until communications with the lieutenant came back into the fold just minutes later along with another member on board. Marshal's tone was rather hopeful this time.
"General Ironwood, sir, we have a solid lead. Captain Larson led a small expedition upon some more tracks," he paused, "from the looks of it they were followed. Larson can tell you more, sir." In a laconic diallect, Marshal departed from the channel in way for Larson's entry. The comms fizzed again with adjustment to a new channel.
"Glad to hear from you, sir. Going off what Marshal said, we did find more tracks-in the city walkways-looks as if the suspect was on the run from something-," the comms bugged out for a brief moment, "-it's leading to an alleyway. Moving to inspect." Another cut off left Ironwood silent in amidst of the footsteps and quiet chatter of other men; relieved yet wary of what the expedition would find. Scuffles were soon broken into rapid shifts and a jolt to Larson's camera, cursing under his breath.
"Holy f-," the device hit concrete with a loud thud, "-oh damn...holy shit," Larson said feeling shocked. Ironwood sat upright to the fear in his voice, sending chills down his spine like scorpions that clammered their way the bone. Audio feed broke off and on as his captain attempted to reshape its posture. Whatever he found, Ironwood grew uneasy.
    "What is it, Captain Larson?"
    "Damn..."
    "Larson!" He raised his voice.
    "Oh-uh-sorry, sir. It's just...," Larson trailed off before continuing, "they're all dead."
    Ironwood lifted an eyebrow. He was uncertain of the exact suspects.
    "Who is? Can you provide a visual?" The camera flickered from static to a clear view of the scene. Upon sighting, Ironwood's blood went cold as the monitor rejuvenated to life for all prying eyes. Nothing but silence filled the room of damped fear, wallowed away by the still bodies below him.
    "By the powers," he muttered, taking a trembling breather.
    "Nothing but a bloody mess," said Larson, walking amongst the dead; their uniforms torn to shreds by claw marks and some dismembered via bites and cuts-all uniforms which beared the mark of the Whitefang. There was indeed a sinister presence that left its calling card riddled before the atlesian soldiers. A presence which haunted their innocent eyes and soul down to the very core. Larson's voice trailed on as he visited each open-casket of a grave; a pile of rotten flesh and dead adversaries.
    "They've been here for at least a day. Rate of decomposition is still fresh," he said puzzled. Ironwood rested his posture into his chair, exhaling what was left of his icy blood and frozen air of fear.
    "I don't get it though-who could've done such a thing?" Ironwood's lust for answers only soared the longer he stared through the visors.
    "No clue, sir. But one thing's for sure it wasn't a Grimm attack," Larson said, pausing for a moment until snapping attention to a nearby soldier. "Sergeant Jacobs! Prep the body bags and-whatever's left of them." The soldier responded with a monotonous 'yes, sir' and hurried off; others followed in his footsteps, scurrying away like mice on the hardwood floor. Soon after, Marshal entered the channel in a rush, jumping in before Larson could even respond. Ironwood sat patiently to hear him out.
    "General, I found something you might wanna see."
    "What is it?"
    "A key to the trails: there is a survivor. That alleyway, the forest prints-my men tracked the remaining footprints ahead of time. They say that the tracks end bluntly in the middle of a clearing." Marshal's report slowly quenched the burning fire of desires inside Ironwood for information.
Finally a solid lead...
    "So what, whoever it was just-disappeared?" Larson inquired.
    "It would appear so, captain."
    "Then what about the ID of this person? Is there any evidence on who it was?" Ironwood cut the chase faster than his footmen had presumed. There was a long pause before resuming.
    "Data is inconclusive but whoever it was did managed to leave a calling card-stained on the grass...I'll bring samples back to the lab." Marshal's comm soon went dark, announcing his departure, Larson repeating his notion and clearing the line soon after. All but Ironwood remained in the comms before exiting, placing his glove upon his head, denying the horror we witnessed. Just one person alone managed to slay several faunus armed to the teeth, barely getting away with their own life and, somehow, fading out of existence twofold. Out of all that transpired, something rather peculiar came... made its mark in stone.