Rebellion! [Private D:]

Rifle fire roared all around them, the muzzles exploding in showers of fire and smoke that coated the entire battlefront with a murky, impenetrable shroud. But unlike his enthusiastic compatriots, Wick Estario kept his weapon loaded and ready, but didn't fire. What was he supposed to fire at, exactly?

Growing up as the son of a Aldennian military marksman had been nothing but his father waxing poetic about the art of shooting. Waiting, aiming, pulling the trigger. Everything from the physical concepts of holding the breath to the philosophical implications of waiting for htep erfect shot in both gunning and in life. It had been thoroughly irritating, so much so that Wick hadn't even bothered to enlist into the specialized corps that would eventually lead him to the marksman ranks. He just signed up with the rest of the combat-naive young men and enjoyed the vast popularity is well-above-average shot got him during training exercises.

Truth be told, ignoring his father's wishes was only half of the reason he joined the standardized military.

But, official marksman or not, Wick was not about to discharge ammunition blindly into a formless gray haze. Smoke was a problem in the modern-day battlefield. Not just from rifle discharge or flaming arrows, but from the use of "fog logs", specialized chunks of wood with magic seals that ignited them into flame-less, smoke-intensive cylinders of ash. Fog logs had gotten very popular in recent years, especially among commoners.

Like the commoners running this rebellion.

"You are going to disobey firing orders?"

Wick shrugged. "You're not shooting either."

"It wouldn't be prudent. But you, you are already in trouble with the Captain." Simon adjusted the rifle in his hands. His voice was even and calm, almost sleepy in the midst of the raging chaos around them. He had copper red hair and a penetrating hazel gaze that made him look far older than the 19 years he had lived in the world. Wick flicked his head, sending his black curls out of his eyes. His hair was just a bit too long for regulation, though the superiors hadn't noticed it yet.

"When the Captain is soiling himself in retreat and I save his life with my fully loaded rifle, I don't think he's going to care." Wick squinted his eyes...not that it helped in the literal fog of war that had settled on them. Simon just shrugged at the sentiment.

Simon was the other half of the reason that Wick joined in the standard forces. Friends since they were small, Simon was the brother that Wick never had. They were inseparable, and Wick would be damned if he was going to let his father's expectations separate them. The thought of Simon dying because Wick wasn't there to blast the bastard was unbearable.

"Ahead, two o'clock. Your shot." Simon muttered it as if he was asking for the butter to be passed. Wick's focus sharpened, his heartbeat rising. He could see it, a figure loping towards them. It was slow moving and limping, having already been hit once in the leg, Wick assumed.

"My shot." Wick replied automatically, shouldering the rifle and taking aim. Simon wasn't nearly as good a shot, but he had been through most of Wick's father's poetic ramblings of firing the weapon and had the both of them had developed the marksman mannerisms of claiming shots and helping spot a partner. Wick knew his rifle well and knew where to point it to get maximum effect. The sights aligned with the man's head, and the rifle exploded.

His head jerked back, pulling along his neck and into his shoulders, topping him over onto his back. Wick thought a moment he had seen the flickering flash of...armor? A shower of sparks usually flared when a shot struck plate mail, but helmet or not that shot was in the face. No faceplate would be strong enough....

"Coming back up." Simon muttered calmly. "My shot."

Wick almost dropped his jaw. He was actually picking himself back up! He struggled with his injured leg, but sure enough he was alive...Simon's shot cracked, the bullet driving into the upper torso, a much safer target. A more visible shower of sparks rained down this time, the man's ascent to his feet slowed but not stopped.

"No way..." No wonder this battle had been so impossible and why his comrades were firing so frantically. The enemy had full-body armor and were apparently strong enough to withstand multiple gunshot impacts! He let loose a flurry of Aldennian swears about their enemy's mother then shouldered his weapon again. A careful aim, then squeeze.

The round was aimed straight at his neck. The projectile tore through the flesh of his neck, severing enough of it to cause the weight of the skull to tear it clear from his shoulder. It was gruesome, but it had done it's job. With a sigh of relief, Wick lowered his rifle, scanning the horizon.

"...Wick." Simon sounded nervous. Wick glanced at his friend, then up again.

The headless soldier kept marching towards them.

A large figure, standing over six feet, flipped a cigarette within his mouth. His penetrating gaze entered the massive field of smoke rising from the battlefield. He threw the cigarette to the ground a moment later, smashing it with his foot. His raised his large hand, seemingly disproportionate from his body, and gestured for a map. A young lad, twenty or so, grabbed a large map from a collection of others and brought it toward the man, the commander. His name was Grievens, Commander Grievens. None of the company knew his first name and none of the soldiers bothered to find out. Grievens was a temperamental man, prone to outbursts of gunshots and overzealous insults that would have made any mother weep. Regardless, he was good at his job. And, for the King, that was all that mattered.

Grievens drew his large sausage of a finger over the yellowed page before stopping at a certain point. He drew his hand back and began to quickly roll up the map. He chucked it at the boy who had brought it earlier before taking a number of steps forward. Turning to his right, he dropped down from a higher outcropping toward another small congregation of soldiers. Commander Grievens headed straight for the presumable leader of the group, the only man wearing a starched hat and not a helmet. "Repor'?" his voiced boomed resonantly, his thick accent easily discernible. The slightly smaller man with the hat looked up, his olive complexion covered with small beads of sweat.

"We seem to be doing well. The Aldennian seem still oblivious to the true army. Another hour or two and we'll have this field completely cleaned."

"Hn," Grievens huffed, nodding his large head.

The man with the hat, a certain Christian Anderson, drew his hand to his chin. "Brilliant stoke of genius to hide our forces within a rebellion. They'll never suspect. If we activate ano--"

Grievens threw his hand on the table, stopping Anderson mid-sentence. "Shu' up, Ande'son. Release Anya. I n'longa want to play taday."

Anderson sucked in a breath, his eyes roving to the side. "Anya, Commander? There really is no need for her powers. Considering the inherent danger..."

"Alwa's a coward, Ande'son. I'll do it."

Anderson brought a hand up in front of himself, shaking it back and forth. "No, no. Let me do it. Pardon the impertinence, sir." Anderson quickly rolled the various scrolls upon his table and handed them to a nearby soldier. The man titled his hat slightly forward as he walked off at a brisk pace. Grievens watched him go, shaking his head before he left himself by walking in the opposite direction.

"Pansay."

--

Anderson stepped up to a group of soldiers circled around a steal crate, large guns in each of their hands. Anderson, with a wave of his own hand, addressed them to step down. They did so, bowing their heads, and moved to locations about twenty feet away from the crate. Anderson stepped toward the metal thing, his hand held outward, and touched a small black button along the right edge. A small, dark panel popped out from the crate with a sharp clang. Anderson punched an eight digit code into the panel before it closed back up with another sharp clang, steam beginning to issue from the sides.

The sides of the box, suddenly, began to morph and bend, folding into themselves, until they were about half their original height. Smoke, a dark gray color, diffused to the surrounding area as Anderson took a number of steps back. As the smoke finally cleared a girl, about eighteen, was revealed to be standing within it. Anderson kept his hands at his sides, looking forward, before the girl suddenly looked up, her eyes snapping. Anderson shook, chills running up his spine, before he beckoned for a number of robotic soldiers. A number of metal humanoids came toward the girl and lifted her upwards. Anderson came forward and tapped a small button at her neck, over the prominent ridge of her spine. Her eyes closed for a moment, as if she was falling asleep, and Anderson spoke evenly to the shining soldiers.

"Three minutes. Run."

The robots nodded their heads and ran toward the battlefield, their electronic arms pumping back and forth furiously. Two minutes and thirty seconds later they set the small girl down, so that she might stand, and scattered forward to continue the march. The girl, Anya, stood there, her red hair blowing softly in the wind, when she finally opened her eyes. A forcefield, seemingly blue, came to life and encircled her save for one point near the back. The forcefield had a tear that allowed an object, about the size and length of an arm, enter the forcefield and press the button along her spine. Otherwise, only objects could exit the forcefield. Anything entering was stopped.

Zing!

A bullet collided against the forcefield and it bounced off and sailed in another direction. Anya looked forward, her one red eye bounding over the battlefield, before she threw her hands out to the side. They became engulfed in fire, and the inferno spread to cover most of her lower back and the remainder of her arms. She launched her right hand forward, a glob of flame and fire shooting forward to crash against the house. The fire swarmed over it, engulfing it in a heated blaze. Anya titled her head to the right, watching the blaze, before she began to walk forward. Her sensors had picked up people nearby, near a headless robot. She walked a bit faster.

It was time to begin.

"Go go go go!"

Wick had the bullet out in one palm, watching anxiously as Simon scrawled ink onto a strip of paper.

"Automotons...they've been talking about it for decades now, trying to create soldier machines. But no one has ever done it, not even in the principality. It's too expensive."

"Who cares, they're here, shut up, write." Wick had his eyes peering over the edge of his trench. Though the mechanical soldier had managed to continue walking without his head, it seemed that he was at a loss of what to do, just loping around in a circle, his leg limping behind him. A general call had sounded over several trumpets, a call for retreat to head back to Marcopolis, the city where Wick and Simon were stationed. Apparently they were going to get the canons out and hide behind the city walls should these rebels decide to push it all the way.

But Wick and Simon were ignoring it, for now. They had an idea, and as long as they had this headless target to work on, they might as well take their time.

"Done." Simon held up the rectangular strip of paper, a magic seal drawn on it. Wick snapped it in his hands and began to wrap it around the bullet.

"Start on another!"

Usually marksman had special bullets for things like this, but Wick's father had stated long ago that the seal could be used on paper, straw, grass...anything that could be wrapped around a bullet in a pinch. It wasn't perfect, but it would help. Simon wordlessly complied, beginning the next seal as Wick loaded the wrapped bullet into his now-empty rifle chamber. He held the weapon at the stock, then closed his eyes. Draw the energy of the internal spirit into the hand, through the weapon. Pour it into the seal, let the seal respond naturally...don't fight it, just let it do what-

Wick grit his teeth as prickles began to stab at his hand. Good enough, he decided. Still drawing his energy into the stock, he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet streaked through the smoke with a trail of blue, scarring its path behind it with dazzling, dancing tendrils. The bullet struck the center of the robotic soldier then began to spasm as it exploded with electricity arcing between its own limbs, a dazzling swirl of purple and blue spiraling in the center as the lightning seal finished its work. When it was over, the body fell to the ground, smoke rising from its overheated components.

"Yes! It worked!" Wick pumped his gun once in the air. Simon ignored him. Beside him were three papers with the lightning seal drawn on them, he was frantically working on a fourth.

"We should fall back and tell the Captain. We can use pre-made bullets back in Marcopolis or have the town magicians make seals for use to use on the bullets. This process is too slow to be effective." Simon took two of the slips and wrapped them around two bullets and loaded them into his rifle. Wick did the same.

"Right. Let's go!"

The pair leapt up from their trench just in time to see her. Wick froze at the sight. A girl, about their age, was walking methodically towards them. Her entire body was on fire! Casually she had raised an arm and thrown a ball of fire into a nearby house, setting it into a blazing inferno. She scanned the area with a single red eye, a shimmering aura of blue surrounding her. Magic was complicated, Wick didn't know what it was...it could be anything.

"Don't move!" Wick cried, leveling his weapon towards her. Wick let spiritual energy pouring into the bullet until he felt the prickle of electricity on his palm again. His eyes flickered over to his left to watch Simon: he had lowered his rifle and went for his pistol at his side, bringing the revolver up in a steady, smooth motion. Made sense, didn't want to waste the lightning bullets on a person.

She kept approaching.

"My shot!"

The muzzle of the revolver roared like an angry lion, sending a single bullet speeding towards the girl.

Anya's red eye twisted within its socket. It latched onto the bullet, analyzing it, as it crashed into the headless soldier. The bullet tore it to pieces, the electrical current overriding the system and the automaton fell. The automaton was... friend. Humans were the enemy. Anya was a meld between the two. Not completely human, but not completely robot. It was paramount in sustaining her abilities. Robots could not use seals. That required organic matter, life, in order to draw out energy. Of course, the human body was fleshy and weak. Anya was stronger, much stronger, than either race alone.

When the girl was simply a prototype, the results had been disastrous. Her programming instructed her to attack the enemy. However, who was the enemy? Anya had ended up attacking the leader of the side she had supposedly served. He was the major killer and would result in the greatest loss of lives. Anya had made a qualified decision: he needed to be exterminated. Eventually, there seemed to be only one solution. Anya needed to be sent on the battlefield amongst automatons and told to kill humans. There would be no mix up. There couldn't. Besides, automatons were the only beings that could survive the extent of her abilities.

So Anya, now, understood. They had fired against one of the automatons and they needed to be destroyed. The flames increased around her as she stalked forward, her footsteps leaving a small blaze in her wake. He froze, watching her. Anya continued forward when, suddenly, a cry erupted behind her. A human...? Impossible. Anya worked in a line. Everything before her was consumed in a blaze and everything behind her was ashes. To think that something had slipped by... Anya forgot about the two humans for now, her attention on what had happe--

Shrrrrt!

The bullet had sailed directly through the hole in the forcefield, the bullet striking about two centimeters from the button. It ripped through her upper shoulder, revealing a portion of her inner workings as lightning erupted around her and within her. Her system crashed, Anya falling into blackness, as her body convulsed from the overload. Then, it stopped. Anya laid there for a moment, unmoving, and the shield fell to leave her vulnerable. Another moment passed, the occasional cry and whizzing of a bullet the only sounds to be heard. Suddenly, a click. Anya was rebooting, her system restarting with an external power source. Her eyes snapped open, her vision slowly returning. It was then that she realized...

She had no idea where she was.
What she wad doing.
Who she was.

No, no. She was Anya. She didn't know why she knew that, or how, but she simply did. Anya Kovalik. She looked down at her hands and moved her fingers. Her eye began to analyze them, inputting the data directly into her brain. She was fleshy, pink, and therefore... human? Yes. Certainly. Anya moved to sit up, her eyes roving over the battlefield, when an automaton stepped near her. Anya quickly moved backwards, skirting against the ground, but the robot simply passed by. Was she like him...? No. She wasn't. She was like... Anya scanned the field, looking for someone... there! Those two men. Yes, men. They were men and she was a woman. They were the same. At least, more so than the automatons. She needed to get to them so that they might help her.

She was broken.

Anya did not feel pain only... the extent of damage. Her shoulder was severely damaged and she needed to fix herself. She needed, she needed... tools! Yes, tools. Those men had tools, did they not. Anya had to get their attention, but how? She had seen people before, people scream. They opened there mouth and sound came out, a very loud sound. Anya mimicked them, opening her mouth. However, nothing happened. There was more to screaming than simply opening her mouth...? Ugh, how else did humans procure attention? Suddenly, an automaton came directly toward Anya. It moved down, to grab her arm, and Anya quickly backed away again. It continued to pursue her and Anya, finally, screamed. The compression of her diaphragm and her vocal cords produced an unnatural and breathy sound. It almost wasn't even a scream. Anya stood up and began to run.

Have to get away...

Their was fear clearly in her eyes. She was no longer a killer, but a girl.

Wick watched, completely confused.

He was about to yell to Simon to not fire. The blue field, whatever it was, had the ability to redirect projectiles, to send them away from her while maintaining speed. He had seen a few shots bounce off of it even as Simon reached for the revolver. But...somehow, his shot got through. The girl convulsed with electricity a few moments; the blue field collapsed on itself, and she just...stood there. Wick squinted his eyes...was she a robot too? He was almost certain he could see gears or...something on her shoulder. It wasn't flesh, that much was certain.

And then she rocked up, like awakening from slumber. She was looking back and forth, then nearly leapt as an automoton soldier passed by her...

"Another!"

Wick was snapped from his observations, realizing that the passing automoton was actually heading for him! He redoubled his concentration, pouring energy into the bullet and letting it crackle with electricity. He pulled the trigger and another stream of lightning erupted from his weapon, killing the incoming soldier in another blue-purple swirl of electricity.

"Something's wrong..." Simon had stowed his pistol again and had his rifle raised. Wick traced the line of sight, looking over just as the horrific and confusing sound erupted from the girl's mouth...it was...sort of like a scream. One of the automoton soldiers was reaching for the girl, who was now...running? Towards them! Simon tested, gripping his rifle, not sure where to point it.

Wick looked in her eyes.
Total terror...

"Cover me!" Wick yelled as he rushed forward. Simon opened his mouth, probably to object, but didn't have time. Wick let his rifle lower, holding it by the barrel in his left hand as he ran directly past the girl and towards the automoton behind her. He reached to the small of his back, and pulled out the short sword that hung there. It was a single edged blade approximately 18 inches long, standard issue for the Aldennian infantry. As the automoton approached, it raised its own sword and swung, though his eyes or...sensors or whatever, misjudged Wick's distance, swiping the blade harmlessly through the space between them. Wick raised the sword sword above his head, and drove it towards the torso of the soldier as hard as he could.

Energy flowed through his palm, into the hilt of his sword. At the base of the blade, a small magic seal could be seen flaring to life. Right as the blade was about to make contact, it swelled and inflated, the sharpened thin piece of steel suddenly becoming a thick, heavy club of steel. With the speed of the small weapon now transferred into the weight of the heavy weapon, the club shattered the soldier's arm and upper torso, sending the wrecked monstrosity to the ground.

Wick spun around. Simon had his weapon trained on the panicking girl.

"Don't! Let's take her!"

Simon glowered. "What!?"

Wick was already backtracking himself, now standing a mere foot or two away from her. He examined her back more closely this time...near where Simon's bullet had made contact seemed to be a switch of some sort...inner mechanical workings shown on her shoulder...but she was still...a person. Right?

"Hey...I'm Wick..." He tried to speak calmly. The club in his hand melted back into a sword, and he slipped it onto its sheath on his back. "I want to help...I'm going to step closer now, okay? Do you have a name?"

As he moved closer, Simon kept his weapon at the ready, his own stock now sparkling with electricity. "What are you thinking!"

"I think you broke her...and I think she's scared..." Wick took a tentative step.

"The Captain-"

"The Captain can shove it, we'll call her a prisoner if we have to..." Wick took another step, reaching out gently with his free right hand to touch her undamaged, human, shoulder.