Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #17 – Mosh Pit

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three more heads exploded, in a shower of gore, metal, glass. The neons flickered, the silhouette in the distance stepped forward, violin in hand, prancing on the asphalt with light steps, under the glitched sky of Aralu. The entire vanguard annihilated, in the span of a few seconds, under the gaze of thirty-two other Peacekeepers.

And it was chaos.

And screams.

And steps, desperate steps.

Leaving the Eye behind.

Leaving everything behind.

Weapons.

Helmets.

Guns.

First two. Then five. Then ten. Then twenty. The surviving Peacekeepers overtaken by the frenzy, none of them paid enough to die. None of them willing to face her. To face the devil. The phantom herself. The terrorist who killed sixty-five people in cold blood.

Mimi LeFou.

Kryzalid.

Had entered the stage.

Oleander crunched her fist, her tendrils expanded all of a sudden, zeroed on the first Peacekeeper that tried to run beyond her.

Cracked their helmet.

Pierced their face.

Sucked their blood, their brain.

Their water.

Other tendrils extended, hunting the fugitives. A second died in her spires. A third. A fourth. Till the remaining twenty-eight Peacekeepers stopped, frozen in place. On one side, the mad violinist. On the other side, their merciless rhizome commander. On both sides, death. Death by headxplosion. Death by draining. Yet, death. Oleander’s voice thundered, overcame the screams.

“You good-for-nothing chickens, what the heck is wrong with you? Retreat is not an option!”

“But… but… Commander, have you seen…”

One of the twenty-eight tried to talk, their voice coming out distorted from the speakers in their helmet. Not for long. Oleander’s tendril pierced their throat, from side to side. The words died in their mouth. And blood poured on the tarmac.

Twenty-seven.

Silence fell. Oleander took center stage.

“I’ll deal with her together with Agave. You cover for us. Shoot that bastard only if you have a clear line of sight. Mow down whoever comes close. Kill every civilian that wanders around. No. Exceptions, or I’ll drink you all.”

She stared at them, at all of them, from left to right, from up to down. Their eyes hidden by the visors, yet transparent to her sight. Fear. That was the one way to control them. Fear. So, since fear what they needed, fear was what she’d give them.

“Oh, and if any of you calls HQ, I’ll murder all of you too. All. Of you. Be warned.”

She raised her hand, a sharp plasma katar held in her fingers. Then, the first step forward. The Peacekeepers glanced at her from a distance, as she walked through the rubble, as she reached the metal fence, slashed it open with her blade. Immediately behind her stood the second rhizome, the one with short white hair. Not a word. Not a remark. Only elegant steps, closely following the lead, with her thorn-like blades emerging from her wrists. Kryzalid tasted the air, clicked her tongue. Two sets of feet walking towards her. Without fear. Without hesitation. They had to be rhizomes. She tried to focus on the rhythm of their steps. Who was it? Felce? Primula again? Agave? Captain Commander Lily? Or another plant altogether? She wished her eyes could still see. Because, now, it was again unpacking time. Her fingers danced on the strings, till they found the correct position. It didn’t need to be perfect, just good enough to hit that narrow resonance – the one that made rhizome armors explode and suits rip off. Maybe, if there were cameras around, she could have connected to them with her neural wires to watch the videos later. That would have greatly put her in the mood for when she had to drain Lacrima of her extra lymph. Just a little incentive to turn her on a tiny bit more more. Her bow plucked the strings, the dissonant melody covering the activation frequency, the one that made those uniform blast into pieces, in a blaze of glory. She played and played, as the steps got closer, slowly, like predators gauging the distance from the pray. Notes, music, the score followed by heart. Suddenly, she stopped. Her ears. Didn’t pick up. Any cracks. Any ripping sound. No effect. No effect at all. Kryzalid groaned with disappointment. Still, she performed a curtsy, licked her lips.

“Brand new equipment? Oh nice, nice! Your bosses can learn from their mistakes, after all!”

That’s when their pace picked up, their steps faster and faster. They knew it. That Kryzalid, the mighty Kryzalid, was a sitting duck without the right destruction frequency. Oleander thrusted her weapon forward, pulled the trigger to activate the plasma discharge. Kryzalid avoided the assault with a last second dodge, evading the blade by a hair, leaping several meters back. The fence was behind her, still far enough to let her maneuver. She shifted the position of her hand, slipped her ring finger on the second string, the bow gliding again in and out. A horizontal slice came for her neck, the disturbance of the air giving it away. Kryzalid leapt back once again, now only a couple meters at most from the fence. She adjusted the position of her index, tried once more. At the same time, she noticed it. Another disturbance, on her left side. She ducked, following her instinct, right as two blades almost decapitated her. Kryzalid clicked her tongue, used her music to echolocate. One rhizome on her left. One in front of her. The fence behind. Not an optimal position at all. But that’s exactly what she was waiting for. Focusing the opponents on her, making them ignore everything else.

Such as the explosives scattered through the rubble.

Explosives wired to go off.

When she played.

Exactly.

That melody.

The bow grazed the strings once again.

And the first deflagration thundered in the crater.

Oleander’s vine scarf expanded, covered her back like a shield, as her legs trembled. Agave lost her balance, fell to the ground, rolled on the asphalt, before raising on all four. In that moment, Kryzalid thrusted forward. The tip of her bow hit Oleander’s throat, caused her to gasp in pain. Then, she turned around, swinging her improvised weapon like a baseball bat, hitting the rhizome on the side not protected by her shield of tendrils, forcing her to retreat, giving the assailant precious room to breathe. Room already taken by Agave, swiping her blades in a deadly cross. Kryzalid didn’t notice her in time, stumbled, tried an imperfect dodge. The wooden blades slashed her cape, cut through the fabric, through her skin, right at the hips level. She let out a groan, as she landed badly on the ground, blood pouring out of the gash – a gash running from her belly button to her left thigh, in one, continuous, jagged line. Yet, that was fine. That was absolutely fine. Because it was the opening she needed.

A metallic noise, from the top of the fence. Oleander looked up. Agave too, feeling something wrong. Something unexpected.

And they saw it.

A shadow

under the glitched sky

in front of a broken picture

of the Moon.

Black on black.

White hair spread.

A rose for an eye.

And a sword

darker than the night.

Oleander dashed back, gained some distance. Agave stepped too, getting away from Kryzalid as quickly as she could. Only for Lacrima to land just between them. And slash them down with an elegant blow. Oleander’s chest armor absorbed the impact, cracked under the pressure, a deep diagonal cut through it. Its integrity was not compromised yet, just shallow damage. But the emotional impact… that went deeper. She blinked, stared at the newcomer in awe. Those platform shoes made her look taller and more imposing than she was supposed to be, yet, her traits were almost exactly the same as…

“Lily…?”

She shook her head. That wasn’t possible. Captain Commander Lily was unique. There was no other rhizome in her batch. So how? How come she looked so much like her?! She gritted her teeth, growled at the unknown rhizome.

“W… who are you?”

A red eye shone in the darkness of the crater, the same color as the rose coming out of her socket. An eye that showed no patience. No remorse. No mercy.

“Lacrima. My name… is Lacrima!”

A sudden slash, aimed at Oleander’s neck. Her vines deflected the sword, some of them cut cleanly in the assault, plant matter and lymph sprayed around. Agave felt like paralyzed, eyeing Kryzalid on her right side, the unknown rhizome called Lacrima on her left. An impasse, a deadlock. Aiming at one meant opening her side to the other, unless…

“Agave, you take on the terrorist! I’ll deal with this one!”

Agave’s heart raced, color returned to her face. Oleander. She had the situation under control. As long as Oleander was with her, she could do everything. So, she nodded, as hope flowed through her veins once more. And she turned towards Kryzalid, now sure about her goal. Only to be welcomed by an unexpected smile.

“Agave… Agave… ah, right! The crybaby always sticking to that red-haired birch that sucked the Commander’s tits! Ha! Now I remember you.”

Kryzalid’s fingers slid on her strings again, adjusted their position once more. Agave. A close range specialist, a fast rhizome that relied on her reversed wrist thorn blades. The ‘praying mantis’, as they used to call her. Not one of many words, and the few she spoke were as sharp as her weapons. Yes, Agave. That name awakened Mimi’s memories from her time in the Corps, in a soup of information she had gathered back then. And, if that really was Agave, the other one could only be Oleander. That voice. That bossy tone. All matched. But, if that was really Oleander, then…

“Laccy, don’t let her grab you at any cost, alright?!”

Lacrima’s eye turned quickly towards Kryzalid, gave her a quick nod, as if to say ‘understood’. She didn’t know why, but that was enough. She would have learned the rest by fighting. Yet, the red-haired rhizome seemed calm, almost too calm. That wasn’t a good sign. Lacrima steeled her guard, let her arm vines free, while walking around the crater, keeping the fence behind her. Oleander mimicked her movements, raised her weapon. Then, she thrusted forward, using her knife like a spear. Lacrima deflected the blow, directed it to hit the metallic mesh instead. The iron bars melted as soon as the katar pierced them, leaving a huge gap in the structure. Oleander spun around, unleashed a roundhouse kick. Lacrima fell for it, her shoulder slammed by the impact, her balance compromised. Just enough for Oleander’s katar to force its way in. Lacrima’s blade intercepted it before it could strike, the plasma sparks illuminating her face, her black blade wailing, screaming, cracks spreading all over its surface. A desperate spurt, the weapon deflected, its tip burning the ground. Lacrima sputtered, her hands shaking, her eye rose dripping lymph. Overproduction. That damn overproduction. She sneezed. Sneezed again, trying not to lose her concentration. Worst moment for her rhizome allergy to kick in. On the other side, Oleander was studying her, looking at her. A miniature of Lily. Same features, though their roses were different… and Lily was at least thirty centimeters taller. And bustier. And more awesome. And soft. And… and… no, she had to focus. There was no Lily in her future, if that Lacrima killed her there. Focus, Oleander, focus. Use your trump card. That will teach her.

Yes, that will be enough.

The vines around her neck turned from a scarf into a collar formation, only to cover her shoulder pads immediately after. And spawn new tendrils from her neck. Tendrils that looked more like hollow bamboo canes. Lacrima tuned her stance, shifted the weight on her forefoot. Her opponent’s weapon had a shorter reach for how deadly it was, but she couldn’t allow it to impact with her blade again, lest it shattered it. She drew a long breath, then she thrusted forward, tip aimed at her target’s leg. Only for Oleander to stay still. And grab her attacker’s wrist at the last instant. Lacrima pulled her hand back, tried to free herself using the whole weight of her body. Yet, Oleander’s grip was stronger, too hard to break.

That’s when she felt it.

Her skin.

Was burning.

Her right arm.

Was burning.

Lacerations. Gashes. Wounds opening. Vessels rupturing. As if something was.

Eating her.

She growled, charged a kick, slammed her shoe in Oleander’s belly. A fierce impact, the red-haired rhizome lost her grip on Lacrima’s wrist, its hold was over. But not the burns. Not only on her arm. Her whole body was burning. Almost like being sprayed with herbicide. Almost like that. Microscopic holes were opening in her garments too, slowly, all around her clothes. The stitches put together by Dobrio too were being affected, some of their threads starting to unravel. Lacrima took some distance from her opponent, let her extra lymph flow, directed it to her arm. The lymph repaired her skin, patched her muscles, closing the wounds before they opened further. Fast regeneration. The only advantage of having so much lymph at her disposal.

Her eye focused on Oleander, on her tendrils, on the strange hollow channels close to her neck. Now, at that distance, it didn’t burn anymore. No pain. No harm. Whatever assaulted her body, was now gone. She squinted her eye, focused on the canes. A veil of mist came out of them, semi-transparent vapor surrounding Oleander’s body, like a thin layer. That had to be it. Those gases had to be the cause of the burning sensation. Lacrima trained her blade forward, observed the cracks. Another direct hit and that blade was gone. She took a deep breath, closed her eye. Then, she rushed forward as fast as she could.

On the other side of the crater, Kryzalid narrowly avoided Agave’s cross assault, some strands of her hair lost in the exchange, her hood slightly ripped. She landed close to the fence, still grinning. A gash on her thigh. One on her shoulder. One on her right arm. One on her left collar bone. Agave wasn’t going easy on her. Yet, she hadn’t managed to strike one single vital organ so far. Only graze it, leaving wounds on Kryzalid’s skin, slashing through her cape. But never – never – making her laughter stop. Kryzalid’s fingers slid on the strings, the bow caressed them once more. A beeping noise in response.

And another bomb set off.

Right under Agave’s right foot.

A loud explosion, asphalt, rubble thrown into the air, a cloud of soil and debris obscuring the glitched sky, one that Kryzalid wished she could see. Sound controlled explosives. The insurance against her demise in the Eye. One that could take out whatever survived her music. She didn’t expect them to come in handy even in one-on-one combat, especially not against a rhizome. But, with the current state of things, they were her only way to get the upper hand. As the cloud thinned out, a shadow emerged through it, coughing. Kryzalid couldn’t follow it, but could hear the steps. Two. Two legs, still there. A thud. The echo reflected on a crouched shape. A fast heartbeat. A faster breathing. Agave was kneeling, her boot, her right leg armor disintegrated, the right side of her pants too. But her leg – what was left of it – was already healing, bathed in green lymph, the bones and muscles knitting back together, the skin regenerating. Kryzalid turned around, climbed the fence, stood on top of it. Like a tightrope walker, her balance miraculously kept, while her fingers kept dancing on the strings. There weren’t many bombs scattered around the arena, at least not close to Agave. She had to play her cards wisely, if she wanted to survive. A little bluff, if anything, could spice things up.

“We’re dancing on a minefield, Agave. A minefield that’s mine to command. What about behaving like the good house plant you are and end this farce?”

Agave didn’t even reply. She broke down the locks on her surviving boot, took it off, threw it away. Fighting with just one sole ticked off her balance in ways that made her livid, clumsy. So, barefoot it was. On even ground. She visually inspected her blades. No cracks. Still pristine. Her leg was almost healed. Almost. That cost her her whole reserve lymph, though. Not enough for a new weapon. Not enough to heal another leg. Certainly, not enough to replace it. If the bomb cut it away, she would have been done fore. Fortunately, the armor did its job, shielded her squishier body from the deflagration. She swallowed a lump of saliva, stared at the terrorist she was chasing. If she lost a limb, no amount of lymph could have replaced it. Luck had to be on her side.

Her eyes followed Kryzalid’s movements, her impromptu dance on the top of the fence.

The fence.

Suddenly, she had an idea. Not the best, but definitely an idea. Kryzalid’s violin couldn’t hurt her, not without knowing her core frequency. Her equipment was replaced, precisely so that she couldn’t break her armor or weapons with her instrument, after Zonta found that out. So, she could only rely on the burrowed bombs to win their bout. Which meant…

Agave bent her legs, released them like a coiled spring, jumped into the air. Her hand grabbed the top of the fence, the metal tube running over it, she used the momentum to give herself a spin. Then, she landed on top of it, just like her opponent. And she prepared to attack her, now that her target had no weapons left that could harm her.

Not even ten meters from them, Lacrima deflected another katar strike, the impact chipping away at her blade, breaking it down more. Only for that burning sensation to come back, to flare up her pain receptors. Oleander was in her face, one more time, the toxic mist spreading all around her body. Lacrima’s knee hit her opponent under her chin, created some space between them. The sores on her skin were hurting, even if closing them took less than a second. More lymph. Even more lymph. Her body was turning all of her water into lymph, to keep it running. The stitches on her skirt gave up to the corrosion, those on her chest too, breaking down her garments to the state they were after the battle with Felce – only, with even more holes. Lacrima cursed under her breath. If she weren’t a rhizome, she would have died already four of five times, eaten alive by that acid mist. A human would have melted to slush in less than a minute, it was a miracle her regeneration skills made her last for so long. She glanced at her necklace of swan feathers. Fortunately, they were still intact, as were her shoes. A sigh of relief. Whatever happened, her feathers and shoes had to remain unscathed. All the rest could go, was replaceable. But. Not. Them.

She gazed at Oleander, following her movements, never letting her out of her field of view. That plasma katar gave her opponent an advantage at middle range. Her toxic mist made her lethal at close range. It wasn’t an unwinnable battle, but it sure felt hard to find an opening. She raised her cracked blade once again. Oleander’s defense was flawless. So far, Lacrima had only managed to chip away at her armor, damage one shoulder pad, cut away some of her vines. Nothing critical, nothing serious. Her almost broken sword could only withstand one more attack. Then, it was game over. Oleander came to the same conclusion. So, she pushed forward, ran towards Lacrima, her katar coming down in a wide arc. Lacrima rolled on her left, avoided the slash altogether. But Oleander was ready. A mule kick to her side, intercepting Lacrima’s evasive maneuver. Lacrima lost her grip on the blade, bounced on the asphalt. Her hand moved, tried to reach for the handle. Only to find a boot instead. Oleander’s boot. Right as she towered over her. Smiling under the dark sky of Aralu, as the panels above turned into a concerto of static noise.

“Looking for something?”

Oleander slammed her foot on the black blade. Once. Twice. And, at the third time, it broke like glass, in hundreds of shards. Before Lacrima could even react, Oleander’s fingers closed around her neck, pulled her up with Herculean strength, till her soles didn’t touch the ground any longer.

Burning.

Everything was burning. Her arms. Her face. Her eye. Her hand. Her whole skin. Lymph poured all over her body, a green slime washing it, sealing the sores, the wounds, before they could even open, draining her reserves faster and faster, as her feathers fell to the ground one by one, as more of her garments fizzled away, eaten by the toxic cloud feasting on her flesh. Her hand went down to her hip, to her vines, fighting against the dizziness, right as Oleander’s grip closed, as her katar was lifted, as the plasma field ignited.

“Rhizome Lacrima. For the crime of supporting a terrorist and resisting a Peacekeeping Officer, you are sentenced to…”

A sudden deflagration, the words cut short. A bomb. Behind Oleander. Far enough not to cause any damage. Close enough to take her by surprise, to make her relent her grip, to free Lacrima’s neck. Close enough to make her stumble, lose her balance. Close enough to give Lacrima a chance. As her lymph overflowed through her left tangle of vines. As her right hand grabbed the central tendril. As a new, shining, black blade emerged from what little was left of her sleeve. As she slashed from down to up, cutting through Oleander’s belt, suit, chest armor, chest, neck vines, jaw, right cheek, right eye. Causing her to fall back, to lose her katar too, as the cracked armor broke down, shattered, as lymph flowed from the now open wound, spraying her suit in green. Oleander screamed, her hand covering her wounded eye, her torn skin trying to fix itself, while her other hand searched for the katar, for her fallen weapon. Only to meet a platform shoe. One with eight centimeters of sole.

“Looking for something?”

Lacrima was staring down at her, her white skin, her white hair even whiter in the neonlit darkness of Aralu. An ethereal angel of death, covered in tattered rags, gazing from up to down with an emotionless, passionless red eye. Oleander tried to react, to do something. But Lacrima’s sole stomped on her hand, breaking her fingers, keeping it pinned to the ground. Before swinging her blade on Oleander’s neck. And cutting all the canes in one go, forcing the toxin flow to stop. Her skin breathed. The pressure gone. The lymph draining. No more corrosion. No more secret weapon. She enjoyed the moment for a second, a weird instant of relief. Before raising her sword again. Right on top of Oleander’s scared face.

“Stop!”

A sudden scream. A voice nobody had heard till then.

“If you hit Oleander, I’ll kill this bastard!”

Oleander turned around, Lacrima too. Close to the fence, Kryzalid lay on the asphalt, her hood fallen behind, her braids spread around her head. Her violin and bow still in her hands, but in no way able to move. One of Agave’s blade aimed at her neck, while her foot was stomping on the violinist’s knee. Kryzalid groaned. That explosion turned the tide for Laccy, sure. That was a desperate move to let her mount a comeback, one last resort, the only one she could think of after she heard her grunts of pain, Oleander’s boastful voice. Make a random bomb explode, cause a distraction. That worked like a charm. But, the flip side was that she fell to Agave’s assault instead, losing her balance, falling from the fence. And, now, powerless to do anything.

Lacrima kept her eye trained on Oleander. She couldn’t let her go. Even without melting gas, she was dangerous. Given enough time, she could open new ducts. So, no. She couldn’t leave her out of sight. Agave couldn’t let Kryzalid go either. There were other bombs. The moment she let her go, the moment she allowed her to play, who knows how many of them could have exploded?

Nobody moved, everyone watched. A staring contest, where the first to move lost. Kryzalid bit her lip, her mind raced, wondering whether she had forgotten anything, anything that could bring her out of that impasse. And started laughing.

“Oh, yeah, gals… there’s one thing you got wrong.”

A wide grin, her voice breaking the stalemate, in front of a confused Agave, of a more confused Oleander. Of a light shining in the distance, right behind the fence. Turning brighter, brighter, brighter, almost as a star in the sky, to a point even Kryzalid could see it.

“…we were never going to fight fair.”

A sudden burst of energy. A white streak piercing the metal mesh, melting it, a line without end, blasting to the artificial sky, cracking it.

And cutting Agave’s right arm at her shoulder.

“AGAVEEEE!”

Oleander’s voice got lost in the blast, silenced by the shockwave. Agave’s lymph sprayed from her wound, as if a high pressure container was blasted open. She screamed. She screamed to the bottom of her lungs, raised her left arm, the blade going for Kryzalid’s head in retaliation. Only for a second beam to explode from the same position.

Cutting off her other arm too.

Causing her to crumble to the ground.

In tears. In pain. In shock.

And, from the darkness surrounding the crater, a silhouette emerged. Red hood. A gas mask. And a strange gun in their hand, shining bright in the artificial night of Aralu. Kryzalid stood up, dusted her cape, stretched a little.

“Waaaay to go, Robbie! Though, a little sooner would have helped a lot, if you had that firepower.”

The hooded figure didn’t reply, not even a word coming out of her mouth. All while Lacrima stared at Oleander, no mercy left in her red eye.

“My whistling swan feathers. Your acid ruined them.”

She stomped on the left hand of the downed rhizome, crushed its fingers under her boot, making sure to grind them, to hurt her. Yet, Oleander’s brain was ignoring it. The pain to her hand was nothing compared to that sight, the sight of a kneeling Agave leaking lymph, both of her arms gone, her eyes wide open, her breathing ragged, irregular. Oleander roared, her voice echoed inside the crater.

“Let me go! Let me help her! I won’t follow you, I swear! We’ll leave! We’ll leave Aralu! Just… let me help her!”

“Fine.”

Lacrima raised her blade one more time. Then, she swung it down, slashing Oleander’s right leg, damaging it to the point she couldn’t run even if she wanted. She left her grip, raised her boot, walked away towards Kryzalid, towards an opening in the fence. The hooded figure joined them, as all of them paced through a dimly lit corridor, the old entrance to the metro station where Kryzalid was waiting in to lure the assailants. Oleander crawled to Agave, hugged her, used her tendrils to wrap her wounds, to stop the flux of lymph, all while whispering something, muttering something. Kryzalid turned back to face the two maimed rhizomes, with an ever wider smile than usual, her fingers steadily held on the violin.

“This is the moment when we say goodbye. Curtain caaaaaaall!”

Her bow danced on the strings once again.

Detonating one, two, three bombs, all in front of them, in a sequence of explosions, of dirt and rock blasted in the air. When the dust settled, when the echoes died, nothing was left of the entrance, of the corridor.

Kryzalid was gone. And so were her cronies. Oleander gritted her teeth, her one functioning eye looking for her troopers, the Peacekeepers she brought with her. They were still up, now slowly walking towards the crater, winning their fear – only now that Kryzalid was gone, that their heads were safe. Oleander’s voice thundered, echoed louder than the explosions.

“What the hell was that? Why haven’t you called HQ?”

“But, sir, you ordered us not to…”

“Fuckin’ Lagash! Call HQ immediately! Agave is in critical conditions! She needs a doctor! Get that bastard Zonta in the emergency room! Call Captain Commander Lily! Call anyone you can! Now!”

She gritted her teeth, contemplated the collapsed shaft. And that feeling of impotence that pervaded her bones. That sortie been an unadulterated disaster.

One she was fully responsible for.