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Post by Cali on Feb 22, 2017 4:20:01 GMT 1
Short story regarding Logos, the setting and characters Tillian and I created (yes, more mage stuff). This one takes place during the Great War, and focuses on the father of modern industrial sorcery, and one of his apprentices.
Content Warning: Lots of violence, fuck-words, other curse words, and ethnic slurs.
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Act I of IV
Analytical woke up. He wasn't sure if it was the howls and bangs of artillery shells or the soiled pants of the dead German that lay on top of him. He groaned, pushing the deceased enemy soldier off, his upper lip was crusted with dried blood from his nose as he lied in the ditch. The morning light was rather bright, and his head throbbed. He only wished he had been drinking, but he remembered how he ended up there.
He sat up quickly in a panic, looking around him in a frantic stance. "Hel-" He began, but thought it best not to attract attention as he was likely still behind enemy lines. He looked at the ground, grabbing his Smith & Wesson revolver, and looking around him. It was then he noticed the tracks, then leading up toward the forested area.
Cautiously, he followed the tracks past a few corpses, one of a horse with flies circling around it, its master which laid not far from it, and a few infantrymen. He had to stop every once in a while to make sure the sounds he heard were indeed HIS footsteps, and one such time, he looked through the trees to notice faint smoke emerging from the trees. He picked up the pace, eventually seeing the track marks led up to a small tree which had unrooted and fell over. Not far behind, was a large tree which stopped the source. The Mark IV tank that he rode in, had crashed into the largest tree he had ever seen in France. Two holes in its starboard side, and the bow steaming.
"Ugh..." Analytical groaned. "Black shite and buggery."
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Northern France September 30, 1918 One Day Earlier
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A fifth and final artillery shell had landed in the near part of the pasture. It was midday and the relatively weak artillery barrage from the German lines implied that most of the fire was concentrated ahead.
“Good that they haven't forgotten us.” Cleef mused, voluntarily the cigarette from his mouth and near his feet as he stamped it into the mud. The Americans all leaned back against the Mark IV heavy tank, the design generously donated to them by the British Army.
“Is that thick-headed New Yorker done toiling with the engine?” Harrison asked, pouring a rock from his army issue shoe. “I just wanna get this over with.”
“Why, private? Are you not gonna feel safe inside a hunk of plated steel?” Cleef responded, his sarcasm relentless.
“No sir.” Harrison replied with an expressionless glance. “I just wanna have a glass of whiskey before the day is over is all.”
“Harrison you're far too young to be an alcoholic, you pediatric shit!” Sheffield replied from inside the tank.
“Hey lieutenant, permission to lock Sheffield inside the landship, sir!”
“Shut up, private.” Cleef replied, spotting a duo emerging from between a throng of wounded soldiers, nervously passing the battered men with sacks over their backs. The two wore the usual United States army unforms, leggings and all. They also sported the wedge shaped “overseas” caps rather than the 1917 issue doughboy helmets. One was a thin man, average in height, and the other slightly on the portly side. The main difference between the two was skin color, as the thin man was clearly white, and the other black.
“Uh...” Harrison stammered, noticing they were coming towards them. “You sure those are the two we're waiting on?”
“Positive.” Cleef replied, walking toward them.
Harrison scoffed. “Wasn't aware that Fat Fiona had a peanut gallery is all.”
Waywatcher, the black man looked toward the thin white man. “You remember the password, right?”
“Aye.” Analytical, the thin man responded in his Englishman's brogue. “Are you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of well, everything about to happen today.”
“Ah, it's not like I've never been called a nigger before, Ana.”
“I was talking about the Germans.”
“And here I thought you of all people would know when somebody's joking.”
Once they had closed distance with the skull capped lieutenant, they both saluted. “Capricorn.” Analytical said.
“Taurus.” Lieutenant Cleef replied. “Who came up with that stupid password exchange, anyway?”
“Beats me.” Analytical replied before identifying himself with his 'sleeper' name. “Supply Sergeant Percival Lovelace, reporting for duty.”
“Corporal Andrew Greene, sir.” Waywatcher replied.
“Second Lieutenant Howard Cleef.” He cocked his head in a nudge toward his landship. “Right this way.”
“What the hell is the Expeditionary Force High Command spiking their champagne with?” Harrison chuckled, as they approached.
The side door of the landship opened. “What are you talking abou-” Sheffied stammered. “What the fuck? Hey, lieutenant, I didn't know this was the nigger express.”
“Stow it, Sheffield.” Cleef ordered. “Anybody know where Williams and Gerber are?”
“Speaking of the devil, sir.” Harrison pointed behind him, the two men emerged from the camp canteen with their bags.
“Goddamn! I told you two to fall in ten minutes ago!” The lieutenant angrily yelled.
“We apologize sir. We have no excuse.” Private Williams responded before looking at Waywatcher. “And is that... is he... is he one of the ones riding with...”
“That's right. In addition to you two sodomites riding with we'll be joined by a nigger and his buddy.” Sheffield responded with a grin. “Welcome to hell.”
“Sheffield if you don't shut up you'll be riding on top of Fat Fiona.”
“Sheff always liked them obese.” Gerber laughed.
“Fuck you, Gerber.” Sheffield shook his head, getting back inside. “At least I'm not queer, goddamn.”
Cleef followed Sheffield. “Everybody in.”
“We can't be seriously having a colored boy riding with us. Is there anything Pershing has between his ears?” Gerber scoffed.
“He said fall in didn't he?” Analytical told him, an irritated look adorning his face.
“Wait...” Gerber recognized his English accent. “You're in the wrong uniform, my friend.”
“I'm from Boston.” He replied getting in.
“Like hell you are.” Harrison looked over at Williams and Gerber. “We have a limey and a negro riding with us. Pinch me, I think I'm dreaming.” He laughed, and instead of being pinched, he was kicked in the rump by Williams and fell inside the tank.
The door closed as everybody was in, the cold, dark interior. Fat Fiona was an American Mark IV “Female” tank, which meant it was fitted with a sextet of machine-guns rather than being armed with 6-inch cannons like the “male” counterpart of the model was.
“Alright listen up.” The lieutenant began. “Our orders are to transport our two passengers, Sergeant Lovelace and Corporal Greene past the Hindenburg Line and support the 27th Infantry Division along the way. We will proceed into the village of Vervins where we'll drop our two passengers off, and await further orders. Understood?”
“What's so important about these two shitheads anyway?” Harrison scoffed. “Are they defecting to Germany, is that it?”
“And what's with the skeleton crew?” Gerber asked. “It's small enough already, but if we drop these two off in Vin-wherever we're gonna be down to half-manpower.”
“Knock it off, Harrison. Follow your damn orders.” Cleef responded, keeping his jaw as squared as possible. “Do what you're told, remember your training, and we'll all get out of this alive. Sheffield, you're with me up front. We're shoving off.”
“Yes sir.” Sheffield replied, moving toward the front with his commander, as the Mark IV required two members of the crew to steer. “Everybody else get on the guns! Greene, get this tank moving!”
Waywatcher nodded, moving toward the engine crank. “Give it that nigger touch, Greenie!” Williams chuckled, loading a belt of ammunition into his Hotchkiss machine-gun.
Waywatcher shook his head, knowing he had to put up with this for most of the journey. He leaned over toward the side crank, grasping it with both hands, the weight of the pull extremely high. He managed to free it of it's internal friction and crank it three hundred and sixty degrees, the sound of the internal dynamos noisy and clunky, but the engine failed to start.
“Don't botch this, buddy.” Harrison groaned at Waywatcher, pointing at him before he wrapped a scarf around his mouth and chin and manned one of the portside guns. “Goddamn...”
“Need any help?” Analytical asked, his companion shaking his head and giving it another crank. The sparks ignited, and the engine howled and coughed.
“Usually the third time's a charm!” Gerber cackled. “I guess Fat Fiona likes nigger cock!”
Waywatcher stood up and gave him a poisonous glare. “Yeah, I bet you white boys love being cuckolded.”
“Listen, asshole-” Gerber turned around, pointing his finger into Waywatcher's stomach.
“What the hell's going on back there?!” Cleef yelled.
“Nothing, sir!” Watcher replied, Gerber merely at a loss of what to say.
“All of you, on the guns! That means you too, Greene!” The lieutenant then turned inside the tank. “Sheffield, all ahead full!”
Fat Fiona's treads began to move as it was in gear. The tank lurching forward as Analytical moved towards the stern gun, the movement of the vehicle caused him to lose balance and fall atop the engine block and roll into one of the walls. “Haha! Man down!” Harrison mocked him. Watcher managed to help him up, grasping his palm and bringing him to his feet.
The tank had slugged through hundreds of meters of mud and meadow, and the vehicle, once cold, had already began to get quite toasty inside and stink hellishly of petrol fumes. The rest of the crew was smart enough to operate either shirtless or in their undershirts, but Analytical and Waywatcher were still in full doughboy attire and did not know when would be a good time to take their jackets off.
Analytical had a scant view of the rear through a mounted telescope on his hotchkiss machine-gun. It was here that the truly horrific display of the recently deceased lay on this stretch of no man's land. Strokes of red and pink were unraveled from wounded soldiers on the palette of the field. American, German, British, and Australian soldiers shared blood upon the pastures. “Fucking hell.”
“What the hell did these guys do to each other, yesterday?” Waywatcher asked, horrified.
“They killed each other, what do you think?” Williams replied angrily. “That's what people do in war, you idiot!”
He saw a few ambulance wagons as well as chaplains gave the dead or dying their last rights, and grave robbers stole the dead's food, wristwatches, and weapons. The tank tipped forward, and then backward as it crossed the Hindenburg line's first trench. Harrison tipped back and forth. “Jesus Christ! Warn us next time!”
“Kraut-munchers, forward-portside!” Sheffield screamed.
“Wait, where?!” Williams shouted.
“Goddammit, I thought they cleared them all out!” Cleef screamed. “Everyone better be loaded!”
A few members of the German army, adorned in their usual pine colored uniforms and their broad, black and yellow striped helmets, leaped out of armored cars. Due to the fact that they were scouring the area hurridly, and that only one third of them held rifles, it looked less like they were here to fight, and more like they were recovering items and assets. There were gunshots outside, and it looked like some American sharpshooters in the trees and the captured trenches were trying to hit some of them.
“Shoot 'em, goddammit. Blast 'em down to size!” The lieutenant yelled. “Lovelace, stop jerking off at the stern and get on one of those portside guns!”
Analytical made a beeline around the hot engine and toward the rear-port gun next to Harrison, noticing it was not loaded. Harrison was too busy firing the weapon at the column of mechanized German infantry to chastize him, and nobody else seemed to notice as he took a belt off the wall and loaded it into the gun.
After it was loaded, he fired at the enemy. Intentionally missing. His mission had already started, and he had a bigger plan.
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Post by Cali on Mar 3, 2017 22:53:43 GMT 1
Act II of IV
It had only been seconds and Waywatcher's ears were ringing. Considering that the German soldiers on the current field were completely on Fat Fiona's left, there was not much those gunning on the right could do besides carefully look to see if the starboard side was properly covered.
“Half-speed, driver!” Cleef shouted. “Get ready to bank left on my mark!”
Analytical continued to shoot offcourse, and Harrison had gunned down two. The rest were dug in a colony of groundhogs behind the column of armored cars. It was then the infantry began boarding the vehicles, and they swung around and returned to their lines.
“Sheffield! Get in there! All ahead, full! Don't stop! Go, go, go!” The lieutenant screamed. “Follow those kraut bastards! Run them down!”
“Sir, their cars are faster than this thing!” Sheffield shouted, looking back.
“Shut your mick mouth and follow your fucking orders!” Cleef replied rather loudly and coarsely. The lead armored car performed a u-turn to its left, riding alongside Fat Fiona briefly. A nervous looking German soldier, probably no more than nineteen years of age, popped the bottom fuse off a German army stick hand grenade and tossed it on top of the tank.
“GRENADE!” Analyitical shouted, falling to the floor and burying the back of his head in his forearms and hands.
Harrison released the trigger on his Hotchkiss machinegun and gasped. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN GODDA-”
The Steilhandgrenate exploded on top of the tank, rupturing the upper hull and allowing shrapnel to cascade through and bounce around inside the cabin. A piece of shrapnel caught Gerber in the back of his left hand, sinking in between his middle and ring finger. He screamed in pain as the explosion had also ignited a crate of spare ammunition, causing the powder in many of the machinegun cartridges to overheat and fire off prematurely. The tank had stopped, not because the operators at the front stopped it, but because the engine had shut off prematurely.
The smoke from the grenade and the exploding ammunition had caused the near entirety of the interior to be filled with smoke. “Battery fire!” Harrison coughed. “I can't see! I CAN'T BREATHE!”
Waywatcher sprinted past Gerber as he sat on the floor and nursed his new wound, leaping around the engine and grabbing the crate. “Lieutenant! Pop the hatch!”
“Fuck!” Cleef coughed and wheezed, cranking the hinge and throwing the hatch open. He ducked out of the way for Waywatcher to toss the burning and still bursting with dry firing ammunition, and threw it out of the tank. The crate bounced off of one of the treads before finally hitting the dirt, bullets still firing out of their casings within and smoke billowing. Waywatcher's hands felt like he had applied direct pressure on a hot stove pipe, shaking them and coughing heavily as he tried to breathe as much fresh air as he could. He turned and saw that the armored cars were well out of harms way, which did not stop the friendly infantry in the trenches from taking pot shots at them as they fled.
“Everybody alright?!” Cleef shouted.
“Gerber's hit!” Harrison coughed.
“It ain't bad.” Gerber whimpered, trying to save face as he clutched his hand. Waywatcher grasped a roll of bandages from a nearby bag, attempting to wrap the wound. “Don't touch me, you goddamned nigger!”
“Fine, bleed out, peckerwood!” He threw the roll of bandages at the slumped gunner before turning to man his own station.
Analytical was relieved that the smoke had dissipated, but the smell of gasoline was getting worse, he looked over to see that one of the lines had sprung a leak. “Petrol rupture, lieutenant!”
“Oh, God!” Harrison shouted, getting up. “Oh God, stop, Fiona! Stop!” He grasped a bit of cloth, seeing the exterior fuel tube in front of the pistons was hissing and leaking. “Stop Fiona! Stop you big, soppy bitch! Stop! STOP!”
The length of cloth was tied around the tube, and the leak had been patched. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“Uh...” Gerber cleared his throat, looking at Waywatcher. “Hey Greene... you may be a coon and all... but... I'm glad you threw out that ammo crate... because between that and the fuel leak... we'd be one big pot roast by now.”
The mage looked back at him, looking down at his own feet before nodding. He did not vocally respond.
After Analytical had restarted the engine, Fat Fiona had treaded the French thoroughfare for a few grueling miles, meeting little resistance along the way. The only sightings of German soldiers were corpses so far, and a few land mines that were so poorly hidden that Cleef spotted them popping out of the ground from an embarrassing sum of meters away. The Germans had obviously left in a hurry. The engine had to be restarted twice along the way, which was getting to be grating to the crew. After the second time, Analytical cast a discreet incantation which would likely prevent the vehicle from breaking down again, and it certainly did for the rest of the way. Such was one of several talents of an industrial sorcerer.
The machine stopped near a fork in the road. The others stepped out with their small arms in hand, urinating quickly as they looked around them. Cleef looked upon the horizon, noticing it was getting dark. The interior lights had burst due to the explosion, and it was going to be extremely difficult to see. “Goddamn shit-eating autumn weather.” Cleef vulgarized as he looked at his field map. “Where the hell are we?”
“On course, sir.” Analytical looked over the officer's shoulder. “Well, looks like we've been taking a bit of a scenic route at least, but we'll certainly get there in due time.”
Cleef looked back at him. “Thanks for the words of encouragement.” He sarcastically replied before folding up the map. “Alright, guess we head southeast.”
“Aye. Provided the bridge hasn't been blown.” Analytical undressed into his undershirt as he prepared to go back into the heated interior of the tank. He withdrew his canteen and drank a few gulps to re-hydrate himself due to the excessive sweating. He looked over to see Waywatcher squatting down behind the tank and vomiting the bully beef and biscuits he ate for lunch that afternoon. “You okay, Andrew?” He asked.
“Yeah... damn gas fumes.” Watcher wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It's a wonder why I didn't spew when I was in there. I mean, Jesus.”
“You did good, kiddo.” Percy patted his subordinate on the back and smiled. A quartet of gunshots sounded in a staggered tempo, hitting the dirt or the broadsides of Fat Fiona. Everyone ducked down, withdrawing their weapons and looking around.
“GET INSIDE FIONA YOU YELLOW BELLIED COWARDS!” Cleef screamed, climbing on top even as the gunshots sounded. “STOP LYING DOWN LIKE YOU'RE SIX YEARS OLD, DAMMIT!” The rest followed his order. There was the sound of whinnying horses in the trees for a brief moment, before a massive, muzzled explosion. An artillery shell which screeched over Fiona's brow. Everyone scrambled into different hatches.
“Christ alive, they've got field guns in the brush!” Williams whimpered.
“Battle stations, dammit!” Cleef yelled. “Full ahead driv-”
“Sir!” Analytical saluted. “Permission to draw the fire of those field guns away!”
“What?” Cleef stammered. “How?! I know you were really close to those petrol fumes, but goddamn, sergeant. What else have you been inhaling?!”
“Sir... this may be the only way.”
“Fuck it. Alright... cover us and we'll cover you. Get out. And don't you run off!” Cleef turned back. “Sheffield, all ahead full on my mark.”
Analytical leaped out the portside hatch, putting his coat back on before checking the .45 revolver at his side. “Watch your ass, Lovelace!” Harrison shouted with a grin. The landship began to speed forward, going behind a cluster of trees to have some scant cover from the one or more field guns in the brush. Another blast from the light artillery piece had shredded the bottom half of a spruce tree, causing it to tumble to the side, but luckily not on top of Fiona. The starboard machineguns had began to rattle as Waywatcher and Gerber strangled the triggers. A little over half a squad of Germans had foolishly attempted to regroup to ambush the landship downways, but were cut down by the two Hotchkiss guns.
Analytical laid down at a relatively low spot in the clearing, waiting for Fiona to roll completely by. He then pulled himself up and sprinted towards the brush. He opened his eyes and clenched his teeth, the air immediately around him becoming stale.
A 7.92mm round from a German rifle hit him square in the chest, knocking him on his back. His enchanted armored coat had absorbed it, and he stepped back up, seeing the mustached German who had shot him, the man peering over the fallen log he hid behind to observe his work. Analytical raised his Smith & Wesson, aiming carefully before squeezing the trigger and driving a .45 slug through the man's jaw, and out the back of his head. As the German tipped over on his back, Analytical stood up, checking the area, spotting a horse and possibly its dismounted rider squatting near it, holding a Mauser Broomhandle pistol. The German fired two shots, one of them ricocheting off the collar of Analytical's armored coat. The mage returned with a shot to the German officer's upper stomach, the man gasping and falling over.
The man wailed in pain, but Lovelace didn't have time to finish him off. He ran past him after another cannon round blasted into the trees. He then saw the source of the disturbance, spotting two boxy shaped steel beasts with iron crosses painted on their sides, and camoflauge netting with tree branches stuck in them. “Bloody hell...” He hissed under his breath before turning around and running in the other direction.
Analytical caught up with Fat Fiona, running past it and using the butt of his pistol to slam on the door. “Cleef! Cleef!”
“What do have for me, Sergeant Lovelace?!” The lieutenant popped out of the top, peeking his head out just enough to see him.
“Those weren't field guns! Those were Leichter Kampfwagens!”
“What?!”
“German tanks! They've got tanks in the brush, for fuck's sak-” He turned around, seeing that the two had broken formation and were flanking Fiona from the side, being supported by infantry. “INCOMING!”
A shell from the cannon turret tore through the starboard broadside of Fat Fiona, bursting inward. The explosion had knocked Waywatcher and Gerber to the sides, hitting from an angle, tearing through, the shrapnel mutilating the lieutenant's torso, and the largest chunk going through Sheffield's head.
“Oh God!” Williams yelped. “THE LIEUTENANT'S BEEN HIT! BAIL OUT, GODDAMMIT! BAIL OUT!”
Cleef and Sheffield had fallen over in such a way in their seats that the tank kept on speeding full ahead. Williams did not even bother to stop as he opened a side hatch and leaped out. A German soldier had ran a curved line around the front of the tank, and shot the fleeing Williams, his face, bare chest, and trousers covered in the blood of his comrades, in the side of the neck. The German charged at Analytical with his bayonet, foolishly rushing in front of Harrison's Hotchkiss just after the man inside had recovered, and was gunned down accordingly.
Gerber sat up, getting on the gun and continuing to fire. “We aren't even equipped to fight other tanks! Jesus Christ!”
Waywatcher peered through his viewport, clenching his eyes and concentrating throughly. He wheezed several times, gritting his teeth. His nose began to bleed, and his eyes opened, webbed red veins forming in his whites before his iris turned light blue. Gerber wasn't paying attention as he was continuing to mow down the approaching infantrymen, but Harrison saw what was happening.
The other tank was about to fire, but as the firing pin inside the breach hit the rear of the shell, arcane energy surrounded it and reshaped its temperature. The powder within overheated and exploded.
This of course, meant the entire tank exploded due to the dreadful misfire, a series of reactions from the barrel, the shell magazine, and the engine. A piece of the hull had popped off and decapitated a German sergeant to its right, and the force knocked a lot of others on their backs.
“Baby Jesus! Holy shit!” Harrison gasped, ducking. Waywatcher breathed deep, hyperventilating to catch his breath.
Analytical sensed the hex that Waywatcher had cast, still moving alongside the broad portside of the vehicle, but at a more generous distance given the fact that another direct hit had a chance of generating a massive secondary explosion.
Gerber continued to shout violently, holding down the trigger and swaying the machinegun in broad archs, killing three more German infantrymen. “Just die, you Hun cocksuckers! Die goddammit!” The hotchkiss ran dry of ammunition finally, and he attempted to frantically load another belt of ammo, but was cut violently short as a German landser had moved to the side and opened the starboard hatch, and shooting him four times with a Frommer Stop pistol. Waywatcher, still wheezing, pulled his own Smith & Wesson 1917 revolver and shot the German in the back, causing him to fall over with a scream. Watcher pulled the hammer back on the revolver and shot the intruder once more.
Another German infantryman had managed to climb on the back, frantically picking at another stick grenade to try to arm it. Analytical spotted him, firing his revolver, hitting him in the midriff. He fell over, turning around and wailing. The wails became even louder once he realized he was on top of the track as it moved toward the front, and let out a sort of bloodcurdling scream that many present there had never heard before as he went under the tread, being violently crushed to death by the landship.
Analytical opened the portside hatch. “Andrew! Get your ass out! We're leaving!” He stepped into the moving vehicle, grabbing his fellow mage and leading him out. The place smelled more horribly of gasoline than it ever had, as two of the lines had sprug leaks. He grabbed Harrison by the hand, leading the sleeper out.
As they were outside, Analytical looked to his left to see that the remaining light tank that had been pursuing had briefly been stuck in a clump of mud and was trying to free itself. “Come get up!” He shouted to Waywatcher.
“I'm fine... shit... I'm fine.” Waywatcher groaned. “Look out!” He gripped his revolver, firing twice behind Analytical, felling one of two German landsers that were about to shoot at them. The other fired a shot that skidded and bounced off of the black mage's head at an angle. Analytical then aimed his revolver and shot the man in the stomach.
“Son of a bitch!” Waywatcher shouted, grasping his minorly bloodied scalp. “Son of a bitch! That was too close!”
“Let's go, dammit!” Harrison shouted, seeing that the Lietcher tank had began to free itself from the mud.
“Split up!” Analytical shouted, running toward a ditch. Another shot rang from the light tank's turret cannon, hitting Fat Fiona a final time, the shell blasting through the same side as the first shot, the numerous sparks and powder fire igniting the leaking gas. Fire billowed out of the holes and open hatches, the engine not bothering to stop completely, likely due to Analytical's spell.
Analytical sprinted toward the ditch, the light tank chasing after the other two. He squatted down, leaning with his free hand on his knee, catching his breath. It was in between these breaths that he heard the sound of approaching yelling. He then turned to see the landser trooper from before, wound still in his stomach, but him still keeping himself in the fight, pointing his Gewher 98 rifle at him.
He squeezed the trigger, the weapon dry of ammunition. The German hastily tried to reload, Analytical firing his final shot into the German's shoulder. But the German, even though he was a sleeper, was extraordinarily hardy and determined to kill the Englishman. He stood up, grasping a knuckleduster from his belt. Analytical silently panicked as he unlatched the revolver's cylinder, mashing the extractor rod and pouring the spent shells out of the back of the cylinder before grasping as many more .45 rounds as he could and loaded them into the revolver as the German charged at him, the chrome knuckleduster gleaming in the light.
Analytical snapped the cylinder in place, aiming at the German's head and firing. The shot bounced off of his helmet, and the brass knuckles had landed on the Englishman's upper lip violently at a vertical angle, breaking a small section of Analytical's nose, the force of the blow throwing him into a ditch. The German stood over him, a crimson accent between the spaces in his grinning teeth, savoring the Pyrrhic victory before a rifle round hit him in the back, the man falling ontop of the mage he just slugged.
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Post by Cali on Mar 4, 2017 23:11:41 GMT 1
Act III of IV
Two days earlier
If one checked his or her wristwatch, the hour hand would have been loitering at the eleven hour mark. The day was foggy as hell, and the air having a chill not felt since before spring. Wicket swore that he crawled by a patch of feces along the way while he proned through the mud. It surprised him that someone would drop trou and squeeze on out onto such a part of the field that left him vulnerable to enemy fire.
He carefully crawled, his aura hugging the flank of the barbed wire as he spotted a few more prone men wearing the beige and tans of the British Army, as well as carrying the signature Short Magazine Lee Enfield rifles. He pressed his finger into the center of his spectacles, furthering them into his brow before crawling forward even more.
“Hello, Wicket.” A mustached Scotsman greeted. “Did you decide to wank into a field gun barrel on your way over? Where have you been, squire?”
“Apologies, Ser Berry.” Wicket saluted, still prone like the other two soldiers lying in the mud. “I was told to find the auras. Surprisingly difficult in heavy fog.”
“Aye. It is.” Berry responded, rolling a bit of tobacco in a sheet of paper and wrapping it. “I used to be a dumbarse squire like you, so I know. Got a light, squire?”
“Oh. Yes sir.” The squire produced a box of matches, striking one and lighting the cigarette after his superior ordered so. “Is there any reason we're not being briefed inside the trench barracks? They have a stove and everything.”
“Is there any reason you're not acting your age and are being a wee whiny shite?” He took the cigarette and placed it in his mouth.
“My apologies sir. I have no excuse...” Wicket nodded.
“No shame, son.” His lips puckered as he took a drag, then removed it from his mouth and blew into the air. “Aye that's the stuff. So... you know what you two redsleeves are doing here, right?”
“Um... search and rescue?” The other “British” soldier replied, the voice sounding rather feminine and disproportionately French. All three of them were currently speaking Latin, but the Gaulic twang of her vernacular seeped in the most.
“More like search and apprehension, sister Lucide.” Wicket corrected.
“Wicket is technically correct about the operational content. But you're both right.” He grasped a piece of jeweled mirror from his front pocket, holding it up. He flicked it a couple of times before a gaunt face appeared. “This here's the target. Kultzer, born in 1861 in Hamburg, Germany. He's one of the fatherland's most gifted technomancers.”
“Technomancer?” Wicket asked.
“It's a term some people use for industrial sorcerers. Arcane engineers. What have you. Synonyms, lads.” The knight cleared his throat after taking another drag. “Our orders are to go to proceed to the town of Vervins, where it's been confirmed that Kultzer is tinkering with captured Entente tanks, and is tooling them to attack convoys and positions, vital or directly controlled by the Silver Banner and its allies. Knight-Lieutenant Corento, and other members of Earthwatch was killed by the gun of of a captured and unmanned Mark IV landship, believed to be created by our very own Kultzer.”
Lucide adjusted the sights on her rifle. “So that's who killed Corento. Why are we letting this man live, again?”
The knight sat up a bit more, pointing at her. “Because we are men and women of the Banner. Assasinations are very much beneath us, squire Lucide. This may be the Incense Battalion, but Joshua specifically instructed that no assassinations be made on magi not completely affiliated with the Thules. Are we clear?”
“Understood, ser. I did not mean to question or offend.”
“No shame, lassie.” He took a final drag off the cigarette. “Alright lads, let's move out. Wicket, why haven't you applied burnt cork to your face?”
“What?” The English squire blinked.
“Burnt cork. Helps hide the oils on your face. And put those glasses away. The Huns will see the reflection on those things a mile away. Now follow me, we've a long way to go.” He began crawling, the other two following suit.
“Ugh...” Analytical groaned. “Black shite and buggery.”
Surveyed the scene as Fat Fiona slumped against a massive tree, the ever unpleasant odor of old burning flesh from those deceased inside still lingering in the autumn air. He looked around him, noticing the tracks left by the remaining Leichter light tank that passed through.
Analytical briefly investigated the field where the skirmish took place the following night. There were two German landsers still alive and wounded, the worst of their agony passed. Analytical offered them cigarettes and water to ease their passing, but one of them died before he could offer any. He left the second one to his own volition as he stared at the sky, accepting his coming fate. He was a sleeper pawn, and therefore he could get no useful information from him.
However there was another loose end. He carefully traversed the brush where he had shot his first two Germans of the battle in, creeping closer to see that the horse from before was grazing a few yards from where he first saw him.
“I'm not a threat to you anymore, Amerikanner.” He heard a voice from behind him, Analytical getting horribly startled as he turned around and aimed his revolver at the source, the German officer he shot in the stomach before.
“Your aura was rather strong.” Analytical commented as he kept his sidearm trained on the German, who was lying next to a small supply crate and smoking a ration cigar. “Figured you were a mage.”
“You got the drop on me.” The German smiled. He was very obviously on some sort of medication or opiate to make him like this. “Got me before I had time to put up a shield.”
“You gonna live?” He walked closer toward him, squatting down but still keeping his pistol pointed at his chest.
“Ja.” The German replied. “So what are you out here, for? You're even in the wrong uniform, tommie. It's making me curious.”
Analytical looked around him, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “I need to know who I'm speaking to before I answer that.”
The German grinned with the cigar still in his mouth, his eyes still tired and a bit lazy. “I'm but a mere Hauptmann of the Imperial German Army.” He grinned, Analytical not amused. “But seriously... my true profession is in the Order of Venom. Call me Windmühle.“
“A member of the Uroboros eh?” Analytical placed his hand on his own knee, once again, still keeping his pistol trained. “What do you know of the Thule society?”
“We're allies... at least for the moment...” Windmuhle took another drag off his cigar. “If you ask me, they're rather... uh... what is the English word for it... creep- creepy?”
“That's rich coming from an imp worshipper like you.”
“I know right?” The German nodded. “Now who am I speaking to?”
“Analytical. I'm an industrial sorcerer.” The englishman responded.
“An arkaner ingenieur, eh?“ Windmuhle smiled. „What brings you here?“
"I'm looking for a German that shares the same profession as me... he's working for your army. The sleeper army.”
„Ah. I was on a mission to hunt and kill, maybe capture members of a squad of Silver Banner knights traveling with the American expiditionary force. Seems that I failed of course.“ Windmuhle replied, coughing softly, obviously still feeling a bit of pain, his eyes closing and a frown forming briefly. „Most technomancers in the Deutsches Heer and related military branches are more committed to their crafts. Those crewless tanks... I think those may have been borrowed from the same ingeniuer you seek?“
„Kultzer? That's the one I seek.“
„I don't know any names. He was probably commissioned to do it.“
"That means he's working with the Uroboros. Shite.“ Analytical stood up. „Well, as far as imp worshippers go, you've been a big help. Want some rations or anything?“
"That'd be nice.“ He replied. „The German Army has been starving for months. Too much industry in the fatherland. Not enough agriculture. We rely on the Austrians for meat a bit too much.“ He chuckled.
"You gonna live?“ Analytical asked.
"I managed to remove the bullet from my liver.“ He said. „The healing draught I drank saved my life, but it will take time to recover fully.“ He cleared his throat.
„Well, you did get shot in the liver.“ The technomancer replied, producing a tin of potted corned beef from his sack and setting it down before opening it with his trench knife. „Eat, you'll need your strength.“
„Veilen dank, ingeniuer.“ He took the pot and raised it before digging in. „Ah, tastes like processed shit. But it's still quite good.“
„Goodbye Windmuele.“ Analytical saluted, turning and walking away.
"Auf Weidersehen, friend. My overmage is going to give me such a lecture...“ The german chuckled in between bites.
Analytical then found himself in the field of grass and corpses. He then surveyed around him, kneeling down briefly on both of his knees, and placed both hands palms up beside him before closing his eyes.
The ectoplasmic trail from the spirits controlling the German tank led through the forest further east. Analytical opened his eyes, stepping up and jogging after it.
An hour later, Analytical spotted the bridge over the St. Quinten canal, still standing over the water that ran through it. He looked toward the sky, seeing two American reconnaissance planes scurry over in the sky.
“Hold it right there, mac!” Two American soldiers approached him, Enfield M1917 rifles trained on him as they stepped toward him. “Throw down that pistol.”
“I'm on your side.” Analytical replied.
“Yeah. A limey in a yankee's khakis. Nothing suspicious about that.” The fatter of the two sneered. “Throw down your weapon before we toss you in the canal.”
“I need to see your commanding officer.” The technomancer requested, slowly grasping the revolver by the barrel and handing it to one of them.
“Yeah, I bet he'll have a few questions, won't he?” The skinnier soldier walked around behind him, nudging him with his lengthy sixteen inch bayonet. “Giddyup. March.”
Analytical was led past a picket line of entrenched soldiers, most of them shooting the shit, playing guards and eating hard tack crackers, while several others manned Browning Model 1917 machineguns trained down the way of the military checkpoint. It was then he came upon a captain relaying orders to a couple of non-commissioned officers in the trench near a small unfolding field table. He looked back, dismissing them and turning to face them.
“Suspicion person sir. A Brit in a doughboy uniform covered in blood. Sound funny?” One of them said.
“I'm from Boston, sir.” Analytical corrected, his hands still up. “Supply Sergeant Percival Lovelace, 5th Infantry Division.”
“Captain Ramsey, G Company, 27th Infantry Division. You got the Red Diamond on your shoulder. You're a long way from your unit. Thought you guys were still sloggin' it up north? What gives, is this your blood?”
“No sir, I had a run in with a few landsers. One of them hit me with a knuckleduster.”
“I can see that. Looks like it really smarted, soldier.” The captain said.
“Aye, it did sir.”
“Well what are you doing here? You lose your way?”
“I'm on a special mission to travel to Vervins. The landship I was traveling with was supposed to cross this bridge. It was destroyed by a column of light tanks... listen did you happen to see a colored chap and a skinny white fellow come through here?”
“A colored man and a white man... now why would they be traveling together?” The captain adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet.
“They were part of my operation detail, sir.”
“Why are you traveling there?”
“With all due respect, that's classified, captain.”
The captain gave Analytical the side eye before looking back at the two privates who flanked him. “You two are relieved. Give the sergeant his weapon back.”
“Yes sir.” One of them saluted, giving the mage his 1917 revolver back before turning and manning their posts.
“You want anything to drink? I got some contraband neehi soda pop if you want any.” The captain asked, sitting down on a small log used as an improvised stool.
“No thanks, sir.” He nodded. “I would like to request some rations and weapons to make my way to Vervins. With your permission of course.”
“Last time I checked, that village is still controlled by the German army.” Ramsey replied, crossing his legs and clasping his fingers together.
“I still need to get there.” Analytical requested. “I'll put a good word in to AEP high command that you helped me. You'll be rewarded for this.”
“Nice to see that the corps operations officer looks after his own.” Ramsey nodded. “How is Colonel Anderson? Haven't met the guy.”
“Sir you're mistaken.” Analytical replied, realizing his angle. “Colonel Osprey is the corps head of operations.”
Ramsey stood up. “Forgive me sergeant, had to make sure.” He held out his hand, shaking Analytical's. “I'll send you on your way.” He turned back. “Lambert! Hey, Lambert! Bring one of those coffee grinder motherfuckers over here, and some spare magazines with it! Also a helmet, some corned beef, bacon, and beans.”
“Yes sir!” He heard a voice in the rear trench reply. Soon enough a man carrying a weapon approached them.
“Give it all to the sergeant here.” He handed the sack and the weapon to him, Analytical taking it up and inspecting it. “It's one of those weird kraut weapons. A fully automatic rifle.” The captain said. “My men don't know how to use the damned thing and I've instructed them to not toy around with it.”
Analytical skillfully loaded the firearm, chambering a round with the double action bolt. “It's technically an oversized fully automatic pistol, due to the ammunition used. A Bergmann MP-18. Preferred armament of German stormtroopers. They've been using this since 1916, but have only began mass producing it this year.”
“Well, I hope it serves you well.” The captain shrugged. “Also, you mentioned tanks chasing after you, right?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“Tiny ones with turrets in the front?”
“Aye. Those were the ones.”
“One tore through here and crossed the bridge. Fired a couple of shots... killed one of my platoon leaders and wounded several of my men. We managed to lug a pineapple grenade at the damn thing but it didn't do too much. One of my boys leaped on the thing as it was crossing the bridge. Tried to open the hatch but the krauts inside were holding the damn thing shut tight.”
Analytical nodded. “Duly noted, captain.” He looked over, squinting to see the trail still making its way where he suspected it would be.
“Thank you captain. It was time I was on my way.” He saluted.
“Good luck, sergeant.” Ramsey nodded. He pointed to the forward sentries. “Alright, let this man through.”
Analytical spent the remainder of the day traveling the rest of the way to Vervins. He could hear artillery shells impacting kilometers away, slowly keeping his form lower to the ground as crept around. It began to rain softly during the night, and he found a small clearing near a creek where he hid under a blanket and kept watch for most of the night. He awoke around 4AM the next day, and continued on the trail, still following the ectoplasmic residue. Another three hours on foot, and he was on a small hill overlooking the besieged town of Vervins.
He crawled next to a couple of dead soldiers from the landser, still clutching their weapons, eyes open and bearing false witness to the world they once inhabited. Analytical stood up, walking forth and following the trail. It was then he noticed a figure moving by a toolshed, a black man he knew well. Waywatcher leaned out of the way, holding his hand frantically and mouthing words, placing his finger vertically over his lips, as if urging him to keep quiet. There was a near gunshot, impacting into Analytical's chest once again and knocking him on the ground, the coat yet again absorbing the damage. He stood up quickly and made a beeline for the shack, Waywatcher grasping him on the shoulder and pulling him in before shutting the shed and bracing it with a bundle of boxes behind it.
“Bloody hell, Watcher!” Analytical groaned, standing up. “Thanks for coming back for me, by the way!”
“I'm sorry, Percy. I really am. Shit got hectic!” Waywatcher groaned, more bullets hitting the shack, one traveling through and blasting a hacksaw off a table.
Analytical dove toward the ground, turning his head to be face to face with a gaunt man who lied next to him.
“Oh... Herr Lovelace.” He said, crouching on the ground and wincing as another shot breached through the upper part of the shed.
“Kultzer?” Analytical squinted. He looked to his left to see one of the tank crewman, passed out with a blanket over him. “And Harrison? He's still alive?”
“I think he's been awakened, Ani.” Waywatcher told him.
“You carried him all this way?” He asked.
“Not carried. Well, I sorta stole an armored kraut car...”
Analytical smiled warmly. “Good man.” He told him with a nod, before turning to him. “How'd you nab him?”
“I came willingly...” Kultzer cleared his throat.
“We knew there was a chance of that.” Analytical told him, another bullet crashing through and landing near a hammer that hung on the wall, the force of the nearby impact causing it to swing back and forth a couple of times. “A small fucking chance.”
“Listen, Mr. Lovelace, there is more to this than you think.” Kultzer replied.
“I'm not surprised.” Analytical told him, he then turned to hear the sound of shouting Germans as well as a few people with more British in their voices, followed by the sound of a gunfight.
“Well, sounds like they're occupied.” Waywatcher spoke. “Let's wait this one out, then make a break for it.”
“Nein!” Kultzer made a loud, strained whisper. “I still need Helga! I need to get Helga out of her garage!”
“No offense, Kultzer, but I'm never traveling in a landship again. Fuck those things.” Waywatcher moaned, shaking his head.
The sounds of gunfire subsided, more voices were heard outside.
“Clear north!” A Scottish accent sounded off.
“Clear south!” An Englishman outside retorted.
They all lay inside, waiting for something else to happen. There was a sharp knock on the door after a while, the three non-comatose magi flinching slightly.
“Kultzer... we know you're in there. Open up, laddie.” A Scotsman demanded.
“Go stick a haggis up you're ass, you kilt-wearing shite-breath!” Analytical shouted. “I'm trying to bloody sleep in here!”
“Not very nice, buddy.” The man replied. “Knight-Corporal Berry, I'm with the Silver Banner.”
“I utterly refuse to accompany you Loffelkompfs! Now fuck off!” Kultzer non-politely requested.
“Not nice, Kultzy. Not nice.” Berry replied, leaning into the closed door, holding his short magazine Lee Enfield. He was flanked by his squires, Wicket and Lucide. “Now please, we didn't come all this way to wank around, Kultzer. Get your bloody Hun arse out here so we can call it a day.”
“Nein.” Kultzer replied, looking toward Waywatcher.
“How the hell are we gonna get out of here?” Analytical whispered.
Kultzer cleared his throat. “Well...”
The shed inside was completely silent. “I've got all day, Kultzer, my lad.” Berry smiled, whistling. He then looked toward Lucide and winked, nudging toward the door. The squire then formulated a ton of arcane energy around her hand, using all her weight to punch into the door. The door flew open, as well as the boxes barring it.
Ser Berry walked in, his rifle trained on the corners. “Kultzer...?” He whispered, looking toward him and searching. There was no one there. “Kultzer...?!” He turned over a crate, revealing an opened trap door and a ladder that led down.
“Kultzer! Damn you, you fucking Hun ponce! Kultzer!” He attempted to follow suit and climb down, Wicket and Lucide looking at one another with flustered looks upon their faces.
Waywatcher covered the rear as he carried the unconcious Harrison over his shoulder. “When the hell were you gonna tell me that the shed had a hidden tunnel that led to your motorpool?!”
Kultzer ran forward, almost sprinting with his skinny legs, Analytical following behind him. “I have many secrets that are necessary to keep, Herr Waywatcher!”
“This shouldn't be secret! At least not to us, after all we did to bail your Hun ass out!” The black technomancer replied angrily.
“Semantics, mein frund.” He huffed as he continued to run. “This way! Schnel!”
“After all this fresh buggery is over will, you all owe me several pints and a bloody goddamned explanation!” Analytical groaned as he ran.
“Not the time now, Herr Lovelace! Keep running!” Kultzer shouted.
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