TASK FORCE SPARE:

Captain Thompson entered the alleyway, alone. He had just broken out from a crisp jog, one away from those hunting him and the rest of his men throughout the forests surrounding the capital of Yondel. Fifteen hunters had cordoned off his only escape route. From first glance the men that aimed to eliminate him were from the MSF. Large body armor, weapons, and concealed identities. Yet, they were not of the same units that Oliver had ever came across before. Ghillie netting, more camouflage that he had yet to see even in special operations units.

And then there were the Kingdom’s assassins. Utilizing an indirect fire company comprised of magicians, they were able to eliminate the armored collum he was traversing with to rendezvous with Blue Team, and now they killers themselves came out with a thirst for blood.

“He knows what is in the Dark Zone! Find him, kill him!” A rifleman ordered daring to break the silence.

“Damnit,” Oliver whispered. Pressing himself further into a ditch, the captain dragged dirt over his face, concealing him to the point where it was near impossible to breathe. The world ahead was pitch black, and he slowly faded amongst the greenery, snow, and bodies.

All he could still feel was the cold metal of his carbine and a spare magazine poking against his chest. Unlike the other surviving Rangers from Task Force Spare, he had kept all his gear in working condition, even finding a workaround with specialty mana shards for any electronics he ran out of batteries for. To his core he was still a soldier, an officer. And to get to where he needed to go, home, he wanted every advantage that his home world provided. He slowly thumbed his rifle to fully automatic. With a silent prayer, the sound of the fire selector clicking was not heard as a patrol moved closer to him.

Chords of the Architect…

A shot rang out in the middle of the night. The gunmen that now stood next to the ditch Oliver was concealed in froze before scurrying for cover. The captain expected gunfire to erupt right above him with a ferocious tremor, yet he heard nothing as he fought every fiber in his body to move.

“Hostile neutralized.” A man said in a cold, somber less tone. Lowering his rifle, the man looked at the ditch next to him. A single eyebrow raised as he saw a mountain of corpses, both friendly and enemy. With a heavy sigh, he turned back, scanning the darkened horizon through his mana-enhanced scope.

Within a minute, the men had returned to their patrol formation.

Five. Ten minutes. The wait was agonizing and silent. Not a single breath echoed in the forever forest. Not until the dead were disturbed by a single soul rising from the pit of hell. Marred with blood, mud, and sweat, the captain shook his head as he stood tall. He could only spare a glance towards the corpses in the ditch. Two soldiers, frozen in their solitude, their bodies torn to shreds by bullets. A single rifleman, fear in his eyes and rigid as magots ate away at his body. And A collection of armed civilians, both from the Federation and the Kingdom. Oliver lowered his head. A severed arm with a red cross sewed onto the sleeve laid next to him. The body itself, buried underneath the mud.

Raising his carbine, and lowering his AR goggles, he activated his night vision and stared ahead into the night under the white-phosphorus view. For the longest time he had sworn to fight the battles that no one else was able to. His oath, his promise, and now his hope. In a place far away, perhaps even a long time ago, things he still cared and loved waited for him. He needed to be face-to-face, to ensure that his devotion of his life to them, his wife and children, wasn’t in vain. And that the future he wished to see wasn’t turned into a blazing inferno.

Reaching a destroyed house, Oliver stared at a corpse. A single woman had been mauled to death. Half of her jaw was missing, and her left arm was handing by her side by a single thread of muscle and bone. What horrified him wasn’t that of the state of the body.

No, it was moving, standing up even.

There was no delay in snapping his rifle up and covering down his new target. He had yet to fire, to reveal his position would guarantee death, and he was surrounded by wandering corpses that had risen from their untimely graves. Terror held his mind and body. But he had yet to fall back onto the basics of his training. With a clear conscious, he watched as a shadow emerged from nothingness with a rotting dog trotting beside him.

“So Reavers can revive the dead?” As the silhouette placed his mana-infused on the dog and ran it, scratching the head, the shadow slowly reveled himself to the captain. He was dressed in a uniform not of Federation or Kingdom decent, but he remained tall, like the warrior he presented himself to be.

“You are beings that keep magic in check,” Oliver said with a heavy heart. “We have fought before, but you have blood to pay back.”

The Reaver looked to the right, beyond what the captain could see through his night vision.

“Someone else. The Architects.”

Looking up high into the sky, Oliver could just barely make out the lowering sun hiding behind the darkened sky. The forest canopy blocked out most light, and the cold wind slammed against his parka. He had been up and moving nonstop for several hours, exhaustion had hit him like a freight train. But with no haven, a place to hunker down, the momentary respite he was given by the Reaver was enough to restore any energy needed for the next fight.

His legs burned, his body covered in sweat, blood and mud. Anymore exertion and he could break like a twig. Yet, he lowered his rifle and took a deep breath. The will to continue led him to release the hold on his pistol, and as he withdrew it from the retention holster on his hip. A single, gentle pull of the slide confirmed that a round was loaded in the chamber.

Oliver knew there was no other substitute.

“Let’s finish this.”

His radio clicked to life.

GHOSTS AND CHORDS:

“Ten years.”

On that balcony that overlooked the shattered capital of Zivaland, with the dazzling stars, David Harding adjusted his dress whites.

“Amanda, we’ve been fighting for that long. People out there still need me…” His composure was breaking. She never liked when he was distressed. Wrapping both of her arms around the Marine, she lowered her head into his chest full of war medals.

“I am still here with you… Do not speak of despair when you have already sacrificed so much,” Amanda whispered. She did not need to see him distressed, not when the war was so close to ending, “Please darling, what is on your mind.”

Raising her head and staring into the deep dark eyes of the Marine, she could see his lips twitch in anticipation.

“Amanda Gilliard, heir to the Anixi Empire, I request that you marry me.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

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Reality: No one! I mean no one! You are not human! To walk through hell, never to be noticed by the devil himself! Neither a ghost nor a spirit! Just something to die when it’s all over!

Truths: Do you think you can truly make a difference? No matter the person, place, or time, you will never succeed! History has showed you! It shall repeat no matter what!

Burdens: “Of all the lives you have come across, you always took something… No matter the lies that shadowed over you your whole life, you carry things alone.”

Wrapped around a silver fork, his fingers dragged against the cold, artificial surface. His world was beginning to deconstruct, rust away. Of all the ailments he ever walked with, the heavy feeling in his chest and head never proved wrong, never betrayed him. He sacrificed everything. To take the burdens away from others, to let them rest. Running ragged, with no rest for any weariness Continuing on even in the face of death, no matter what truth, reality, sweet lie. He continued, even as it destroyed him.

And it was nothing but a hug. A warm, dizzying embrace, and soft words he couldn’t even hear. Even towars destruction, the faith he held, the truths…

It was okay to start believing, just a little…

Even if it was the sweetest of lies…

Tell me. Why do you still sacrifice everything, help everyone? Why do you care so much?

When the world has left you behind, and to die…

Breakfast had ended. Most staff moved to their respective stations. David remained at his seat. Even his aides had left the room. To his right was his wife was with his young daughter. The junior Harding swayed in her seat as her mother braided her hair with pristine movements and pure skill. Not letting Amanda finish, the girl sprung from her chair and ran circles around the eldest Harding with a gleeful smile. She whipped around her hair making the work his wife did messy and loose. Eventually, she settled on resting her head on her father’s leg, brightly smiling.

“Dad! Look what mama did!”

The girl always had more courage than he did.

“Simply beautiful.”

His wife chuckled as she walked over and wrapped her arms around David, planting a small kiss on his face. “She always does this when I braid her hair.”

“Maybe I should try?” David said looking up to his wife.

“You braid hair?”

“I did some Mariline Spike when I was just a boot in the 3rd Expeditionary.”

“Then do it to my hair,” Amanda kindly hummed. She could recall the first time her husband tried to show her “Marline Spike”.

As David gently brushed his hand into her hair, he snatched a small brush that his daughter had presented and ran it through his wife’s curly hair slowly straightening it. Like a boat on the ocean, Amanda bobbed side to side as the soothing feeling of her husband’s hand put her at ease.

And with her eyes shut, she remained at peace.

--

For all of humanity.

What peace there was something appreciated all in silence. David Harding adjusted the cigar in his mouth.

When he looked past the wall that overlooked the Presidential Office in Cranbury, Site Tango Hotel Indigo, he saw nothing but blood. OMFS agents, both dead and alive littered the courtyard. A river of the crimson liquid pooled into a central stream from the piles of moved and untouched corpses. Vehicles leaked oil and the building itself shed ashes and debris to the grounds bellow. Government loyalists against his counter-Senate militia.

As he walked around the corner, a handgun squarely held in his left hand, the men that had rallied behind him, many of the aged-old Marines from the civil war, marched on as the agents and few soldiers within snapped to attention providing their respect to the President. His life, the very fact that it existed, showed that there was still hope for his people and the future of the Federation.

The war within Zivaland was not unfamiliar. The nation had been birthed by war. And he led the new light through one of the darkest times, following the fracturing of the empire. He was no stranger to death, the very essence of a heavy machine gun firing above his head. He was first a father, a man, a Marine, and the damned President. To let his people wither away from internal strife when they should focus on reconnecting with the world, not through the barrel of a gun, but instead the hope that the children of the future would not have to forge new spears.

Until that day comes, he will continue to sharpen his own blade. Ready to shield the world from any force that wish to bring it harm.

“Mr. President, resistance forces are ready for us to breach. It’s a deathtrap.” A colonel from the army said as he was helped to his feet by several OMFS agents.

“Spring it, colonel.” David ordered.

“Almost out of ammo, however, we have enough explosives.” An agent with a machine gun said as he handed a destination cord to the president. A small smile crossed David’s face as he held the detonator in his right hand.

“Enter through the emergency exit on 3rd street! My men will storm the front!”

Flicking the switch, David slammed his thumb into the detonator.

With the delayed explosion, a harrowing scream came from within the building as shrapnel, dust, and embers fell upon his men. As the shockwave fell upon the ground, David’s men stormed into the building as all official forces rushed to reach 3rd street. Bullets flew past the president as he walked into the building, shadowing several reinforced pillars. Raising his now free right hand to his eyes, his iris was replaced by a solid gold shade, and he moved past the hot zones. Finding one of the disoriented loyalists wandering alone the windows of the foyer, the president raised his pistol and shot him in the head at near point-blank range, splattering blood against the glass and his firearm.

Rendezvousing with his company’s XO, Harding fell behind him as a platoon moved up the grand staircase leading to the second deck. Fifteen men remained below, pointing their rifles high, waiting for ambushers. Slamming a fresh magazine into his handgun, the president moved with precision and care. Gunfire splattered like an erratic tempo, and as they reached the peak of the staircase, David could just barely see the shadows of the hostiles on the upper balcony.

“Most of them are high! If we can flank them—”

Erupting into nothing but smoke and dust, a torrent of magic removed the entire balcony from the building. The destruction was comparable as a concentrated burst of automatic anti-ship machine gun fire, and David stood bewildered by the destruction.

“Shit, I’m glad we’re not the target!”

Leading from the front the executive officer raised to fingers and pointed them at the elevator and emergency stairwell towards the southeastern corner of the building. Those with specialty defensive magic corralled in the elevators with men that had climbing and ascension equipment. The rest stacked on the stairs awaiting the order to clear the presidential office floor by floor.

“Do not fear!”

David joined the stairwell stack and placed his free hand firmly on the shoulder in front of him.

“Do this not for honor, but for you and those that you love!”