I Wish You Were Never Reborn

Monty thought he saw movement at the far corner of his vision. No, it wasn’t something that could be seen-- only felt.

Bishop hadn’t moved from where he stood. But, even still, the three sprinters at the front of the zombie group all had their heads explode in simultaneous bursts of light.

No boom. No splat. Just ash and dust.

“The fuck just happened?”

The other zombies stopped and stared. It was like even they couldn’t believe what happened, either.

Another movement-- more certain and more human than before. Bishop dashed ahead and started fighting up close.

Monty was about to account the weirdness witnessed as a stress dream or hallucination. But Bishop-- just after breaking a zombie’s neck with his elbow, turned back and said, “I will always reach.”

The fuCK did that even mean??

Whatever!

Monty circled around to the side and jumped into the mob to help kick ass.

After so much practice, he’d gotten pretty good at putting down the undead with kicks and baton strikes. And it was easy to breathe with Bishop standing closeby, waving his hands around like a cartoon character.

Boss...

Boss didn’t use a weapon-- not his pistol, not even the baton he liked so much.

Monty knew it wasn’t a skill issue. Boss was the biggest nerd when it came to pistol marksmanship and battlefield weaponry-- both modern and legacy. And during their practicals, he proved that he damn well practiced what he taught.

Boss might have even been a scarier motherfucker using just his hands. He practiced this weird, joint-manipulation art. When he even used it on Callum, twisting both his arms into a fucked up human-pretzel.

Then, for the sake of training, Monty had to sit and watch the guy heal. Cal’s eyes almost burst out of his head and sweat drenched all his clothes, but his arms un-broke themselves in real-time.

Supernatural healing. That was Cal’s thing. Poor guy.

Suddenly, Boss reached into his jacket.

Monty’s senses went on high-alert. Did a new enemy appear that he wasn’t aware of? --something worth a bullet?

But Boss didn’t take out his gun. He took out a glass vial, the size of a cologne bottle.

He poured it on a zombie’s face. And... that... fucker... BURNED.

Its face literally fucking MELTED and it SCREAMED in pain.

So... those things could feel pain.

Fucking... brutal.

The fighting didn’t last much longer after that. After the last undead stopped moving, Monty took a moment to catch his breath... and to assess the situation-- just like he was taught.

No casualties. No obvious injuries. Job well done?

The old Korean guy from earlier was missing. Potential problem. All the bodies wouldn’t be too difficult to ⌈Erase⌋, especially with Bishop to help out. That was good.

Monty was pretty sure he knew he figured out all the important information. But still, he walked toward Tyvan to ask for orders.

“Boss?”

Boss turned to look at him... with a glare? Monty found himself standing straighter, ice in his spine-- Sweat. Streaming. Down his back.

He remembered Cal’s eyes. He remembered the sounds-- the visceral grunts of a full-grown adult experiencing pure, unadulterated pain. Oh. Fuck.

“Rider... Get your. gods-damned. hands... out of your. gods-damned. pockets.”

Monty put his hands in the air. Fast as FuCk. Like he just got caught mid-fucking-crime.

“At ease,” Boss said... “Other than that, good work-- both of you.”

Monty relaxed (slightly)... sighing and shaking his head. The fuck was that?

Since when was putting your hands in your pockets a fucking crime?

Fucker.

Ugh.

Monty’s god-damned fucking PTSD aside, it was... not so bad, to hear the words, ‘Good work.’

Good... something. Good anything.

The words didn’t come from someone he liked-- but it didn’t matter. It was an objective, fucking judgment. ‘Good work.’ He could be proud of that.

Fighting.

Monty was good at fighting.

Finally... something he was good at.

“Hey, Boss...” he started.

As Boss narrowed his eyes, Monty instinctively knew what he did wrong. He fixed his posture and spoke louder-- stronger.

“Should we chase down that Korean guy? Beat him up for clues or some shit?”

Boss gave a tiny, subtle nod... but then he shook his head. “Negative. Torture is ineffective for extracting information, ‘lest we have a month minimum. And anyroad, that fellow was human. Bishop: confirm.”

“Ayep,” Bishop said. “Doubt we’d learn much even if we asked nicely. The bad guys are using regular humies to transport their forces.”

“And it’s up to us to stop ‘em,” Monty added.

❴The Kingdom❵ seemed to be... the de facto good guy agency in Archangel. There were a lot of considerations in place for keeping humans safe from-- or at least unaware of the supernatural shit going on in Archangel.

It was... honestly a terrifying organization, though. If Monty counted his financial strength on top of what Boss had in the Solaris Group, they had enough assets to shake up any company in the city’s top five.

Then, every coworker he’d met was some sort of high-level fighter-- like sect level and higher. Callum was a fucking beast that was basically invincible. The kimchi-haired maid, Yeonha, could probably lift the van they chased down with her pinky finger.

That Heidi girl--

Monty shivered, thinking about how many times he’d been close to getting an arrow jammed through a leg or arm.

And Bishop...

“Hey, man, I’ve been meaning to ask... are you an E-Racist too?”

“Nah,” Bishop grinned, “I don’t even have my driver’s license yet.”

“Rider,” Boss interrupted, “you are the only true ⟦Eraser⟧ in our employ. Your salary reflects that.”

Did it? Monty didn’t even think to check. His job with the Solaris Group was his first-- and he hadn’t expected to ever hold a real job in his life.

He kicked at a pile of ash, scattering it to the wind. He made sure to keep his hands out of his pockets as he did it.

“This... this looks pretty ‘erased’ to me.”

“It’s a Purification-Type spell,” Bishop explained. “Right, Boss?”

“Indeed,” Boss said, straight-faced as usual. “Bishop is uniquely qualified for dealing with these miscreants.”

Monty nodded in thought...

“Boss... what exactly is Xue Yan qualified for?”

One of Boss’ eyebrows rose... just a little bit.

Monty followed with, “I mean-- I don’t wanna yuck your yum, but y’got some weird-ass standards if you actually like that flat-chested chick.”

Boss took a moment to think. It was probably the longest Monty had ever seen him hesitate.

“She... has proven herself useful,” he said. “The same is true for you.”

Oh. Well, then.

Couldn’t argue with that.

Before he got forced into martial arts training, Monty was pretty damn sure he was useless at everything. So if Boss saw something that he didn’t...

Maybe.

Monty couldn’t even begin to guess was sort of potential President Bitch had. It wasn’t in fighting, that was for sure.

A weird, plasticky buzz interrupted his thoughts.

Boss grabbed his pager off his belt, staring down at the tiny screen with as much seriousness and disdain as everything in his life.

“Hm. Where’s the nearest public payphone?”

Tyvan’s pager displayed an unfamiliar string of digits.

His pager number was only known to Ivalice and Briar Rose. Thus, he reasoned it was important to return the call as soon as possible.

He had a short conversation, followed by a hasty debrief with Bishop, Rider, and the two other teams. That was followed by more logistical minutiae. But after approximately 22 minutes, Tyvan started the drive toward Rockford Hills.

Yan Xue had requested a timely extraction. She’d explicitly stated it was a non-emergency, but... he’d have preferred arriving sooner rather than not.

Tyvan originally suggested that Rider pick her up in his stead. It would have been faster. Also, it would have been far more appropriate, considering his title.

She refused.

And... he chose not to question it. Shay hadn’t the disposition to make whimsical requests. And he had no reason to doubt her.

Rockford Hills...

Hm.

It was a rather wealthy area-- but dangerous. Large swaths of it were dominated by the clans and coteries of ❴Eminence❵. Thankfully, he had no direct business with their ilk. That was his general preference.

Thus, the drive was generally unhurried and largely relaxing. Tyvan appreciated the architecture of the various estates passed. All the old buildings were mixed with and threatened to be overtaken by the new. The old, the austere, the traditioned... the familiar-- none of it was meant to last forever.

Shay was waiting on the sidewalk of a moderate-sized estate. Upon approaching, she quickly entered the vehicle, shut the door, and engaged the lock.

She didn’t look to be injured or physically unwell. Her scent was awash with her anxieties... tinted in a lovely shade by the foodstuffs she brought with her, contained in a brown paper bag.

Tyvan leaned toward her. “Shay... good evening.”

The young lady looked up-- surprised? After gazing into her eyes for a moment, she calmed down considerably.

“Th-thank you for coming to get me,” she said, her voice cracking lightly.

Tyvan looked past her, at the modern villa in the distance. It seemed... loud. Loud places were difficult to tolerate for extended lengths of time. A human’s sense of hearing degraded easily with so much exposure. Was that the reason she needed to leave?

Fair. That needn’t be questioned.

He reached over to affix her safety belt.

And she... embraced him.

...Sudden. Unexpected. But... not entirely unwelcome.

Her anxieties whisked away, the sharp and acrid scent replaced by one soft and familiar.

Comfort.

Its smell was reminiscent of home... a home far away and a long, long time ago.