[HD] "Doom's Marines" and "Coming Storm" Travel (Day 1-)
- Thread starter Karl Jak
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In the moments leading up to the beginning of the competition, Luck felt like he had been permanently stuck in a dream--one that moved too fast for even someone like him to keep up. He had found so many interesting and strong people that he honestly couldn’t remember if he had stopped to even speak to any of them, let alone ask them to spar. Instead, he bolted from area to area, humming his appreciation through the appropriate “oohs and aahs,” until it was time to go...somewhere. He had to go somewhere; he was sure of that.
In truth, Luck’s method of traveling was being corralled by someone who knew what was happening and getting stuffed into a vehicle until he was where he needed to be. When it was all said and done, he was standing in the belly of a fancy-looking castle, shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of other soldiers.
He’d been outfitted with some sort of plating, though he was relieved to find that it was lighter than it looked, along with something he’d been told was a “sidearm.” If he squeezed the triggering mechanism, he’d been told, a tiny object would fly out at breakneck speeds. He would require better explanation better, but as long as he had his grimoire at his hip, he wasn’t terribly bothered.
The boy’s eyes flicked between each face as they glazed over each that he could see within the crowd, but he was struggling to focus on any particular detail. What he did see was that the entire building was constructed to give off a feeling of power, even if it was just an illusion. Everything, from the cold, dull and largely colorless steel decor to the distant echoes of officers barking orders, was designed to intimidate someone like him, a rank and file grunt without name or agency. Luck smiled nonetheless, and found himself picking out the toughest looking people in the crowd, hoping that they’d be willing to spar with him.
It was the sound of a particular voice, however, that snapped Luck’s attention back to the matter at hand. Since it sounded like a person trying to emulate his father, he could only assume it was someone close to him in age. When the people around them cheered and rallied, he pretended to do the same.
He followed the eyes to the front, where a superior had been standing and talking. It was someone around his age! When things died down and it was time to move out, Luck managed to push past everyone and greet this “Lieutenant Zenitsu” as only someone like he could.
“That sword looks super sharp! Wanna fight?”
The other boy’s face seemed to drain some of its color. “Wha...what!? Aren’t we on the same side?”
Needless to say, the two were separated with speed and urgency, and the squad soon moved out.
***
“Hey, kid,” a voice caught Luck’s attention as he marched alongside the rest of his comrades.
“Me? Ooh, I get it, you've reconsidered and now you want to…”
“No. I do not,” the voice belonged to an older gentleman, someone who looked like he belonged with his armor and weapon in a way that a lot of people, including himself, did not. “I just happened to notice that sidearm you’re carrying, and wondered if you really knew what you were doing with it.”
“Oh, this? Yeah, someone gave this to me before we set out. He was actually kind of like you, now that I think about it,” Luck replied, glancing down at the weapon holstered on his hip opposite his grimoire. “He didn’t believe me when I told him that I didn’t know what it was.”
“You don’t even…” the soldier began to shout, but collected himself in time to continue in a lower tone. “You don’t even know what a gun is? Are you serious?”
“Yeah! Exactly like that!” the magician beamed back with a smile. “It was kind of funny; I’ve never had to fight with something like this. Magic makes it seem kind of redundant.”
At first, the only reply Luck had received was a grunt and a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, the man moved closer to him and made sure he fell in step with the younger warrior.
“Look, I don’t know anything about that,” he said, resigned. “I should just take that thing away from you, but I get the feeling that you might need it someday, so let me clue you in.”
Luck nodded and brought out his weapon, holding it limply in his hands.
“Don’t,” the grizzled soldier barked, quickly moving to point the barrel of his handgun towards the ground before continuing, “point that at anything you don’t intend to kill. Now, I can’t put you through your paces like I want to right now, but I can at least tell you what it does.”
He continued to explain to Luck everything that he decided was important, which seemed like an awful lot: The action, the frame, the clip, the barrel, reloading, basic safety tips, and a nice, succinct way of calling him an idiot to wrap things up. At the end, Luck was still smiling, but his eyes had glazed over.
“That’s kind of cool, if you’re into that sort of thing,” he surmised with a shrug. “Thanks, though! You’re right, it might be helpful someday.”
“Whatever. I just hope you don’t get yourself killed,” his comrade shook his head. “You will if you don’t take this seriously.”
“Nah,” the boy chuckled. “I’m gonna win. I have to.”
In truth, Luck’s method of traveling was being corralled by someone who knew what was happening and getting stuffed into a vehicle until he was where he needed to be. When it was all said and done, he was standing in the belly of a fancy-looking castle, shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of other soldiers.
He’d been outfitted with some sort of plating, though he was relieved to find that it was lighter than it looked, along with something he’d been told was a “sidearm.” If he squeezed the triggering mechanism, he’d been told, a tiny object would fly out at breakneck speeds. He would require better explanation better, but as long as he had his grimoire at his hip, he wasn’t terribly bothered.
The boy’s eyes flicked between each face as they glazed over each that he could see within the crowd, but he was struggling to focus on any particular detail. What he did see was that the entire building was constructed to give off a feeling of power, even if it was just an illusion. Everything, from the cold, dull and largely colorless steel decor to the distant echoes of officers barking orders, was designed to intimidate someone like him, a rank and file grunt without name or agency. Luck smiled nonetheless, and found himself picking out the toughest looking people in the crowd, hoping that they’d be willing to spar with him.
It was the sound of a particular voice, however, that snapped Luck’s attention back to the matter at hand. Since it sounded like a person trying to emulate his father, he could only assume it was someone close to him in age. When the people around them cheered and rallied, he pretended to do the same.
He followed the eyes to the front, where a superior had been standing and talking. It was someone around his age! When things died down and it was time to move out, Luck managed to push past everyone and greet this “Lieutenant Zenitsu” as only someone like he could.
“That sword looks super sharp! Wanna fight?”
The other boy’s face seemed to drain some of its color. “Wha...what!? Aren’t we on the same side?”
Needless to say, the two were separated with speed and urgency, and the squad soon moved out.
***
“Hey, kid,” a voice caught Luck’s attention as he marched alongside the rest of his comrades.
“Me? Ooh, I get it, you've reconsidered and now you want to…”
“No. I do not,” the voice belonged to an older gentleman, someone who looked like he belonged with his armor and weapon in a way that a lot of people, including himself, did not. “I just happened to notice that sidearm you’re carrying, and wondered if you really knew what you were doing with it.”
“Oh, this? Yeah, someone gave this to me before we set out. He was actually kind of like you, now that I think about it,” Luck replied, glancing down at the weapon holstered on his hip opposite his grimoire. “He didn’t believe me when I told him that I didn’t know what it was.”
“You don’t even…” the soldier began to shout, but collected himself in time to continue in a lower tone. “You don’t even know what a gun is? Are you serious?”
“Yeah! Exactly like that!” the magician beamed back with a smile. “It was kind of funny; I’ve never had to fight with something like this. Magic makes it seem kind of redundant.”
At first, the only reply Luck had received was a grunt and a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, the man moved closer to him and made sure he fell in step with the younger warrior.
“Look, I don’t know anything about that,” he said, resigned. “I should just take that thing away from you, but I get the feeling that you might need it someday, so let me clue you in.”
Luck nodded and brought out his weapon, holding it limply in his hands.
“Don’t,” the grizzled soldier barked, quickly moving to point the barrel of his handgun towards the ground before continuing, “point that at anything you don’t intend to kill. Now, I can’t put you through your paces like I want to right now, but I can at least tell you what it does.”
He continued to explain to Luck everything that he decided was important, which seemed like an awful lot: The action, the frame, the clip, the barrel, reloading, basic safety tips, and a nice, succinct way of calling him an idiot to wrap things up. At the end, Luck was still smiling, but his eyes had glazed over.
“That’s kind of cool, if you’re into that sort of thing,” he surmised with a shrug. “Thanks, though! You’re right, it might be helpful someday.”
“Whatever. I just hope you don’t get yourself killed,” his comrade shook his head. “You will if you don’t take this seriously.”
“Nah,” the boy chuckled. “I’m gonna win. I have to.”
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Musashi sauntered along the apparent hallway connecting...somewhere. Her gait steadier than before as the sellsword sank into her thoughts, for the first time in this little drunken adventure of hers.
After all, it was the first time in a while she had time to herself, to do some good old alcohol assisted contemplation.
It was hardly the first war she’d apparently be partaking in. Not that she knew who she was fighting, or what for. Thinking back, the lesser officer from before mentioned she’d be serving under Lieutenant Agatsuma, whomever that was. She knew not what kind of a rank a “lieutenant” was exactly, but it was bound to be higher than hers, given the mention of servitude.
But the name was much like hers - japanese. So they’d likely have something common at least, based on that little assumption.
But there was little reason to worry over commanding officers and their peculiarities now. Sellsword as she was, by nature she was used to fighting for whatever and whomever paid the most - though what exactly would she paid this time?
She’d just signed a paper and now she just found herself here, wherever this was. Whilst it was all kinds of irksome and the ronin worried for Hibiki, all she could do for now was rip and tear her way through with her swords all the way to the end.
Wherever end was.
“You lookin’ for gear, lass?” Snapping back to attention, Musashi blinked a time or two, finding herself at odds with a fully clad soldier standing guard next to an armory.
“Hum. What kind of gear do you have?” she began, attempting to steal glances into the armory itself past the man. “And for what kind of price?” An all important question it was, as she hadn’t a clue what kind of currency carried value here. She doubted her coins would do her much good. They hadn’t, in previous worlds like this.
“Price? You got a screw loose or somethin’? ‘s the barracks. We supply our soldiers here. We got guns ‘n armor. No roses though,” responded the man with a hearty, bellowing laugh echoing in the ill-occupied hallway.
Her eyebrow lowered a tad in disappointment. There were the damn guns again.
“Swords, blades, anything that cuts?” she interjected, her arms imitating a cutting motion once or twice for good measure. “Or lighter armour fitting for close quarters?”
“Swords, eh? We do have the Crucible sword here,” the man explained, pulling forth a huge, crimson red blade with more points than a sword should’ve ever had. Impractical, to say the least!
“Armor-wise, standard issue light armor, fit for a ghost! Here.” The man lifted a small crate and cast it across to Musashi.
Careful to protect the porcelain sake bottle, Musashi caught the crate staggering a few steps backward before stabilizing.
“Thanks, I guess,” the ronin chimed, staring at the gigantic red sword again. “Anything more… agile, sword-wise?” she inquired, “A pair, preferrably?” she quickly added as the quartermaster disappeared into the armory again.
“Here. Now get a move on,” the gruff grumbled as he held forth a pair of unfamiliar looking, single edged swords toward the woman. From a quick glance, the blade curved similarly to a katana toward end, though a portion of the blade was straight, rather tha ncurved.
“Yer lieutenant is already givin’ their speech,” the gruff grumbled, huffing further instructions still, “Get changed the next room over, ‘n get a move on.” with that, the man fell silent as a stone again, leaving the ronin to waddle to the next room over with her newly acquired loot.
-----
Shortly after, the ronin stepped out of the dressing room clad a skin-tight mesh-suit, armored boots, gloves and braces, a breastplate that literally covered her breasts and none of her abdomen, and shoulderpads.
The skintight suit was pearly white with green accents as whatever technology took care of protecting its wearer. The armor plates steel-grey and accented similarly.
The blades that hung from her hips were currently powered off, though she’d discovered that by pressing a button in the handle, their blades lit up green on the edges. Something Musashi knew little about, but that, for now, that was how they worked.
And so, her gaunt growing steadier by the minute the girl made her way toward the ceremony and her appointed commanding officer.
-----
“The name’s Lieutenant Zenitsu Agatsuma! ...and we are The Coming Storm!” he bellowed.
And that was what echoed into Musashi’s ears in the hallway before a massive echo of cheers and roars from whatever troops Agatsuma was rallying. Musashi herself remained in the hallway.
As the roars died down, Musashi shamelessly sauntered forward and out of the hallway, onto the courtyard. Before her she saw the troops, recently addressed by the lieutenant, and shortly after her eyes sought out the assumed lieutenant himself.
A blonde pretty boy - quite cute really - dressed in a traditional though clearly a bit teched up samurai armor, styled in yellow and green. Sort of like his hay-coloured hair.
Cute. She could eat him up. Not that she would but Musashi did love all things pretty.
Cutting through from the side, she marched into the front, even as the pretty boy began to spin on his heels.
“And w-who ar--”... Oo! A pretty girl~! Whatever slack yet remained in his spine was instantly wound out as his posture tightened. “And who’re you?” he asked, puffing his chest just a little. Couldn’t hurt to display this slick armor of his.
“My formal name? Shinmen Musashi-no-Kami Fujiwara no Harunobu. Still, it’s easier if you just call me Musashi,” the girl opened with a grin dancing across her visage. As she’d already closed the last of the gap between herself and her boytoy the prettyboy, her left arm lowered itself onto his shoulder.
T-the hell?! Zenitsu’s mind raced, only contested by how fast his heart was fluttering. Why the heck was this girl coming onto him so strongly?! - Not that he would complain, of course. Okay, ookay, look cool now. Just pose up and act commanding, right? RIGHT?!
“Want some sake?” she inquired, the ronin continuing to dominate and steer the conversation however she pleased. Now the porcelain bottle of sake pushed forward, sickeningly close to the boy’s lips already.
“M-maybe j-j-just a s--si-,” the boy stammered, right before he’d get hammered. Before his sentence could finish, the ronin unceremoniously pressed the cold porcelain onto his lips and poured straight into his unassuming mouth.
Of course, she wouldn’t be cruel and dump the whole bottle. But most certainly a shot, maybe two. Probably closer to two.
“Gchk!” Zenitsu coughed, biting his tongue hard as he forced the start of that sputtering cough to a halt! It wouldn’t do to spatter the sake all over the pretty lady - Musashi, was it? The liquid burned his tongue, even as he toiled to swallow the mouthful, only for it to burn on the way down. But it was a pleasant burn.
And of course, as strong alcohol was bound to do, it brought warmth to his core.
Satisfied with her efforts, Musashi took a step back. From what she’d observed of him in their short while together, he wouldn’t compare to her if they were to cross swords. And he most certainly was not the kind of assertive leadership figure that he was trying to portray himself as.
But he was a pretty-boy! So she’d keep the boytoy safe, if only for her own amusement. If whomever commanded this army had decided him to lead her - and the rest of this lot, who was she to contest? After all, they’d bestowed her with a lovely plaything to tease.
And she might as well protect his pretty face, while she was at it.
“Zenitsu. The name’s Zenitsu, and I’m a samurai,” he stated proudly. “I welcome you and your blades to the Coming Storm!” Ahhhh, he’d get to lead a group of pretty girls! His very own harem! Honestly, this was a dream come true, he’d really need to thank the Commander later!
“Well, if you’ll still have my swords, knowing I’m a sellsword of a ronin, then why not!” the swordswoman laughed as stuffed away the sake bottle. “You samurai lot oh so oft seem to find your issues with us,” she grinned.
This adventure was shaping up to be interesting.
After all, it was the first time in a while she had time to herself, to do some good old alcohol assisted contemplation.
It was hardly the first war she’d apparently be partaking in. Not that she knew who she was fighting, or what for. Thinking back, the lesser officer from before mentioned she’d be serving under Lieutenant Agatsuma, whomever that was. She knew not what kind of a rank a “lieutenant” was exactly, but it was bound to be higher than hers, given the mention of servitude.
But the name was much like hers - japanese. So they’d likely have something common at least, based on that little assumption.
But there was little reason to worry over commanding officers and their peculiarities now. Sellsword as she was, by nature she was used to fighting for whatever and whomever paid the most - though what exactly would she paid this time?
She’d just signed a paper and now she just found herself here, wherever this was. Whilst it was all kinds of irksome and the ronin worried for Hibiki, all she could do for now was rip and tear her way through with her swords all the way to the end.
Wherever end was.
“You lookin’ for gear, lass?” Snapping back to attention, Musashi blinked a time or two, finding herself at odds with a fully clad soldier standing guard next to an armory.
“Hum. What kind of gear do you have?” she began, attempting to steal glances into the armory itself past the man. “And for what kind of price?” An all important question it was, as she hadn’t a clue what kind of currency carried value here. She doubted her coins would do her much good. They hadn’t, in previous worlds like this.
“Price? You got a screw loose or somethin’? ‘s the barracks. We supply our soldiers here. We got guns ‘n armor. No roses though,” responded the man with a hearty, bellowing laugh echoing in the ill-occupied hallway.
Her eyebrow lowered a tad in disappointment. There were the damn guns again.
“Swords, blades, anything that cuts?” she interjected, her arms imitating a cutting motion once or twice for good measure. “Or lighter armour fitting for close quarters?”
“Swords, eh? We do have the Crucible sword here,” the man explained, pulling forth a huge, crimson red blade with more points than a sword should’ve ever had. Impractical, to say the least!
“Armor-wise, standard issue light armor, fit for a ghost! Here.” The man lifted a small crate and cast it across to Musashi.
Careful to protect the porcelain sake bottle, Musashi caught the crate staggering a few steps backward before stabilizing.
“Thanks, I guess,” the ronin chimed, staring at the gigantic red sword again. “Anything more… agile, sword-wise?” she inquired, “A pair, preferrably?” she quickly added as the quartermaster disappeared into the armory again.
“Here. Now get a move on,” the gruff grumbled as he held forth a pair of unfamiliar looking, single edged swords toward the woman. From a quick glance, the blade curved similarly to a katana toward end, though a portion of the blade was straight, rather tha ncurved.
“Yer lieutenant is already givin’ their speech,” the gruff grumbled, huffing further instructions still, “Get changed the next room over, ‘n get a move on.” with that, the man fell silent as a stone again, leaving the ronin to waddle to the next room over with her newly acquired loot.
-----
Shortly after, the ronin stepped out of the dressing room clad a skin-tight mesh-suit, armored boots, gloves and braces, a breastplate that literally covered her breasts and none of her abdomen, and shoulderpads.
The skintight suit was pearly white with green accents as whatever technology took care of protecting its wearer. The armor plates steel-grey and accented similarly.
The blades that hung from her hips were currently powered off, though she’d discovered that by pressing a button in the handle, their blades lit up green on the edges. Something Musashi knew little about, but that, for now, that was how they worked.
And so, her gaunt growing steadier by the minute the girl made her way toward the ceremony and her appointed commanding officer.
-----
“The name’s Lieutenant Zenitsu Agatsuma! ...and we are The Coming Storm!” he bellowed.
And that was what echoed into Musashi’s ears in the hallway before a massive echo of cheers and roars from whatever troops Agatsuma was rallying. Musashi herself remained in the hallway.
As the roars died down, Musashi shamelessly sauntered forward and out of the hallway, onto the courtyard. Before her she saw the troops, recently addressed by the lieutenant, and shortly after her eyes sought out the assumed lieutenant himself.
A blonde pretty boy - quite cute really - dressed in a traditional though clearly a bit teched up samurai armor, styled in yellow and green. Sort of like his hay-coloured hair.
Cute. She could eat him up. Not that she would but Musashi did love all things pretty.
Cutting through from the side, she marched into the front, even as the pretty boy began to spin on his heels.
“And w-who ar--”... Oo! A pretty girl~! Whatever slack yet remained in his spine was instantly wound out as his posture tightened. “And who’re you?” he asked, puffing his chest just a little. Couldn’t hurt to display this slick armor of his.
“My formal name? Shinmen Musashi-no-Kami Fujiwara no Harunobu. Still, it’s easier if you just call me Musashi,” the girl opened with a grin dancing across her visage. As she’d already closed the last of the gap between herself and her boytoy the prettyboy, her left arm lowered itself onto his shoulder.
T-the hell?! Zenitsu’s mind raced, only contested by how fast his heart was fluttering. Why the heck was this girl coming onto him so strongly?! - Not that he would complain, of course. Okay, ookay, look cool now. Just pose up and act commanding, right? RIGHT?!
“Want some sake?” she inquired, the ronin continuing to dominate and steer the conversation however she pleased. Now the porcelain bottle of sake pushed forward, sickeningly close to the boy’s lips already.
“M-maybe j-j-just a s--si-,” the boy stammered, right before he’d get hammered. Before his sentence could finish, the ronin unceremoniously pressed the cold porcelain onto his lips and poured straight into his unassuming mouth.
Of course, she wouldn’t be cruel and dump the whole bottle. But most certainly a shot, maybe two. Probably closer to two.
“Gchk!” Zenitsu coughed, biting his tongue hard as he forced the start of that sputtering cough to a halt! It wouldn’t do to spatter the sake all over the pretty lady - Musashi, was it? The liquid burned his tongue, even as he toiled to swallow the mouthful, only for it to burn on the way down. But it was a pleasant burn.
And of course, as strong alcohol was bound to do, it brought warmth to his core.
Satisfied with her efforts, Musashi took a step back. From what she’d observed of him in their short while together, he wouldn’t compare to her if they were to cross swords. And he most certainly was not the kind of assertive leadership figure that he was trying to portray himself as.
But he was a pretty-boy! So she’d keep the boytoy safe, if only for her own amusement. If whomever commanded this army had decided him to lead her - and the rest of this lot, who was she to contest? After all, they’d bestowed her with a lovely plaything to tease.
And she might as well protect his pretty face, while she was at it.
“Zenitsu. The name’s Zenitsu, and I’m a samurai,” he stated proudly. “I welcome you and your blades to the Coming Storm!” Ahhhh, he’d get to lead a group of pretty girls! His very own harem! Honestly, this was a dream come true, he’d really need to thank the Commander later!
“Well, if you’ll still have my swords, knowing I’m a sellsword of a ronin, then why not!” the swordswoman laughed as stuffed away the sake bottle. “You samurai lot oh so oft seem to find your issues with us,” she grinned.
This adventure was shaping up to be interesting.
The first day had been a hard march, but Zenitsu was up to the task. Despite his outward appearance he boasted a hardiness one would never attribute him with at a glance. He stuck to the head of his column and though he stood only five feet and five inches he managed to outpace some of the much larger soldiers behind him. He suspected, though, that none were too anxious to contest his walking speed...a hasty march was no friend to a host of soldiers.
And an interesting host of soldiers it was, at that. Throughout the first day the Lieutenant had taken stock of his men, measured them, tallied them, and evaluated them as thoroughly as he could.
What he’d found was that they were a bunch of freaks and weirdos. In that fact, he took solace. These truly were his people. Though he’d overheard some grumbling misgivings about the commander from the footmen (brash bastard, cocky, sonofabitch this, and angry motherfucker that) it seemed to Zenitsu that the man knew exactly what he was doing. Instead of giving the young, unimposing Lieutenant command of a teeming throng of cutthroat braggarts he had given him command of misfit rabble...the kind of folks who’d pull for an underdog.
He strode, now, down a large strip of grass with room enough for eight men or maybe more to walk shoulder to shoulder if need be. On either side of that grassy aisle the men and women under his command had erected hasty lodgings; a sea of tents rose on either side of him and continued on for the length of a football field or better. Four hundred and fifty men, women, and others dicing, drinking, feeding, and resting at the tail end of a hard day’s march.
As he walked past the tents he caught the eye of some of his soldiers, and when he did, Zenitsu would offer a meek smile and a dip of his straw haired head. A few soldiers averted his gaze, but the lion’s share of those he passed offered a friendly wave and even the occasional cheer.
Despite himself, the young Demon Slayer grinned and found a little extra spring in his step.
He passed by Musashi, the dual wielding sake swiller whose bold advances back at the Castle had left a distinct impression on the boy. She sat upon a stool outside of a tent, and when her Commanding Officer passed by she offered him a sly grin. His heart beat a little faster, and he kept moving lest he grow distracted.
On the opposite end of aisle and further down to boot there was a ruckus stirring, which stopped the Lieutenant briefly.
“Come on! Just one quick little -” the peppy voice of the boy known as Luck intoned. One of Zenitsu’s advisors had informed him that the Mage was known as the ‘Cheery Berserker’. More than a little fight obsessed, he had a habit of making a nuisance of himself with some of the bigger and brawnier footmen.
“I told you, kid! I’m footsore! Let me sit and drink my grog in piece!” the voice was deep, booming. Exactly the kind of mark Lieutenant Zen expected the boy to target. “Bug off!”
A groan, and then he heard Luck shuffle off to try his hand at coaxing some other poor soul into a spar.
All of this, without seeing, Zenitsu heard with his extraordinary pinpoint hearing. It was a boon now more than ever - he could hear so much of the camp, and when he really focused, he could utilize this talent unbeknownst to those around him to gauge morale.
Now, he found himself pleased to discover that morale was good. Great, even! The squadron seemed well suited for travel together and had good chemistry. His people - the fringes of society.
The smell of cooking stew, the low din of camp chatter, the feel of the sun licking out at them, and the contented feeling it gave Zenitsu in the pit of his gut...maybe this was what he’d always been missing? Maybe command suited him, somehow, despite all odds? As he reached the end of the grassy walkway, he stopped and reveled in it for just a moment…
And then called out the warning.
“Listen up!” he announced, sounding more confident than he felt in commanding a horde of well armed bodies. “I see the main host pulling up stakes, and getting ready to move! We’ll be doing the same! Start cleaning up!”
Down the aisle he heard his announcement echoed by the bannermen. Occasional soldiers in the group of four-fifty had taken it upon themselves to tote the banners, one of the Liege Lord, ol’ Doomster, and one of their own forces: the Coming Storm. The entire day of marching had found one bannermen of each sort standing at either side of Zenitsu, along with a gaggle of folks hoping to ingratiate themselves to their CO, and the boy found that it hadn’t bothered him much. A part of the military scene, he supposed.
Now as they pulled up stakes at the camp the same assortment of faces gathered about him in a loose assembly. He didn’t know their names, yet, but he’d started to grow accustomed to their faces. The fellow carrying his own host’s banner, for instance, boasted an impressively large nose and an equally impressive mustache that loomed beneath it. In his mind he’d designated the fellow ‘Schnozz’. There was also Waistline Willy, Bug-Eyes, Lefthand Larry, and Offensive Odor Otis.
His people.
Zenitsu plucked his sword from its sheath and pointed it forth once the camp had been sufficiently stashed away.
“Forward...MARCH!”
The young man strode as proudly as a peacock, his people at his back, and followed the trail of the Doom’s Marines ahead of him. The plains seemed endless, but their spirits were high and remained undaunted.
At least for now. As yet, they remained green, untested by battle, and had yet to suffer a casualty. Zenitsu couldn't help but feel that perhaps they were still rather naïve.
And an interesting host of soldiers it was, at that. Throughout the first day the Lieutenant had taken stock of his men, measured them, tallied them, and evaluated them as thoroughly as he could.
What he’d found was that they were a bunch of freaks and weirdos. In that fact, he took solace. These truly were his people. Though he’d overheard some grumbling misgivings about the commander from the footmen (brash bastard, cocky, sonofabitch this, and angry motherfucker that) it seemed to Zenitsu that the man knew exactly what he was doing. Instead of giving the young, unimposing Lieutenant command of a teeming throng of cutthroat braggarts he had given him command of misfit rabble...the kind of folks who’d pull for an underdog.
He strode, now, down a large strip of grass with room enough for eight men or maybe more to walk shoulder to shoulder if need be. On either side of that grassy aisle the men and women under his command had erected hasty lodgings; a sea of tents rose on either side of him and continued on for the length of a football field or better. Four hundred and fifty men, women, and others dicing, drinking, feeding, and resting at the tail end of a hard day’s march.
As he walked past the tents he caught the eye of some of his soldiers, and when he did, Zenitsu would offer a meek smile and a dip of his straw haired head. A few soldiers averted his gaze, but the lion’s share of those he passed offered a friendly wave and even the occasional cheer.
Despite himself, the young Demon Slayer grinned and found a little extra spring in his step.
He passed by Musashi, the dual wielding sake swiller whose bold advances back at the Castle had left a distinct impression on the boy. She sat upon a stool outside of a tent, and when her Commanding Officer passed by she offered him a sly grin. His heart beat a little faster, and he kept moving lest he grow distracted.
On the opposite end of aisle and further down to boot there was a ruckus stirring, which stopped the Lieutenant briefly.
“Come on! Just one quick little -” the peppy voice of the boy known as Luck intoned. One of Zenitsu’s advisors had informed him that the Mage was known as the ‘Cheery Berserker’. More than a little fight obsessed, he had a habit of making a nuisance of himself with some of the bigger and brawnier footmen.
“I told you, kid! I’m footsore! Let me sit and drink my grog in piece!” the voice was deep, booming. Exactly the kind of mark Lieutenant Zen expected the boy to target. “Bug off!”
A groan, and then he heard Luck shuffle off to try his hand at coaxing some other poor soul into a spar.
All of this, without seeing, Zenitsu heard with his extraordinary pinpoint hearing. It was a boon now more than ever - he could hear so much of the camp, and when he really focused, he could utilize this talent unbeknownst to those around him to gauge morale.
Now, he found himself pleased to discover that morale was good. Great, even! The squadron seemed well suited for travel together and had good chemistry. His people - the fringes of society.
The smell of cooking stew, the low din of camp chatter, the feel of the sun licking out at them, and the contented feeling it gave Zenitsu in the pit of his gut...maybe this was what he’d always been missing? Maybe command suited him, somehow, despite all odds? As he reached the end of the grassy walkway, he stopped and reveled in it for just a moment…
And then called out the warning.
“Listen up!” he announced, sounding more confident than he felt in commanding a horde of well armed bodies. “I see the main host pulling up stakes, and getting ready to move! We’ll be doing the same! Start cleaning up!”
Down the aisle he heard his announcement echoed by the bannermen. Occasional soldiers in the group of four-fifty had taken it upon themselves to tote the banners, one of the Liege Lord, ol’ Doomster, and one of their own forces: the Coming Storm. The entire day of marching had found one bannermen of each sort standing at either side of Zenitsu, along with a gaggle of folks hoping to ingratiate themselves to their CO, and the boy found that it hadn’t bothered him much. A part of the military scene, he supposed.
Now as they pulled up stakes at the camp the same assortment of faces gathered about him in a loose assembly. He didn’t know their names, yet, but he’d started to grow accustomed to their faces. The fellow carrying his own host’s banner, for instance, boasted an impressively large nose and an equally impressive mustache that loomed beneath it. In his mind he’d designated the fellow ‘Schnozz’. There was also Waistline Willy, Bug-Eyes, Lefthand Larry, and Offensive Odor Otis.
His people.
Zenitsu plucked his sword from its sheath and pointed it forth once the camp had been sufficiently stashed away.
“Forward...MARCH!”
The young man strode as proudly as a peacock, his people at his back, and followed the trail of the Doom’s Marines ahead of him. The plains seemed endless, but their spirits were high and remained undaunted.
At least for now. As yet, they remained green, untested by battle, and had yet to suffer a casualty. Zenitsu couldn't help but feel that perhaps they were still rather naïve.
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The march of thousands in rough formation is a sight to behold, even without the synchrony of a well drilled parade of veterans. The dirt crushed under boots and tread as we moved towards our destinations, a hair brained plan passed around my ring of officers as we left with the castle disappearing in the background behind us. Before us some of our companions took off, their missions requiring speed and a little more courage that I was expecting from most. Having to deal with other people was more of a drain on me than running full pelt down a demon infested hellhole. My eyes scanned out to the far horizon of the grassy plains before us, a peaceful scene of untouched nature that would soon lose such innocents as the people under my command. I was suddenly very aware of the aptness of that analogy and turned back to thoughts on who I was working with.
A man almost as angry as me, who I had battled before in years past at the sight of the final stand off in another Dante’s Abyss. A demon on hooves, haughty and scornful, Karl’s file on her turned my stomach when it went into a little too much detail. Both we’re strong fighters, that was clear, but what drew me to them was their attitude. These were people who were going to want to prove me, and I can’t lie that I had a big smile under my helmet when I saw them riled up and raring to go.
A young demon slayer who almost looked like he could pass out at any time, yet still fighting the hellish monsters of the underworld. There were a few people like that, a bundle of demon slayers and vets of the paranormal marching at our side. The kid may have been scared of his own shadow, but I saw the potential there. A woman who knew little about her past, but more than most about interdimensional travel. I could see they had the same trials as me, though with far less beating things to death with your bare hands. Potential there, potential for killing things with bare hands.
People I saw a little bit of me in. I’m sure that’d scare plenty of people, but I wasn’t about to be handed the mantle of Command and not take advantage of that.
“Hey, Zenitsu.” I shouted to the kid, following with a whistle just to make it clear.
“Ah! Uh, yes?” He was taken aback, I couldn’t quite tell if it was the 6 foot tall super soldier calling his attention or he was just thrown off I had called him by his name.
“You’re with me.” I answered, as he picked up his pace to catch up to me. “How are the men treating you?” I looked back over, his face in turmoil as he seemed to be having trouble with how to talk to me. I’ll admit, I have a “particular style”.
“Good, Sir.” He finally settles on, and I nod before I give him a hard pat on the back. I’m definitely a little too strong for that, but it’s still fun all the same.
“You’re a natural, trust me. Keep it up, we’ll be steam rolling these bunch of jackasses in a week.”
A man almost as angry as me, who I had battled before in years past at the sight of the final stand off in another Dante’s Abyss. A demon on hooves, haughty and scornful, Karl’s file on her turned my stomach when it went into a little too much detail. Both we’re strong fighters, that was clear, but what drew me to them was their attitude. These were people who were going to want to prove me, and I can’t lie that I had a big smile under my helmet when I saw them riled up and raring to go.
A young demon slayer who almost looked like he could pass out at any time, yet still fighting the hellish monsters of the underworld. There were a few people like that, a bundle of demon slayers and vets of the paranormal marching at our side. The kid may have been scared of his own shadow, but I saw the potential there. A woman who knew little about her past, but more than most about interdimensional travel. I could see they had the same trials as me, though with far less beating things to death with your bare hands. Potential there, potential for killing things with bare hands.
People I saw a little bit of me in. I’m sure that’d scare plenty of people, but I wasn’t about to be handed the mantle of Command and not take advantage of that.
“Hey, Zenitsu.” I shouted to the kid, following with a whistle just to make it clear.
“Ah! Uh, yes?” He was taken aback, I couldn’t quite tell if it was the 6 foot tall super soldier calling his attention or he was just thrown off I had called him by his name.
“You’re with me.” I answered, as he picked up his pace to catch up to me. “How are the men treating you?” I looked back over, his face in turmoil as he seemed to be having trouble with how to talk to me. I’ll admit, I have a “particular style”.
“Good, Sir.” He finally settles on, and I nod before I give him a hard pat on the back. I’m definitely a little too strong for that, but it’s still fun all the same.
“You’re a natural, trust me. Keep it up, we’ll be steam rolling these bunch of jackasses in a week.”
Face to Face
Assassination Attempt!
Assassination Attempt!
They had traveled many days, and while they had spent some time in the comfortable city of Eisenstadt, the loose amalgamation of Hell Diver forces now found themselves marching straight into the veritable unknown.
With combat likely on the horizon, the groups had all bivouacked for the night, but the Commander of the Hell Divers never slept. He was wide aware and pacing angrily around his small tent when he heard the explosion shudder the very earth beneath his feet.
Grabbing one of his many firearms that hung on the door, Doomguy stomped out into the night and rushed toward the sound of small weapon’s fire. Despite the adrenaline, he arrived to find that everything had settled down, with a few soldiers helping someone out from under a pile of rubble.
“What the hell happened?” Doomguy shouted as he turned to see a writing, mishappen monster twitching on the ground nearby. The marine blasted a neat hole into its skull.
You can never be too certain.
“Some type of explosive monster,” a soldier replied. “Maybe three or four others with it. I was within earshot when they attacked.”
Doomguy turned and saw the figure being helped from the rubble. It was none other than Caboose, who seemed to have mostly escaped any type of critical injury.
“I think they thought he was you, Commander,” the same soldier remarked.
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"Caboose! You okay, private?" Commander Doomguy rushes over to where Caboose stands back on his feet from out of the destroyed rubble.
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" Caboose proceeds to feel the burning flesh, searing his armor and causing the shields to drain. The surface temperature on the spartan armor begins to rise rapidly, making him feel uncomfortable.
"Why are there so many of Principal Doomguys. I don't know which one to take happy meal orders from." The blue spartan's head spins under the effect of a concussion. His mind is now even more scrambled than it was before.
"We need a medic, stat!" The Doom Slayer demands loudly in his gruff voice, making one soldier hurry off into the campsite to find a medic on duty. "Caboose, don't move a muscle. You're possibly hurt. Okay?"
"What!" Caboose yells loudly, unable to hear Commander Doomguy's orders due to him standing close to the source of the explosion.
"Great, he can't hear me now," Doomguy growls at the annoying assassination attempt situation that put marines in danger. Anger rises in him, witnessing the attempt to take his life, but what makes it worse is that one of his soldiers was involved in the violent act.
"What! I think we lost reception!" The blue spartan yells loudly again for the whole camp to hear.
A medic arrives on the scene and checks Caboose out for a few minutes to see if the explosion caused any injuries. The soldiers escorted Private Caboose to the medical tent with two soldiers on both sides supporting him to walk. His commander awaits outside of the tent with his trusty shotgun in his hands, cocked and loaded. Ready to take on any more threats that want to end his angry life. Rage was building up well inside him, similar to a nuclear power plant undergoing a critical meltdown. The thoughts play in his mind on repeat, ripping and tearing into those unmade bastards. He paces outside the tent, waiting for the medic to return and give him the report.
Caboose didn't deserve this unfortunate attack that could take his life. His eyes are filled with an act of burning, firing revenge to take on the opposing army that made this tasteless attack. Finally, the medic moves the flaps that close off the medical tent gives the news to her commander.
"Private Caboose hasn't suffered from any severe injuries, sir. Only minor injuries happened in that explosion, causing a concussion and bruises on his body. It was a good thing he was wearing that protective power armor." She pauses for a brief moment for The Doom Slayer to comprehend the current situation. "The remaining flesh from those 'things' that exploded also burned into his Mark V armor. Other than that, he will be fine in the coming days."
Doomguy thanks the medic for the help she gave to Caboose then proceeds to enter the medical tent. Only Private Caboose sat upright on one of the military field hospital beds at the far end. He stomps his way over to the blue spartan to check upon him.
"You feel better now, private?" Commander Doomguy is curious about Caboose's minor injuries he has endured. Sadly, Caboose's brain is still in a mess with that concussion that doesn't help to go with his poor intelligence skills.
"Did the fire truck come yet? I want to ride the fire truck and push the button that makes the funny noises!" Caboose excitingly wonders about the poor concussion thoughts that plague his mind.
"Errr… um… soon it will come, buddy." His commander lies through his teeth to respond to Caboose's silly words. He wasn't sure if the blue Spartan's thinking process was normal from before or worse now.
"Where's my lollipop? I was a good boy to the nice nurse lady."
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" Caboose proceeds to feel the burning flesh, searing his armor and causing the shields to drain. The surface temperature on the spartan armor begins to rise rapidly, making him feel uncomfortable.
"Why are there so many of Principal Doomguys. I don't know which one to take happy meal orders from." The blue spartan's head spins under the effect of a concussion. His mind is now even more scrambled than it was before.
"We need a medic, stat!" The Doom Slayer demands loudly in his gruff voice, making one soldier hurry off into the campsite to find a medic on duty. "Caboose, don't move a muscle. You're possibly hurt. Okay?"
"What!" Caboose yells loudly, unable to hear Commander Doomguy's orders due to him standing close to the source of the explosion.
"Great, he can't hear me now," Doomguy growls at the annoying assassination attempt situation that put marines in danger. Anger rises in him, witnessing the attempt to take his life, but what makes it worse is that one of his soldiers was involved in the violent act.
"What! I think we lost reception!" The blue spartan yells loudly again for the whole camp to hear.
A medic arrives on the scene and checks Caboose out for a few minutes to see if the explosion caused any injuries. The soldiers escorted Private Caboose to the medical tent with two soldiers on both sides supporting him to walk. His commander awaits outside of the tent with his trusty shotgun in his hands, cocked and loaded. Ready to take on any more threats that want to end his angry life. Rage was building up well inside him, similar to a nuclear power plant undergoing a critical meltdown. The thoughts play in his mind on repeat, ripping and tearing into those unmade bastards. He paces outside the tent, waiting for the medic to return and give him the report.
Caboose didn't deserve this unfortunate attack that could take his life. His eyes are filled with an act of burning, firing revenge to take on the opposing army that made this tasteless attack. Finally, the medic moves the flaps that close off the medical tent gives the news to her commander.
"Private Caboose hasn't suffered from any severe injuries, sir. Only minor injuries happened in that explosion, causing a concussion and bruises on his body. It was a good thing he was wearing that protective power armor." She pauses for a brief moment for The Doom Slayer to comprehend the current situation. "The remaining flesh from those 'things' that exploded also burned into his Mark V armor. Other than that, he will be fine in the coming days."
Doomguy thanks the medic for the help she gave to Caboose then proceeds to enter the medical tent. Only Private Caboose sat upright on one of the military field hospital beds at the far end. He stomps his way over to the blue spartan to check upon him.
"You feel better now, private?" Commander Doomguy is curious about Caboose's minor injuries he has endured. Sadly, Caboose's brain is still in a mess with that concussion that doesn't help to go with his poor intelligence skills.
"Did the fire truck come yet? I want to ride the fire truck and push the button that makes the funny noises!" Caboose excitingly wonders about the poor concussion thoughts that plague his mind.
"Errr… um… soon it will come, buddy." His commander lies through his teeth to respond to Caboose's silly words. He wasn't sure if the blue Spartan's thinking process was normal from before or worse now.
"Where's my lollipop? I was a good boy to the nice nurse lady."
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“Woooooow, this is so cool” Caboose said as I pinned the metal to his armor. With the collar around my neck preventing me from summoning anything the omnilium that made my body, but a flattened piece of ammo casing made for an acceptable substitute. Caboose’s smile was as wide as he was thick in the head, which gave such a strange quality to giving the medal to him. Oddly innocent, yet here for bravery on the field.
“Ever gotten a medal before, Caboose?” I asked, as I finally managed to get it stuck in enough where it’d stay in there. One disadvantage of futuristic space composite armor: near impossible to get a pin in there, and I wasn’t about to waste everyone’s time by making them scrounge up something resembling a dress uniform. The one problem was that at this range of him I could still smell the horrid flesh of the explosive assassins, and
“Plenty! I got one every Christmas.” Caboose told me excitedly. A brief grimace spread across my face before I turned back. It seems his injury was not quite recovered, and a raising rage boiled in the pit of my heart. Something I’d like to direct back at these Unmade bastards, with interest. I could feel my knuckled strain against skin, and I had to breath heavily to not simply lash out at someone nearby. Caboose already had enough head trauma.
With the ceremony ended, we once more marched at the call. After the few days the men had improved, a bit less staggered movement. Directed, focused. I was not the only one who had found fury gripping them, the cowardly attack enough to stir something deep. Something primal. I felt a certain satisfaction seeing this, that we were closer to the same page. The time to bring shotgun and fire to the enemy was close at hand.
“Commander Doomguy!” Out from a tree, a man came bolting down. Wearing a set of cut tires to his shoulders, like junk pauldrons, and a ridiculous red mohawk decorate his head. He was Bumper, the man in the Doom’s Marines engineering corp. A raider back home, I had pushed him to use his love for anything on wheels for a more constructive purpose, and so far he had prove himself more capable than even he realized one given structure.
Why he was running to me was a good question.
“Private Bumper, what got you on fire?” I hoped that wasn’t literal, I pleaded to the gods that wasn’t literal.
“Messages from abroad, sir! I think you want to hear this.”
Dread and anticipation suddenly filled me, and he led me to the comms station.
“Ever gotten a medal before, Caboose?” I asked, as I finally managed to get it stuck in enough where it’d stay in there. One disadvantage of futuristic space composite armor: near impossible to get a pin in there, and I wasn’t about to waste everyone’s time by making them scrounge up something resembling a dress uniform. The one problem was that at this range of him I could still smell the horrid flesh of the explosive assassins, and
“Plenty! I got one every Christmas.” Caboose told me excitedly. A brief grimace spread across my face before I turned back. It seems his injury was not quite recovered, and a raising rage boiled in the pit of my heart. Something I’d like to direct back at these Unmade bastards, with interest. I could feel my knuckled strain against skin, and I had to breath heavily to not simply lash out at someone nearby. Caboose already had enough head trauma.
With the ceremony ended, we once more marched at the call. After the few days the men had improved, a bit less staggered movement. Directed, focused. I was not the only one who had found fury gripping them, the cowardly attack enough to stir something deep. Something primal. I felt a certain satisfaction seeing this, that we were closer to the same page. The time to bring shotgun and fire to the enemy was close at hand.
“Commander Doomguy!” Out from a tree, a man came bolting down. Wearing a set of cut tires to his shoulders, like junk pauldrons, and a ridiculous red mohawk decorate his head. He was Bumper, the man in the Doom’s Marines engineering corp. A raider back home, I had pushed him to use his love for anything on wheels for a more constructive purpose, and so far he had prove himself more capable than even he realized one given structure.
Why he was running to me was a good question.
“Private Bumper, what got you on fire?” I hoped that wasn’t literal, I pleaded to the gods that wasn’t literal.
“Messages from abroad, sir! I think you want to hear this.”
Dread and anticipation suddenly filled me, and he led me to the comms station.
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Phah.
PHAH!
With an exasperated huff the ronin’s armored armored boots ground to a halt, her restless back and forth pacing. It seemed like the war had finally truly began - in the night, as wars always did. In manners both cowardly and discourteous.
Not that the sellsword disagreed. She’d have struck just the same, herself. Not by suicide, but in the cover of the night, maximizing her chances of victory. But she couldn’t be more annoyed by the fact that somehow she’d managed to curse Caboose to be the target.
The half-cock lived, thank Dai-Jizai. But, Musashi was annoyed nonetheless. If only because she perceived Caboose to be the easiest target of their lot, what with his approach to this being a game.
Phah.
Huffing again, Musashi decided to solve her apparent issues in the simplest, most direct way. With a storm the sellsword exited her tent the flap left behind to swing violently in the wind.
“..nitsu!”
“Zenitsu!” called out the sellsword as Zenitsu’s spine straightened and the boy spun in place on his heels. “Y-yes?!” he yelped, surprised with how fierce a visage he encountered. Rather then the vibrant smile he’d often found her donning in the past, a frustrated frown danced across the ronin’s face.”
“The commander, where?” A simple question, with most likely a most certain answer, felt Musashi.
“Huh?” An utterly unexpected question for Zenitsu of course. Hadn’t everyone already met him previously anyway? And besides, how wouldn’t she know already?
“Our commander. Where?”
“Oh, commander Doomguy? He’s uhh…,” the samurai began as his eyes scanned the camp. “The big tent over there,” he added as his arm pointed toward it.
Forcing a hard-fought wave of calmness into her demeanor the swordsman reached a hand and patted Zenitsu’s shoulder. “Thank you, lieutenant,” she added before passing by him and her pace grew.
“You’re...welcome?” he called after her as the ronin’s gait turned into a jog.
-----
Musashi’s mission was clear enough. Get some damn answers for a change. As much as she enjoyed just living her life, that was just it. Without some answers she wouldn’t be living for too long at this rate.
A lot of good her wave of calm did, with how dried up it already was.
And so as the swordsman approached the command tent, the soldiers standing guard at either side hardly expected for her to actually be coming to the tent, with so many passers-by.
“Miss? You can’t ent-”
Yet, Musashi simply passed by, pushing the flaps open as the two guards were feverishly fumbling for their guns. Of course, she left them fumbling as she stepped in and the guns finally cocked behind her.
Though before the guns cocked behind, a gun was already pointed to her face from the front. A tall, green-armoured - quite Caboose-like in its designs - man stood in front of her. Quite tall, gruff, short haired, most certainly battle hardened.
Yet, guns or no guns, Musashi’s own hands simply crossed over her chest, resting there as she stood in the center of those three pointed guns.
“And you’re?” asked the man in a rough voice, eyes darting over her appearance. She donned Helldiver armor and weapons at least - a quick judgement that stalled the trigger from being pulled for a moment longer. She could’ve cut down the guards. He’d have to give them pointers later. Another moment.
As much as the commander was assessing her in those long-winded seconds, Musashi was continuously assessing him. Eyes dancing over the gun, over his finger on the trigger, over the slightest indication that he’d actually shoot her.
Because while she stood still, she’d little intention of getting shot. However illogical that was, given her chosen initial approach to the situation, the irony of which did not escape her now that she stumbled upon it.
“Shinmen Musashi-no-Kami Fujiwara no Harunobu. Still, it’s easier if you just call me Musashi,” responded the sellsword finally. “Of the Coming Storm unit, under Lieutenant Zenitsu,” she added.
Doomguy followed the apparent infantry woman as their eyes drew to meet properly for the first time. And looking at each other’s eyes? They both drew the same conclusion.
Ah, another killer. Someone who had bathed in more blood than they cared to admit. And someone oh so very fucking much like me.
“At ease and out, men,” commanded the marine as he decocked and holstered his gun with surprising speed. “I’ll take her from here,” he finished as the men saluted, stepping outside of the tent with a rustle.
With a step back, the commander returned behind his desk - one laden with all too many papers as he flipped the most confidential ones of the lot upside down and pulled his chair as he sat down once more.
“So, what brings you here to my tent in an attempt to get yourself shot, Musashi?” the commander inquired as their eyes came to meet once more.
He pondered how he’d not met the apparent swordsman before. After all, he’d made sure to meet most of his army at least in some manner. And someone as eccentric as her? He’d remember.
“Just a few questions, commander,” Musashi opened, her arms still crossed as she took a step forward.
“Who’re you? Where’re we? Oh! And who are we fighting against, and what for?” A barrage of questions - each more confusing than the rest.
How in the hell did she not know any of this? This was supposed to be common knowledge by this point anyway. The hell was Karl playing at again?
“Commander Flynn Taggart. Or Doomguy. Or Doomslayer. Whichever fits your fancy, really,” the marine got straight to the point, curving to his own question first and foremost.
“Now, how do you not know all this? It should’ve been explained to you at registration, no?” He could see the ‘Ah. That fuck-up.’ -bell ring above the girl’s head from a mile away.
Ah!
...ah.
The damn registration.
“Well let’s just say that mine didn’t quite go as planned, eh?” the sellsword flashed a vibrant, if not a hint embarrassed smile. “Y’see, sake… Have you ever tried sake?” she inquired with the most elaborate of theatrics as she waved her hands just a slight amount.
“Drink enough and you’ll do just about anything! Better yet, you won’t have the slightest idea what the hell it was you did, last night,” the woman soliloquized as she came to a halt and crossed her arms again.
“Yeah. Sake may’ve had something to do with it.”
Damn sake.
PHAH!
With an exasperated huff the ronin’s armored armored boots ground to a halt, her restless back and forth pacing. It seemed like the war had finally truly began - in the night, as wars always did. In manners both cowardly and discourteous.
Not that the sellsword disagreed. She’d have struck just the same, herself. Not by suicide, but in the cover of the night, maximizing her chances of victory. But she couldn’t be more annoyed by the fact that somehow she’d managed to curse Caboose to be the target.
The half-cock lived, thank Dai-Jizai. But, Musashi was annoyed nonetheless. If only because she perceived Caboose to be the easiest target of their lot, what with his approach to this being a game.
Phah.
Huffing again, Musashi decided to solve her apparent issues in the simplest, most direct way. With a storm the sellsword exited her tent the flap left behind to swing violently in the wind.
“..nitsu!”
“Zenitsu!” called out the sellsword as Zenitsu’s spine straightened and the boy spun in place on his heels. “Y-yes?!” he yelped, surprised with how fierce a visage he encountered. Rather then the vibrant smile he’d often found her donning in the past, a frustrated frown danced across the ronin’s face.”
“The commander, where?” A simple question, with most likely a most certain answer, felt Musashi.
“Huh?” An utterly unexpected question for Zenitsu of course. Hadn’t everyone already met him previously anyway? And besides, how wouldn’t she know already?
“Our commander. Where?”
“Oh, commander Doomguy? He’s uhh…,” the samurai began as his eyes scanned the camp. “The big tent over there,” he added as his arm pointed toward it.
Forcing a hard-fought wave of calmness into her demeanor the swordsman reached a hand and patted Zenitsu’s shoulder. “Thank you, lieutenant,” she added before passing by him and her pace grew.
“You’re...welcome?” he called after her as the ronin’s gait turned into a jog.
-----
Musashi’s mission was clear enough. Get some damn answers for a change. As much as she enjoyed just living her life, that was just it. Without some answers she wouldn’t be living for too long at this rate.
A lot of good her wave of calm did, with how dried up it already was.
And so as the swordsman approached the command tent, the soldiers standing guard at either side hardly expected for her to actually be coming to the tent, with so many passers-by.
“Miss? You can’t ent-”
Yet, Musashi simply passed by, pushing the flaps open as the two guards were feverishly fumbling for their guns. Of course, she left them fumbling as she stepped in and the guns finally cocked behind her.
Though before the guns cocked behind, a gun was already pointed to her face from the front. A tall, green-armoured - quite Caboose-like in its designs - man stood in front of her. Quite tall, gruff, short haired, most certainly battle hardened.
Yet, guns or no guns, Musashi’s own hands simply crossed over her chest, resting there as she stood in the center of those three pointed guns.
“And you’re?” asked the man in a rough voice, eyes darting over her appearance. She donned Helldiver armor and weapons at least - a quick judgement that stalled the trigger from being pulled for a moment longer. She could’ve cut down the guards. He’d have to give them pointers later. Another moment.
As much as the commander was assessing her in those long-winded seconds, Musashi was continuously assessing him. Eyes dancing over the gun, over his finger on the trigger, over the slightest indication that he’d actually shoot her.
Because while she stood still, she’d little intention of getting shot. However illogical that was, given her chosen initial approach to the situation, the irony of which did not escape her now that she stumbled upon it.
“Shinmen Musashi-no-Kami Fujiwara no Harunobu. Still, it’s easier if you just call me Musashi,” responded the sellsword finally. “Of the Coming Storm unit, under Lieutenant Zenitsu,” she added.
Doomguy followed the apparent infantry woman as their eyes drew to meet properly for the first time. And looking at each other’s eyes? They both drew the same conclusion.
Ah, another killer. Someone who had bathed in more blood than they cared to admit. And someone oh so very fucking much like me.
“At ease and out, men,” commanded the marine as he decocked and holstered his gun with surprising speed. “I’ll take her from here,” he finished as the men saluted, stepping outside of the tent with a rustle.
With a step back, the commander returned behind his desk - one laden with all too many papers as he flipped the most confidential ones of the lot upside down and pulled his chair as he sat down once more.
“So, what brings you here to my tent in an attempt to get yourself shot, Musashi?” the commander inquired as their eyes came to meet once more.
He pondered how he’d not met the apparent swordsman before. After all, he’d made sure to meet most of his army at least in some manner. And someone as eccentric as her? He’d remember.
“Just a few questions, commander,” Musashi opened, her arms still crossed as she took a step forward.
“Who’re you? Where’re we? Oh! And who are we fighting against, and what for?” A barrage of questions - each more confusing than the rest.
How in the hell did she not know any of this? This was supposed to be common knowledge by this point anyway. The hell was Karl playing at again?
“Commander Flynn Taggart. Or Doomguy. Or Doomslayer. Whichever fits your fancy, really,” the marine got straight to the point, curving to his own question first and foremost.
“Now, how do you not know all this? It should’ve been explained to you at registration, no?” He could see the ‘Ah. That fuck-up.’ -bell ring above the girl’s head from a mile away.
Ah!
...ah.
The damn registration.
“Well let’s just say that mine didn’t quite go as planned, eh?” the sellsword flashed a vibrant, if not a hint embarrassed smile. “Y’see, sake… Have you ever tried sake?” she inquired with the most elaborate of theatrics as she waved her hands just a slight amount.
“Drink enough and you’ll do just about anything! Better yet, you won’t have the slightest idea what the hell it was you did, last night,” the woman soliloquized as she came to a halt and crossed her arms again.
“Yeah. Sake may’ve had something to do with it.”
Damn sake.
Face to Face
Assassination Attempt!
Assassination Attempt!
The Hell Divers had made good progress, with the forests offering their soldiers cover as they made their way toward their objective.
At the helm, Doomguy led the march, ever the one to lead by example. Very soon, he could only hope to rip and tear by example.
Yet, as the marine reached a small clearing, he immediately felt like something was off about this area. Just nearby, a few of the bushes seemed trampled too much to have been caused by a woodland creature. “Stop.” The Commander of Hell Diver barked as he lifted a hand and glanced around the area. He had barely enough time to breath as the assassins burst up from the ground amid a chorus of chittering screeches.
Doomguy, smiling behind his helmet, blasted apart the skull of the nearest monster, but before he could turn to face the rest of the situation, he felt a sharp burst of pain as something cut through his armor and slipped into the flesh beneath. Teeth clenched, he threw his helmeted skull back into the visage of the beast, and twisting, he blew open its elongated skull.
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Face to Face
Withering Fire!
Withering Fire!
Fresh off the assassination attempt, the two forces of Hell Divers shook off their anger and frustration and poured it into a renewed march.
They had barely made it another hour when an outrider came rushing toward the center of the column, hooting and hollering for the attention of anyone in charge.
As Doomguy and a few of his Lieutenants turned their heads in the direction of the new ruckus, the forest was suddenly alive with a different type of noise. Rather than unearthed assassins, this came in the form of an aerial bombardment that tore through tree and soldier alike.
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I wasn’t sure what to expect from this swordswoman coming in, demanding questions with such a lackadaisical thought for herself. A complete lack of knowledge of me was something I was used to, when I had made efforts to make even my name and face unknown. Here I was, however, playing twenty questions with a lush who somehow managed to join an army in the middle of a drunken haze. Part of me was impressed, the other thought back to my old CO when I had first joined the USSMC and the crap I used to give him. It almost brought me to sympathize with the old deadbeat. Almost.
At the least, I could respect this soldier’s brazenness, though the almost smug way she held herself was slowly getting under my skin.
“Yeah, I’ve had Sake before. Little too thick for my tastes” I rubbed at one of my temples with a single finger.
“Oh good. Do you have any, perchance?” Musashi asked, brightening up as hopeful and a little distracted. I gave a stare down as she got the hint. I couldn’t help but wonder to what end she seemed to keep herself so inebriated. Escape from hellish memories, as so many others have before? I certainly could see that mark upon her, the lack of fear in death from seeing it so close so often. There was blood on this one’s hands, not simply a few corpses here and there but instead she stood in the wake of many battlefields. Or perhaps she was simply the kind who’d always become a wino. I’ve met plenty of both.
“Right now we’re in a death game called Dante’s Abyss.” I continued the explanation. “Hosted by the flamboyant and frankly gaudy Karl Jak.” I glanced up to the roof of the tent as I punctuated that. As I glanced back, Musashi seemed unperturbed, nodding in agreement as if what I said was normal. There were a lot of questions there…”We’re fighting against the Unmade, a horrible cancer slowly creeping across the Crosswords, and the idiots on the other side of the island called the Miniskirt Armada.” I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that from Roy. Maybe he did have a sense of humor. “And I think why you fight is up to you.”
"This is an army," the sellsword stated dryly as the mannerisms and drama cut from her voice. "We fight for a commander, that'd be you. Now why do YOU make us fight?" she demanded.
I was taken aback by this, the drunkard suddenly getting pointed. I recovered, staring down at her while she stared back.
“We’re fighting because this might be our chance to learn what makes these fuckers tick, and protect the Crossroads. So the people don’t have to live through the horrors that I did.” I answered, a little closer to home than I thought.
There was a nod again from her, and we had an accord. Good, now to see if she fought as well as she drunk.
At the least, I could respect this soldier’s brazenness, though the almost smug way she held herself was slowly getting under my skin.
“Yeah, I’ve had Sake before. Little too thick for my tastes” I rubbed at one of my temples with a single finger.
“Oh good. Do you have any, perchance?” Musashi asked, brightening up as hopeful and a little distracted. I gave a stare down as she got the hint. I couldn’t help but wonder to what end she seemed to keep herself so inebriated. Escape from hellish memories, as so many others have before? I certainly could see that mark upon her, the lack of fear in death from seeing it so close so often. There was blood on this one’s hands, not simply a few corpses here and there but instead she stood in the wake of many battlefields. Or perhaps she was simply the kind who’d always become a wino. I’ve met plenty of both.
“Right now we’re in a death game called Dante’s Abyss.” I continued the explanation. “Hosted by the flamboyant and frankly gaudy Karl Jak.” I glanced up to the roof of the tent as I punctuated that. As I glanced back, Musashi seemed unperturbed, nodding in agreement as if what I said was normal. There were a lot of questions there…”We’re fighting against the Unmade, a horrible cancer slowly creeping across the Crosswords, and the idiots on the other side of the island called the Miniskirt Armada.” I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that from Roy. Maybe he did have a sense of humor. “And I think why you fight is up to you.”
"This is an army," the sellsword stated dryly as the mannerisms and drama cut from her voice. "We fight for a commander, that'd be you. Now why do YOU make us fight?" she demanded.
I was taken aback by this, the drunkard suddenly getting pointed. I recovered, staring down at her while she stared back.
“We’re fighting because this might be our chance to learn what makes these fuckers tick, and protect the Crossroads. So the people don’t have to live through the horrors that I did.” I answered, a little closer to home than I thought.
There was a nod again from her, and we had an accord. Good, now to see if she fought as well as she drunk.
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