A man wearing a simple black mask stood over them. If he was surprised by the chaos below him, he didn’t show it; he simply spread his feet a bit, raised his right hand, and shouted a recitation:
“Thou art a giant who scorches the heavens, cloaked in pallid lightning, ruler of wild thunder. The rumbling one, under this vow and covenant of warriors, I summon thee; come out, Thor!”
Shannon froze. “What the hell?”
Another clap of thunder echoed through the area. Lines of light danced wildly through the air, screaming as they rushed to form another gleaming electrical giant.
The new Thor, either due to a difference in magical ability or a simple matter of preference, looked more intimidating than Raquel’s. The new Thor was bearded, had a mop of disheveled hair, and wore a brave and confident grin.
Raquel’s Thor stopped and stared at the new Thor. The new Thor stared back. Oddly enough, they both continued to smile.
Shannon heard the mob going quiet behind him, but he was too focused on staring in morbid fascination. He had no idea what commands Raquel had given the Emulator that controlled her Thor, but standard Thor behavior was to target and attack the opponent with the greatest combat ability. It seemed that both Thors had determined the other was the greatest threat, and hence both stared at each other in rapt attention and respect.
It was… odd, really. Particularly with the strangely romantic glow of the evening sky behind them.
Eventually, the two Thors raised their fists in a slow, steady motion. Preparing for the impact, Shannon winced.
The giants lunged at each other. There was electric discharge as the ground beneath the Thors’ feet burst into flames, and the outbursts of force caused visible vibrations in the air. The two Thors swung their lightning fists.
Two gleaming fists hit two gleaming faces. And then, instantaneously, the two apparitions vanished into thin air.
Shannon stared at the empty space where the Thors had stood. He let out a breath in relief.
We’re not gonna die.
“Prepare to die!” a member of the mob suddenly cried from behind him.
Shannon turned just as the attackers, still a bit shaky but clearly more confident with the removal of the Thors, crowded forward with their weapons drawn. Shannon swiftly found himself back-to-back with Berkens, circled by the threatening tips of unfriendly swords and arrows.
One of the men at the crowd’s front, wiping sweat from his brow with his shoulder, spat at Shannon. “How dare you!” he snapped.
Shannon furrowed his eyebrows in worry. Not only had Raquel’s Thor exhausted him, it had apparently only made the mob angrier and more deadly.
“Huh…?”
As luck would have it, Pacifica chose that moment to wake up. She looked dazedly up at her brother. “What’s going on?” she mumbled.
As soon as Pacifica was on her feet again, she rubbed her eyes and shook her head. She looked up and focused on the encircling crowd of sharp weapons. Her eyes shot open fully.
“Put down your weapons, everyone.”
At the sound of the cool command, the crowd deliberated. The swords and arrows were tentatively lowered as the masked sorcerer walked through the attackers.
“Lord Reynard,” Shannon heard someone say in respect.
Reynard calmly raised a hand. “Even if we’re dealing with a Mauserist priest,” he announced, “we must not condemn him without first hearing his story. We are not beasts; if we don’t at least try to work out a diplomatic understanding, our actions are as low as Mauserist heretic hunting.”
The mob stirred a bit. Clearly humbled by the reasonable argument, many attackers hung their heads.
Shannon squinted at Reynard. Who is this guy? he wondered. Reynard seemed to be in some sort of leadership position, but his calm demeanor didn’t match the image of pagan founders that existed in Shannon’s head. Once Shannon reminded himself that the attackers weren’t necessarily pagans and that the pagan stereotype was a Mauserist trend, he quickly dropped his assumptions. The only thing he could bank on was the fact that the crowd didn’t like Mauserism.
“Now… let’s see what we can do here.” The black-masked man turned to Shannon and his sisters. Shannon wondered what sort of expression that mask hid, then realized that the simple design could either look angry or pleased depending on what the viewer expected to see. Was that concept of reflection the point?
“That man over there looks like a Mauserist priest, but what affiliations do you strangers have? You don’t look like priests.”
Shannon shook his head. “We’re just travelers. We were all on the same boat; it shipwrecked us here together.”
A pure, penetrating, jade gaze bore at Shannon from behind the mask. Shannon met that gaze. He hadn’t spoken the full truth, but he also hadn’t lied.
Reynard eventually looked away. “We’ll know whether or not you’re telling the truth once we launch an investigation. I’m afraid we’ll have to restrict your freedom until then.” Those jade eyes glanced back at Shannon. “We have to take precautions with outsiders, you understand.”
“Who are you people, anyway?”
The men started grumbling complaints at Shannon’s lack of respect for the danger he was in, but Reynard silenced them with a hand.
For a long moment, Reynard paused. Shannon could feel the anticipation grow in the mob; Reynard clearly knew how to keep the attention of the masses.
“Strangers,” Reynard said at last with cool, calm deliberation. “We are here for one reason: to condemn.”
“Enter.”
Slay swiftly but respectfully entered Luke Storm’s office again, a package held against his chest. The older man looked up from his pile of papers.
“Yes?”
Slay couldn’t help but feel relieved when he saw the hints of fatigue on Luke’s face. Luke’s features were by no means rugged, but he still somehow gave the impression of a steel sculpture. Seeing that even his superhuman-like superior could grow tired sometimes was a comfort to Slay.
He wanted his leader to be slightly flawed—that made the man more human.
Slay cleared his throat. “From your wife, sir,” he stated as he handed Luke the package. Slay already knew that the package contained a change of military uniform, which implied that Luke hadn’t returned home the night before. Glancing out the window, Slay also noticed that it had already grown dark.
“She seemed quite concerned about you, sir. Will you be spending the night here tonight as well?”
“Perhaps,” Luke answered dryly as he set the package aside slowly.
“You must have made quite a lot of progress,” Slay offered.
Luke looked back down to his papers. “I’m still not through one-tenth of the material.”
Slay’s head swam. If he’d been unit leader, he would have already started penning an earnest resignation.
“Frankly, sir, don’t you hope we’ll have a combat assignment soon?”
“No. I don’t dislike paperwork.”
“Really, sir?”
Luke turned a page. “Nobody dies from paperwork.”
The words were short and significant, and they silenced Slay. The soldier suddenly wondered if his stoic superior was not in his present position by choice.
“Since you’re here,” Luke said after a moment, gathering a pile of his work, “would you return these documents to the zero library? They belong on the shelf for classification level four; I’ll give you the key. The key number for today is four-four-two-seven.”
This facility of the Blackhawk—known as the Hawk’s Nest—had few visitors from the outside world, but it still had its own special library for classified documents. There were four locks, one of which was mechanical and changeable and wouldn’t open without the correct numerical code. The code was changed daily.
“Er… these documents, sir?” As he lifted the papers, Slay accidentally nudged the stack of unprocessed paperwork. Flustered, he put down the documents he was to return and gathered the ones he had just knocked over instead.