Super-Soldier in Another World

After stowing the nigh-delirious Lance on the wagon, Hoplite turned, readying himself in case another horde arrived. He’d disabled thousands of them by the time they’d arrived, but the sheer size of Akan-Var likely meant there were far more approaching. The fighting had attracted the ones in the immediate vicinity of the gate, but the sound of gunfire could have carried further than that.

Hoplite frowned as he remembered the cursed Eighth Arm personnel he had been forced to dispatch… Marines, divers, exo-troops, there had been around one hundred of them in that crowd. He had been too slow to get here, he had wasted far too much time… had he not succumbed to the drink back in the Faewood, how many more could have been saved besides private Ortega?

It was hard to say, but this didn’t have to be the end for them. With Twindil here, she could ease their pains and bring them back to sapience; they weren’t dead, after all, owing to the curse. Perhaps one day a cure could be discovered, but otherwise they’d not be allowed to leave this planet. Jyn would not-

Hoplite grit his teeth, turning his thoughts away from that subject as he approached Twindil, bracing herself against the side of the wagon as she gasped for breath. The fighting had been long and arduous, it was impressive that she even remained on her feet.

“I have comrades among the Fiends.” Hoplite told her, “Would you be able to provide them care?”

Twindil’s head lifted, staring into his helmet with unfocused eyes, “I can… but if they are too mangled then there is only so much I can do.” She said, huffing and puffing, face still red. “I won’t be able to do anything if they’ve been pulped or their head has been removed… At least, I don’t think.”

“You don’t think?” Hoplite asked, “Elaborate.”

“This is uncharted territory for healing spells,” She explained, “As far as I know, nobody has ever tried to heal a Fiend before me. Besides that, whenever healing is used, it's on people that can be saved.” She said, coming to stand straight, her legs wobbling slightly as she continued, “A man who has been run through by a blade can be saved by healing, as can someone who’s had their throat slashed, assuming the healer is quick enough… Fiends though? The healing that I’m capable of cannot restore limbs, much less a head. If your allies are too mangled, I’m afraid to say that there’s likely nothing I can do.”

Hoplite nearly cursed at himself for his lack of restraint. He should have considered that possibility! His fists clenched as he remembered the dozens of soldiers he’d just finished off, now permanently incapacitated… Still though, there had to be a few that had been disabled in a lesser capacity, there was still a chance.

“Can you try?” He asked her, “And if that fails, there has to be some left that can be brought back, maybe some you’ve all dispatched?”

“Possibly,” Twindil said, “Keep in mind though, I cannot cast such a spell one after another, I would be at risk of Singeing myself.”

“Singeing?”

She wiped some sweat from her brow before answering, “If one uses too much Foundation at once, or for too long, they become at risk of Singeing. Essentially, crippling your capacity for magic permanently. If it's too intense, the Golden Flame will burn you out entirely, and you won’t be able to call on Foundation ever again. That is… if it doesn’t just kill you outright.”

So there was a limit to these spells. This explained why Alistair or Elum never continuously used their most devastating spells in battle. They could cripple their capabilities or even perish if they pushed themselves too hard.

“Sorry to say this, Hoplite, but I cannot put myself at risk for your allies… I’ll try and find whoever is salvageable and do what I can, but only within my limits. I am nearly to the point of Singeing already, once I reach that threshold I will cease.” She said with a nod.

“I understand.” He said, “Please do what you can.”

Her abilities were far too useful to lose on this operation, best to let her stay within those limits. A look of shock crossed Twindil’s face a moment before it was replaced with a smile.

“What is it?” He asked her.

“Nothing… I just don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say please before. It’s a nice change of pace.” She said, moving past him to survey the battlefield.

Was that really a good reason for that expression? He’d thought they were being attacked again, speaking of which…

“We can’t stay out in the open for long, more could be on the way.” He told her.

“Of course, but I believe that, for now at least, we’re safe.” She replied, not turning to look at him.

It was possible that there’d be no more combat today, but the possibility was low at best. This wagon and the squad would need to retreat somewhere out of sight. There had to be shelter in the city where they could lay low, the squad was too tired for another conflict this soon. Preferably they would be able to cart the wagon with them, but the mountains of bodies left in the way would make that difficult.

There were thousands of still-writhing bodies that the wagon wheels would have to cart over, and that would not be optimal for preserving its functionality. It was their lifeline, all their supplies were onboard, food, water, munitions, if they couldn’t take the wagon or if it got damaged, the operation would be doomed. They could retreat back onto the bridge, but the last rest-stop was a day away from here. By the time they returned the gates could be flooded with a fresh new horde. The only way was to push through the fallen with the wagon and hide in a secure location. Thankfully he knew a solution for this, if Alistair was still able to utilize his Foundation.

The blonde man stood not far-off, hands on knees as he struggled to regain his wind. Hoplite approached him, looking him up and down for any injuries as he did so. Had he received a wound, he likely would have informed Twindil immediately… but it put Hoplite at ease seeing that he’d not taken a single hit. The abilities of Twindil and her party were clearly well-beyond standard human parameters, any normal person would have at least taken a scratch during that scuffle. And yet… from what Hoplite could see, they were fine. Why were they so unnaturally powerful? Was it their usage of Foundation? Or was it something else entirely?

“Are you still able to cast?” Hoplite asked, stopping a few feet away from him.

“Nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh ‘still able to cast’” Alistair mocked between heaving breaths, “Give me a damn second!”

Hoplite didn’t believe he’d ever been spoken to like that before. It was irritating.

“Just answer the question.” Hoplite replied curtly.

“I’ll be fine after I catch my breath,” He said in an annoyed tone, “Why do you ask?

“We’ll need you to clear the bodies for the wagon. I’ve seen how Fiends react to raw Foundation, they disintegrate instantly.”

“Well I-” Alistair started in an annoyed tone, before continuing flatly, “No, you’re right… the wheels aren’t going to appreciate rolling over all that.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Hoplite said, “Once you catch your breath, clear a path I can move the wagon through. I request however that you do not burn away any of my fallen comrades.”

“If they're dressed in enough black metal I’ll know they’re Outworlders… Are you telling me not to because of Twindil’s healing?”

“Affirmative.” He replied, turning toward Halm.

The gigantic Fiend seemed no worse for wear, his knuckles dripping with dark blood as he profusely began apologizing to his fallen kin. He had been near Lance when she had gone on that rampage with her chains, it was surprising to see that he bore no new injuries from that. Then again, like Tuji, he had flesh as hard as steel.

“Halm. I see you didn’t betray us after all.” He said.

“Of course not, Twindil saved my very soul itself from madness, I’d not even dream of it.” Halm said, sounding a tad offended. “How may I help?”

“Go keep a lookout for any more Fiends that might be approaching, if you see any, alert everyone immediately so we can form a retreat, everyone else is too tired to keep fighting right now.” Hoplite ordered.

“Makes sense to me.” Halm replied, turning away from him, “Just listen for my roar, you’ll be able to hear it.”

“Affirmative.” Hoplite replied, turning to approach the wagon once more.

Elum and Michael were now inside the wagon, sitting close to the coach. Elum was shaking, a hand clutching his graying arm. Michael himself just looked relieved, no doubt glad for the lull in combat.

“Private, what are our stocks of ammo?” Hoplite asked as he drew closer.

“Sir, we still have plenty, but I used up a few hundred rounds for the rifles.” He replied after a moment of thought.

“To be expected private, how is Ortega doing?” He asked, peering into the wagon bed between the two men.

“Stable sir, still breathing.” Michael replied with a thumbs up, “Glad we got here in time.”

“Affirmative, and Elum, did you take any injuries? You are trembling.” Hoplite asked, tilting his helmet in the Ifrit’s direction.

“No I-” He stammered, gasping, “I nearly Singed myself- I cannot cast anymore today.”

“Rest.” Hoplite said, going around to the back of the wagon.

There, beside the recuperating Ortega, lay Theopalu, snoozing away as usual. A useless sack of meat incapable of pulling his own weight for this entire trip. His hands clenched as fury filled him, urging him to crush the elf’s head as he slept. He still didn’t understand why he felt this way about the old Watcher, but he’d need to suppress this killer instinct. However, that did not mean that he needed to be polite.

“Wake up.” Hoplite said harshly, barely keeping the growl from his tone.

Theopalu remained asleep, his loud, unbearable snoring a contrast to Ortega’s soft breathing. Hoplite took a breath to steady his nerves, reaching out toward Theopalu’s shoulder, gripping it firmly. It took all he had to not crush it in his hand. Thankfully, he restrained himself, simply shaking the elf until he finally woke up, eyes bloodshot.

“Bwah?” Theopalu asked, “Have we arrived already?” He asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Yes. Now do your job and help us find the best route.” Hoplite ordered, “If you fail to accomplish this task, you will be denied food and water.”

“Aye, fair enough.” Theopalu replied, quickly standing “Time to get to it then.”

He was surprised that the elf was so ready to do his mission, considering how unbearably lazy he’d been up till now. Perhaps the threat of taking away his rations was what whipped him into shape. Hoplite would need to remember this in case Theopalu tried to laze around in the future.

“First things first, we got to see where we are…” Theopalu began, cracking his back, “Then I just got to remember where the nearest tunnel is.”

“Tunnel?” Hoplite asked, “If you mean a sewer, there’s no way we’d be able to bring the wagon with us.”

“Akan-Var has a vast network of tunnels beneath the stones, some of them have been around since before the city was built, but there are plenty that are even older than that. Big enough for hundreds of people to pass through, it’s known as the Akan-Dark, that is where we’ll be going. There’ll still be Fiends of course, but less than what we’d find on the surface.”

That was the longest sentence that Theopalu had ever spoken in his time knowing him, and Hoplite hated every single word that poured from his vile mouth.

“How deep do the tunnels go?” He asked, reigning back the irritation.

“Deep, very deep. I once ran a very lucrative smuggling operation through them, there were too many for the Block-Lords to guard them all, hehe…” He chuckled, eyes becoming distant, “Hard to believe that it’s been two-thousand years since then, I hope I still remember the paths right.”

“You better.” Hoplite said curtly, walking around the wagon once more.

There were more useful things to do than listen to an old man reminiscing about his worthless life. While Hoplite truly did feel this way… he still didn’t understand just where this hatred for Theopalu had come from. He’d been pondering it for the past few days ever since his humiliating show of weakness, but still he could not think of a rational answer. His blood literally came to a boil around him, his veins becoming hot like magma.

Such a thing only happened when he was near the peak of his anger, and even that rarely happened. There was something unnatural about Theopalu that provoked this reaction… He stopped in his tracks as a possibility crossed his mind, one that nearly caused him to run back and snap the elf’s neck.

Could he be Kazon?

It could be… what if he had infiltrated Twindil’s party to spy on them, or sabotage things from within? It could almost make sense, were it not for two major flaws. One, Lance had known Theopalu for over a century, and he’d stayed in the Faewood for the majority of that time. Two, no one else was afflicted with this particular rancor, only Hoplite was.

It was possible that Kazon was impersonating him, after all Theopalu had left the Faewood on a ‘vacation’ that had lasted over twenty years. Who was to say that there wasn’t shapeshifting magic? Maybe the feeling was locked onto Hoplite specifically because Kazon wanted him to look like a lunatic in front of the squad… but there was still a problem with this theory even considering that.

Why on Earth would Kazon ever do this? There was no real reason to, at least, there was not one that Hoplite could perceive. Yet, if that were the case…

Then the hatred was Hoplite’s own, there was no outside influence forcing him to despise the old man. There was Twindil’s tranquility field to consider, but if anything, that was only mitigating his wrathful urges. What would happen should Twindil deactivate that spell? Would he launch into a frenzy and tear Theopalu apart right there? It was admittedly a satisfying thought, and the fact that it was satisfying to think of made him uneasy.

Yet… thinking of such things was a far more preferable alternative to another, more unnerving thought that had been struggling to form since his breakdown. As long as he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t think of it, it would never come to be.

Now, Theopalu had mentioned that there were tunnels that led beneath the city. If he had run a smuggling operation here before, then it was likely that they would be able to take the wagon with them that way. It was non-negotiable then, if they didn’t have the wagon, the mission would fall apart. However, if they went below ground, there was no guarantee that he’d be able to pick up any radio transmissions from Ternan survivors.

It was possible that a few had survived un-cursed up till now, as Ortega had, but she could be the only one who had made it this long. Another thought struck him then, what if they had found these underground tunnels and had retreated below? If there really were less Fiends down there, it would be the optimal place to escape to… yet the survivors would not have had that intel.

Either way though, there was only one viable option. They had to go through the tunnels. He’d brief the squad on the Final Kind’s forces so they could be prepared in case they ran into a contingent of them. There had been plenty of cursed Final Kind amongst that horde, if any in the city lived through the initial chaos of their landing, they may have fled below also.

If Ortega woke up soon, he’d brief her on the situation and then question her for the whereabouts of her escape pod. The potential for extra food and munitions for the mission could not be ignored. He strode past the wagon again, approaching Twindil as she knelt beside a cursed Ternan marine she’d picked out from the bodies. He was a large man, wild eyes focusing on Twindil as his shattered arms flailed uselessly toward her.

She turned at hearing Hoplite’s approach, frowning, “This is one of the more intact ones I found, at least at a glance. There’s too many bodies to sift through unfortunately, I don’t believe we have the time to spare on a more thorough search.”

She was right of course, but a part of him did want to remain longer, to find more fallen Ternan’s and heal them back to sanity. If Twindil had no limits on how much she could heal, then he might have insisted that they pull back onto the bridge as he brought back the fallen for her to heal. Key word being might; the possibility of another horde approaching still weighed on his mind.

“So he is salvageable?” He asked her, staring down at the flailing Fiend.

The surface of the marine’s black armor was worn, clear evidence of scratching and battering plain to see. Blunt force was still pain, just because there wasn’t direct skin contact didn’t mean that the Death-Spiral wouldn’t take route… he would need to keep this in mind going forward. If he faced a Fiend like Tuji…

“Perhaps, but…” Twindil said, lips pursing, “We must consider the strain on their psyche from being in pain for so long. A day of torture could be too much for a normal man to bear, this person could have been in pain ever since we met. Nearly a month of unceasing agony may have driven him mad.”

“Halm was fine.” Hoplite replied, “Now, please heal him.”

“Halm is not ordinary.” Twindil said, “He is possessed of an extraordinary mental fortitude, there’s no guarantee that any other Fiend could recover as he had.”

“Are you saying you won’t heal him?” Hoplite asked, eyes narrowing.

“I will,” Twindil replied, “Just… just be ready.” She warned, turning back to the collapsed marine. “Afina, let this man be healed so that he may live in your tranquility…” She chanted, holding her palms out toward the Fiend.

A warm golden glow then emanated from her hands then, the glow then shifted, flowing over the marine as it knitted his shattered bones back together. Bruises disappeared and the lacerations on his face became faint scars. The marine inhaled sharply, all four of his limbs going rigid as his eyes found the sky. When the flow of magic ceased, Twindil fell forward, catching herself on her palms with shaky breaths.

“It seems I wore myself out more than expected but… it is done.” She said, voice wavering.

“You should return to the wagon then, I will brief this marine on our current situation.” He told her, kneeling beside the man. “What is your name and rank, soldier?” He asked.

The marine said nothing in reply, simply sucking in air as his wide eyes remained locked on the sky above.

“Marine?” Hoplite asked, grabbing his shoulder and giving it a gentle shake. “I am Hoplite Thirty-Seven. I’ve come to rescue you and the others stranded in this city.”

The man didn’t reply with words. Instead, he simply turned, curled up into a ball, and hugged his knees to his chest. All further attempts from Hoplite to communicate with him…

Were fruitless.