Chapter 63 - Tears

Staring straight at the rifle's barrel, there was little Drake could do. He didn't let go of his weapons, but he knew that if he tried to fight back, he would die. As for why the Cleaner hadn't killed him yet, even though he had a pained and crazed look on his face... He had an inkling.

"You... You... You killed them..."

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I also don't want to die."

"Don't! Don't give me that bullsh*t! All this time, you said you didn't want to fight this war. But... You killed my soldiers! You killed my companions! What right did you have?! A child like you!"

The scouts' leader was screaming now, spit showering Drake. His whole body was shaking, and Drake was really afraid he would press the trigger by mistake. But the man seemed lost in his own world, uttering curses at Drake. He sneakily looked at his surroundings, trying to find a solution to his current predicament, but saw that the other two Cleaners were there, one on each side. He could only turn back to face their leader with a dejected look.

"If you are going to kill me, just do it. However, know that while my words won't bring back those who you lost, I truly am sorry. And be aware that my companions are already well on their way to inform the Menoraz Army of your existence. Your surprise attack failed before it even started, so please don't waste more lives in it."

He had barely finished speaking when the leader dismounted from his Yscalent, and kicked him on his wounded side. Taking a sharp inhale of air, Drake felt his cracked ribs definitely break. Black dots appeared in his vision as he tried to maintain consciousness.

"Don't you f*cking dare tell me what to do! I'm going to kill you and every single one of the Menoraz scumbags! You hear me?! I'm going to kill all of them! Only by blood can the lives you took be avenged!"

He kicked Drake again. And again. Each sentence was punctuated by a blow. Curling up in a ball, to try and protect himself, Drake decided he had to try something. Anything. If he didn't, he would be beaten to death. And, as someone who wanted to become a ranger, he couldn't let his path end here, and especially not in such a miserable way.

So, when the next kick came, Drake grabbed the Cleaners foot. Twisting it with all his strength, he managed to trip him, and pull him to the ground. The scout was an experienced fighter, however. Even though he had let his emotions get the best of him a moment ago, when he felt threatened his instincts kicked in, and he elbowed Drake. His blow targeted his left side, obviously, which he had long identified as Drake's weak point.

For a few seconds, they rolled around on the forest's soil, struggling to get an advantage over the other. The two black-coats watched from the sidelines, afraid to interrupt and hurt their boss by mistake.

While taking a particularly painful punch to the face, Drake sneaked his hand to his hip, and drew his newly acquired pistol. He saw the Cleaner's eyes widen in surprise and understanding. So that had been Drake's objective in engaging in close combat like that.

"You bast... Ugh!"

Ignoring the pain he was feeling, Drake pressed the pistol against the black-coat's chest, and squeezed the trigger. A muffled shot rang out, and he collapsed on top of Drake.

Maybe they were too shocked by their leader's death, or maybe the remaining Cleaners weren't paying enough attention - doubtful - but facts remain that they didn't react in time. Drake pushed the body aside, and quickly eliminated them. For once, the scouts went down easily.

For a long time, he just laid there, panting. His whole body was burning. If it wasn't for the fact that he had yet to cough up blood, he would have guessed that his own ribs that gone through his lungs, because even breathing was taking an unbelievable amount of effort.

"Ugh..."

The quiet moan startled him, because he had thought he was alone. Scrambling to raise his pistol, thinking some Lapidum soldiers had found him, he was surprised to discover that the one who uttered it was the Cleaners' leader.

He tensed up for a moment, but soon noticed that the man was about to breathe it's last. Crawling to get near him, he turned the scout on his side. Blood was constantly flowing from the wound in his chest, making the already black uniform get even darker. Drake guessed that if he had shot him a few centimeters to the left, the black-coat would have died immediately.

Certain that the man wasn't a threat, Drake knelt besides him, unsure of what to do. On one hand, he didn't enjoy having to watch him die, but on the other there was the fact the Cleaner almost killed him. As he was lost in thought, he discovered a hand tightly gripping his. Looking down, he saw that the scout was staring at him.

"D-Don't... Don't... Leave. You... Can't... Get away..."

Drake said nothing. He doubted the Cleaner would even hear him, his eyes having long lost focus.

"You have to... H-Have to... To pay... You..."

The last few words were uttered so quietly that Drake couldn't quite understand them. He guessed their meaning, however. Even in death, the Cleaner hated him. He didn't blame him, not at all.

"Uhmm?"

Feeling something warm on his face, Drake touched it. To his surprise, his fingers came back wet with tears. When he noticed that, he couldn't hold back anymore. He put his forehead on the ground, and cried. He wasn't really sure why. Maybe it was because all the emotions he had been holding back since he started adventuring finally found an outlet, and he couldn't stop it.

Curled up in a ball, he cried for a long time. He had killed a lot of people already. How many of them were like the soldier, wishing his demise even as they breathed their last? How much pain had he caused when killing their friends, their companions? And how much more would he cause if he continued on this path?

Finally, after a long while, he wiped his tears and got up, not because he had found an answer to those questions, but because he was hurting, and needed treatment. He doubted these thoughts would ever be answered, or would ever go away. He would just have to live with it until he found a solution, or just didn't care anymore.

Drake was about to walk away, without much of a destination, when he thought of something. Going back to the Cleaner's corpse, he rummaged through his clothes and pockets, until he found a badge and a pack of cigarettes. Ignoring the latter, he lifted the badge, trying to read what was written in it using what little moonlight filtered through the treetops.

"Sergeant Xeno Maccow, Advanced Special Recon and Assassination Unit... Huh..."

Somehow, knowing his name made it worse. However, the badge would be particularly helpful to what he was planning. Putting it away, he also took the black jacket one of the Cleaners was using. Not only it would be a good replacement for his tattered clothes, but it would also help him blend in.

Giving one last look to the bodies, he shakily walked away. Although the Yscalents the Cleaners used weren't their companions, they had all ran away - because why wouldn't they - leaving him on foot again. Sighing, he took off deeper into Lapidum.

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Zhao Qi was bored. She had joined the Lapidum Army well over five years ago, and was hoping to finally see some action, now that there was a war underway. She had experience fighting against criminals and outlaws, and was by no means a rookie, so she was very disappointed when she was assigned to Frost Grass City.

The town was close to the border with Menoraz, meaning it was quite close to the actual battlefields. More than once she fantasized about abandoning her post, and joining the fray. Not that she would ever dare to actually do that, of course. She understood that Frost Grass City could become quite important if Menoraz staged a counterattack - doubtful, but a possibility nonetheless.

Dreaming with her eyes wide open, she got a glance at someone coming towards the city, from the north. Frowning, she used her binoculars to get a better look. It was a young man, covered in dirt and... Something else. He held his left side with his right hand, and his left arm seemed to dangle uselessly on his side.

As it was her duty as the watcher of this side of the city walls, she warned her superior, and the men at the gates. During more peaceful times, a simple traveler wouldn't have enlisted such a reaction, but they were at war. There was the possibility the man was a decoy or distraction set up by the enemy, although she doubted it.

When he approached the gate, Zhao Qi managed to discern more details. His clothes were destroyed, and there was dry blood almost everywhere on him. His left arm was purple and swollen, and he was pale. However, he still carried two pistols on his hips, and a rifle across his back. It was like he was unwilling to part with them.

With the corner of her eyes, she saw her superior telling two soldiers to go help him. Almost as soon as they got to the man, his legs seemed to give up, and he would have collapsed if the black-coats hadn't supported him. After making sure he wasn't faking his injuries, they brought him into the city.

Taken by curiosity, and seeing that her superior officer didn't mind, Zhao Qi walked down from her small tower - just a raised portion of the wall, really - to get a closer look. The young man, who was having a lot of trouble standing up, was being interrogated by the lieutenant at the gate. Even though the black-coat pitied him, he still couldn't skip procedure.

"I-In... My pocket... Advan... Recon Unit..."

His whispers were almost too low to hear, and some parts were, in fact, inaudible. However, the lieutenant got his general meaning. Gesturing to Zhao Qi, he told her to search the man. Careful not to touch his wounds, she did so, and fished out a badge.

"It says 'sergeant Xeno Maccow', sir. Cleaner."

The officer nodded. He wanted to ask some more questions, but the man - Xeno - had fallen into unconsciousness.

"Take him to the doc."

"He is out, lieutenant. Joined a column that passed by a few days. Their officer said we won't see combat anyway, so we might as well make do with a civilian medic."

Being reminded of that, the lieutenant made an ugly face. He didn't like that arrogant colonel, who treated Frost Grass City's garrison as trash because of his rank. Worse still was that he had to put a smile on his face and agree with everything the prick said.

"Take him to a civvie then! And tell him to warn me as soon as he wakes up. I want to know why one of ours is so heavily wounded if we didn't get any news of Menoraz scum being in our territory."

"Understood, sir!"

The soldiers saluted him, and two of them took Drake away carefully. The others glanced in his direction one last time, then lost interest and returned to their boring routine. Only Zhao Qi continued to look at the man. There was something weird about him, but she couldn't place her finger on what it was.

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Many, many kilometers away from Drake, a giant Ifere laid on top of a hill, seemingly sleeping. Constant rain poured on it's sleek figure, the dark blue fur shining under the moonlight.

Suddenly, the Old One opened an eye. It's gaze pierced through forests and mountains, ignoring distance, and watched Drake struggle against his opponents. It also saw Frainer and Kniivar running in the other direction, and snorted.

"Smart."

Deciding that Drake would win his battle, the Old One closed it's eye again. Whenever a wild Ifere approached the wounded human, it would growl quietly, and the creature would stop, paralyzed with fear.

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"Sir, we found the bodies of the Advanced Special Recon and Assassination Unit. They are scattered throughout the forest. Our guess is that they were ambushed and taken down one by one."

"By one fricking person? F*cking useless Cleaners! Bastards! And now the problem is mine to deal with!"

The black-coat that was reporting to the camp commander took a few steps back, unsure. It was quite common for officers to take out their anger and resentment on lowly soldiers, and he was ready to bolt at the first sign of it.

"What the f*ck are you still doing here?! Get the f*ck out! Or do you want to talk to Bloodborn in my place?! Hum?!"

Almost kicking the soldier out of the room, the commander slammed the door. Looking at the television in the corner, he shuddered. Yep, he wouldn't be using that. An old-fashioned phone call would do. He dreaded the moment he would have to call General Bloodborn, but the longer he waited, the worse his scolding would be.