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by ~Teya~ » Thu Feb 28, 2019 5:44 pm
ＭＵＲＬé ＢＵＲＮＳ:
Chapter twelve
“Ｙou want to what?!” his face twisted to make an exaggeratedly baffled expression of disbelief with his mouth agape and lip curled upwards in a grimace.
“What’s the big deal?” came his friend’s response of whom had clearly lost his marbles, and anything else he might have up there in that scrambled brain of his.
“The big deal? You act like you’ll just be strutting off to summer camp for the day!” Murlé exclaimed in exasperation, rubbing his forehead. Arathorn said nothing and crossed his arms, looking away from him.
“Arath,” Sunora chimed in from behind.
Murlé turned to her, and she bit her lip hesitantly. He mouthed at her “Please” as he closed his hands together, praying maybe lover girl could knock some sense into lover boy.
“I agree with Murlé. I don’t see why you should have to go to La Gula,”
Arathorn kept his eyes glued to a red wall to his left whilst his friends stood to his right. “You just don’t get it,”
“What is there to get?” Murlé countered, sighing sharply. Sunora touched his shoulder the moment he took a step closer to continue prodding Arathorn, and looked up at him pleadingly to let her handle it; or at least try. He relaxed a little, giving her a respectful nod to give it her best shot. She smiled gratefully to him, before walking a few steps to Arathorn.
“What’s the matter, Arath?” she questioned, attempting to get him to look at her. “Why are you so dead set on this?” she added, sounding both curious and concerned. Arathorn glanced back at Sunora briefly before looking away again.
“Inkina says she has information about the FFA’s new leader that she didn’t tell us, and possibly more than that,” Arathorn confessed. “But she refuses to say anything before she’s in La Gula searching for her family,” he continued slowly, and it was plain to hear the wince on his face in his voice. “And she also said she’ll only give the information to me, not any of our own SSRC military guard that will accompany her as well.”
“Why?” Sunora asked, glancing back at Murlé who had his eyes slit in thought.
“She’s afraid that upon telling us everything, we won’t have any further use for her and will just throw her in an orphanage.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she remarked, but her half-minded tone told them that she might be doubting herself.
Arathorn turned, meeting Sunora’s eyes and sticking to it this time. “She has no real reason to trust us. After all, my family is the one in charge of this Kingdom. And we haven’t exactly been doing the best job lately,” he paused, hesitant. “We especially haven’t been able to prevent attacks on our own people in a long time. And that includes Inkina and her town.”
Sunora said nothing in response, and it wasn’t long before she no longer could hold with his gaze. The room fell into an ear bleeding silence, soaking in Arathorn’s regrettably true words. Murlé buried his hands into his pockets and stared at his feet. Eventually, when he looked up, Arathorn was looking his way. They gazed at one another, his bright sea green and pink eyes digging uncomfortably into his. He knew what Arathorn wanted—understanding. Understanding that he had to do this, regardless of how dangerous it was, because if he didn’t—he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
Murlé found himself thinking back to six months ago. Three days after the devastating attack on Amarilla. Since he had been injured during that time, he was confined to a hospital bed. The TV was on, and in his still weakened and dazed state, he watched as his friend, the Prince, gave a speech to his people. The crowd was still full of shock and heartbreak after what happened, especially after learning their King would no longer rule. Some were angry, some were simply confused. Some were on the verge of riot. And through it all, Arathorn kept his cool the best he could. He spoke of rebuilding, with the promise of hope shining through in his words. And at the very end, he swore on his life that he would never allow the FFA or anyone else to take over his Kingdom. Their Kingdom. They would try, and possibly come close to succeeding. But the day the Ciudads were lost, would be the day his blood and bones were soaked deep into its soil.
“It’s not like you’ve had a lot of time to help the wrongs of the past. When your father was in charge, you know what it was like—” Sunora protested, pulling Murlé out of his memory that had been as clear as the day it had happened.
Arathorn shook his head somberly. “At least he did something. He tried, even if it wasn’t in the right way. I need to try, Sunora,”
“I think you should go,” Murlé remarked, walking over to the two viscets who appeared to have momentarily forgotten of his presence.
Arathorn looked surprised, and also grateful. Sunora on the other hand crossed her arms and stared at him expectantly to explain his reasoning, before she ripped his face off for turning on her.
“But if you were planning on going at it alone, you won’t be able to indulge your ego quite that much, I’m sorry to say,” Murlé confessed with a sigh, unable to hide the mischievous smirk forming over his features.
“But Murlé—”
“I’m coming too, then,” Sunora interrupted Arathorn, placing her hands on her hips. Arathorn turned his head from one to the other, and raised one hand before opening his mouth to speak.
“What if, though—” Arathorn began, still not knowing who to attempt to convince first. “Or one of you got—” he stopped, glancing at their stubborn faces that made no sign of letting up. His tense shoulders relaxed, and he gave into a defeated slumped over position with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. “It’s no use, is it?” he questioned at last, already knowing the answer.
* * *
Propellers whistled with impatience as the helicopter hovered above the ground. A heavy feeling settled in Murlé’s stomach as he gripped his seat belt and looked out the window, taking a deep breath in. The ground beneath them came alive, twirling up a small sandstorm and blowing the shrubbery on all sides by their roots. Landing with a slight jolt that shattered the remaining existence of his jumbled insides, they waited to be released from this flying box of bolts and screws.
“There in no time, what did I tell you?” Arathorn remarked cheerfully. The doors to freedom opened a second later, and Murlé leapt from his seat and out of the exit. Relief washed over him when his feet touched the solid ground, and felt the tall grass rustling at his ankles.
“I’m finally free from that flying machine of death!” he exclaimed and let out a contented sigh, plopping himself into the lush, green grass as the afternoon sun warmed his fur.
“Can we get going?” Inkina asked impatiently, scanning the open meadow where the group now resided. With a grunt, Murlé sat up and got to his feet.
“How far are we to La Gula?” Sunora piped up.
“It’s just over those trees,” a viscet in a dark pine green military uniform said, who was the commander of the eight other viscets who had arrived in a separate helicopter. He pointed across the meadow a short ways to add, “We have a group stationed close to town. They’re patrolling as we speak, so we’re reasonably safe at the moment,”
“Reasonably,” Murlé muttered under his breath as he pushed up his dark sunglasses, and followed the others as they began to move. Enojado bent down and plucked something from the ground, before rising back up to look at Sunora.
“For you,” he remarked, revealing from his concealed hand an orange and pink flower. She blushed a little, taking the flower by the stem and holding it up to her nose.
Murlé rolled his eyes, regretting his decision of lagging behind in the back of the group. Catching a glimpse of Arathorn as he turned to casually look back, he could’ve sworn there was something in his eye he hadn’t seen before. Honestly, he really didn’t understand why Enojado had to go with them. Yet, he had insisted on tagging along and no one else had seemed to care except him. He guessed he could understand, since Enojado had only been able to spend a few days with Sunora since their “miraculous” meeting. Maybe he really was just too judgmental of Enojado. Then again, he didn’t like him. It was hard to pinpoint why, exactly, he only knew the feeling was there, and he never ignored a gut feeling.
It wasn’t long until they all made their way to the outskirts of the town called La Gula, although what greeted them was far from a warm welcome. As they walked in silence, everyone looked around at the ghost of what used to be. Businesses with shattered front windows and splintered wood from a rain of bullets were left abandoned. Homes were like a shell of what used to be or could’ve been; with roofs beginning to collapse in on themselves, lawns covered in thick weeds that curled around and enveloped anything in its path, and some that even had gaping holes courtesy of a tank in place of a front door. Cars were still visible in driveways and on the side of the road, now gutted without tires or an interior. But through it all, there was a glimmer of what once was; a hint of other’s daily life. A swing in a front yard for lively children, a shopping cart on its side, a skiddish dog who still wore their collar with no owner in sight.
Hearing the padding of feet and the rustling of bushes to his left, he whirled just in time to see the fluffy tail of a squirrel or other animal scurry off under a house. Murlé cleared his throat, glancing at the others that continued further up without him.
“Keep it together,” he whispered under his breath, his gaze lingering on the same bush as if half expecting something else to jump out at him at any moment.
The weird thing about this town was, it all seemed hauntingly recent. The paint on some of the buildings was barely faded and still vibrant, and the pavement around the town, while now cracked and even blasted away, was still dark and obviously not over a year old.
“Where is everyone?” Inkina questioned, anxiously dodging her head in every direction.
“There are still those who refuse to leave where they have grown up and lived their entire life. But, not many,” the same male viscet in uniform from earlier said when Murlé had caught up to the others with a regretful shake of his head. The other soldiers kept quiet and vigilant—this clearly wasn’t anything new to them. Inkina stopped as they walked down what used to be main street. Freezing in place, she stared ahead.
“My . . . my home,” she gasped, sprinting a few yards before slowing again, only to start running once more down the center of the road. Disappearing when she veered onto the sidewalk where a truck had tipped over and blocked part of the sidewalk from view, Murlé and the others raced to follow after her.
“Where’d she go?” Murlé asked quickly, trying to mask his alarm when he went past the truck and still couldn’t see her. “Inkina didn’t do the slip on us, did she?” he added, his tone bridging on annoyance that they’d have to go on a wild goose chase now. Sunora pressed her finger to her lips, causing him to stop and flick his ears forward. Walking down past the closest shop, and to the entrance of the second, of which wasn’t visible due to a short entryway, Sunora’s features softened, and she motioned for the others to come over. Inkina stood in the entryway by the door, with a piece of colorful yellow glass held daintily in her hands as she stared down at it.
“It took my family three months to scrape up enough money for this silly glass,” Inkina remarked, her voice drawn out and thoughtful. “My mom made clothing. Was good at it, too,” she wavered, looking up to stare into the empty store visible by the large, rectangle shaped piece cut out of the entrance door where the glass must have used to have been. “My dad used to assure us kids that we’d always be safe here—even though we seemed so close to the FFA border.” Inkina sighed softly, as calm as someone is when they are truly at peace with themselves. “I remember moving to La Gula when I was five. One of my first memories was seeing the light in my mom’s eyes when she first saw this store. Finally, we could stop searching, stop moving every two months to find the perfect place,” Inkina continued in a faraway voice. Fingering the piece of glass carefully in one hand while holding it with the other, her eyes never left it. “Because we had found our home, we could finally be happy, and live like a real family, and have real friends that last, too,” she laughed pitifully. Murlé glanced at Sunora and Arathorn next to him, but they were too focused on her to notice. “My friends . . . they’re all gone now. Everyone is,” she confessed as the glass in her hands shattered with a dull “pop”.
Sunora looked away now, just for a moment, with one hand on her cheek when her worried gaze met with his. Murlé’s eyes widened in shock as his hand flew up to cover his mouth when he noticed Inkina was beginning to bleed.
“And it’s all because the unit of SSRC soldiers that protected us left to help Ciudad Amarilla when they were in trouble,” Inkina said as blood began to drip onto the concrete. Her eyes suddenly lifted from her partly crimson hands as she looked over the group of viscets that glared at her in horror.
Following Inkina’s gaze, she moved from one viscet after the other and back again in a deadly manor. Slitting her eyes, Inkina suddenly landed on him and held. Swallowing dryly, it took him a second to realize there was something peculiar about where Inkina was looking. He realized then, that she wasn’t looking at him at all, and instead had her eye on whoever was behind him.
Arathorn visibly clinched his teeth and shut his eyes tightly, body rigid with dread.
Inkina didn’t blink. Nevertheless, tears flowed steadily down her purple cheeks as she spoke; words shaky with long held-in emotions that came close to overwhelming her and cutting her voice off altogether. “Which means, I won’t be sorry when I see the one who caused all this; all of my pain and grief, day and night, pain that I know will never go away for those I cared about—die.”
Chatter erupted from the group of viscets like an explosion of confusion as Inkina vanished into the store in a blur. Murlé kept his eyes steady on Arathorn who had opened his eyes by now, but were focused on the ground in bewildered thought. The viscet in uniform whispered something in his ear, probably about leaving immediately.
“Is that true?” Murlé asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Yes,” Arathorn replied almost instantly, evidently anticipating the question.
“Why?” he questioned, troubled. His eyebrows furrowed. Arathorn waited, hesitantly raising his gaze to meet with that of Murlé’s who stood in front of him.
“After I relieved my father, I suddenly had a thousand delicate decisions to make with my mother. That was one of them I made on my own,”
“But there was no need. Why call in all of the smaller units protecting towns to help Amarilla, the largest stronghold of the Kingdom?” Murlé shot back, an unexplainable sense of betrayal stirring up inside him for something that hadn’t even affected him, but for whatever reason felt a deep connection to.
“I wanted to be sure we’d win, with as few civilian lives lost as possible,” Arathorn winced at that, as if only now realizing the flaw in his argument.
“By allowing others farther away and less important to reap the consequences?!” Murlé countered fiercely, “To instead have whole families torn apart and either be forced to work for the FFA and build their cities, their weapons—or worse,” he continued with a hint of dread. Arathorn frowned mournfully, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “All of the children captured were undoubtedly sent to the camps to be trained, conditioned. To become just another Free for All soldier—which mind as well be worse than death,” Murlé stopped, unwilling to go on. He had barely managed to keep the terror out of his voice as he recalled memories that were better left forgotten.
Arathorn was still. “It wasn’t like that at all—” he began slowly, looking around at the other viscets who spectated in silence. One by one they avoided his gaze, and then he got to Sunora. The whole time she had seemed rather passive to the whole thing, working things out for herself in her mind. Though sympathetic, even she couldn’t hold with his desperate gaze for long. Sighing, he turned back to Murlé. “Mother gave me certain responsibilities that day, and I did far from perfect. But I tried my best—I mean, what else could I have done?” Arathorn questioned on the edge of hopelessness. He clearly just wanted his friend to understand his point of view, not accept it; simply understand.
Murlé paused, straightening his neck. “Oh, I see how it was,” he remarked with his ears pointed back, and a taste of resentment on his tongue. “You liked the power, is that it? Toying with other’s lives like they mean nothing and blaming it on mommy later?”
“Of course not!” Arathorn exclaimed in exasperation, “At the time, I thought we were in danger of losing. And if that happened, it would only be a matter of time before the whole Kingdom was under FFA control. So I did what I thought I had to, alright? Is that satisfactory with you?!” with his voice bridging on a full out yell, he turned away in an attempt to gather himself as he rubbed his eyes with both hands. Still with a mild unnerved shake lingering in his voice, he announced, “We have to go. I’m sure someone will find Inkina sooner or later—and it's obvious she was lying about any information she may possess,”
“Can you sense Inkina?” Murlé asked abruptly, glancing back at Sunora for a moment. She shook her head grimly.
Without another word, Murlé swung the door to the store wide open, the loud crunching of glass beneath his shoes echoing in the hallow room as he made his way further in.
“Murlé—we have to go, it’s not safe!” came the urgent cry of Arathorn from outside. Ignoring him, he weeded his way through the empty clothes racks and behind the counter to the room behind it. It was dim, the only source of light being a few windows that looked into an alleyway or the shaded forest. Inside, there were two large dressers that were white, their chipped paint showing their age—or maybe because they were moved around a lot—with various perfume bottles and other random items strewn atop. There were five beds. The floorboards creaked as he moved around the room, noticing marks of every color from some sort of crayon on the pale wall by one of the beds. The lines were aimless and haphazard, that of a child’s, or multiple.
He flinched at a loud “ping” of something cracking under his feet. Bending down and picking up a picture frame as broken glass fell to the floor, he had to strain his eyes to make it out clearly. The bright faces of three young viscets in mid-play stared into the camera, and it seemed each one was trying their hardest to push the other away so they could be the star of the photo. It was striking how “childlike” Inkina appeared. She looked different, like something was missing from her eyes. What was the word?
Pondering a moment as he studied the picture, his ears twitched as he heard something coming from outside. Muffled voices captured his attention, although in the back of his mind he knew it was probably just someone Arathorn had sent to go look for him. But even that didn’t make any sense, because why would they be at the back of the store instead of coming through the front?
It was only then that Murlé noticed a door straight across from him on the opposite side of the room. The footsteps grew closer. The voices ceased. He froze.
A bloodcurdling bang rippled throughout the bare room and smacked him to his senses in a flash. Someone was kicking in the door, and probably just one more good kick would do it. He had seconds at best.
Whirling in every direction for a place to hide, he jumped for a dresser right as light began to pour into the room.
Holding his breath, he sat flat against the wall and stared at the shadows in the doorway.
“C’mon Ramirez, let’s blow this place. There ain’t nothing here,” an unsure voice muttered.
“Don’t be so hasty, private. Check around, the other room too.” another ordered back. “Besides, this’ll be the perfect place to be before the fun starts,” he added with a little chuckle as the two of them walked cautiously into the structure.
Biting his tongue to hold back a yelp of horror as the two viscets came into view, their reddish brown uniforms shown in the light, along with the red patch on their right shoulders that all FFA soldiers customarily wore. The taste of blood settled in his mouth, lungs burning from the lack of air he allowed them. Clamping both of his hands tightly over his mouth as the two viscets came ever closer, his thoughts drifted involuntarily back to his time in the FFA.
Directly in front of him one of the viscets stood, his gaze searching around the room. Murlé hid in shadows, but that wouldn’t help if he looked right at him. Floorboards creaking in the same place he had stood, he could see the viscet’s cool, dark brown eyes as they passed above him. The male slit his eyes before turning away and heading into the other room, beckoning the other to follow.
Seconds later, the footsteps grew fainter and they were already out of sight.
Collapsing his body onto the dusty floor, he breathed in faltering gulps of stale air and attempted to calm his rapidly pounding heart with little success.
He had to get out of here. He needed to warn everyone. He had to keep it together.
Flashes of shouts and orders spun in his mind. “We’re approaching the town. Be ready to attack,” one said sternly. “Quit slacking around, Burns!” another exclaimed.
“Dammit—no!” Murlé hissed lowly with a distressed growl, darting his gaze from wall to wall fearfully.
“Make your mind blank—don’t think of anything if you can help it,” were the soft, reassuring words that faded into mind that he recalled from Sunora. When she had once found him unable to stop the awful memories from flooding through his mind, she had used her powers and told him those words. Maybe by a miracle, that had helped then. But was he strong enough to do it alone?
Shutting his eyes for a moment, he then rose unstably from the floor with an added vigor. He made it to the open doorway and outside to be greeted by thick trees, of which his mind decided would be the perfect reason to become extra paranoid. The breeze picked up as he moved through the grass, staying clear of the windows.
Turning a corner, he swiftly spun back when he saw yet another FFA soldier.
Heart thumping in his throat, Murlé began to run in the opposite direction with his eyes constantly shifting from the nearest building on one side and the woods on the other. Making his way through an alleyway to loop back to the others, brick walls surrounded him on either side and were becoming increasingly narrow from the row of dumpsters in the way. Squeezing past the dumpsters as swift as he could and trying not to breathe in the musty smell, he managed to make it through. In the nearby distance, he could make out a fence that was his only barrier between him and a near perfect view of viscets still by main street. Murlé’s pace quickened, almost to the wire fence.
His view widened dramatically once he came out of the alleyway, but it was too late.
Looking on as he skidded to a halt in the dirt, the FFA sniper off to his right shot up his head from the pile of boxes he was partially hidden in, and his rifle still aimed past the fence. In the snipers eyes, he could’ve sworn there was fear there too. That vanished within seconds, however, when he did a once-over of Murlé and realized he wasn’t carrying a weapon.
“You don’t have to do this,” Murlé reasoned, voice unsteady. The viscet glanced from him to the sniper rifle in thought, then back at the group of viscets beyond the fence. The group seemed so far away now, after just a minute ago so close.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted blurred figure, and whirled to see yet another FFA soldier. They drew their pistol as Murlé sprinted back into the alleyway at breakneck speed. A stomach wrenching bang cracked into the air and shredded the silence of the entire town as he lifted himself onto the first dumpster.
Two more viscets appeared in front of him as he hopped to the second, stopping to draw their weapons.
His mind blanked.
The gunshot had alerted Arathorn and the others of trouble; his job was done. Would this really be the end of him? To die amongst the trash . . .
Bouncing his eyes in every direction, there were windows here and there, but all of them were too far up. His gaze fell, landing behind the dumpster. There was an area of wood that was barely peeking out.
“Stop!”
Jumping down, he pressed his entire weight against the dumpster. Inch by inch it gave way, scraping the ground as it went. Behind the dumpster, a small window was revealed. Heavy footsteps drew closer. With one more good push, the dumpster was clear. Kicking the window with all his might, bullets began to tear through the dumpsters around him and above his head. He dared to looked up, seeing the viscets on both sides mere yards away.
Hastily bending down and sticking his head through the window, he felt pressure on his waist as he attempted to force himself through. With his arms already free, he pushed his hands on the wall. His whole body suddenly gave way against the window as he fell into darkness. With a crash as unseen objects were toppled over, he gasped in the hot, moldy air. Footsteps echoed above him.
“He’s not worth it. Retreat to our original mission,” a viscet huffed before all sound ceased.
Without giving himself any time to process his current situation, he started to search the room for an exit; or at least a light. Stumbling a few times before he was successful, he felt his hand land on a smooth, warm surface. He smiled, turning the doorknob as faint light made the stairs in front of him visible.
Touching the brim of his nose, he suddenly realized that he still had his sunglasses on. He pushed them up onto his forehead, and the light streaming from up the stairs became more pronounced. Wood groaned beneath his weight as he wrinkled his nose, a particular smell hitting his nostrils the further he traveled up. It was a distinct odor, that of rotten hay and farm animals. He must have been in the basement of a barn. A door was up ahead, or what was left of its frame since it appeared the middle had been obliterated.
“You promised!” came an ear splitting shriek that sent Murlé’s last bit of mental stability right out the window. He froze, gasping out a harsh breath at the abrupt pummel to the atmosphere around him. A second ago, he thought he was alone; safe, even! What a naive idiot he found himself to be.
“My plan is in a shambles, and you didn’t do me any favors, sweetheart.” another voice mocked, demeaning and furious; yet still his tone was perfectly smooth without a discomposed twitch to be heard. “I’ve been keeping a close eye on you. You’re foolish if you thought you were safe in that hospital or decadent palace,” the male said with a sneer. The way his words flowed was like that of a musician and a perfectly fine-tuned instrument, the words worked exactly how he desired and tipped on the border of hypnotic, even in its harshness.
“Please!” the girl gasped, their identity clicking in his mind at that moment. “Before you kill me, just tell me if my family is alright—or even alive!” her desperate words were crowded with meek sobs as she clung to her last ounce of determination.
Crawling up the steps hand and foot, he peered through the gaping hole in the door.
Inkina lay in a crumpled mess amidst the hay, her head bowed as her hands grasped the other viscet’s leg that towered above her. As if it was too much of a bother to look down at the girl at his feet, his head barely tilted down as he glared at Inkina’s pathetic figure.
Murlé trembled, clenching his jaw as he balled his hands into tight fists. He knew it all along. He did. He was too perfect, and now he knew why.
Enojado.
“Sorry, pet. Times up.” Enojado said simply while simultaneously reaching under his coat and pulling out a pistol.
“You bastard!” Murlé exclaimed as he leapt past the door and made a run to tackle Enojado. With a swift jump of his own, Enojado narrowly avoided Murlé as he slid to wheel back and try again. Swinging his pistol to point directly at his head before Murlé could react, Enojado’s features lit up in a semi-impressed smile.
“You almost got me there, Murlé,” he remarked, still keeping true to his strange tone. “I must admit, I have no idea how you managed to sneak in here. But I have no interest in that—I’ll just have to kill you too,”
Murlé flinched at the click of the gun being cocked back, his eyes meeting with those of Inkina who possessed both wonder and horror.
With a high-pitched screech, the barn door began to open. Enojado immediately turned to the door only a few yards to his right and kept his gun steady on Murlé.
“There you are,” Sunora huffed, leaning her weight against the large barn door once she had opened it enough to come through.
“Ah, Sunora,” Enojado began cheerfully, “I was so worried about you. I know you wanted to go searching for Murlé, but still. It’s very dangerous considering our current situation,”
“Speaking of that, have you found anything?” Sunora asked quickly, obviously not in the mood for small talk.
“I’m right here!” Murlé exclaimed and waved his arms frantically.
He sighed. “No,” Enojado replied. Sunora’s gaze fell, frowning slightly.
“Don’t you see his gun? Can’t you hear me?” Murlé added in exasperation, the longer and longer he went on, the more he was filled with utter despair.
“Don’t worry. You know what? He’s probably back at the helicopter right now, where you should be too,” Enojado reasoned in a voice full of such persuasive reassurance and care it made him suddenly want to murder him ten times more. Sunora gave in a little, but still wasn’t completely convinced.
“I just feel funny, you know? There are so many emotions ping-ponging from every direction that I can’t make anything out. But I just feel like, Murlé . . .” her voice trailed off as she shook her head and paused, opening her mouth to speak again before Enojado beat her to it.
“Tell you what, I’ll search a bit longer and you head to the helicopter before everyone gets stuck here. Deal?” Enojado waited.
“I what? I’m close, is that it? I’m right here!”
Rubbing her arm in thought, she glanced up to meet his gaze and smiled. “Alright, don’t take too long. We don’t need anymore viscets missing than we already do,”
“Of course,” Enojado responded instantly and watched as Sunora exited the barn. After waiting an extra moment to be sure she was gone, he turned ponderously back to Murlé.
At the moment, he strongly related to Inkina’s need to curl up on the ground in defeat and wait for certain death.
“I’ve been thinking,” Enojado began, waving his pistol around Murlé’s general area but careful not to stray too far. “Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought—seeing as Sunora clearly cares about your well being,” he sighed, opening a patch of clothing on his jacket and pressing a hidden button within it. Murlé ground his teeth as hard as he could against each other, having the not-so-startling realization that he was probably better off dead. “So maybe I’d be better off keeping you alive.”
“You’re such a bastard,” Murlé spat as a low growl reverberated from his throat, a last and vain attempt at keeping up his fighting spirit as an overwhelming feeling of helplessness clouded his mind. No matter how hard he tried, any sense of optimism and hope of escape was slashed down by the cool and calculated whisper of Enojado’s voice burrowing into his ears and mind like a virus.
“Have fun with my soldiers,” Enojado said, and in the same moment the barn door opened wider with a sound that mind as well have been a blow to the gut to Murlé as viscets in reddish brown FFA uniforms flooded the barn.
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Yess-- quite a long chapter for you guys.. but oof I'm finally finished it. Definitely very glad about that. There were actually multiple twists in this chapter, whhhaaat? Daz crazy. Anyway, hope you enjoy c;
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by ~Teya~ » Sun Mar 10, 2019 2:58 pm
ᎬᏁᎾjѦᎠᎾ SѦᏁ‡ѦᏁѦ:
Chapter thirteen
Ħe had failed.
As Enojado strode calmly through the tall grass, his face wrinkled into a brooding frown. The Prince was still alive. Why? Because apparently, the Free for All’s “top of the line” sniper waited too long for the perfect hit. And once there was a false gunshot by one of his own men, there was little chance of getting a clean shot with the viscets guarding him on red alert and surrounding him like a circle of flies.
Why couldn’t he simply . . . kill him now? Just a short distance away, Prince Arathorn, Sunora, and all of his men waited in an exposed clearing where he could easily overtake them with his own army.
Sunora.
He couldn’t risk it. If she was injured, or worse—the rest of his plan would be utterly worthless. He’d be back at square one, with any real chance of restoring his Solanae people gone. Not only that, but he’d be alone again. That unspeakable feeling of wretched isolation that ate him up inside every waking second before he learned of her, would return with a cruel vengeance.
A sudden squishing sound beneath his feet caused him to momentary be thrown out of his thoughts as he glanced down. The grass dripped a dark red to the side of him, it’s trail weaving to under his boots. He found himself unable to look away; it resembled so clearly the vibrant plant life back on his home planet. But it would never be again—the lush purple grasses that danced in the wind and revealed a brilliant scarlet when the suns shown high.
He spat as his eyes were wrenched away from the displeasing sight, and continued up the trail at a slightly quickened pace.
He needed a new plan of action.
Digging his heels hard into the dirt and coming to a complete stop, he swerved to begin backtracking his path. His steps grew in confidence and became more pronounced when he saw what he was searching for. Kneeling hastily, warm liquid spilled from his cupped hand as he dipped a single finger into it. Smearing a line of the blood mixed with dirt onto his cheek, he then glided his hand into soft mud and patted it onto his clothes. Proceeding to dip both of his hands on top of the crimson soil, he examined himself for a final time with satisfaction. Coming to a stand, he took one deep breath in before launching himself into a full-on sprint as if his life depended on it.
It wasn’t long until he could see the helicopter in the near distance. A group of viscets stood by with their weapons drawn and postures vigilant as he approached.
“Sunora! Arathorn!” Enojado gasped. Despite the guards warnings, the two emerged within moments.
“My God. You look terrible,” Arathorn remarked with surprise.
“Are you alright?” Sunora questioned, her features filled with deep concern as she stared at his disheveled appearance.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he replied dismissively with the wave of his hand and pretended to regain his breath. “But it is essential that we leave immediately. It’s not safe, there are too many of them,”
Sunora was quick to protest. “But Murlé—” her voice cut abruptly. She swallowed, her features tense with thought as she stared at the blood on his hands that was obviously not his own. Arathorn scanned her in puzzlement, not yet understanding her change of mood.
Pausing uncertainly, Enojado shifted his gaze from one to the other. Raising a quivering hand to her neck, she waited for her suspicions to be confirmed.
“He’s dead.”
A satisfying silence reaped the trio. He almost wanted to smile; how they cared so much for one so weak was beyond him. Like a kid who had just received news that his pet had died, the Prince said nothing and exhibited a traumatized look of disbelief.
“Are you sure?” Sunora countered, her tone pleading. Enojado returned her gaze gravely, eyebrows furrowed with pity.
“I tried to save him,” he remarked sadly, glancing down at his bloodied hands and then looking back up at her as her eyes began to glisten. “But it was no use.”
Raising his slumped head slowly up to Enojado, Arathorn’s bitter glare came close to startling him. “Liar,” he said with a low growl, visibly clenching his teeth. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be,” he said, shaking his head firmly.
Crossing his arms, Enojado remained quiet. He wanted to see this.
“He wouldn’t have let some worthless FFA trash outsmart him,” he continued, his trembling voice close to breaking. “Murlé never liked you, and I bet there’s a reason for that—”
Jumping in front of Enojado as Arathorn made a sudden move for him, Sunora held him back.
“Arath, stop this!” she begged. Thrashing violently to push past her, she lost control of him as she fell back into Enojado’s arms. Before he could get to Enojado, however, his own men stepped in and restrained him.
“Murlé was better than any of those animals, and still is!” he snapped, the blind fury in his eyes refusing to let up as he attempted to escape the other viscets grip.
“How could you say all this?” Sunora asked in bewilderment, her sickened expression causing Arathorn to force his gaze to her. “Murlé used to be one of them—until you helped him change, because you saw good in him. And now,” Sunora shook her head, her pain stricken eyes meeting with his confused ones. “You sound like your father,”
“But I—” he snapped quickly, but then paused. Glancing down for a moment musingly, his gaze lifted and he was more solemn. “I’m not him,”
“Oh, really?” she countered sharply, tilting her head in challenge.
Enojado watched in fascinated amazement. He never could have possibly guessed just how deep of a wound he could have created by saying two simple words. It especially interested him how Sunora seemed not at all angry. Instead, her tone was riddled with something apparently much more potent to the Prince—hurt.
“Because that sure sounded a lot like dehumanizing the enemy—like Murlé used to be—to the point where their lives are worthless.” Sunora stopped, turning away from him to face Enojado. Although the fur beneath her eyes was wet from tears, no more were shed as she looked up at him.
“Here’s your proof.” Enojado remarked, staring directly at Arathorn as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black sunglasses with a shattered lens. Hovering her hand over the sunglasses for a moment, she daintily took them from him.
The Prince hung his head as the viscets by his side cautiously released him, and he made no move to attack Enojado again. Sunora’s posture straightened as she walked past him without a word, and climbed into the helicopter with Enojado not far behind.
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Short but spicy 
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