Epics of Noche 1, Anchor

EON CH 01 - ACT 01, LIGHTHOUSE

HOME.

1760, NOVEMBER 5th.

How do you kill a concept?

These were the words engraved on the doorknob of the lighthouse. Each time waves hit the crags, salty mist sprayed upon the brass handle and frigid beads fell inside the graffiti's grooves. The dark ocean ebbed with a rage that threatened to break all restraint. Its ire reflected by the dense, impenetrable storm clouds and harsh winds that released the forgotten scent of the deep sea.

Amidst the turmoil resided a single golden light. It started faint but was quick to grow in magnitude. All was overtaken by its swollen radiance before the dim began anew and darkness resumed its throne. This process repeated and would continue to repeat, forever.

Atop the decrepit, rusted railings resided a single crow. It gazed upon a distant, little girl with abnormal intensity. Flames erupted onto the avian when the unnatural bird was enveloped in golden light. It took to silent flight; a trail of smoke and smoldering feathers left in its wake. Below the dark entity was a fleet of ships unfamiliar to this land.

Composed of the latest tech, each stealth ship was undetectable by radar or thermal scans. They were set to radio silence and the engines were designed to emit no sound. Combined with the rumbling storm and cover of night, they were hidden by every sense of the word.

On the boats were soldiers armed to the teeth in weapons. They wore bulletproof armor, welded military-grade rifles, and donned helmets with night-vision lenses. There was an unspoken giddiness in the air around them; a malign atmosphere of tapping feet and fingers twitching near triggers.

These were DeathTech soldiers.

Near the foot of one such murderer was a skinned seagull. Its honking faded to faint screeches as its wings spasmed for the last time. The final embers of life faded from its featherless body. Blood leaked from exposed muscles; these were the kind of wounds meant to keep a creature alive for as long as possible.

Its killer wiped the viscera off his knife with the anglerfish engraving. The deep-sea fish reflected in his helmet's visor and the dozen of ornamental, jagged teeth that decorated the bottom of his chin. He sheathed the blade, picked up a Gatling gun, and stroked the barrel with his finger.

Leading these butchers was a lanky soldier. He aimed his pistol at the distant island, a place no bigger than a mile in diameter, and pretended to fire. Other than the lighthouse, there were no other landmasses in sight. No one to notice what they were about to do to the islanders.

He turned to the prisoner behind him. A man so muscular that he appeared more like a blacksmith than a fisherman. The lanky soldier knelt down and tilted his head towards the island. The native swallowed as sweat dripped down his forehead; his eyes stayed locked on home. He nodded.

The soldiers surrounding the fisherman backed away as the anglerfish soldier stood up. He towered over all others and even the large prisoner appeared like a child before the behemoth. With one gargantuan hand, the Gatling gun was brought up — thirteen molten streams of lead riddled the fisherman's body.

He hit the ground with a thud and twitch just like the seagull did. The anglerfish soldier placed his boot on the dying man's head. Bit by bit force was applied. The fisherman screamed as the sound of cracking bone filled the air. His head exploded like a rotted watermelon that fell onto concrete.