Thristle, a ghastly city surrounded by the white sands of the desert. Before the citizens' oblivious eyes, corpses come back to life thanks to flame-like entities taking control of their bodies. Eider Institute, nothing more than an obscure cult to the rest of the world, acts in the shadows to dispel these spirits.
On this chaotic stage thrives AIDAN, a reckless Conjurer who doesn't hesitate to wreak havoc if it means saving innocent lives. His freedom is bound to come to an end when the boss places him under the rigid control of his son, DWYN. Their incompatible personalities clash, and the two of them have to find a way to coexist peacefully and survive, before a mystery simmering behind the scenes devours them whole...
They say it’s impossible to forget the words of one’s parents, even after their passing. Maybe it’s because their teachings seem to loop over and over from birth, following one another until they forge every child’s personality. They’re stains worn by each adult like a badge on their chest, an integral part of their nature they can’t exist without.
Usually, people best recall important morals, goals to pursue, or a warning to hold close. When one is alone, they unconsciously choose a series of rules to honor, a strong message that helps them survive through the most challenging times, when everything is lost, and life seems to be over.
That’s what Aidan had learned from his friends, at least. In his case, rather than a life lesson or something important, all he could remember from his mother were fairy tales and irrelevant bullshit.
He was fairly sure that, in the ten years they had spent together, the woman had the means to teach him hundreds of concepts and correct just as many mistakes. Still, for some reason, none of that survived in Aidan’s mind except for a single, ridiculous precept: “Thristle sucks.”
It was sprinkled in the fragments of his memories; it coated the fairy tales she had told him, the events she liked to share, the conversations between her and her husband that Aidan eavesdropped on. Nothing mattered more to his mother than reminding him of how corrupted, dangerous, and filthy the capital was.
As a teenager, Aidan kept a distance from Thristle. He convinced himself that he was not interested in the chaotic life of big cities and preferred the serene, relaxed routine of the countryside.
When his classmates began their diaspora, moving to Thristle for various reasons (be it their parents’ jobs, a range of better schools to attend, or simply a taste for modernity), Aidan voiced his distaste without a hint of shyness.
“You’re all crazy,” he would say. “Don’t you know? Thristle sucks.”
Aidan changed once everyone left his life. He rejected their attempts at reconnecting; he answered their genuine questions with aggressive comments about their departure. He emphasized how stupid they had been to leave behind their homes and their families to rot in Brewoss, alone and miserable.
In Aidan’s imagination, people ceased being human once they crossed the border. Upon stepping into the bustle of Thristle, they turned into monsters and lost any drop of respect Aidan harbored towards them in the blink of an eye.
It was more complicated than he envisioned. All of his friends left, sooner or later. Nobody messaged him to avoid his immature attitude. Brewoss turned into a ghost town, with no youth to be seen, inhabited only by Aidan and a few old couples.
“You should go, too,” his neighbor said every day. “Staying here makes no sense. Strange phenomena are approaching Brewoss. You should seek shelter in Thristle.”
Aidan vehemently refused. Every day until his sixteenth birthday, he split his hours between clandestine training with his father’s revolver, physical exercise, and observation of nature.
He learned how to read people’s intentions from a single glance, a motion of their head, a misplaced action. He understood how to tell apart good and evil with his eyes as the only tool, to recognize righteous men from liars.
Because Aidan knew he had a mission to accomplish. And on the established day, the wheel of fate eventually spun, forcing him to move towards that place he had turned into a legendary nemesis.
Aidan fled at night to avoid his fellow villagers’ judgment. He rode the earliest bus available to the capital and didn’t fight back when bizarre men came looking for him. He resigned himself to a life of misery, with the wrath of his mother’s spirit echoing in his head at night.
“How could you forget my words?” she would scream in his sleep. “Didn’t I warn you against Thristle?”
Sprawled on the car’s backseat, Aidan kept his gaze low, refusing to peek outside the window. The landscape hurtled around the vehicle, flashing red and yellow lights, but he didn’t wish to see any of that. “Thristle sucks,” he muttered to himself.
Until he had a change of heart.
All it took was a sunset, a longing glance at the pink and orange hues fading into dark blue, for his confidence to thaw like ice in the sun rays. The stars paled before the city’s lights, and the silhouettes of the skyscrapers lost themselves in the pitch-black night. And Aidan’s heart finally learned how to beat.
“He has an escort.”
In the morning hustle of the waking city, the Commander’s voice came like an unpleasant ring from the transceiver. Aidan hated being shaken from his daydreams, especially in front of such a glorious dawn.
“What’s the plan?” Aileen asked, hidden in an alley.
Busy on a mission with Sigma Squad in the hinterland, Aidan hadn’t seen her in action for a few weeks. She had ascended the ranks quickly, moving from the status of a novice to a respectable position. A soldier who took her duty seriously… Ah, if only Aidan could relate to that professional etiquette.
Work was work, though, and the thought of an incoming fight filled Aidan’s chest with adrenaline. He lunged from the roof he had been perched on for the last half an hour and landed smoothly on the asphalt. He rolled behind a trash can, focusing on the target rather than the hundreds of ants crawling at his feet.
The victim walked down the street with his escort, five burly men armed to their teeth, seemingly unaware of their presence. Aidan didn’t know who he was, only what he was: a human possessed by a Narmot. And as such, he was bound to deliver justice.
“We’ll wait until he’s alone,” Commander Farna said. “The escort is busy handling his luggage for a small time frame between their entrance and their elevator ride. Aileen, follow them without drawing attention.”
Aileen jumped up. “Roger! I’ll give you a sign from the balcony once I’m in his room.”
The group strode without hesitation in a parade of guns and black suits, a breath away from Aidan’s nose. Why waste time? A person possessed by a Narmot was a steady danger to whoever stood in their way.
The escort, the porters, the receptionist, the other guests… They were all risking their lives as long as that man could walk. And well, Aidan’s policy was strict: every threat was to be instantly disposed of.
Aileen stepped on the road, and Aidan knew it was his time to shine. He loaded his pistol quietly, sliding the blue bullets into the charger. Then, he threw himself in the middle of the street.
“Anyone called for a Conjurer?” Aidan cried out loud.
Things evolved rapidly. The men turned around and approached him to attack, their guns raring to fire. Aidan gritted his teeth and aimed, trying to align his pistol with the target’s forehead. One bullet, and it would be over with no victims or consequences.
Someone was faster. A muffled blast came from Aileen’s direction. A projectile ricocheted on the tallest man’s jacket, rolling miserably on the ground.
With that implicit declaration of war, the street turned into the perfect stage for a shooting, their guns roaring in the morning quiet. Aileen cowered in the alley, leaving Aidan alone in the core of the combat.
“Roseby!” The Commander’s voice echoed in his earbud. “Return to your position now!”
“Too late for that,’” Aidan thought.
They wouldn’t be in danger if Aileen didn’t step in with her dreadful aim. Aidan was confident in his sniping skills: he wouldn’t have missed the shot, and none of that would have happened.
He evaded the bullets, using any object he came across as a shield. Once he sank into the right mindset and his focus reached its peak, the world around Aidan became mist. His objective was the only lighthouse on the shore, an enemy to tear down no matter what.
Out of ammunition, the men threw their guns to the ground and drew closer, ready to fight with their fists. Aidan stowed away his pistol and sighed, trying to recall the good old times of his fistfights in high school.
Aileen fired again, barely grazing the helmet of one of the men.
“Don’t attack civilians, you idiot,” Aidan shouted at her without turning. There was a reason he favored working alone, though he hadn’t been bestowed with that luxury in years.
“What are you doing?!” Aileen scolded him. “That wasn’t part of the plan!”
Aidan smirked. That must be why he wasn’t popular among women, he thought. His urge to be in the spotlight overshadowed them. “Too late, sweetheart.”
“You’re a selfish prick.”
Humming in approval, Aidan cut the conversation short. He had more significant matters to address at the moment. He jumped in the center of the group, dodging every kick, taking advantage of the momentum to hurl his enemies to the ground without injuring them.
“Stop arguing,” Commander Farna ordered. “At least we have a decoy. Aileen, Nathan, the target is escaping; follow him. Roseby, keep the escort occupied.”
Aidan glimpsed past the human barricade. Their victim was running, chasing a fleeting minute of freedom while his lackeys put their lives on the line for him... typical of authorities. Being possessed by a Narmot didn’t add new personality traits; it merely pushed pre-existing flaws to the extreme.
Aileen reluctantly left the battleground and joined Nathan on their objective’s tracks. They walked past the sliding doors of the hotel, swallowed by the splendor of the hall. Aidan was alone with the escort now, his fists quavering for some action.
It wasn’t painless. Despite the falls, the received blows, the pushes, those men always stood up again. They seemed not to feel pain, the bruises on their arms nothing more than dreary tattoos, and continued striking relentlessly.
Aidan had a hunch about the circumstances but couldn’t do anything rash. He had no choice but to resist and wait for new orders to disregard. Ducking, blocking, reciprocating… The fight was endless, not likely to end any time soon.
Just as he feared he would be stuck in that loop forever, fated to punch and kick those men until his dying breath, the Commander spoke. “Roseby, I have good news. They’re all possessed as well.”
That made everything easier. Narmots could only take control of the deceased, turning corpses into soulless puppets. Aidan had seen enough in his life to know when to have qualms and when to let them go. “Gotcha, thanks.”
Aidan unholstered his pistol again and fired blindly, unloading his charger on the escort. Turquoise flames danced in the air and dissolved with a hiss, until all five men tumbled unconscious to the ground.
Aidan waited for the will-o-the-wisps to depart for good, purified by his bullets, then hid his weapon in the inner pocket of his uniform.
Three gunshots in the distance announced the death of their target. Aidan raised his gaze to see Aileen’s signal, both her feet on the banisters. Nathan was standing a few steps discreetly behind her.
Their job was done. As usual, everything ended too soon. The adrenaline rose in Aidan’s body like a raging bull; it made him feel alive for a gorgeous handful of seconds, only to vanish in the breeze.
“Mission complete,” the Commander declared. “No civilians were harmed in the process. Let’s return to base.”
Aidan was the first to run to his side, eager to go home. The others took their sweet time, wasting precious minutes to dispose of the bodies Aidan had left behind. In the years he had spent working at the Institute, he had failed to understand why: possessed bodies turned to ashes in an hour at most once purified, so why bother hiding them?
“You’ll pay for your bullshit,” Aileen hissed.
Aidan was about to counterattack, reminding her that she was nothing but a newbie compared to him. He didn’t have the chance, because the Commander caught him by the shoulder and forced him to turn.
“Roseby, let’s have a chat.”
Aidan followed the invisible route traced by his gaze. The cars parked along the street were covered in dents, their windows and rear-view mirrors smashed in a million pieces, and gooey substances dripped out of holes blown in the trash cans. A complete disaster, and it was his fault.
“Gladly,” Aidan lied.
His future didn’t look brilliant. He would be compelled to listen to the usual sermon and undergo some punishment. Nothing ever changed; the world was frozen since he had turned sixteen.
Commander Farna left without looking at him. Ah, yet another face filled with dismay… it was familiar. Aidan was almost attached to that kind of glare.
Writing with bandaged palms was hard. The three layers of cloth made Aidan’s fingers gauche, the pen slipping through them whenever he lost his focus. To think Nathan wore them on purpose to improve his grip on the gun… Aidan couldn’t disagree more.
“You forgot to sign here.” Flo pointed at an empty box, something Aidan had voluntarily skipped. “Commander Farna is more rigid than Commander Rowan. He won’t be lenient if you make a mistake in this report.”
“Thanks.” Aidan hurried to fill in the remaining gaps, handing in his data for the millionth time.
Frankly, it was embarrassing to admit he couldn’t recall who Commander Rowan was. The name rang a bell, but he failed to match it with any known face.
Flo sighed. “Aidan, right?” she asked. She had never read his name aloud before, and damn, it sounded so pretty in her voice. “How many Commanders have you worked for? I swear you belong to a different team every time I see you.”
Aidan weighed a few potential comebacks, ranging from a flirty “Oh, so you pay attention to what I do?” to a horrific “I’m too cool to stay in the same place for long.” He scrapped both options, afraid to make a fool of himself.
“Sensitive topic,” he simply said. The actual answer was humiliating, a number far too high for his fancy. Twenty-five, maybe? It might as well be fifty. He had stopped counting long ago.
It didn’t matter if others knew the truth about him. Every soldier in that building was painfully aware of the accidents Aidan caused on the daily, of the damage he inflicted to public and private property, forcing the boss to pay lots of money to patch things up. That’s why he was often bounced around teams, yet no man seemed able to keep him under control.
However, Flo was a particular case. She had stolen Aidan’s breath from the first meeting and was yet to give it back. She was a gust of fresh air waiting for him at the other end of the reception, used to people as problematic as him. Aidan didn’t want her to see the public calamity he was.
“You’ll get hurt someday,” Flo said.
Hurt? Aidan had dealt with Narmots since he was a child; he had learned how to wield a gun before his basic math. What could harm him?
“I’m not afraid,” Aidan said. “If death comes for me, it should know I’m ready to kick its ass.”
Flo laughed, and a cloud of butterflies fluttered in Aidan’s stomach. “You know, before I was transferred here, I worked for seven long years in Ophrys. I saw many soldiers like you. One stronger blow is all it took for their egos to perish.”
Aidan stared at her in utter incredulity. Met with his silence, Flo assumed he was done; she slid the form out of his hands and archived it, handing him a carbon copy. “Good luck, Aidan.”
Aidan could only nod.
He waited for the elevator in total shock. Familiar faces passed before his eyes, and some hands were raised in a greeting, but he didn’t respond. He walked to his room in a daze, his steps heavy and full of rage.
Only when he landed on his mattress did he remember how to breathe.
Curiously enough, Commander Farna didn’t sack Aidan on the spot.
The punishment was far worse, though. He would prefer to be whipped out of his mind, rather than spending hours in a room stacked with Commanders and higher-ups.
Sitting on the red velvet chair at the center of the Holy Court, Aidan prayed his misery would end quickly. In moments like that, when his employers were discussing his whole life and listing his mistakes one by one, Aidan didn’t crave anything more than oblivion.
“Roseby is a lost cause,” Commander Farna stated. “In the years he has served, he was assigned to twenty-one Commanders and sent back without fail in a week.” Holographic screens loaded with graphs about Aidan’s performance covered the wall behind him.
Twenty-one. More than Aidan believed. How many individuals worked at the Institute? Their ranks didn’t look that thick on the field, with most teams counting no more than five members.
“I think we all know why.” The person who spoke those words didn’t bother masking his disdain. It must be Commander Rowan, but although Aidan had worked with him barely a month prior, his features were blurry in his memory.
Farna retook the floor. “He acts on his own, shuns orders, disrespects his peers and supervisors, and wrecks everything he touches. The sum we had to spend to cover for his mistakes has too many zeros.”
“Not to mention the waste of ammo,” a third person stepped in from the opposite side of the room; Aidan couldn’t recognize them in the room’s dim light. “He can’t fight. He doesn’t know the meaning of efficiency. All he does is enter the strife and shoot down anything he sees.”
Hey, that was a shameless lie. Aidan was reckless, sure, and he lacked the luster provided by professional training (he had missed that phase, after all, and mainly counted on his reflexes to go by), but he was exceptional at taking down obstacles rapidly.
Farna laughed through gritted teeth, his mustache trembling with every breath. “His sloth in writing reports would also be worth debating. You should see the latest he handed in. He scribbled on the side of the page, drawing hearts next to the receptionist’s name, miss Florence—”
“Okay,” Aidan cut him off. The conversation started to delve into his privacy, and he refused to sit back and let a group of older men mock him any further. “Could you kindly stop talking about me like I wasn’t here?”
A tense stretch of silence fell onto the Court. Commander Farna’s eyes were blazing with rage, and if glares could kill, Aidan would likely have burnt to a crisp already. What did he even do to cause such deep-rooted hate in that man? He had no recollection, but he figured it must be something awful.
“My apologies, Roseby,” Farna taunted. “Your presence is so insignificant that I forgot you were with us.”
“Oh, please.” Aidan rolled his eyes while boisterous laughter echoed all around. Not that he wasn’t used to that whole scene, to be honest. It was just frustrating to be there again. “Why am I here?”
A tall man stood up from his chair. It was Colonel Reef, the highest-ranked soldier after the boss himself. Aidan squinted to read the name on his plate, and almost choked on his breath upon doing so.
“This is an official warning, Aidan Roseby.” His voice was sharper than a knife. “I believe we needn’t remind you of what happened to your mother. Since we were generous enough to fish you out of the rat den you lived in, you’d better show us some gratitude.”
A low blow. Aidan was well aware of his debt towards the Institute, of the heirloom left by his mother. Mentioning her without a real reason was simple cruelty, an evil slap to humiliate him. They wanted Aidan to crawl at their feet, work his life off, or die fighting for their cause.
“I’m doing my job,” Aidan mumbled.
“And a poor one, at that,” Commander Farna retorted. “If you hate orders so much, why don’t you quit? You can change jobs and free us from your presence like many others before you.”
Aidan’s lips curved in a bitter smile. Another sly strategy, masterfully woven manipulation to crush his pride. “I would if I could,” he said. “I have no other talent except for purifying Narmots. Few people know about Conjurers, and nobody would rely on independent ones. But you know this, don’t you?”
“Of course,” the Commander sneered. “I was trying to remind you how much you need us to survive.”
There was no way out.
Given his horrendous performance, Aidan was granted a week of suspension. His name was deleted from the list of available soldiers until the following Monday.
He spent his days in complete indolence. He left the coziness of his room only to eat his meals in the dining hall, and dedicated every other hour to workout. The hiatus itself was part of the punishment, a taste of Aidan's life without his job: a whole load of nothing.
Before heading to bed, Aidan fancied sitting on an armchair in the headquarters' hall. The Institute was an aseptic place, with milky-white walls and no odors whatsoever. Were it not for the unending chatter of soldiers and the echoing laughter, it wouldn't be hard to mistake it for a hospital.
Lost in his lucubrations, Aidan inspected his arm. The fire-red tattoo of his initiation still shone on his skin, though he hadn't used his powers in forever, unable to find them a meaningful purpose.
Conversely, some of his friends couldn't survive without them, like Aileen or Nathan. Aidan admired their devotion to the cause and the impeccable use of all means at hand to fulfill their duty.
The Patriarch had blessed both siblings with water manipulation, albeit not overly strong. Aileen abused her powers to the point she didn't even stir her coffee manually; Nathan was more modest, but Aidan had seen him ripple puddles at the enemy's feet more than once.
Aidan was different. Not because he felt superior or worthless, no. He simply found his talent to be less merciful and rather a curse: what positive use could fire have? Cauterizing wounds, at most.
A group of novices crossed the hall, bowing politely in Flo's direction. They were headed to the Cathedral where (if he remembered correctly) the Colonel was about to give a welcome speech.
It wasn't a thrilling experience. A video presentation displayed an ancient tale, a creation myth that celebrated the Institute's deity: the Patriarch, a man who once found the way to slay Narmots and used it to save his comrades.
Aidan had slept through it. To be fair, he had done the same on the day of his initiation, waking up just in time to be injected with the serum.
Maybe he should spectate the ceremony for once. He rarely attended, overwhelmed by the hope shining in the newcomers' eyes. He knew it would have been gone the next time they'd meet.
Aidan used to be like them; he believed he would change the world little by little. But the life of a Conjurer was crueler than it seemed, and guns and actions weren't but the tip of the iceberg.
With such a maelstrom of thoughts in his head, Aidan fell asleep on the armchair, lulled by the muffled buzz of the electrical system. He didn't come to his senses until morning, despite the coming and going of soldiers through the hall.
Fighting side by side with the man who had humiliated him before the Holy Court left a bitter aftertaste on Aidan's tongue. He wasn't sure whether not being moved to another team was a blessing or a curse.
"Wait for my signal," Commander Farna said.
Aidan loaded his pistol. Crouching in the corridor, the entire squad was ready to fire as soon as the victim stepped into the living room. Nathan was close enough to render Aidan breathless, the silhouette of his gun pressing painfully against Aidan's hip.
"Where's your sis?" Aidan took advantage of that interval to converse, his voice lowered to a whisper. The woman they were waiting for was taking her time, and he detested sitting idly. "I almost miss someone barking at me."
Nathan sighed. "She wouldn't, if you didn't try to step over her," he said. "Since when do you care about climbing ranks? I thought you were desperate for an expulsion."
Climbing ranks? If anything, Aidan sunk deeper in the hierarchy with each mistake he made. "Nah, I don't care about promotions. I just want to avoid senseless victims."
Nathan opened his mouth to respond, instantly shut up by the Commander's glare. "Quiet, you two. She's coming."
Aidan inhaled sharply. He thought about the dawn outside, the sun rising above the hills and painting the desert around Thristle in a thousand colors. He released the safety catch and held his breath.
A crash announced their target's arrival. The glass door to the kitchen shattered, shards scattering all over the floor like lethal crumbs. The woman crawled through the opening, her limp arms and legs covered in blood.
"What the fuck?!" Aidan managed to exclaim before everything spiraled into insanity.
The woman rose on her shaky legs, prey to unbearable pain. Her hand was pressed firmly over her eye, while a turquoise flame crackled in the other pupil, flickering with every spasm of her body.
"Something's off," Aidan commented.
"Nothing new, Roseby," Commander Farna cut in. He loaded his gun and aimed at the woman behind the corner. "You've never seen a body while it's being possessed. The flame is the Narmot trying to overtake her mind. Now stop thinking and fire!"
No, something didn't add up. Aidan had fought against Narmots since he was ten, and he had never witnessed such a phenomenon. The spirits controlled dead bodies, regardless if freshly killed or almost rotten. The Institute had been on that lady's back for a week; how could the possession be happening now?
Commander Farna blasted his gun. Though he acted bossy in front of his soldiers, his aim was deplorable. His bullets missed the target, rebounding on the floor and carving holes in the furniture.
"How can it be?" Aidan insisted. "What you're saying would make sense if she just died. But I'm sure we were given her name a week ago, so why—"
A punch to his abdomen stole the words out of his mouth. Commander Farna spun his wrist, pressing the stock of his gun firmly against Aidan's body. "You're paid to shoot, not to think," he hissed.
"This makes things even more suspicious," Aidan thought. He didn't have time to protest any further, because the Commander was already hurrying toward the woman.
She lifted her chin, her brow furrowing in a pained grimace. The woman seemed to be kept in a chokehold, on the brink of drowning. She let her arms fall weakly to her side, thus showing the eye she had been hiding.
It was… normal. No trace of fire burned inside it, only tears overflowing. It was human and alive. "He…" the woman wailed. "He…"
"Fire!" Commander Farna ordered. Nathan raised his pistol, ready to obey.
Aidan maintained eye contact with the woman, attempting to read her lip movements and decode her plea. "Help me."
This changed everything.
"Sorry, pal," Aidan said. Mentally thanking his reflexes, he kicked Nathan in the shin, easily disarming him when he bent forward in pain. "I can't let you do this."
"What was that for?!" Nathan lamented.
Aidan pointed his finger at the lady. "She's alive, Nathan. She's begging for help."
The primary issue was the Commander. Conscious of his lack of skills, the man had abandoned his gun to unsheathe his blade. The knife's edge reflected the sun rays filtering through the window in an eerie glow.
"Help," the woman repeated. She wobbled, stumbling on her feet and almost falling with that simple motion.
Aidan might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, yet he quickly caught in on the situation. For some absurd reason, the Narmot was trying to overtake a living body, and the woman was fighting an internal battle to resist it.
They couldn't harm her. With a dash, Aidan leaped between her and the Commander. "Stop," he said. "Don't kill her."
"Out of my way," Commander Farna barked. Pure hatred flared in his eyes, an intense emotion that pinned Aidan to the ground. He now understood why some men had gained power without any real skill to back them up: intimidation was a tricky beast to tame.
The woman recoiled some more. The trembling of her body increased, much like her distressed howls. Aidan could only imagine how it must feel to have a monster threatening to eat you from inside out, and the terror of sinking into oblivion.
How could a soldier be less if a simple civilian was so brave? Aidan unabashedly aimed his pistol at the Commander. He sensed the weight of Nathan's scolding glare but ignored it. "Hurting civilians isn't my policy."
"She's not a civilian," the Commander retorted. "Now get the hell out of here before I stick this blade in your chest, Roseby. I'm not fooling around."
Aidan was born with the awful habit of picturing everything he was told in his mind. So there it was, the scene of a blade piercing his body in a gurgle of blood, painted in vivid colors.
He shook his head, his stomach twisting in disgust. There was no time to hesitate when an innocent life was at stake.
"Our protocol puts utmost priority on civilian lives." Aidan had heard that line from the boss multiple times. "This woman is alive, so we must guarantee her safety."
A blaring scream tore Aidan's eardrums apart. The woman cried out loud in a broken voice, her arms wrapped around her chest, nails clawing at the flesh. She jerked to the floor with the high-pitched whine of a tortured beast.
"Let me help you," Aidan offered. He knelt at her side, his index finger hovering over the trigger in case the Commander had any unwise ideas. He rested a hand on the lady's shoulders, immediately quivering: she was icy cold, not dissimilar from a corpse. Still…
As if reading his thoughts, the woman looked up at him. Her human eye didn't stop tearing, the brow wrinkling in terror. The other pupil gleamed with a cold fire, a flame incapable of burning.
Time froze for a long second. Aidan was alone in that space, joined with his confusion and the woman's anguish. Could he do something to save her, or was it a futile endeavor?
It all collapsed in a snap.
The lady bounced up and threw herself against the balcony window. Hit by the inhuman strength of the Narmot, the glass cracked and shattered under her weight.
Aidan's heart throbbed as the woman fell at crazy speed from the twenty-fifth floor, swallowed by the wind's fierceness. "Since it failed to possess her, it chose to kill her?" Aidan brooded. "Then why couldn't it kill her first?"
A second punch brought him to silence. Caught off guard, Aidan bit his tongue in the impact, his legs giving in. Commander Farna sheathed his blade, pouring his fury onto the soldier.
"You're dead meat, I swear," he snarled. "Your disobedience has pissed me off for good. You'd better pack your things when we get back, because you're through!"
Aidan gulped. He had no other place to call home nor a way to survive. Once tossed out of the Institute, how long would it take for him to die of hunger like a rat? His mother wouldn't be proud of him.
"Mission failed," the Commander mumbled into the transceiver. He gestured for Nathan to come closer. "Streames, clean up our tracks. Some missions don't go well. We need to accept it."
Aidan took a deep breath. If everything was lost, he might as well go down with the whole ship. "Sorry, Commander, but that's idiotic reasoning."
"Roseby," the man roared, exasperated. "I swear to the Patriarch's name that I'll kill you with my own hands if you do something stupid."
Fascinating. Aidan would love to see him try. Commander Farna wouldn't last long in a one-on-one against him, judging from his aim.
But he had higher priorities at the moment. If he couldn't save the woman's life, he could at least prevent more victims from surging by purifying the lost Narmot.
Aidan rushed to the balcony, the glass shards creaking under his boots. How long did it take for a body to fall from that height? Well, he was about to find out.
Nathan read his intentions. "Aidan, no!"
It was too late. With his eyes shut to fight back the fear and his breath under control to chase away his bad thoughts, Aidan jumped through the hole.
The sensation of floating freely in the air, with the wind's howling churning in his ears and the push of gravity numbing his senses... A fool may call it freedom.
Aidan lost track of time, lost in the void in breathless reverence. When the ground was close, he blinked to see the scene through his tears: the woman's body lay motionless amidst the parked cars, in a bloody puddle.
A crowd of busybodies gathered around the corpse. Someone was bent over the victim in a desperate attempt at bringing her round, others were panicking, and a few people had their gazes set on Aidan, waiting with bated breath for his moment to crash.
Aidan was patient until the very last instant. Then, he forced air through his lungs and focused his energies on the asphalt. His arm began to tickle, the tattoo on his skin glowed faintly, and fickle fire appeared.
Just a tiny flame would be enough, he thought. A spark strong enough to propel him out of the fall, thrusting him to a smoother landing. If it worked in movies, it would be alright: wasn't that similar to how jet packs were made?
He realized his mistake late. Aidan couldn't control powerful fire to fulfill his ambitious concept, and all he achieved was embarrassing himself. A man crashing down a skyscraper with a hand engulfed by flames... what a hero!
Maybe it wouldn't be horrible to die like that; certainly better than waiting for hunger to devour his stomach or for some illness to reap his life on the streets. Perhaps, if Aidan died there, his epitaph would be kinder. Assuming the Institute bothered burying the disobeying underlings, that is.
Salvation came in the form of a breeze. A gentle wind softly defeated the currents whipping Aidan's back, yet aggressive enough to push him off route and arrest his fall.
The world whirled as Aidan was carried elsewhere, all things floating in a bubble. His body hit the roughness of the asphalt, and he rolled painfully for a few feet.
When he regained control over his limbs, Aidan did a quick check-up. Every breath sent painful waves through his chest; at least a couple of ribs seemed to be cracked. Arms and legs were dotted with bruises, scratches, and dirt. His plunge had dented two cars.
At least he didn't die.
Mustering strength he didn't know he possessed, Aidan stood up. He ignored everything, from the pestering ring in his ears to the sharp pain in his torso, and returned to the crime scene.
The woman rose to her feet under the crowd's baffled gazes. Aidan couldn't decipher the people's words, the sounds muffled in his hazy mind. It wasn't difficult to imagine, though: how could she be alive?
She wasn't, not anymore. Aidan raised his pistol, thanking whatever guardian deity had kept it safe from the fall, and shot the woman. The bullet pierced her chest before blasting in a turquoise cloud.
Life fled from the woman's eyes as she sank to the ground. A will-o-the-wisp danced in the air and evaporated, marking the factual end of Aidan's mission. The Narmot was gone, and so was that stranger.
Dozens of shocked eyes turned to Aidan. He stowed away the pistol with feigned nonchalance. In their eyes, he technically had just committed murder in broad daylight. The average citizen wasn't familiar with Narmots and considered the Institute to be a bunch of weirdos or perhaps a cult.
"Forget what you saw," Aidan said. He combed his hair with his fingertips, smiling at the cameras. If he really had to go viral, he wanted to look great. "It's not what it looks like."
"Sir, a question…."
Aidan never got to hear what the journalist wanted to ask. A pair of calloused hands grabbed his shoulders, forcibly removing him from the crowd. His back was met with a wall, the Commander's flustered face spitting right against his nose.
"Roseby!" His voice reeked of unparalleled fury. "Recite rule number three."
Aidan's instinct told him just what it was; nonetheless, he didn't want to repeat it. It was akin to stating his insubordination aloud. "Sir...."
"Recite. That rule." Commander Farna punctuated every word with a punch at Aidan's gut. "Do it."
Aidan coughed, his chest on fire from the cracked ribs and the strength of the punches. "A Commander's authority," another coughing fit shook his shoulders, "is absolute and indisputable. Soldiers must… respect their chief's decisions."
The fact an endless list of rules existed didn't mean, to Aidan, that all of them had to be observed. As a teenager, he had joined the Institute but had held dear his moral integrity. He wouldn't bend his head before an honorless codex.
"What's your rank, Roseby?" Commander Farna spat, leaving a white stain on the tip of Aidan's boot. "And what's mine? Remind me."
Aidan shuddered. He hoped his acting skills hadn't abandoned him yet, and that he was somehow masking his revulsion. Cleansing his shoes would consume most of his day, assuming he would get to see a new tomorrow.
"I'm a simple soldier," Aidan repeated mechanically. "And you're a Commander."
Commander Farna threw another punch. His knuckles sank into Aidan's cheek, etching a purple bruise in his skin. "Then why don't you listen to a word I say?!"
And at that point, Aidan decided he had enough.
"Because I'm a dumbass, is that what you wanna hear?" he provoked.
Aidan poured the remaining strength into his arms and pushed the man away with a heavy huff. "But what can you do, sir? You reminded me the other day. You hate me, but you can't discharge me. You have no power."
"What did you just say?" The Commander's glare grew vacant. Compared to the anger of a second before, the sudden absence of emotion was even spookier.
"They've driven me around twenty-one groups. I've seen soldiers punished and executed for lesser infractions." Aidan marched proudly, staring at the man with no uncertainty in his steps. "For some reason, your boss doesn't want to get rid of me. And you gotta accept it."
The Commander didn't object. He nodded, lips shut tight and furrowed eyebrows, and left in a hurry.
And Aidan knew the truth in the absence of a reply, in the silent acceptance of his rebellion. He had bitten more than he could chew.