The Morningstar Brigade

Chapter 4

IV

FAUST

174 A.E.F.

The Pit, Earth

Faust looked down at the bodies of his allies, their motionless frames strewn across those of his enemies. He felt a hard lump form in his throat as his eyes slowly moved over the armor of the men and women that had once stood shoulder to shoulder beside him. His ink-black hair was a messy clump of violence and sweat.

"There's no one left now," he said to himself slowly as his leg arched over a fallen foe. "There's just me." The weary warrior knelt down and gently placed the pads of his fingers on a slain comrade's eyelids. He slid the grim shutters over the wide, unblinking eyes and looked away. He rose and did the same for each that had fought by his side, whispering some small prayer as he moved. But the words were hollow now; he hardly had any emotion, any faith, left to give. They were a reflex. Nothing more.

He cursed as he stood. "Again and again. It keeps happening. I keep...." Faust's voice drifted off as he struck the heel of his fist against a sheet-iron wall. "I keep losing people." His back slammed against the rusted metal as he slid down into an uncomfortable seat in the rubble. The barely-audible sound of his panting accompanied steady, warm wisps of breath appearing and then vanishing against the cold air of the chamber. "Is this what you wanted? Is this where I'm supposed to be?" he asked the darkness, rolling his head back against its uncharitable resting spot and gazing into the sterile glow of fluorescent panels.

Though the stars might have hung bright in the sky above, none shone on Faust. The Pit, as some guard lacking in creativity had named it, was but an underground warehouse to the unwitting eye. Its true purpose was only identified by a label half-heartedly spray-painted set of iron pillars in the corners of the room: Vault L. A shrill warning siren continued to blare insistently, accompanied by the flash of brilliant red lights. The floors were composed of concrete, with only administrative patterns of white chalk notations providing any sort of ornamentation or structure to the cavern-like surroundings. There were, in fact, only two indications that this small catacomb was anything but an oversized and forgotten storage locker. One was the now-cracked emblem of an eight-pointed star, beautifully adorned in a carefully-wrought wrap of gold with an ornately hand-painted letter "C" at its center. And the other was the pair of automatic doors composed from two perfectly clear panes of shatterproof glass.

"Yes," a serpentine voice hissed in Faust's ear. "Here. Close." The words were lacquered with a syrupy-sweet sound of memory, just a tone off of some kinder remembrance. They were, however, no less compelling or intoxicating. The ethereal speaker could only offer slow, singular words. But each grew in insistence.

Faust rose and made his way over to what appeared to be the leader of his adversaries. He carefully rolled the man over and took hold of the faded ID badge firmly affixed to the commander's waist. It remained stubbornly bound to the foe, resisting each increasingly forceful tug until Faust at last pressed a finger brimming with black sparks to the binding fibers. The dark bolts leapt from his flesh and began to tear into the thin, silver strands. With one last pull, the ID was torn free.

The victor clutched his prize and turned towards the doors. He held the plastic keycard up to a scanner mounted to the wall, the status light above the doors turning an eager green as it emitted a brief beep. Just as he was about to walk through the doorway, however, he paused. He looked back at the bodies of those he had fought against and sighed. "This isn't your fault. It's the ones in Eden, they're to blame." As Faust spoke, he walked around to each of his former enemies and slid their eyes shut as well, offering them the same moment of respect he had given those who had fought alongside him. "But I get the feeling it's going to take a lot more bodies before this ends."