Fate Versus Fiction [Ironic ║ Ryees]

[Ryees]

Sirrus leaned against the window frame, peering out of the carriage at the clouds beneath. A pair of Pegasi trotted lightly ahead of the black-lacquered carriage that held him and his drop squad.

How has it come to this?

A hand touched his shoulder and he turned his head to see Mikael's face, grave as always, but now tinged with something softer; concern, by the way his eyes scanned his commander's face. Sirrus gave a small shake of his head. Mikael's hand fell away and the man leaned away back to the quiet conversation going on between the other four men in the carriage.

One and all, those six men were geared in fitted plate. The back of their armor held telescoping pods of steel set over the shoulder blades—when their wings extended, those plats would telescope out and fit over the ridges of their wings, protecting the more delicate bones that made up the support of their wings. Each had a sword propped up beside them, plain looking in comparison to the red velvet and silver trim of the carriage's interior. Tools that were meant to be coated in blood and viscera needed no finery. And those blades, surely, would be taking their baths all too soon.

All too soon. The thought echoed hollowly in Sirrus' mind. It had barely been six years since he had left his earthbound academy, and barely five since a light from the heavens had pierced the ceiling of his atelier and allowed entry of the divine. Of course he had accepted that offer—what freshly-graduated magus would ever decline what to him sounded like an internship as an angel? That his propensity for sword-magic and combat tactics had carried him so far, so quickly, he never would have guessed, but he did guess that someone higher up the chain of command had expected exactly that. Sirrus had spent enough time in the heavens since then to know that the purported omniscience of God was not a result of him being all-knowing and all-seeing, but rather the result of a bureaucracy of seers and prophets that predicted the outcome of events as they saw them. Sirrus had yet to see a wrong prediction come from them.

Through his leather gloves, he thumbed the ring bearing the crest of Ilvertahss. First and foremost of the magical academies in earth's underground magical network, he had been at the top of his class with very little by way of rivals for all six years of his study there. Some part of him remembered a face, a name, someone that had challenged him, pushed him, made him into the focused and cutthroat battle-scholar he was today, but he shoved those thoughts away. It would be harder to put a sword through the heart of someone he knew.

He felt his balance shift, pulling him from his thoughts, and his eyes refocused out the window. The clouds rushed upwards as they dipped down, piercing the veil of the clouds in the mid-afternoon sun with a bar of sunlight guiding them downward. Outside, he could see similar shafts of divine guidance pierce through, a wing-drawn carriage following each one down to the ground.

When Sirrus' hand had found his sword, he did not recall, but his grip on it was white-knuckled. Responsibility held him fast. He would perform his tasks as told. But that did not mean he had to like it.

---

The first days of Heaven's assault on earth were fast-paced and hectic. Unlike any terrestrial threat, none of the world's military organizations had any ability to prepare from a bombardment of actual, factual angels—"Valkyries" as they had been dubbed very shortly after their appearance—clad in mystical plate and wielding blades bearing the holy wrath of Heaven in their edges. Major bases and those with anti-air capabilities were targeted first by those first Valkyries to break the cloud cover, allowing for the massive skyships containing ground troops to safely land in major metropolitan areas around the globe. Bearing with longbows that fired arrows bathed in sunlight, blades edged in Heaven's spite, and armor as protective as their faithful convictions, it was barely a week before the majority of combat had ceased. World leaders and heads of state were imprisoned and taken skyward, those who were unclean and unholy were slaughtered; those who were true to the faith of Heaven were spared, but subjugated, told they would be safer within the sheltering arms of God than in any man-made structure.

Those who resisted, died. Some of those who did not resist died. But after the first day of warfare, most stopped resisting.

Man's news networks ran headlines at the behest of their angelic overseers, urging people to stay calm and listen to the orders given to them by any bearing heaven's seal. Their cooperation was their best outlet to survival, they said.

Those networks were not the only ones airing bulletins and information, though; on the third day, a covert message was sent out on the deep web by a group of survivors in the French Alps. Encoded and distributed with great care, it sneaked along the information waves to other operatives throughout the world that had taken to finding a way to fight back. Referred to as "Seedlines," these information channels were buried deeply enough in the channels that sent them or hidden in plain enough sight that they avoided the wrong sort of attention. The Seedlines bore fruit, and by the end of the first week, a resistance had formed.

---

Six horses clopped down Main Street of the small town that, a week ago, had been Hammondsport, New York. Lost in the upstate back lands, its barely 700 initial residents had been deemed low priority, near the bottom of the list of towns necessary to subjugate. Now, the houses were clearly full-up on refugees and stragglers who thought that a town so far away from the city centers would be a safe place for them to live their lives.

Mikael's voice echoed out powerfully, reading from the scroll as he had so many times now. Sirrus barely heard him, his eyes instead scanning windows and cars for signs of movement in the streets that, save for the angels, were empty.

"The searching light of Heaven has come to this town bearing mercy! This earth was given to you in Grace, and squandered! We come now to relieve you of the responsibilities your kind has clearly shirked! Those who come forth will be spared; those who repent will be spared; those who are pure of heart in God's eyes will be spared! Those who will not submit to the Divine will be relieved of their wasteful sin, taken back to the loving arms of their Creator to be born anew in an image less wasteful, less sinful, and returned to the image of Man that God created so man millennia ago!"

In unison, the angels drew weapons; two with long halberds swung their horses about the previously two-by-three column, taking up lancer guard positions. The two men remaining in back nocked arrows and held their bows ready, brace at identical angels across their saddlebows. Sirrus and Mikael each took a step ahead, just between the lancemen, and drew their swords, resting their long, two-handed blades across their knees.

They would wait ten minutes in that formation for any who would show themselves. Saint James' church, just up the street, would be their destination, wherein they could repent at their altars before the attention of God. After that, the angels would travel door to door, and any they found inside...

Sirrus swallowed the urge to vomit. Bloodshed was not why he had pledged to his life.

 

[Ironic]

Amora pursed her lips together, pressing a secure index finger against them to gesture the group to quiet down. Men and woman of many ages huddled together in the basement of what used to be a local soup kitchen that operated on Monday’s. Startled hues hastily scanned the cemented cellar walls, listening to the male Valkyrie robustly speak of his prophecy and orders. The body heat in the room prompted the musky scent of the underbuilding to become more prominent, some individuals unable to hold their cough as it flared their allergies.

Various emotions could be sensed in the aura, and Amora endeavored to ease each one. Her iridescent bow rested on the dusty ground next to her left heel, hand sagging adjacent to prepare for the nastiest situation. A black quiver adorned with golden-brown swirls rested on her backside, wielding arrows that varied in color and enchanted potentials.

Once the prosperous voice of the Valkyrie ceased, the group murmured to one another regarding what had been said. “Shhh…” Amora reminded them, some attentive to her words while others unheeded her cautions.

“Should we step forward? He even said we could have our lives spared!” An elder woman asked Aroma, her lips curling inwards as she bared no teeth, her frail body tremoring from her Parkinson’s disease. This sparked the group to chatter again, agreeing or disagreeing with her suggestion.

After graduating the Academy, top female in her class, Aroma was unaware of what her future would turn out to be. She knew she held potential and was aware of her smug demeanor towards her skills. No one could wield a bow and arrow like she could, let alone control the heightened enchanted abilities she brought to her weapon of choice. Her nickname wasn’t the Celestial Archer for nothing, as she possessed twelve abilities to her projectiles.

Being offered a position in the army, she accepted, seeking something more adventure-filled and rewarding. Instead of being the sniper of a gun, she was the sniper of the bow and arrow. Traveling the world, she would help assist in taking down enemy parameters, many surrendering at their feet, waving their white flags for mercy. The corrupt side of Earth was shown to her on a day-to-day basis, but there was always another side to war and greed. The guiltless individuals. They were killed and disciplined just for being bystanders in the proceedings. Amora’s heart called for her to help those in need, providing food, shelter, and clothing to help rebuild their lives. She couldn’t save everyone, but each death of an opponent was for those who had fallen.

She was stationed in Hammondsport, New York, when the Valkyries made their march in God’s name, and instinctively took it upon herself to gather those who needed guidance. She was their light, the one they looked to for justice. Admittedly, this was a battle she wasn’t accustomed to, but her stance stayed positive and bright-eyed.

I can’t let them down

She would remind herself, even if it was okay to admit she was scared too.

“No, stay where you are, and those of you who decide to leave put those who want to live at risk!” Her voice was harsh, but she needed to be to get the point across. They had to stick together, fear couldn’t win them over. “Be strong. We can do this.”

“But I’m scared, I don’t want to fight!” A young boy cried out, his mother cradling him closely to simmer his whimpers.

“Then I will fight for you.” Readily she gripped her bow to signify she wasn’t afraid, but if only they knew she was. She had to be an example to them. Just as the group mumbled furthermore, an unanticipated boom shook from upstairs, letting the people down below know the fallen angels have made their way to investigate the damned and the saved.

Amora’s grip on her weapon turned into an aggressive one; the battle-ready grip. When her constant pleads for those to be quiet wouldn’t work, the Valkyries upstairs certainly did its justice. Not even a single exhale could be heard. Eyes looked at the ceiling, hearing the clanking of footsteps overtop of them, some towards the door, waiting for it to burst open to show what the radio station and news reporters talked about for weeks.

“Stay calm…” Was she telling this to the others or to herself?

 

[Ryees]

Ahem. Where were we? I was staring at pretty art.

Sirrus' lips tightened as Mikael's steel heel slammed through the doorknob of the public works building. As Mikael stepped aside, Sirrus slunk in around the doorframe, pulling in against the right wall as Mikael followed and fanned left. The room, a cafeteria by the look of it, appeared empty. Sirrus cast his eyes around; a doorway along the far wall, and another just next to the half-window that separated the kitchen from the tables. A soup kitchen then. A good place to hide, with food and water stored here. High likelihood of a holdout. Sirrus moved towards the kitchen, pressing his back to the wall at the edge of the opening and peering sidelong inside, glancing underneath the counters as best he could. Seeing that there was no under counter area, he bent over it, looking left and right. No one.

Mikael moved towards the other door—oh dear, that won't do. Sirrus you're going to want to stop him from doing that.

What? Why? The faster we clear these houses, the faster—

There lies the plot, idiot. Don't you recognize a flag when you see one? That door basically screams, "Basement where the children fodder are hiding." And do you really want Mikael to be the one that finds them?

I see that face. I thought not.

Sirrus bent back into the main room and called out, "Clear!" in a strong voice. Mikael paused, halfway to the doorway.

"We still have to"—he cut off as Sirrus rose a hand.

"I'm sure it's just a cellar. Go see if the next house is open, get ready to do the same thing we had to here." At Mikael's nod, Sirrus let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. Mikael did not seem to quite understand the order, but the man had been a faithful soldier and friend since Sirrus had been given command. Despite the differences in their age and Mikael's obvious seniority—the angel was nearly three-hundred, now—Mikael had always acted true to his station. Whether or not he had initially had any faith in Sirrus was well offset by the faith he had in the Divine. The order for Sirrus to take over this squad had been delivered by hand from that lofty summit, and that had always been good enough for Mikael. The fact that the two had formed a friendship and a bond in arms just made working with him all the more pleasant.

Sirrus approached the door, pressing his back against the wall next to it. You better be right about this.

Have I ever steered you wrong before?

Sirrus paused, glancing skywards with a really annoying expression. You know that wasn't my fault. I only know what I'm going to write for you, you know I had no control over that.

It was with a heavy sigh that Sirrus pressed an ear to the door. Stilling his breath, he listened. Silence. Stillness. Nothing but the rushing of blood in his ears to fill the silence. His trust wavered for a moment, but he steeled himself. His right shoulder shifted; the plates of armor fastened to his pauldrons telescoped out as a dazzling white array of feathers rippled out through the previously covered gap in his armor. Those telescoping plates settled neatly over the bones of his wings, tailor-fit to his exact physiology. The wings had been foreign to him once, a gift of the Divine for his ascension, but it was with natural ease that he curled that wing forward now, taking hold of one of the flattened steel handles in the bottom of the plates. Curled defensively around from the back of his shoulder, his steel-clad wing formed a flexible shield that moved naturally with his arm.

That shield held to the fore, he propped his sword quietly against the wall. In the cramped staircase and the undoubtedly tight quarters of the cellar, the full-length montante, over five feet in length, would serve him no purpose. He eased the hammer at his belt from its leather loop, the polished steel spike that made up the back of the brutal head glinting wickedly in the low light. Hammer held close at his palm, he used his fingers to loosely twist the knob. Free of the door frame, he used the pick end to pull on the knob, and the door creaked open. He held his shield vertically in the space of the door, covering all but his greaved ankles.

He nudged the door open the rest of the way, and started down the stairs.