Prologue: To the Skies
The uniform clang of metal boots striking stone pavement was the overwhelming bassline to the melody of this early morning in Galatea, and beneath its onslaught, the trebles and harmonies of hawkers crying their wares fell to near silence. The streets cleared before the advancing platoon, each one’s uniform pressed and polished to a striking picture of dignified violence. Each wore a clockwork rifle over one shoulder, and carried a broad-bladed saber at his hip, the silver shine of pommel, scabbard, barrel and armor a striking counterpoint to the hunter-green of their uniforms.
For hunters they were. The coloration gave them away to the savvy as an elite unit, fifty men strong, designed and trained for specialized combat operations against unconventional foes. Artorias would not meet mercenaries with a proper army; he was far too clever for that. Their orders were clear: the Purge was to continue, and this time, it was Avalon’s Dawn that would surrender or face death. The Guild, though powerful and influential under the leadership of the wizard Myrddin, was small in number, and many of its members were noncombatants. It was not to be an issue for fifty of the King’s Viper Regiment. And each of them was confident that it wouldn’t be.
The cacophony died in their wake, the other denizens of the market streets during the early morning hours slowly filing out from their hiding places and resuming their business. It wasn’t that most looked poorly upon the Hero-King- quite the opposite. But Artorias and his methods were the result of a man much better than most taking a position where he was forced to confront the imperfection of others, and unfortunately, he seemed to take it for granted that this imperfection could be rectified in the same way he quashed his own: through strict military discipline and the enforcement of a code with stringent demands on personal conduct. The King’s Law was something, most thought, that it would take some getting used to.
But the march of the Vipers continued apace, and would not be halted. The heavy thudding of greaves on the streets was the only sound they made, and it rang authoritative down every alley and byway they crossed. The building they approached was a small tower, the center of its own modest district in the city, and the reaction here was much different. Those who lived in the shadows of the Avalon Spire were a hardier bunch, and none retreated, several glaring at the intruders with open hostility. None made to stop them, however, as these were those fighters long past their days as mercenaries, or those who had let to earn their stripes, and there was nothing they could do.
At least, not directly. When a gnarled hand moved to his shoulder, a young boy nodded, face set into a scowl, and clambered up the nearest drainpipe, hauling himself onto the roof with graceless resolve. Running over the rooftops was easily the most efficient way to traverse Galatea, with its narrow, winding roads and many canals, and as he scrambled from building to building, he quickly outstripped the deliberate marching of the soldiers, taking a last running jump to catch onto a windowsill with a grunt of effort. The window was open, as it always was, and he fell from it into a crouch, wiping the back of his forehead with one grimy hand, then thinking better of it and using his tattered shirt instead. He was off again shortly after, shouting his little lungs out. “53! 53! Code fifty-three!” He banged on as many doors as he could manage in his mad sprint to the wizard’s office, probably succeeding in waking a good number of the Guild members from their rest in their tower apartments. That was, after all, the point.
Code 53, as the high number might indicate, was a recently-invented shorthand for ‘the appearance of military elements, probably hostile.’
Without so much as a knock, he burst into Myrddin’s office, only to see the kindly old man behind his desk, flanked by his apprentice the deer-man and the scary-looking machine-man. “’S them Vipers, sir!” he yelled, not precisely in control of his volume, given the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Myrddin didn’t look all that surprised. He turned first to his apprentice, speaking low, but urgently. “Percy, take anyone you can find and get out of here. Make for the Elysium and leave.” They had known this was likely to happen eventually, and as a result, he’d posted Captain Skybound, Lieutenant Deidrich, and the Guild’s goblin artificer Gorlak on the ship, ready for immediate departure at the drop of a hat. He’d expected to have at least two more days, though. Gritting his teeth, he decided he was going to have to change the plan a little. “Mordecai. Engage protocol thirteen. Go with them. I will hold the King's men off for as long as I can.” It hadn’t been his intention to send the Automaton with the others, but as Mordecai was the only one with certain pieces of information that they’d need to know, it would have to be done.
A few floors down, the Guild secretary on the first floor dropped her morning cup of tea when the tower door was struck with force, the sound thundering through the receiving hall and startling all present. The tinkle of the delicate ceramic shattering on the stone floor was inaudible over the shouts of the Vipers’ captain, demanding access to the building.
"Engaging protocol thirteen," Mordecai replied immediately, starting forward at what was best described as a brisk walking pace. He scooped up the child in one arm on his way out the door, ignoring the young human's protests at being so handled. With one hand, he swung the youth gently as he was able over his back, waiting patiently until he caught on and wrapped his small arms around the golem's neck. "This unit suggests that you hold on tightly, young Master," he cautioned, giving a space of 3.5 seconds for compliance before he took off into a breakneck run. Well, perhaps the speed would have been "breakneck" by ordinary standards, but for an automaton, it was hardly peak efficiency.
Protocol thirteen was one of his more complex command sequences, and the first part involved getting as many Guild members out of the tower safely as possible. Several already appeared to be trying to evacuate out a window, probably one the boy had come through, and Mordecai did some internal calculations before coming to a dead halt. He'd be ten percent more likely to survive if he accompanied them. Very well. Handing the child off to one of the departing group, he continued down the stairs to the recieving hall, where the staff were arming themselves and getting behind wooden tables and the like even as the hinges on the door started to groan under the pressure of holding against the incoming soldiers. The chances of convincing any of these to evacuate was small; his best option for ensuring their survival was to pause his protocol and engage directly.
A creature made of metal and stone gained little from taking cover behind wood, and Mordecai did nothing of the sort, simply positioning himself in the center of the room, so as to be the first thing the Vipers laid eyes on, and ideally, the first thing they attempted to shoot at.
Percy jerked his head in understanding and turned to head out behind the Automata. He had his own job, given by Myrddin himself. Find whoever he could and bring them to the Elysium. While he was torn on taking the airship and leaving others to fend for themselves in the Guild hall or on the streets, he had his commands and he wasn't about to start contesting it with his mentor, especially not now with soldiers breathing down their neck. Percy took off, fighting the urge to shift and perhaps even match the golem in his speed, but he needed his mind intact and unaffected by the primal urges being a deer would bring. Plus, chances were he'd need to talk. So it was with that and the goal of saving everyone he could find that set his pace.
At one point the Changeling lost sight of Mordecai, though the machine was probably somewhere doing his part. He was reliable if only for his nature as an Automata. Percy figured he'd see the man in one piece again eventually. Instead of making his way to the recieving hall where likely the fighting was to be the heaviest, Percy turned and ran down the hall leading to the sleeping quarters. Those just now awakening may be confused and he could lead those to the safety of the Elysium.
Anyone who spent more than a few days in the desert developed a healthy respect for orcs. As Theon forced himself from his bedmat on the sand, the sounds of a slaughter outside ringing in his ears, all he could think was that somehow he hadn't respected them enough. For years he'd avoided them, only fighting when the odds were vastly in their favor, or a proper plan could be developed. But all it took was one mistake, one lapse of vigilance, the green fuckers were swarming over his men, hacking them to bits.
Theon was only thinking of the quickest and safest way out of the camp when the first one cleaved through the canvas and made his way inside, followed by two of his fellows, wielding jagged axes. His hand darted to the loaded duckfoot pistol by his bed, leveled at the greenskins, and--
Bang. It didn't make the right sound. His pistol exploded like a thunderstorm in your hand when it fired, not like... a fist against wood. Theon scowled, shaking his head out of the dream of the past, like any other person reliving a memory, only with significantly more clarity. He'd had that one a few times now. It was already getting old. He pushed himself up to set his bare feet on the floor, yawned, and stretched. A few moments were what it took to realize the sounds from his dream were remaining. Different from before... but that same urgency. Shouting and running outside, heavy and light footfalls side by side. The hell was going on?
He rested his hands lightly on his knee and closed his eyes. It didn't take much effort to view the immediate vicinity through farsight. His senses expanded away from him, taking in sights, smells, sounds, a veritable cacophony of stimuli compared to the empty expanse of the sand sea. It was almost enough to give him a headache in this early hour of the morning. Instead, it almost made his heart stop. Soldiers were at the doors, trying to smash their way inside. King's men. Some of the Guild looked to want to fight, others to flee. He tried to locate Vivian, but another pound on his door shook his concentration. There was too much going on here. He knew what he needed to know.
Fuck, not again.
He had experience getting dressed quickly, and Theon put it to use here, throwing on pants, a sleeveless tunic, belt, socks, armor, boots. His pistol he snatched from his bedside and clipped to his belt. He grabbed the scythe on the way out the door. He looked to be ahead of many of the others, nameless faces who he didn't know and didn't care about. One was running down the hall, about to pass him, a dark-haired boy. As he was about to pass, Theon reached out and snatched the front of his shirt in a powerful hand, trying to bring him to a stop.
"Vivian Zeona. Where is she?" he demanded. The answer had better come quick, too, else he would probably toss him aside and search himself.
"Vi-Who? Look, the Vipers are knocking down our door. You need to come with me and get to saf-" Percy tried to persuade the man who had him by the collar. Though a racket a little bit further down the hall managed to cut the rest of his words off, even over the wailling din of panic. The source, a woman fighting to get her boots on but her hair was in a bedridden ragged mess and she was even still wearing her night gown. She had a sheathed blade slung under one arm, a pistol in a hand, cocked and presumably loaded, and she looked ready for a fight, looking for one even-- except for the fact that she still wore her night gown of course. She even had the telltale gleam of steel gauntlets under the loose folds of her sleeves. It was an... Interesting sight.
This woman had awakened to the pounding of hands at her door and the cries of Code 53. While she wasn't well versed in what Code 53 exactly entailed, she did know that it involved a fight with someone. That promise alone was enough to throw her from her bed, throwing her arms in her gauntlets and gathering the important things, clothes apparently lower down on the list than normally. She did not so much open the door as she did kick it off of it's hinges (with the one boot she had on at that time) and storm out into the hall seeking to quell the commotion with bloody glee.
"Where's the fight!? Where're the bastards at!? Haha! I've got something for them as soon as I get this damned boot on!" She yelled as she stomped her foot down into the boot and began to make her way down the hall, looping the sheath around her back. She was looking too far ahead and trying to find a fight to notice the pair arguing about a Vivian Zeona.
It was perhaps not two hours from the time Kethyrian Tor had managed to bathe, undress, and collapse into bed after a long night operation that she woke to the sound of pounding on her door, the rhythm far too frenetic to be some sort of perverse echo of the throbbing in her skull. It was with the willpower of a bloody martyr that she managed to force her eyes open, blinking blearily at her surroundings in time for a shrill cry of Code 53! to assault her sensitive ears. It didn't take too long to run through the mental catalogue of all the things that could possibly be until she stuck on the right one, and she resisted the urge to groan into her pillow, if only just. Forcing life into deadened limbs with a jolt of magic, Kethyrian threw open the doors to her armoire and threw on the first few garments she came across, finishing with a pale hooded cloak and a poniard on a belt, gathering her peculiar striped hair into a tail.
"If this is someone's idea of a poor joke, I hope they'll be laughing through their coronary," she muttered darkly to herself, stepping out into the hall in enough time to notice that Vivian was half-dressed and already trying to make her way to the nearest confrontation. "Stupid girl," Kethyrian sighed, though it was largely bereft of venom. "Vivian! A code 53 calls for tactical retreat. Don't tell me you're really interested in that hearing for insubordination they threatened you with last time?" Charging into situations with but a harebrained plan wasn't exactly unusual for the younger woman, and it was usually her Favisae sort-of friend who wound up patching the damage afterwards.
"We should move. Now. Same goes for you two," she called to the two men a little ways off, apparently in some kind of confrontation of their own. She scoffed beneath her breath; this was hardly the time for that.
"You mean their tactical retreat, right Kethy?" Vivian answered, her blade now free from her sheath and in her hand.
The look she was given in return could have peeled paint.
It had been one of those sleepless nights for Eli. The boy lay in bed, eyes pressed shut, clutching a pillow to his chest, trying to keep himself calm enough to at least manage a morning nap. Still in a sweat, he opened his eyes and turned face up on the bed. "Who needs sleep anyway?" he muttered to himself, his eyes heavy and more than a little bloodshot. The sound of commotion outside his door actually came as a welcome surprise, giving Eli an excuse to throw the blankets off his perspiring body, slip into his robes, and see what the ruckus was about.
He peeked his head out the door tentatively, intercepting Kethyrian's glare. At least he thought that's what her name was. Eli made a bit of an effort to at least memorize the first names of the people in his immediate area, but often had to resort to referring to them by key descriptors. He turned to see the intended recipient of the glare was "Excited Murder Girl", with "Quiet Scythe Guy" and "Deer Boy" arguing in the background. His hazel eyes darted around from person to person. He swallowed and his head fell, his hair obscuring his face. "Code 53… we're leaving right?" he muttered quietly, stepping out of his room starting briskly down the hall.
Downstairs, matters grew only more pressing, as the hinges on the tower door finally gave way with a great creak, the wooden portcullis falling inwards and smashing against the stone floor with an unmistakable noise. Unwilling to risk being hit first, the Vipers opened fire on the first enemy they saw- in this case, Mordecai. Seventeen filed into the room under that covering fire, taking up positions in the entrance hall, but the remaining lot either made for the sides of the building or attempted to bull-rush past the dismal fortifications and get themselves deeper into the tower.
Mordecai glanced with apparent disinterest at the metal projectiles embedding themselves in his synthetic flesh, then back up at the people shooting them. "This unit's safety protocols require that you are warned ten seconds before this unit engages berserk mode. You have been notified." For five seconds, there wasn't much notable reaction, except one of the Guild members behind an overturned table yelling at him to 'hurry it up, you stupid machine.' Mordecai thought it would be rather unnecessary to inform the speaker that he was in fact calibrated for very high levels of intelligence and processing power, since it was not likely this was the time to discuss the matters. Besides, he was down to three seconds, and given that much of that processing was about to be converted into a very different kind of energy.
"Berserk mode engaged." Perhaps due to some inner sadism on the part of his creator, Mordecai was programmed to say this with a tone of pleasant cheeriness, less than a nanosecond before his systems shifted function, backlighting his eyes an eerie red and turning several unused synthetic neurologial pathways under his skin the same hue, spiderwebbing the translucent flesh substitute on his limbs with pulsing lines. It was at about this moment that one or two of the Vipers realized what they were dealing with, and concentrated all of their fire on him rather than the other members of his guild.
Well enough for #9, who sprang forward with unnatural speed, bringing one of the gunmen to the ground immediately, his windpipe crushed under the extraordinary pressure of manufactured fingers. Those in his proximity drew melee weapons, abandoning the notion of shooting when so close to each other, and to their credit, they were professionals who didn't hesitate about it. It made none of what they did any more useful, and the automaton was through another three in seconds. The activation of berserk mode narrowed his focus, and so he was unable to keep track of all fifty, and about half that number successfully escaped to the stairs. Mordecai, ripping a man's arm from its socket with a sickening crunch followed by a wet pop and throwing it into another Viper's face, did not notice.