Guild Wars 2

So I’ve been RP-ing in TC lately!!! Yay end game fun! xD Anyway, here are some short pieces I’ve written for my ex spec ops RP character.

54 Phoenix 1326 AE: Operation Stygian Echo
71 Zephyr 1316 AE: School
3 Phoenix 1322 AE: Steel to Steel
35 Colossus 1326 AE: Notes & Gin
55 Scion 1318 AE: Dirt
57 Colossus 1326 AE: Reunion, Departure

[Will be updated]

0224 Hours 54 Phoenix 1326 AE: Operation Stygian Echo

[Lt. Takayama-7268C // Sceptor Squad, EVO Unit, PACT/UADC // 0224 hours Tyrian Realm Time // 54 Phoenix 1326 AE // Transcribed:CV.163.1466]

“Sceptor Leader, we’re descending to target altitude. Approaching designated landing zone coordinates, ETA five minutes.”

“Roger that. Prep to launch.”

All heads in the passenger hold snapped to their leader with undivided attention.

“You heard that, soldiers. Five minutes to launch at 0230 hours. We’re right on schedule. Gear up boys and girls. You know the drill. No room for errors. Get in and get out, quick and slick, and a shower and fat stack of gold will be waiting for us. The Vanguard is here because we are the best at what we do. Make us proud.”

Meaningless words that must be said. In response, there were the simultaneous salutes of seven other heavy combat suits, proud mustard yellow and ebony, uniform in color and design save for the varying heights. For a split moment, their faces could be made out from the shadows of the bay. Their stalwart battle hardened faces of both the younger and the older, lit only by the under glow of pale orange floor markings.

But their faces became the one and the same as they hefted helmets over their heads and stern polarized crystal visors turned opaque. The same angled cold, alien, unforgiving visors that would make any race or creature squirm in its path. But, a chance for such an encounter would most likely mean death.

For the EVO Unit was a new breed of soldiers that had no equal in the PACT or the United Anti-Draconic Confederation of Tyria forces. And they mustered troops from all corners of Tyria from all backgrounds and species, skills and experience. No doubt there were already many capable bodies.

Though the squad preferred a low profile, word quickly spread through the lands of Tyria, and rumors that their human proportions could trump a norn or a warband of Charr in a contest of superhuman strength or outrun wargs and centaurs became myths and legends shrouded in much mystery. Prideful Norn and Charr alike would scoff at the stories told deeming it physically impossible and nothing but bluffs while spellcasters would brush them off as weak and petty against the might of arcane energies.

Not that it mattered, as the unit would rarely come in contact with other troops, always seeking to work independently and deployed in the most dangerous and classified scenarios where no other mercenary, Vigil, Whispers or Priory member would dare set foot. But they were a rare commodity, existing only high up on the classified lists that the Marshall or Commander of the PACT would personally contact. They would only be called on in times of necessity.

This time was another one of the necessities, which were becoming more often in the past four months. Their mission was in the dead of the night and they expect to be finished before dawn. The nocturne was quiet, a perfect cover for their infiltration and unexpected assault. Not because the enemy was asleep, for corrupted dragon minions were in no hurry for rest, but because they would never see or hear them coming. In particular, they had a new toy, courtesy of their beloved Priory engineer. Should it succeed, it would be a crippling blow right in the center of their fortress.

“Three minutes to deployment.” The crackle of sound through the comm came from the kittenpit of the airship, echoing through the passenger bay, over the gentle hum of the arcanic engines and the rhythm of the rotors.

No one else said anything. Their movements were silent and quick, and unbuckled safety harnesses that fastened them to seats. Each straightened to their full heights curtly and made their replies with weapons instead as rounds were racked into their chambers and blades were sheathed and clipped onto utility belts. With weapons in place, and their chute pack securely fastened, all was satisfactory, at precisely the right time.

Then slowly and well-practiced. one after another formed a single line facing the launch door, knees slightly bent in anticipation. All was so calm and habitual, as if they’ve completed the routine thousands of times.

“Sceptor Squad standing by.”

[continued]

“Sceptor HQ to Sceptor Squad,” An older man’s voice came through their earpieces. “Landing zone appears clear from the surveillance drone as of the moment, remain alert and secure landing perimeter as per protocol. Once again, do not open communication channels upon landing until my given word.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, soldiers.”

There was silence again.
Just the muted sounds of the ship remained.

One minute remaining.

“Doors opening in three.”

Now it was the voice from the kittenpit.

The Lieutenant motioned for a final gear check.

“Two.”

Each gave her a thumbs up.
Perhaps, they would have been wearing a final grim smile under their helms.

“One.”

On cue, there was a loud clank that shook the floor beneath their feet before a wild howl tore violently through the chamber; the gush of cold air sent loose harness belts behind them on the seats flickering like ghosts and rippling like flags. The squad steeled their stances against the wind and shaking floor with bent knees and bodies hunched, ready for the jump.

Beyond the bay doors, now fully open, was a sea of darkness, nearly pitch black, occasionally pierced by the drumbeat flash of light from the doorframe and the weak hazy glow of the moonlight unseen above them. No doubt, the deep of the night at such high altitudes was below freezing point, but luckily, their armored suits and helmets were completely impenetrable by the wintry air.

“Sceptor Squad, you are cleared for launch.”

“Thirty seconds to jump.” Came the Lieutenant’s voice.

“Copy.”

She made her way carefully to the edge of the launch bay. Her booted toes were almost hanging off, walking on the night sky. She let out a quiet inaudible breath, forcing out all thoughts and emotions and the rhythm of her pounding heart. No matter how many times they had done this, the exhilaration of the dive and the combat up ahead never failed to send blood and adrenaline pulsing through her body.

She fidgeted with her gear one last time.

The seconds were ticking down.

In the darkness, a nod towards her teammates.

Then, she jumped.

“Initiating Operation Stygian Echo.”

[end]

1320 Hours 71 Zephyr 1316 AE: School

She was twirling a few strands of golden hair absentmindedly. He grinned at her but she ignored him. The teacher, the Master, she liked to be called, was rambling again. About the coefficient fractional calculations to the warp of the space-time continuum and the ratio to how much arcane energy one would channel through her body in order to maintain…

Her high snarky voice was fading away.

And she was more focused on the texture of the yellowed inky pages of her tome. Each New Krytan letter was imprinted so crisp and pristine she could feel the slight grooves and bumps, solid and sharp against the brush of her fingers. The printing presses had been much more accurate in mass producing copies in the past twenty years. But that had been before she was born. She had only started her studies four years ago and she was turning twelve.

He always called her a book worm, a nerd, and various other unoriginal descriptors. But she never told him she was more interested in the smell of books and the texture of the pages. Though she never needed to put effort into her studies, she liked books. Just to be around them. They offered friendship, she felt. A more stable friendship than any of the children in Divinity’s Reach. Especially not within the noble institutions.

“The calculations behind such magic is not only necessary to understand, but a skilled mesmer will be able apply it in battle. The reservation of arcane energies without waste is often the turning point of drawn out lengthy combat. Against stronger foes, the precision of concentrated power will be what brings out an advantage. Take Archibald Khan the Third for example. In 1291 AE…”

“Hey.”

His voice was but a whisper, and they were at the back of the room where the “Master” probably couldn’t hear.

She shot a glare at him. “What?”

His well-defined features were sharp and quick, that look she was used to. “Let’s cut class.”

She ignored him again.

But he inched closer and prodded her with a sharp pencil.

“Hey! Stop that!”

He chuckled a little. “Come on, Miss Nerd.”

Her eyes narrowed and snatched his pencil away. “Seriously, you’re the one who’s failing, not me. Listen.”

He rolled his eyes and slumped over his desk dramatically.

But she too, could only focus for a few minutes more. By then, he had grabbed all her books suddenly and slipped out from the back doors, leaving her no choice but to follow.

“Art, you jerk! Give that back!”

He laughed and continued to saunter away with her books, dodging behind pillars and keeping to the shadows like a commoner thief.

She sighed and kept her head down, following him into the streets, once again.

She could only hope no teachers or guards would catch them. But of course, they never had.

[end]

1642 Hours 3 Phoenix 1322 AE: Steel to Steel

She barely managed to duck under the massive arm, tearing through the air above her. The claws screeched against the barren tree a split moment later. No doubt, it completely knocked it over; its roots pulled up blinding chains of dirt and gravel. She grunted and skidded back a few feet.

The Vanguard was fighting tooth and nail – her weapons were lodged in the ground far away. But she had to await the right moment to dive for them. Though she was fast, and her enemy was large, he wasn’t slow at all. A single leap would be all it took for the lithe beast to lunge on top of her. Thankfully, she had disarmed him earlier on, so they were equally primitive. However, he still had his size and his claws.

The rest of her squad had been scattered in the chaos, between explosions bombarding them left and right, and the rush of opposing soldiers. They had pressed alongside the cliffs and curved up to the southern flank, infiltrating the supply camp, but were met soon with a few stragglers who pushed them back in different directions. There were just enough for one Charr to one human, but still she had hopes most of them were holding well. Just over the large boulder she was fighting behind would be Corporal Choi with his axes. She could almost hear his whirling edges.

They were the most brutal and stalwart squad in the Ebon Vanguard by far, most of the members having served since a young age, skilled in all types of combat and terrain, raised and bred to fight. But most of all, none of them had a care for their own life. Nor did they hold any emotion in combat. For they had nothing to lose, and nothing to remember. Perhaps hundreds had been slain by their hands, and the blood that stained their hands were just a necessity of life.

It was all they knew. The dusty orange skies overhead and the dull monochromes of the barren land, straw and red dirt, naked trees and high rock cliffs, even the smoky lifeless air, saturated with the smell of the copper tinge of blood, gunpowder and death, was their home. It was the same day after day for them. Fight after fight. And fight after fight, they were pushing forward, gaining territory. The massive Ebonhawke walls never faltered or fell. Never did a Charr breach its gates. But soon, they would retake Ascalon.

She spat blood on the ground. She knew it was from her bloody lip, not an internal injury. But she let it be a gesture of intimidation. Everything was her weapon. Her arms, her legs, her hands, her boots. Most of all, her head. She believed that she had the advantage in this fight. Her speed, her wit, her courage, her timing, her stamina, her strength and willpower. Everything she embraced. It filled her body.

[continued]

Her muscles were both tense and relaxed at the same time. She had cleared all from her mind as she was used to. No thoughts. No emotions. No past and no future. Only the present. Only the synergy through her body. The channels of magic coursing through her body. Her pounding heart, panting breath, the blood and sweat dripping down her face, rivers of lava that kept wet and grimy hair dangling. Her arms raw and scratched. One knee was bleeding from the skin that had been sheared off.

In a similar way, the Charr in front of her growled, fangs baring, rippling muscles under his fur flexing. His sharp claws and paws were braced to lunge his massive body that easily doubled or tripled hers, forward with all its strength. He wasn’t a young Charr. A battle hardened veteran proudly wearing his Blood Legion armor and icon brandings. He was no stranger to traditional combat. None of the Blood Legion were. They were trained to kill on the battlefield. But on his face was a strange look of approval of his enemy. Strange, as he had never encountered a young woman so small and slight who could hold up such a powerful fight. She wasn’t using any weapons at this point. Nor magic. She hadn’t used her magic as she believed it would be admitting weakness. It would only be her last resort.

“Will be my pleasure to slaughter you, human child.” The charr snarled his threats but seemed to treat her as an equal. Or a worthy prey.

She didn’t respond. Her face blank and empty, her eyes narrowed with intent focus.

Their eyes locked and bodies were bent and stances low. They would engage again. She was ready.

But there was the sudden eruption of the ground beneath them. It shook the very core of their bodies and upheaved their feet, sending them soaring backwards from the shockwave – a huge jolt – their heads hit the ground, sliding on their backs over rocks and dirt, snaring against brances and jagged shrapnel. She would’ve cried out in pain but she would never reveal any weakness. Never.

She didn’t hear the whistle of the incoming shell but an incendiary round must have landed nearby, setting the ground and what straw was left ablaze. Smoke filled her lungs and made her cough up in racking shudders. But it had aided her, in her opinion, for her sword was just out of reach.

The proud wings of the Ebon Vanguard on its handguard greeted her eyes with glee as she closed her grip around its hilt. Hard black leather. It fit her hand perfectly, warmly, like the embrace of a friend. But she didn’t skip a beat as she rolled backwards avoiding the lunge of the Charr on all fours, claws, scimitar and all, rocketing into the ground where she was just a moment ago.

She promised she wouldn’t use magic. She didn’t need to. This Charr, she would offer him an honorary death, steel to steel.

[end]

35 Colossus 1326 AE: Notes & Gin

“The usual, please.”

“Ye ye. Fer reals, yer dun even hef t’say. I no ya too well, milady.”

She felt the corner of her lips turn up in a half-grin half-grimace. She could never get used to being called “milady”. But she was no longer in uniform.

His burly meaty arms slid the glass over, swirling with streams of deep red and blacks amidst a sea of fizzing bubbles. It was the only alcoholic beverage she would ever drink. She couldn’t stand the rest of them, as much as she wanted to keep a low profile. Most patrons around the room were likely gulping ale and rum, with the occasional glass of wine. But she liked taste. The tangy fruity taste soaked away the bitter burn of alcohol, a friend told her once. Since then, she was sold.

She had chosen the furthest seat into the tavern down the long dusty counter furnished with tinkling glimmering glass bottles and cups. Her seat meant she was the closest to the ingredients for her kittentails. And the deepest seat in the tavern also meant on her right side was the sturdy brick wall so no one could flank her beyond her peripheral vision, and on her left side was the hilt of her trusty blade sheathed on her hip, always ready to defend. From here, she could keep an eye on the whole smoky interior of the tavern while appearing inconspicuous by exchanging small talk with the bartender. Occupational illness, he said. But she just wasn’t taking any chances.

Tonight, there weren’t many. Through the sheen of pipe smoke, the smell of the burnt wood and gunpowder, she could make out a few shady figures, hunkered down with mugs of liquor. Two thick brim hats were in a corner, one standard set of Seraph armor, off duty likely, and another three or four casuals. Another hooded man was in the shadows by the corner opposite of hers. Then, from the stairs near the doors, a young woman in well worn garments descended with lightly padding feet. Still, there was another hour or two til the scene would pick up.

She hoped it wasn’t too clear she was looking for someone. Someone had been leaving her anonymous notes. Mysterious scrawlings, single words that seemed more like riddles she had a hard time with. The bartender would tell her the note would strangely appear on the counter with a single silver coin addressed to “Rei”. And there weren’t so many who knew her first name. It would be at around nine thirty in the evening, each week, but the barkeep could never catch who it was. It was as if the informant had been invisible.

So she decided to come watch for herself. But she had a little time, a good twenty minutes to kill before the time window. She could finish a glass of Juniberry Gin in minutes if she was thirsty – which she was – but she would have to sip and prolong its life so she had something to do.

People watching was an occupational illness too. She was trained to read people, especially in the thick of battle. Every twitch, flex of muscles, wrinkle of the nose, quirk of an eyebrow, flicker of the gaze, narrowing of eyes, gritting of teeth, width of their shoulders, distance between the feet, tightness of hand grips, stances, positioning, angle of weapons, arch of the back… and more, were things she absorbed all at once, her brain intrinsically returning calculations of their next move or their current thoughts. Every hint could give her the advantage and could mean life or death. No doubt she could not restrain the wandering of her gaze above the high collar she pulled up to cover her features. She hid her lips behind her glass and took a sip and watched.

What particularly intrigued her was the shadowy hooded figure in the corner of the room. And to a lesser degree the two men with wide brim hats obscuring their eyes. It wasn’t only their fashion that spoke of secrets and skill, but their posture was casual but alert, each slant of their back and elbows revealed their practiced bodily coordination. She wondered if others could see the same in her. On the other hand, at the same time, she was analyzing the other patrons, especially the plainest man, greasy hair, in nothing but a tunic like undergarments and a pair of worn breeches. His sketchy seedy eyes flickered here and there. A pickpocket? A drug dealer? A messenger? A beggar? Or more?

So deep into her observation was she that she realized she had just ignored the bartender.

[continued]

“Sum o’dems out ders prolly ‘ly drinks fer nutt’n, t’look trendy dem fellows. Dey tink dey lookin’ reals good.” He said with his hearty voice a little loud and a little too accented for her to keep up. “Den dey make up big war stories t’be a’tellin’. Or suma fellows like d’taste. Buh y’dun look’r act like d’kind, lass.”

She looked into the contents of her drink and her expression seemed to darken. “What do I drink for?” She pondered upon it herself.

The patrons hadn’t moved yet. The hooded man especially was just sipping from his mug, casually, lounged back. She didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Neither could she catch the conversations between the two hats or the young woman’s soft voice speaking politely to the Seraph. Time was ticking and she had to keep a watchful eye.

“When I drink, I think of my fallen comrades.” Her voice was the same as always, grim and quiet, barely audible. It wasn’t like she had a particularly low or deep voice, but she seemed to prefer to keep her speech low and tone heavy, removing all traces of the feminine charm in her girly voice. It was like she had breathed out a final confession with a tinge of a threat, slightly raspy. Though it was the truth, at the moment, she felt guilty of not offering silent toasts to her friends tonight.

“Ah…” The bartender nodded slowly. “Yer righ’ brave souls ough’a be ’member’d.”

“There’s nothing real brave about war. Just the lack of emotion. Just the lack of humanity. Similarly, I am no longer human.”

The large man raised an eyebrow and looked her once over. “Lookin’ like a fine young lady t’me aye.”

She didn’t reply til she finished a long draught.

“Don’t let appearances fool you. Things aren’t what they seem.”

He snorted and chuckled some. “Ligh’n up, girl.”

She set down her glass with a soft thump and looked up at him, her eyes adorned with a glint. “I will after we see the note appear.” She let the saturated air of the tavern suffocate her words.

The bartender’s eyes replied with a darkness of his own. “Aye, aye. Ye ye. I know it.”

But she didn’t receive the silence she had wanted as a familiar voice greeted her, whispering in her left ear. “You really ought to lighten up, eh? It’ll do you good, sis.”

She smothered her grin. She had noticed her friend walk in through the door and pull up shortly beside her, leaning on the counter loosely like a brawler. Her friend was a Sylvari, draped with robes that seemed to be woven out of leaves and vines, but at the same time behaved like clothes, soft and supple. But in the dim lighting of the tavern, the Sylvari’s dark green skin looked closer to black, so all they could make out was her eyes.

“What ever are you doing here?”

The newcomer shrugged. “I thought I’d find you here. And sure enough!”

The bartender didn’t bother to ask for what she wanted and placed a plum juice in front of her. The Sylvari reached for her bag of coins and dropped a silver on the counter. “Keep the change!”

“Well, well, generous are you today?” Rei scoffed jokingly. She was speaking but her eyes were still scanning the counter and the tavern, keeping marks on all the patrons. There was another new customer that walked in from the door but she didn’t appear too suspicious. She had a traveling cloak and a staff, probably a spellcaster of sorts but her round young innocent face didn’t hide much.

The two men with brimmed hats ordered another round of ale as they chugged down the previous. They wouldn’t remain here much longer with the amount of alcohol and speed they consumed. Either they knew their limits and would stop soon or they didn’t and would pass out. Usually in here, it was the latter. On the other hand, the small seedy commoner man had got up to leave. She frowned at his greasy unkempt hair but watched as he left. There was no note left behind from him.

“What are you looking at?”

Rei shook her head a bit. “Nothing much.”

“You sure? Certainly doesn’t look that way.” Her thief friend laughed, ever sensitive and aware. She was a member of the Order of Whispers, used to classified secrets and just as keen to catch unspoken implications and hints.

The former Vanguard decided it was better to tell. A Whispers friend could keep confidentiality but had resources that could help. She fetched a stack of torn paper from a pouch under her skirt and tossed it onto the counter.

[continued]

“Oh? What’s this?” The Sylvari picked it up and began to leaf through the contents. Each page was about half a standard letter, torn raggedly in the middle. It was yellow parchment, roughly textured, made of unrefined pulp and recycled newspaper scrap, the one Tyrians would purchase in bulk for scrap paper or quick notes. It wasn’t official document or formal letter paper quality, and was available to the masses, that was for sure.

“Lark. Moonlight. Mist. Seed. Golden. Flame. Zero. North-east. Vassal. Wings…”

The Sylvari looked as confused as Rei had been at the strange words scrawled in messy font on each page.

“What under the Pale Tree could this mean?”

Rei smiled some. “I’m wondering the same thing.” She continued, “Seeing that you are a Whispers agent, perhaps you might help.”

Her friend looked serious, staring at the notes, flipping through and shuffling them between her fingers. “I’ve seen much code in my short lifetime. This is definitely not any existing cryptic structures or systems. But it also appears to have no correlation. However, there should be something… if I just spend a little time. I may have to take it back to the headquarters.”

Rei nodded curtly. “Please, by all means, I’d appreciate that.”

“Anything for a friend.” The Sylvari smiled with her dark green mouth that faded into a little crimson at the point of her lips. She lifted her glass of juice and sipped deeply.

There was only a conversation of silence for now, interjected by tinkles or thuds of mugs and bottles here and there, pops of corks and fizzing of trapped air, low voices whispering under breaths, and sounds of creaking footsteps from the inn floors above. It was a quiet tavern by all standards, tucked out of the way and wedged between a large buildings, which was precisely what Rei had wanted. But yet, someone had located her and slipped her anonymous notes.

Nine twenty five. She was fully alert now and returned her attention to watching the room. The patrons were not moving, but it appeared the two men with wide hats had just finished their last drink. Now their voices were louder, and she could hear laughter. They got up to leave, their stools shifting, screeching against the wooden floorboards. One almost stumbled from intoxication but he caught himself, shaking his head in jest and sauntered out together. She couldn’t catch their faces, but it wasn’t unusual to conceal features in public taverns, like she was. There was no note yet.

" ’Bout time." The bartender grunted.

They watched.

Yet, five minutes later, there was still no note.

Nor was there one fifteen minutes later.

But two minutes to ten, it happened. They no doubt saw it happen. They had been fixated on surveying the tavern and its counter, but somehow they missed it. Or perhaps they didn’t. The interior was empty enough, there weren’t that many patrons, so there was no way someone had blocked their view. But there it was.

It had appeared. Silently on the counter. One silver sitting on top of a small sheet of yellow parchment. It was there. But it appeared like it had always existed. No figure came up to place it on the surface. No tricks or disguises. No slight of hand. Nor a note tied to an arrow. No delivery by bird or dog. No disturbance in the air, like the almost unnoticeable ripple of a stealthed thief. Nothing.

Like it had always existed. A moment ago, the counter, they could have sworn was empty. The next, there it was.

They looked on in speechless disbelief.

“Plum juice… doesn’t get you drunk does it?”

[end]

55 Scion 1318 AE: Dirt

Hesitant with posting this here, but it’s part of the character’s life

WARNING: EXTREME VULGAR LANGUAGE, SUBJECT MATTER, HIGHLY OFFENSIVE, DISCRIMINATORY!!! (All verbal)

(This is totally for experimental purpose, I do not condone or support any offensive subject matter in the content, this is an illustration and slightly a societal commentary/statement/message on some themes of sorts. This will be the only highly offensive piece to be written.)

57 Colossus 1326 AE: Reunion, Departure

“Tomorrow.”

He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Why the rush?” His eyes held a glint, he had a suspicion that it was more complicated than a vacation. He knew she wasn’t the type to take vacations. Not for long anyway.

She looked up slowly from her vegetable curry stew, still steaming and simmering with thick liquid and bobbing ingredients, like they were merely soaking in a mud bath.

There was silence for a few minutes, even as she met his gaze evenly. But he could see it in her eyes, without speaking.

“You’re in some kind of trouble aren’t you.”

She smiled a little, her lips giving way to a slight curl at the ends, something small and weak. She returned her spoon to the soup and brushed her blonde hair back to take a sip.

“It’s hot.”

“Yeah, no kidding, Lieutenant.” He broke into a light laughter, as if to ease the graveness of the atmosphere. But as soon as he stopped and his face grew grim again, the suffocating saturation of an unbearable weight settled on their shoulders.

“How’s Nav and Simon been?” He was unwilling to let silence gain a foothold.

“Good.”

He snorted and rubbed his temple in defeat. “It’s been years, friend, but we can’t even have a casual conversation.”

“Sir, you’ll always be my commanding officer.” She gave him a look that bordered on affection.

But the older broad chested man in his leather tunic and a diagonal utility belt that seemed to never leave his body, grew weary, as he watched her eat her last supper. He had seen many people over the years, recruits and privates like Reina once had been, soldiers of honor and courage, the elite and the rich, straggling peasants and greedy pirates, men and women with secrets, others who spoke their mind and fought with fury, but she had always been different. He had seen that sharp edge in her eyes, the courage and determination in her heart, but still full of human depth and self-control, knowing dream from reality, being much too mature for her age.

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Those days are long gone. Tsurry, you’re even of a higher rank than I was.”

“Sir, a Vanguard is a Vanguard for life.”

He sighed and nodded. “You’re right. You’re a good kid.”

She didn’t reply and began to split a piece of the flatbread. After she dipped it in her bowl of soup, she methodologically nibbled it bit by bit, turning it around and around, attacking it from all angles until it disappeared, as if it had never existed. Her fingers were immaculately clean, untouched by soup or bread crumbs, and her mouth clear, teeth white, not a single morsel left.

“I haven’t seen Sergeant Navarrez and Simons in months now.”

He waited for her to continue.

“I won’t be returning.”

He kittened his head as if to ask.

She caught his question before he spoke. “Not to the PACT or the squad.”

“You founded it though, didn’t you? I have heard much about you. You are their leader. You have always been a leader.”

She shook her head slowly. “Some things can’t be redeemed. Some things are better off left alone. Life moves on.”

He grunted. “You sound like an old woman.” He didn’t laugh. He poured two cups of tea.

“You’re not eating?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve eaten.” He lied. He hadn’t eaten for the entire day. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Can’t believe we would just run into one another on the street. I didn’t know you were in the Reach.”

“I have been for a while.” Her expression darkened as she paused from biting. “Matters to attend to.”

He nodded. “Not surprising.”

“What do you know about me, sir? Like, what have you heard?”

[continued]

His face twisted over, as if recalling some horrid grotesque images. He was sure she had already heard the details, so he didn’t hesitate. “I’ve heard some of everything. The PACT isn’t so upright or noble and is creating super soldiers, mutants, demons from hell, killing machines, pets and weapons, dangerous to society. You all must be caged and kept locked away. Destroyed if you step out of line. Then there’s some that say you all never existed and was the government’s way of boosting morale to troops, though our forces spread thin and many lives have perished. Still, others suggest you’re all dragonspawn, corrupted in some strange way in Inquest experiments and will turn against Tyria soon. I also heard of the expeditions into dragon territory, that you slaughtered human survivors.”

She tipped her head. “Reasonable stories, since we may be a bit of everything.” He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“Tsurry, point is, if you’re on the loose, there are going to be people after you.” His words were stern and severe.

And the expression she replied with was revealing. The man’s eyes grew wider. “Ah. So there is already someone hunting for you.”

“Indeed.” She folded her hands on the table.

“Well, that explains it. Where you headed then?”

“Home, for a little, perhaps.”

“For a target of your caliber, there will likely be eyes and ears everywhere.”

“No doubt. I won’t be staying very long.”

“Good. Listen, there’s something strange about the PACT, from what I gather.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward his scraggly bearded face was cast in shadows, eyes sullen and cheekbones prominent. Only the light of the oil lamp lit one side of his face.

She only listened, still and silent as grave.

“The PACT gather and employ races and backgrounds of all kinds. Even old criminals, as long as they were willing to lift a sword for the cause. Sure, there is a common enemy but for some, the Dragons are but a far off threat. Until one comes ripping through a city I reckon most will not care. Even if they did, many will leave it up to others to fight. People, of all races, tend to be selfish, only interested in their personal gain. Sylvari might be an exception. And… Humans are probably the worst.”

He paused, then continued.

“There are many ragtag factions within the PACT. They appear to only be made up of three main Orders and under one unified whole but there are many smaller groups, seen or unseen.”

She nodded. Her unit was one of the smaller groups after all.

“Some will only work under a pretence of unity.” But he cut short and stopped there, his brow furrowed.

“I know and understand, sir. I shall be careful.”

He nodded slowly but he still looked concerned.

“Sir,” She looked at him through the glow of the lamp. “Have you heard of the Moonhammer Forge?”

[continued]

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms slowly, deep in thought. The marks on the wooden table seemed of interest to him. Then, “No. Not that I can recall. I have been wandering for many years now, a sellsword of sorts, but even with my wide range of tales, such a name eludes my ears.”

“It appears the rifling bores of the weapon used in an attempt on my life was traced to this custom maker.”

The former Vanguard officer struck a match and lit his cigar, breathing in a deep cloud of smoke, and exhaled slowly, filling the small kitchen with a screen to obscure their vision.

Then he spoke, through puffs of noxious gas. “I’ve heard of the Crescent Moon Company. The only ‘moon’ I recall. I’ll send you word should I find anything about the Moonhammer Forge.” He shrugged. “In any case, strange for any kind of professional assassin to leave behind anything for you to find.”

She didn’t speak for a while. He was right. “But regardless, it’s a lead and a risk I must take. If I am hunted, I must know my hunter, and in the process, I can become the hunter myself.”

Her companion smiled grimly. “That’s no doubt something our Tsurry would say.”

She sipped from her tea.

“You really never stop, do you?” He studied her sadly. She stared into the depths of her black tea. “Have you ever thought,” He hesitated. “what it would be like to be normal?”

The question caught her off guard, like a thin blade piercing her heart. She froze, immobile, her hands wrapped around the tea for warmth from the increasingly frigid air. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But she never replied. She wouldn’t.

He frowned at the silence once again, but did not push any further. As if a page had been turned, she seemed to take a deep breath, standing and straightening herself, brushing off her robes and her black hooded cloak.

“Thank you very much for the warm meal and the tea, sir.”

He stared hard at her for a moment, but exhaled, defeated. He stood as well and nodded grimly, extending his hand.

She took it and returned a strong firm handshake.

“Take care, Tsurry. May the Six bless you and keep you. Stay alive. I will see you.” His voice was gruff, like he was barking an order. Reina met his eyes for a moment.

“You too.” She bowed her head again, pulling her hood up over her blonde hair, hiding beneath its brim. Then she stepped into the chilly night air, letting the darkness and the cold be her comfort.

The truth was that she thought it every day. What if she could have a normal life? Growing up as an ordinary girl? Fussing over small things? What if her parents hadn’t passed away? What if she never joined the military? What if she could have done things differently? What if she could walk away from all this?

But they were merely fictional questions. There was no way now to return to the past. There was no way she could walk away free. Not so easily.

She clutched the cloak around her and walked briskly. There was no time for reminiscing and regretful tears. She would leave before dawn.

[end]