#commandant ahden musal

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: The Annihilation

The Annihilation and The General, pt2 [Prev]

Soldiers start running the instant the security feed whites out from the activation of the Annihilation’s power. A siren begins to wail seconds later. Reinforcements arrive at the office in under two minutes, only to end up waiting uselessly in the corridor as the general orders them – loudly – to stand down.

The two guards join them in that corridor shortly, carrying the corroded remnants of their rifles.

A minute and a half after that, Commandant Ahden Musal arrives on the scene. The prosthetic leg he is wearing is poorly suited to running, forcing his gait into an ungainly off-kilter limp.

The other soldiers part wordlessly to let him through.

“General,” he pants breathlessly by way of acknowledgement. His voice is barely audible over the siren wail. “Commandant,” she returns, projecting volume with far less effort.

He doesn't pause long enough to salute. Instead he goes straight to his charge. The blue light begins to die the second Nikef lays eyes on him. 

He puts both hands on her shoulders, turning her bodily to face him in the process. He locks eyes with her wild, lambent stare. “Easy,” he says, “stand down, kid, stand down. I'm here now. You're okay. You're safe.”

Watching, the general slowly lowers her hands to her sides.

“Breathe with me,” Ahden instructs, then has to repeat it. The Annihilation nods her head and begins – inaccurately at first – to match her breath to his.

The wall clock inaudibly counts the minutes past. The assembled soldiers – still attracting further reinforcements – wait in the corridor, passing the orders to stand down from one to another by gesture. Radios crackle and are answered reluctantly.

Eventually, Ahden speaks up again. “General,” he shouts over the noise. “I will return her to her quarters now.” “Agreed. You will report to me as soon as it is safe to do so.” “Yes, General.”

Ahden takes Nikef’s arm and leads her from the office room.

The soldiers each turn to watch them as they pass, rifles in hand but not raised to fire. Nikef shoves her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, and walks with her head low.

As they turn the corner, the general begins to give orders to disperse the crowd. Word finally gets through to security, and the siren cuts off mid-wail. The silence is loud in its wake.

Ahden leads Nikef past the cafeteria and back through the courtyard into a second wing of the building. Suspicious, worried eyes follow them all the way. A short walk down another corridor much like the others, but emptier, then they stop at a windowless door bearing a prominent “explosive materials” hazard mark in blue.

Inside, an untidy bedroom. Discarded clothes form a heap beside the unmade bed, books overspill their shelves, and looseleaf paper covers the desk as well as forming untidy stacks on the carpet. A camera above the door keeps passive vigil over the scene.

Nikef shrugs free of Ahden’s hold on her arm, and beelines for the bed to flop down across it.

“She's not supposed to talk to me,” she complains. “She's not,” Ahden agrees, pulling up the chair from the desk. He is obliged to move a further stack of papers to the floor in order to sit down. “But graces, Nikef, you cannot threaten a General.”

Nikef sits up sharply and fixes wounded eyes on Ahden. The hood of her hoodie falls back as she does so, freeing untidy hair from its confines.

“She wanted to breed me like a racing dog,” she tells him. “She wanted to cut out my eggs and make test tube babies and put them through Tempest Two Point Oh to see if they come out with superpowers.”

Ahden opens his mouth, and closes it again. He drags a hand down his face. “Grace,” he repeats at length. “That's… a lot.”

“Can you imagine,” Nikef continues.  “Tempest daycare. Fit a pacifier to the inside of the titanium gag. Hang a little mobile up over the evil dentist chair. I told her no way, not ever.” “Which seems entirely reasonable,” Ahden agrees. His tone is weary. “I thought so.” The pair look at each other. Ahden says nothing, but his lips are pressed together flatly.

“You're mad,” Nikef accuses. She hugs her elbows. “I didn't hurt anyone.” Ahden takes a breath. “I am mad,” he admits, “but it's nothing that can't wait. We can talk about it later. When you’re… calmer.” “Why are you mad?” Nikef protests. “She’s the one who broke the protocol. She’s supposed to talk to you. I tried to be nice, I even went with her to her stupid office – she’s not supposed to talk to me.”

Ahden pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to get into it while you’re upset,” he repeats. “And how am I supposed to calm down if I know you’re mad at me and you won’t even tell me why?” “I don’t know. Read a book, take a bath – something.” “You think I lost my temper. I didn’t. Hurt. Anyone. There’s a protocol for a reason – you know I don’t cope well with – official, officious – whatever-that-was.” More silence. After a few beats, Nikef gathers her knees up to her chest. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” she sniffs.

“I am on your side. Do you think there won’t be consequences, if they cannot trust you around important personnel?” “I’m not afraid of them.” “And what about me? Now I have to go and get yelled at on your behalf – does that bother you at all?”

Nikef glowers at him from over her folded arms. Ahden throws up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“Calm yourself down, Nikef. This will be easier when we’ve both calmed down.” “I’m calm,” Nikef declares. But there is a blue glimmer in the depths of her eyes. “I am going to go report to our new commanding officer and get dressed down and try to smooth out some ruffled feathers. You are going to stay here and not break anything. Are we in agreement?” “Yes sir,” Nikef answers acidly.

She glares at him until the door closes firmly behind him. Then she tips slowly onto her side on the bed, still hugging her legs to her chest.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: The Annihilation

The Annihilation is transported to the combat zone in a truck full of soldiers among many trucks full of soldiers. She wears fatigues just like all the others. Her helmet looks just like all the other helmets. The body armor under her fatigues has had the hard edges sanded carefully down so that it doesn’t create obvious ridges in the fabric. The bulk it adds to her narrow frame makes her look more like the other soldiers, not less. She is still small for a soldier. But her squad mates are not tall either, so that they do not make her smaller by contrast.

Her handler sits beside his charge, dressed in the same fatigues, wearing the same helmet. It’s unusual to redeploy an amputee, so his combat prosthetic is covered by a carefully adjusted pant leg down to where the ankle would be. It bends in the wrong place and the rubber foot looks more like a strange hoof than a boot. But at a distance, in a truck full of soldiers, it does not catch the eye.

The target was a university building once, before it was gutted and repurposed as a fortress. The stone walls were raised in a time when people built to last. The windows were built high and narrow to keep out the heat, which well suits occupants hoping to keep out bullets and grenades. The great carved doors stand locked and barred, and the street around and before them has been turned into a killing ground.

The perimeter fence is built of corpses. Arm-long spikes of bone jut from ribcages, from spines, from the ragged stumps where limbs have been ripped from torsos. The bone forms a dense thicket of spikes interlocking at all angles. Flesh festers black and red and purple between the spines, disgorging swirling clouds of flies. Faces bloated by rot stare blindly out from the prison of bone, eye sockets plundered by rat and crow, mouths hanging open as if still screaming.

The first truck disgorges smoke grenades ahead of itself as it approaches, filling the narrow street with thick, choking white smoke. Gunmen behind the high, narrow windows open fire at once, even before the vehicle itself pulls into their obscured view. The soldiers in the back have no protection besides the smoke screen. Curled over their guns, they begin to die. The truck accelerates straight at the gruesome barrier and crashes through. The bone thicket, while sharp enough to deter infantry, shatters before the momentum of a tonne and a half of moving metal. 

The second truck carries the Annihilation. Her skin lights up a split second before they emerge from the cover of the surrounding houses into the line of fire. Blue-white light blazes from her eyes, her mouth, her fingers, so bright that the accompanying soldiers cover their eyes and flinch away. The air fills with the screech of tearing metal. Sharp metal filings begin to peel from every exposed surface. Soldiers drop their guns, reluctant to hold onto them as sharp edges spontaneously develop. The truck driver slams on the acceleration, and everyone is thrown backward into their neighbours.

The light of the Annihilation attracts fire instantaneously as the enemy realise their approaching doom. Their bullets disintegrate in the air, turning to powder. A few splinters survive to bore holes into flesh, but the narrow wounds do far less damage than bullets.

The first truck is just ahead of them, disgorging soldiers and more smoke into the paltry cover offered by the shadow of the walls. The remaining vehicles are hard on their tail. The truck brakes hard, and skids on the gore-slicked paving, and clips the building just before it can judder to a stop. Undeterred by the bone-shaking jolt of collision, the infantry leap from the truck bed, following the Annihilation closely like the aegis against death that she is.

The great carved doors are old wood, dark with varnish and the weight of years. The blue light of the Annihilation casts them almost black. She raises a blazing hand. The first cracks ring out as loud as the gunfire – the deafening sound of a great tree breaking and falling. They’re followed by a great splintering tearing as the varnished facade is abruptly mazed with a dense paving of fine white cracks. The whole bulk of the doors – almost three metres high and as thick as a man’s wrist – collapses all at once, falling to the ground as a rain of splinters, each no longer than a fingernail, no thicker than a grain of rice.

The pile of splinters is shin-deep, but poses no obstacle to the infantry as they rush forward with a roar of triumph. The Annihilation is at the front of the charge, radiating light. The enemy fall back in dismay and are felled swiftly. Guns detonate in the hands of their wielders, exploding into razor-edged shards of metal. Grenades explode on their belts without the pins ever being pulled. Each blast expands only backwards into the ranks of the defenders, leaving the attackers unscathed. 

The crazed momentum of the charge dissipates as soon as the entry hall is secured. The enemy deeper within the building are in panicked disarray and in no hurry to launch a rushed counter-assault. Reinforcements have yet to arrive, and there is time to establish a defensive line before they do. For a brief few minutes the attackers have breathing room to regroup, count their losses, and form up into strike teams and defenders.

The Annihilation does not wait. She picks a door and strides forward, handler close on her heels. Clearing buildings is her specialty. All the guns and bodies behind her are merely her backup and her smokescreen. Being fragile and susceptible to bullets, they are more than willing to hang back and let her do her gruesome work.

The halls and corridors of the university buildling are maze-like. Great vaulted chambers intermix seemingly at random with clusters of tiny, claustrophobic rooms. A conventional strike team would have to proceed at a snail’s pace, always watching their flanks, each innumerable side door a potential ambush, each twist and turn a potential death.

The doors fall from their hinges as the Annihilation passes. She senses threats without needing line of sight. Weapons disintegrate in their owners’ hands before they know she is upon them. Screams mark her progress through the building, ringing out a signal of death. Her supposed squad mates follow well behind, picking through the carnage to ensure no threat is left alive.

Only when the defenders mass in numbers do they even slow the Annihilation down. Only when the air is thick with bullets does she give any thought to cover or tactics. Unfortunately for her enemies, she doesn’t need to step out from behind a corner to pick her targets.

As she extinguishes one knot of resistance by setting off their own explosives, a lone gunman surprises her by sprinting from a side corridor. Wide eyes spill electric blue light across her cheeks as she whirls to face him. She raises a hand that glows so brightly it seems sculpted from solid light.

For a brief moment, the splits in the soldier’s skin and clothes are visible. Blood sprays in bright fans from the network of lines that cover him like cracks in mud. Then he detonates, showering the corridor in gobbets of flesh and splinters of bone. In the aftermath a fine, red mist hangs in the air.

Behind the Annihilation, bracing one hand against the wall for support, her handler Ahden doubles over and throws up.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: The Annihilation

Solstice

Ahden enters Nikef’s room with a cardboard box full of bells. Not full hand bells for ringing out the dark, just strings of little bells for decor. The sound they make, jostling against each other in the box as he walks, is tinny.

“No,” Nikef says without looking up. “Not in here.” “It's just a couple of strings to make the place more festive. You don't even have to ring them if you don't want.” “I said no.” Ahden opens his mouth to argue, then sighs and leans back against the door.

Nikef sits on the floor at the centre of a great circular spread of pages, arranged in long spokes and concentric rings around her. Some are still mostly white, bearing only sketches, but most are dark with layers of black and red ink, or oily hues of purple, blue and bruise-green.

Ahden carefully avoids looking too closely at the papers, instead directing his attention mostly to study of the unadorned walls. 

A few pages still sit in piles beside and on top of her knees. Nikef surveys the spread artworks, deciding where to put the page in her hand, before sliding another out of the way to set it down. A moment later she changes her mind, picks it up again, and slides the other page back into place.

“Is this all your art from the last year?” Ahden asks. “No, just the ones I like.” “You’ve really improved.” Nikef scoffs. “You hate it,” she says.  “Yeah, but I can appreciate that it's, you know, technically good. It's really realistic. You’re a great artist.”

Nikef grunts. Finding a place for the page at last, she slots it into the diorama with a little nod of satisfaction. She picks up the next, and holds it up to compare to the others, shuffling round slowly on her knees until she’s done a full circle.

“What are you doing with them?” Ahden asks. “Arranging them by theme.” An airy tone of disdain fails to quite conceal a touch of defensiveness. “Just so I can assess what I've done this year.” “There's more than one theme?” “Well, kinda. They're all nasty. Nothing you'd want to look at.”

There is a beat of silence.

“Sorry,” Ahden ventures uncomfortably. “You know it's not because I don't think it's good. It's too good.” “I know. It's fine. It's not for you anyway.” “I know.”

More silence. Ahden studies the little brass bells in the cardboard box under his arm. Nikef is absorbed in arranging her artwork. Two pieces find their places without hesitation, then several are shuffled and reshuffled.

“Why would I want to celebrate the summer coming back anyway?” Nikef opines. “I hate the heat. Winter’s nicer.” “No late night dinners in winter,” Ahden returns. “No low sun over the sea at night…” Another scoff. “I haven't seen the sea in years.” “You like late summer night dinners though.” “Only because it's finally cooled down after the day.”

Ahden sighs. Nikef sighs.

“I do like it,” she admits. “But winter's better. I'm not gonna celebrate the season turning.” “It’s not going to get hot for a while yet, though. Solstice isn't really even half way into the season.” “True.”

“No bells, then.” “Absolutely not.” “Will you at least let me feed you tonight?” Nikef sits back on her haunches and looks up, for the first time since Ahden entered. She scowls, scouring his expression. “No festive foods,” she declares. “And that's not negotiable.” “Not even sweets?” “Absolutely none. Only regular foods you can eat any day of the year.” “Alright, alright. Only regular foods. Do we have a deal?” “Okay. Deal. Oh and don't dress up either.” “What would I even dress up in? My dress uniform?” She cracks a smile at that. “Okay.” “Okay.”

“I'll see you at… say, six?” “Sure. Six.” “And then take me out to train? I know it's late…” Ahden quirks an eyebrow. “You know no one expects you to work today, right?” “I know. I'm just itching to get some practice in. Please?” “If it's what you want, sure.” Nikef pulls a face. Ahden shakes his head, and opens the door to let himself out. “Six,” he repeats. “Dress uniform, was it?” He gets an inelegant snort of laughter for his trouble. “I’ll expect to see you in yours.” “Not on your life,” Nikef is laughing as he closes the door.

She picks up another picture. A portrait, which puts it in the back half of the circle. She pans past the entire quadrant of self portraits to the narrower slices dedicated to other people. The outermost rings are largely the oldest works, with her later pieces closer to the center.

Three full spokes are dedicated to Ahden. One depicts only studies of his leg. Missing. In the process of being amputated. Surgically, and in several imaginings of the actual process. Shredded as if he'd stepped on the mine himself. Shredded as if Nikef had done it, complete with electric blue highlights glistening off the black-cast blood.

The other two columns are more mixed, grouped loosely by emotion. Tears. Fury. Horror. Disgust. 

Nikef examines the page in her hand once again. Ahden’s face is rendered in black and grey, aside from the empty eye sockets and the blood that streams down his cheeks. After some consideration, she nestles it into place between a half-flayed skull, and a low-angle piece in which he struggles to hold his spilling guts inside his body.

She sits back on her heels, and nods with satisfaction. She picks up the next page.

[just-horrible-things]

Annihilation

Nikef is fifteen years old, and code-named the Annihilation. Her body count is in the hundreds and climbing fast.

Ahden never asked to be in charge of a teenage superweapon. He should have been discharged with honour after the enemy took his leg.

Project Tempest

Early exploration

Annihilation

The Annihilation and the General - i, ii Clearing a building Solstice

Tags: #the annihilation, #project tempest archives, #nikef : the annihilation, #commandant ahden musal

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