It felt surreal, like a fleeting dream; nothing seemed tangible, not even the weight in his hands. His arms felt burdensome, yet the weapon felt weightless, as light as a feather. He double-checked his rifle repeatedly. Since he settled down and secured himself, it was a constant struggle to maintain his sanity. Every strap on his armour had been tightened and re-tightened to the point where his feet were numb from lack of circulation. Each bullet and accessory was meticulously accounted for.
Forty-eight rounds, two charges, three grenades; one flash, one frag, one gas... or was it two?
His hands released the rifle, allowing it to hang limply against his chest as he rummaged through his belt. Not for the first time, he had lost track of how many times he had checked.
Two grenades... Why would they issue frags? One gas, one flash. Why do I keep thinking I have a frag? Did I lose it!?
His gaze swept over the men around him, seeking comparison or, at the very least, hoping he wasn't the only mistake. The scene unfolded as it always did; a few men engaged in prayer. One ran a rosary through his dull, titanium-plated gauntlets, leaning on the butt of his rifle with clasped hands, either muttering an inaudible prayer or silently reproaching himself for every life decision leading up to this moment.
There were others like him, and that provided some solace. All attention was fixated on the tangible: weapons, armour, adjusting pouches, and fine-tuning gear. If you were going to be a bundle of nerves, it was better to be a busy one.
However, the majority of the Operators offered him nothing. Their faces were grim, their eyes dead, filled with memories more akin to nightmares. Life was fleeting for Operators, brief and harsh, but the kind of individuals drawn to this line of work cared little for anything else. They sat still as death; perhaps in the distant past, they would have bothered with checking their weapons or securing their armour, but after enduring a handful of raids and the countless horrors therein, they knew as well as he did that none of it mattered. The armour was merely a placebo; it might as well have been made of paper. The rifles were a cruel joke, and if everything went according to plan, half of them would be dead before morning. The ratio was ten men for one Fiend, the first lesson drilled into their brains at the academy, reiterated with each tactic, each lesson. A minimum of ten men to one Fiend, and so, they send twenty.
It's a coin flip, he thought, swallowing hard, and I've never been that lucky.
A sudden jolt interrupted his train of thought, and his heart leapt into his throat. The subsequent deceleration made his stomach plunge through the truck bed, the pavement, and perhaps into the depths of hell itself. His eyes darted to the door, but Victor remained composed as ever, one hand resting on his holstered weapon, the other gripping the handle above his head as if he were commuting to a mundane office job. The truck accelerated moments later, confirming that it was not yet time to meet their maker, and he released a breath. How one learns to savour each passing second when every moment spells death in a thousand ways.
"Jitters!" he heard Victor call out to him. Shit..."You nervous, son?"
What kind of fucking question is that? "Y-yes... Sir!" Jitters tried not to stutter, but he had that name for a reason. Keeping up appearances... yeah. Nervous laughter erupted from a few of the other damned souls and dead eyes around him, but to his credit, Victor cut through it.
"What's funny back there?" Victor asked, making his way down the aisle, "You boys look like you're about ready to piss yourselves; mama' never told ya' about glass houses and stones?"
There was a silence, then one of them sheepishly replied, "Yes sir, sorry sir..."
Victor pressed on, "Damn right to be nervous, damn right to be scared, scared white, I know I am." He walked past him, swaying in unison with the ebb and flow of the truck's erratic path. "Never been a man who's faced a Fiend without a little fear in him. The only time a man can be brave is when he's afraid. I can attest to that."
Jitters' eyes followed him down the aisle, and he stopped at the praying man clutching his rifle like a drowning man might grasp a buoy in a raging storm.
"Who're ya' talkin' to there son? You lookin' for a section-eight?" Victor asked, hovering over him like a vulture.
The Operator opened his eyes and looked up at him, "Uh, G-god... sir, P-praying, s-sir."
Victor smiled, "Yeah? What for?"
The Operator blinked, "Sir?"
"What reason do you have for praying, son?" Victor repeated, amusement present in his voice.
"Do I...- Do I need one, sir...?" The man shifted uncomfortably.
Victor laughed, "I s'pose not," sly grin returning to his weathered old face, "You think God is going to save you, Operator?"
The Operator looked to his feet and thought a moment before looking Victor dead in the eye, "Yes sir, I do." The Operator replied firmly.
No small feat, that. Jitters had known the old veteran for the better part of a year now, and he still couldn't manage it. However, realistically, that wasn't saying much.
Victor's smile faded, and his eyes scanned each man in the truck, locking on Jitters' features, stern and grim; then the act melted away, and he slapped the young Operator on the shoulder with a hearty laugh that made even the dead-eyes crack the faintest hint of a grin.
"Damn right! Damn right, he is!" Victor cried out, "What prayer you prayin', son?"
"Apostles creed, s-sir." He stuttered, uncertain if he was still being tested.
Victor placed his hand on the Operator's shoulder as the truck swerved violently and hit a bump; when he recovered, he gave it a reassuring pat. "I got one, a better one if ya' don't mind me saying. Short and sweet."
On queue, the congregation of Dead-eyes let their rifles hang, locked hands with the men beside them, and bowed their heads. The men beside him offered their hands.
"I-I don't really-..." Jitters tried to refuse, but they took them anyway, and he sighed. Can't hurt, I guess...
Victor went to the back of the vehicle, checked his watch, and knelt down, locking hands with the men on either side. "Non nobis, Domine," he started,
The Dead Eyes repeated a deep chant that thundered within the claustrophobic tomb of the truck. "Not to us, Lord,"
"Non nobis," Victor spoke again, louder.
"Not to us," The Dead-Eyes echoed.
"Sed nomini, tuo da gloriam!"
The hands released his, and a symphony of ratcheting charging handles replied. "But to your name, give glory!"
Victor paused and looked up; the truck slowed to the final stop as he did, and Jitters' mouth went dry.
Victor stood firm as the truck sprang to life around him, belts unbuckling, metal clanking, boots scraping against the steel truck bed. Amidst the commotion, even catching a breath seemed a daunting task. Jitters' gaze darted in every direction, deliberately avoiding Victor and the door, savouring each fleeting moment before the inevitable.
Victor's hand gripped the lever of the doors, and he offered a reassuring smile, "Showtime, boys. I'll be prayin' for you."
With that, he swung the door open, unleashing pandemonium; Victor led the charge, any hint of hesitation a fanciful notion, followed closely by others. In no time, half the occupants spilled into the night, leaving him poised for his turn.
Stepping out into the night, his heart drummed in his ears, in sync with the rhythmic stomping of boots on pavement, hot blood coursing through his veins, his jaw clenched so tightly he could almost hear his teeth creak. The building before them stood in a decrepit shambles, once a warehouse, now a ruin. Peeling paint, rust-stained concrete, shattered windows, and a dull, flickering light burning within. Single file, they advanced from the truck toward a dilapidated loading dock, its door long since collapsed into a heap of rusted debris. Operators scanned the surroundings, red dots from their weapons' sights dotting the overgrowth and concrete walls like stars, while mounted flashlights cast elongated shadows, distorting every discarded item and piece of rubble into a potential threat. The ultimate threat. Glancing back at the truck, his eye caught a sight that sent a shiver down his spine.
A second truck pulled up, followed by a third. The sight was gut-wrenching. Sixty men...? He halted abruptly, the other Operators surging past him as they advanced toward the abandoned warehouse. As the trucks disgorged their occupants, Victor brushed past him, returning through the ranks, hastening to join the other two Special Agents who lingered near their vehicles.
"Where's the A.S.A.C?" Victor asked as he slowed to a walk.
"Team One," the Special Agent replied, "North side."
Team... One? The thought made his eye twitch. How many are here?
Victor laughed, "Now that's a show!" The old veteran nearly skipped with excitement, "What are we waiting on then? Team Three?"
Jitters shook his head and breathed in deep. Still, the thoughts raced; a hundred men? More!? How many Fiends... How many... His gaze fixated on the gaping darkness of the loading bay door; the longer he stared, the more sets of eyes he imagined, glowing red dots flickering like fleeting sparks. He raked his hands through his hair. That's not how this is supposed to go; this isn't right. An operation this size? They would have told us, we would have been briefed, we would've written wills, and, and... and-...!
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, "You lost, son?" Victor asked,
Jitters tried to look at him, but that didn't last long, and his eyes wandered down to the ground, then the warehouse; every time he blinked, it seemed to grow, contort, and shrink, a hundred different buildings converging into one. From the first investigation to the most recent raid to ones he didn't know, archways and buttresses, pillars and old barns. It felt like he was about to faint.
"N-no. No... Just. I think... I-I think something's wrong." He felt a pat on his back; he was sure it was meant to be encouraging, but he knew that meant the conversation was over, and that made his knees weak.
"No shame in being afraid, son, none at all," Victor started, all smiles, but then his grip tightened, and the smile died as they began walking, "There's a fair amount in cowardice, though, and I can have none of that. None at all."
This isn't right; that's not how this is supposed to go... This isn't how it happened... As Victor walked and he was dragged, his eyes scanned the long line of Operators waiting their turn to jump into the dark; the same face... Black glass eyes, steel skulls. Suddenly, nausea engulfed him. "What the fuck is going on!?" he screamed, trying to pull away, but Victor's grip was strong, and his limbs felt heavy, numb, lifeless.
"Jitters and I are on point," Victor barked, "The rest of you, fall in close behind!"
"This isn't what happened! This doesn't make any fucking sense!" Jitters screamed, but they all just stared as if he had said nothing at all. Sixty carbon copies of the same dead man.
Static screeched from Victor's radio, followed by ear-piercing feedback. "Copy that!" Victor responded over the cacophony. "Operation's a green light!"
What!? That's!- A force shoved him off his feet and into the abyss. Expecting solid ground, he instead plunged into warm liquid. Panic surged as he struggled to break the surface, his armour dragging him deeper. Heart pounding, veins throbbing, he fought against the drowning pressure. Unclasping his gear in a frenzy, he kicked off the bottom, soft, propelling himself toward the distant light. Lungs aflame, desperation engulfed him. No! Don't!
His chest heaved, and his lungs filled; panic surged through him, and he tried to breathe it out but sucked in another; as he did, a hand reached down and yanked him up. As he landed on the concrete, he puked, then he sucked in air, then he hacked up a cough and puked again; he collapsed into it and breathed ragged, shallow breaths against the puddle still leaking from his lips.
"You alright, son?" Victor's voice carried on the breeze.
No! Please! I just want to go home! I just want to go home! Please! His voice trapped within, he shut his eyes, succumbing to another bout of sickness.
"Look at me, son! Focus!" Victor's hand lifted him, but when Jitters opened his eyes, Victor was gone. Blinking repeatedly, he struggled to grasp reality.
He could taste it now; he was knee-deep in it, drenched from head to toe. A sea of gore. One hundred men, one thousand, countless piles of them made islands jutting from the swamp, steel skulls and black glass, arms and legs mangled and sticking out like blades of grass, still moving, clawing at the sky for a saviour, some holding weapons that were still smoking, some broken in half or bent, all useless. They always were.
Movement. A hand grasped his leg, and his eyes shot down to see Victor. His upper half. "Jitters! Fire your weapon!" he commanded.
"S-sir!?" Jitters kicked him off of him, and he slipped, falling back into the blood.
"Jitters! Look at me! Is it bad? Is it bad!?" Victor crawled toward him, his lower half floating far behind, "Is it bad, Jitters? Help me up." The corpse tried to climb onto him, but he kicked his face away and scrambled atop a mound of bodies.
"Fire your weapon, son! Fire your weapon! Do you wanna die today? Fire your weapon!" The Corpse raised its stump of an arm slowly from the pool, and Jitters' eyes followed it.
A thousand tendrils spread from its back, each black as tar, flowing like a river, pulsing like a muscle but solid as steel. Its eyes burned crimson in the dim light of the few flickering flashlights lost amidst the gore, casting shadows across the wall.
The demon stepped toward him, sending a ripple across the sea, pale skin, a mouth stained black with arterial blood, a human face, a body abominable. The tendrils wrapped around his limbs and spread down his chest, consuming most of him; the visible clothes were little more than smoking tatters, the skin beneath that was scarred and riddled with bullet holes, clustered together like the pockmarks of an infectious disease. Enough to kill a man a thousand times over and not nearly enough to make any difference.
Tears pooled in his eyes as he scrambled up the mound, backing against a wall of bodies.
The Fiend moved deliberately, each step drawn out, the odour of sulphur growing more potent with every squelching advance. Jitters panted, scanning frantically for an escape until his gaze locked with the creature's deep crimson iris' floating in a sea of inky black sclera.
"Please," Jitters pleaded, voice trembling, "P-please?"
The monster's cold breath brushed against his wet skin, chilling against the backdrop of blood and tears.
"Sir? Are you listening to me?" The Fiend growled.
"W-what?" Jitters stammered.
The Fiend snapped its fingers, "Sir!?" It blinked, tilting its head.
"Please...?" Jitters closed his eyes as a tendril slid up his cheek, leaving a clean gash that oozed warmth.
"Are you alright, sir?" the voice persisted, "Adrian!?"
Adrian's eyes fluttered open, and 'reality' shattered around him.
The cruiser's interior came into focus against the backdrop of the crime scene outside the windshield: red tape, flashing lights, and operators lining the streets to keep the dozens of curious morning commuters at bay.
"Sir...?"
Adrian turned his head, met by Agent Rook's half-annoyed, half-concerned expression.
"H-Ha... Caught me daydreaming again. What were you saying?"
"Nervous?" Rook asked, gesturing to Adrian's leg, which whirred like a sewing machine.
Some things never change... "Excited, actually, believe it or not," Adrian breathed, steadying his heart.
Rook scoffed, "Right, well... We're here."
The scene felt all too familiar, mundane, even. An old motel, one of countless variations Adrian had encountered, with a flickering vacancy sign and a parking lot more pothole than pavement. The yellow curtains, stained from countless cigarettes and God only knew what else, some windows were entirely obscured by plywood, while a few cars remained in the parking spaces; one lacking tires, windows, and almost everything else that wasn't bolted down, and the others seemingly abandoned. It was evident which room contained their victim.
Two operators flanked the door as members of the forensics team bustled in and out, carrying samples and equipment. They gave Adrian and Rook a wide berth as they approached, and one of the operators acknowledged their presence as they neared.
"Good morning, Operator...?" Adrian started.
"Williams." He replied curtly, "Badge?"
Adrian smiled; you know exactly who I am... "Of course, Williams, of course," he reached into his coat and flashed the silver-eagle insignia of the F.I.B., "I'm Special Agent Adrian Bishop; this is Agent Lucas Rook; we'll be handling things from here, who's the Senior Op?" He briefly caught the Operator's eyes before looking back and motioning to Rook. He's still fresh.
The other Operator spoke up, "The Senior-Op is Littlejohn; he's with the manager last I heard."
Adrian looked at him and smiled. Now, those dead eyes know me, no mistake. Have you been spreading rumours about 'The Collector'?
"Go get him, would you? The Manager as well, we have some questions for them." Both of the Operators left their posts as they moved toward the door, and as soon as they walked into the room the familiar stench of sulphur hit them, the stench of Profanity.
It wasn't bad, as far as things usually went. The victim's neck was gnawed down to the bone, picked almost clean. A red stain spread across the pale yellow sheets, still damp beneath the bare bone but beginning to dry.
Not a bad place to start, shut him up and a quick kill to boot, about as humane as you could hope for really... Given the circumstances.
His hand rubbed his chin as he pondered over the body, stubble rough on his fingers, the scar tissue of his cheek smooth against his thumb. The corpse's arms were much sloppier, haphazard chunks bitten out in various places, muscle left hanging off his forearm; he lifted his left arm to get a better look at one of the marks.
Small chunks. So, a small man or a woman. They tore out his neck but didn't touch his face; they didn't like looking at him. Still some semblance of a conscience? Young and inexperienced. We'll have to stop by the youth shelters on the way back to the branch.
He turned to Rook, who was rummaging through the victim's discarded clothing. "Find anything?"
"No wallet, no keys, no phone. Took the lint too by the looks of it," Rook replied, gesturing to the body. "What are you thinking with him? Our 'Mantis'?"
Adrian gave him a sideways glance. "Mantis? Do you mean Case Forty-Twelve? Handing out monikers is bad for morale, remember?" Rook shot him a dirty look, and Adrian grinned. "In any case, it's unlikely. They did a number on the neck, but the head is still attached, as well as..." He lifted the sheets to check. "Yes, it's all still there. This one is much gentler with their partners."
Rook breathed a laugh. "Gentle, huh?"
"Oh, our Mantis would never be half so kind as..." Adrian's sentence trailed off as a muffled shriek at the door stole his attention.
In the doorway stood a short middle-aged woman with dark curly hair and clothes that perfectly matched the affluence of the slum around them, blubbering incoherently.
"Ah, just who I wanted to see!" Adrian adjusted his black suit and overcoat as he stood up straight, but the Manager's eyes widened just as he stepped forward. She attempted to flee, staggering back into Littlejohn and the two Operators close behind.
"Right," Adrian said, pulling the sheet up to cover the corpse, revealing his dangling leg instead. "Much more presentable. Sorry about that. Now, we have a few questions. First and foremost, could I get your name, Miss...?"
"Lawyer!" She said it as though it were synonymous with a declaration of victory. "I want my lawyer, I told them before. Before I answer any questions, I want my lawyer present."
Adrian smiled. "I'm sure pleading the fifth works wonders with the L.A.P.D., Ms. Lawyer. Unfortunately, this case is in the F.I.B.'s hands now, and I'm sure you're aware of our liberties in matters pertaining to Fiends. Besides, you're not a suspect as of yet. As long as you comply, you'll have nothing to worry about." He looked to Littlejohn. "Quite an entrance, Senior-Op; you couldn't have her wait outside? Save us all a little stress?"
Littlejohn gave him a knowing smirk. "Orders were to bring her to you, boss. I didn't do something wrong, did I?"
Fuck you. Adrian's smile died, and he looked back to the Manager, who squirmed nervously between them. "Now, for the questions. I was wondering if you could give us access to last night's security footage and any records relating to the identity of our 'John Doe' here." He motioned nonchalantly back to the corpse. "I trust you have their credit card on file?"
"W-well... I-I... They..." she stuttered.
"Splendid, please, lead the way." He motioned for her to walk, and after some reluctance, she complied, leading them to a small building at the entrance of the lot.
Littlejohn slowed and lingered around the victim's room. "If that's all, I'll get back to..."
Adrian looked back at him. "Actually, no. I have a few questions for you as well, Senior Operator." Littlejohn's shoulders slumped. I'm not thrilled either, I assure you. "What did she tell you?"
The Operator sighed and rubbed the back of his bald head as he spoke. "The maid- er... The cleaning lady found the body this morning; they called the cops. Cops said they conducted a search; they found evidence of Fiend activity and called us in. When I showed up with forensics to secure the sight, L.A.P.D vacated and handed over witness testimonies, standard shit."
"What did the other witnesses have to say?" Adrian asked.
"The cleaning lady only spoke Spanish. My second, Jose, took her testimony and said she just saw the body and booked it straight to the phone. Guests in the neighbouring rooms didn't hear much, no one saw a thing. Again, like I said, standard shit."
No struggle? Adrian traced the gash on his cheek. Then why did the room smell like sulphur? He chewed over the thought but pushed it to the back of his mind as they entered the building.
The records were empty. Evidently, the guests of the illustrious establishment preferred to pay in cash, drugs, or not at all. The footage left much to be desired, the four of them squeezing into the 'security' room, hunched over an old box computer monitor covered in coffee stains and sticky notes.
Grainy, crackly, with a fleck of debris obscuring much of the parking lot and a hairline crack that distorted what remained, leaving them a tiny sliver of the screen in any way salvageable. The Manager sat in the computer chair, her head hanging low as the three breathed down her neck. We'll be lucky if we can decipher the gender of the fucking thing. After a few pointless minutes of staring at an empty parking lot, he got a look from Rook, who pointed to his watch.
"Skip to their approximate time of arrival," Adrian demanded. The Manager complied, and the day washed away in a sea of static and white noise, a few cars speeding in and out, unsavoury individuals smoking pipes and cigarettes of wide varieties, until finally, as night fell, two smudges appeared walking toward the motel. Adrian leaned over her to get a better view. Shadows and static turned them into little more than faceless mannequins, but the basics were there, and that was all he needed.
The John Doe was talking with her, a young lady with dark hair, whose arms wrapped around his as they walked. She's not dressed like a prostitute... But who the fuck brings a date to a shit-hole like this? No money? No homes? Or is this her little coven?
They disappeared beneath the camera as they entered the building, and he took control of the mouse to speed the footage up until they reappeared; the couple sat directly under the camera for a little while, huddled together and whispering, until the victim poked her in her sides and she laughed, replying with a playful slap to his shoulder before taking his hand, and leading him to his grave. The door closed, and a few minutes later, the lights went dark.
Quarter past eleven... The thought intruded, A gored neck and a few chunks of muscle? Any Fiend worth half their salt could have him butchered into steaks in a couple of hours... She waited? For how Long? He sped the tape up again, and as the night passed by, his heart began to sink, then beat faster and faster. The light never turned on, and the door never opened. His eyes locked on the screen, soaking in every detail he could, heart beating, sweating, the cursor flicking around as his hand began to shake. Sulphur... She was ready to kill us all.
"Fucking Christ..." Adrian whispered, looking back at Rook and Littlejohn. The Operator looked between them, clearly inattentive, with his hands resting in the collar of his armour, but Rook's eyes widened.
Adrian's hand shook, and he saw the maid open the door after a few minutes of knocking, panic and trip over herself, collapsing into the parking lot before scrambling beneath the camera; he skipped again, and the police were there. His heart was throbbing in his throat, and his face hovered inches from the screen as he watched the officer take one step inside, gag, cover his nose, and walk out. His eye twitched, and the cursor darted about the screen wildly.
"You call that conducting a fucking search!?" Adrian barked back at Littlejohn. As Rook rushed out of the room.
"I wasn't there, that's what they fucking told me!" The Operator swore under his breath as Adrian shouldered past him, following after Rook. "Local units, local units, we've got a Fifteen-Thirteen, hot sight. I repeat, fifteen-thirteen, hot sight, safeties off."
The door slammed open and they hurried back outside, his eyes locked on the victim's door. A few operators barked orders at civilians, who screamed, yelled, and panicked, while the bulk of them approached the room with weapons raised, taking positions around the parked cars surrounding it. Adrian caught up to Rook just before the threshold and stopped dead in his tracks.
Red eyes tore into Adrian's soul from the darkness beneath the bed, and he began to rattle, knees shaking, mouth drying out. Adrian swallowed hard and reached for the Hilt on his belt, the heavy metal, like a black bar of gold, shaking like a leaf. As he did, a hand slid out of the dark, then an arm. Four wings thrashed as she rose from her knees, translucent like an insect, pulsing in waves of luminescence, shimmering like a hologram, wafting the stench of her Profanity towards them.
Adrian took a deep breath, steadied his trembling hand, pressed the Hilt to his wrist, and let it feed. Blood seeped from the wound, trickling down his palm and onto the dusty pavement below. As the Fiend rose, tendrils escaped from the Hilt, spreading out and absorbing every last drop. Black as tar, flowing like a river, yet solid as steel.
Need a little fear to be brave, Adrian cracked the Hilt like a whip, I can attest to that.