Everwinter: The Forerunner Archives (36 page)

Altair goes first, disappearing through the hole in the canvas. Ursa goes next, slipping out into the dark.

Immediately, she's struck from behind.

The ground rushes up to greet her face, knocking the wind right out of her. She opens her eyes and Altair is next to her, on his knees, cradling a gushing wound on the back of his own head.

They hear screams and then a shooting iron goes off.

One of the slave women collapses to the ground next to Ursa, a hole in her chest.

"Midgets!" the angry voice of Glamis screams, making an aggressive movement toward their attackers–whom Ursa has yet to see.

"Glamis! Don't!" Altair orders, staggering to his feet with his hands raised. "Weapons! They'll kill you in a microsecond!"

Glamis hesitates.

"Thank you," a familiar voice coos from out of the darkness. "It's best we keep this from getting messy."

Ursa finally looks up, her dizzy head clearing. The skeletal form of Magis stands over them, surrounded by a dozen of his Grimm soldiers, all pointing their Forerunner irons directly at them. Glamis growls like a caged animal.

"Come to think of it," Magis states matter of factly, "shoot the big one in the leg. Just to be safe."

"NO!" Altair screams. But it's too late.

Shots echo in the night.

52.

Another shot echoes in the night.

But it's muffled, just like all the others.

"Maybe we should check on 'im," I suggest, my words starting to slur.

Ativan scoffs, taking another swig of the clear liquid in the glass bottle. "He's fine," he assures. "He'll just want to join in
on our fun anyway, and I have a feelin' you won't want your little brother partaking in an adult beverage."

I laugh, taking another sip from the cup Ativan provided me. "Yeah, you're probably right," I say, though I'm not sure why I'm agreeing with him so readily; I've been pretty damn protective of Traylor during this whole adventure.
 

I drink again.

But why should he get to have all the fun?

The room starts to spin a little.

"What's this made from anyway?" I ask. I've had alcohol plenty of times in Krakelyn, but usually it tastes like fuel oil and has to be mixed down with something in order for me to enjoy it. We're drinking this stuff straight up, and it's sweet as syrup!

"Fermented mela f
ruit," Ativan explains, taking a deep whiff from the bottle and shifting next to me on the couch in his living quarters. "The nectar of the gods!"

I laugh at that. "Yeah, if only I could give the gods credit for this." I take another sip.

Ativan scowls just as another muffled shot rings outside.

Traylor must be just lovin' that shooting iron!

"Whataya mean by that?" he asks, seeming genuinely intrigued. The couch creaks at his end.

I shrug. "I don't believe in the gods," I say, speaking plainly. I laugh. "Ironic, considering my
Father is High Deacon of Krakelyn."

Ativan goes suddenly pale. "Really?" he asks, disbelief painted all over his face.

I laugh again. "Yeah. Oh, don't worry though. He's probably dead." My laughter is uncontrollable. 

Why do I find this so funny?

Ativan laughs now too, but it sounds forced. "Ha, yeah, probably," he says. He inches closer and our eyes meet. It's not uncomfortable though.

"You know, Juno," he says, "you may be the last
human woman left, but you'd be beautiful no matter what you looked like."

I scrunch my face, trying to decide if that's a compliment or an insult. I just laugh some more and smile. "Thanks!" I say. He moves closer.
 I can smell his breath.

Okay, now I'm getting a little uncomfortable.
 

Thoughts of Jude
–the last and only man I'd ever been intimate with–flood my mind. Ativan is no Jude in the looks department, but I've never really been that shallow anyway. 

It's the trust thing I'm having trouble with now.

"I've been told I'm beautiful," I reply, not sure what else to say. "I don't think about it too much though. There's more important things in life to worry about."

Ativan nods, as if I'd said something truly profound. "That's a refreshin' point of view," he agrees with me. "But nonetheless, it is true. You
are
beautiful, Juno." He puts a hand on my lap. I don't push it away.

"I don't..." I sigh, emotions welling up. "I don't think
I can do this, Ativan." I’m struggling with every urge in my body. Jude's face overrides them all.

"Don't
think
," Ativan suggests, a smooth talker when he's drunk. "Just do what feels right."

He leans in, his mouth inching
ever closer to mine.

My heart hammers.

I close my eyes.

As soon as our lips touch, I
know
that it's wrong.

"No!" I say, pushing him back. "I'm sorry, Ativan, but I can't. I thought maybe I could but..."

Ativan's face seems to melt, a gamut of expressions flowing over it. It starts with disappointment, but it ends in anger.

He jumps on top of me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, not yet panicked but getting there. It's hard to act clearly with alcohol saturating my every thought.

"I'm sorry too," Ativan says. Then he's kissing me, holding me down at the same time, forcing himself upon me.

"No!" I scream again. I ram a knee upward, going for the sweet spot.

I miss.

Oh hells...

His anger intensifies and then he's trying to pull my tunic top up over my head.

"Stop!" I plead, fighting however I can. But he's so strong. He doesn't look it but, in this moment, he seems stronger than Glamis. My tunic is almost over my head and–

BLAM!

For a moment, I think maybe my head has exploded from terror and anxiety. Then, all of Ativan's strength leaves his body, becoming a rag doll on top of me.

A bloody heavy ragdoll.

I feel something wet soaking me around the midsection and, fearing I know what it is, I roll my body, falling off the couch directly on top of Ativan. Disgusted, I push myself up, my suspicion confirmed.

I'm covered in blood.

The crimson liquid starts pooling from the wound in Ativan's back. I whip around and there's Traylor, pale as a ghost, still holding the shooting iron with an arm extended, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. Tears escape his eyes.

"I... He... He was trying to h
urt you, Juno!" He's positively vibrating now. I rush over to him, wrapping him in a warm embrace. He drops the shooter and starts bawling into my shoulder.

"Shhh," I soothe. "It's okay, buddy. It's gonna be okay." I stroke blood streaked hands through his
messy wet hair.

"He was gonna hurt you, right?" Traylor asks, the question muffled because he's still crying into me.

"Yes, Traylor," I say. The room still spins with the mela fruit alcohol but, in that moment, I've never felt more sober. "He was trying to hurt me."

I glance over at Ativan's corpse and guilt swamps me.

Was he really gonna do what I thought he was?

I mean, yeah, it was starting to go that way,
 but the alcohol...

I was just as willing to get drunk as he was.
 

And I have to admit, I knew there was a possibility of where it was going. I
almost
wanted it. 

And then Jude invaded my mind.

Finally, I start to cry too. 

Maybe there was no excuse for what Ativan tried to do, but did he deserve to die for it?

I shake my head. 

I really don't think so.

I pull away from Traylor. "Thank you, little brother," I smile warmly at him. "You saved me."

He tries to emulate the smile, but just ends up bawling again.
 "I... I liked him! I didn't want to kill him!"

I pull him in tight again. "I know, buddy," I say. "I liked him too. But
you
didn't kill him."

Now it's Traylor's turn to pull away from me, his expression a pile of confusion. "Wh-what?" is all he manages to stammer out.

"It was me," I say, leaning down to pick up the shooter. "I killed him, and that's all anybody needs to know. He was trying to hurt me, so I grabbed his iron and pulled the trigger. It had nothing to do with you, Traylor."

Traylor shakes his head, burying it
into my shoulder once more.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Gods, I hope he's gonna be alright. 

This guilt is gonna eat at us both for a long, long time.
 

We embrace in silence for a time then, when Traylor's finally calmed, we come to a decision.

We'll bury him together.

53.

"There is no points in botherings," Glamis protests, trying to push Ursa away. "Midgets is coming and we be deads within hour."

Ursa shakes her head, wincing in pain at the same time. "Don't say that!" she protests, tying the tourniquet tight around the giant mutant's leg a little tighter. "We need you in fighting shape for when we escape..." She bursts into tears.

Altair, watching the exchange from the darkest corner of the box, finally comes over, offering whatever comfort he can to the beaten woman. She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry!" she wails. "This is all my fault! All of it! Juno. Traylor. The mutations. Everything!" She's hysterical, and Altair is unsure exactly what she's talking about.

After their botched escape attempt, the Grimm
s had shot Glamis in the leg then thrown them all in this...box. There is no other way to describe it. It sits on the back of one of the large eight wheeled vehicles, all corrugated metal, no windows, locked from the outside, pitch dark. The only reason they can see anything at all is the glow of Glamis' skin–now much weaker than last Altair had seen it. Despite the wound to his leg, however, the hulking mutant seems hardly the worse for wear. He'd allowed Ursa to pull the slug from his calf–with her fingers no less–and dress the wound. He'd hardly complained.

They'd been interrogated and beaten by the Grimms, of course, asked questions about what they were doing here and if there were any others
with them. Altair is sure they’ll be paying Ativan a visit soon, just to check in. Gods willing, Juno will realize something went wrong and get out of there. 

Gods willing.

The three of them had managed to keep Juno and Traylor's existence a secret though; Altair had thought for sure that Ursa would break under the torture. She'd been through so much already.

But she hadn't.
 

Why had she risked so much anyway?

Well, it doesn't matter now
, he supposes.

The Grimms
would be executing them within the hour.

When Ursa finally calms herself, Altair sits down with her, sitting face to face.

"Okay," he says, "it's truth time, Ursa." Ursa's destroyed face becomes sullen. "Since you've joined our mission, slowly, you've become more and more...
erratic
. Irrational. Something's eating at you, and I think it's time you confessed what it is." He pauses, letting that sink in. "You know something about the mutations–the Final Judgment–that we all don't. Don't you?"

Ursa nods. "You have no idea," she admits. She sighs, shoring herself up to drop the hammer. "There is a machine," she says, "in Everwinter, at my old lab. It's what caused all these mutations to happen. I created it." Altair nods; he already knows this though. "That's not all," Ursa continues, giving him no time to dwell on it. "Juno and Traylor..." She hesitates, tears leaking from her bruised, puffy eyes. "I'm... I'm their
mother."

Altair's eyes go wide, Ursa's last words echoing throughout the box that is their prison.

Echoing inside his head.

Surely he must have misheard.

Suddenly, the box opens.

Harsh, artificial light streams in, assaulting their vision, followed by the crisp air of the outside world.
 

Altair shivers.
This is it.

He has no weapons
–his throwing stars have been taken from him–but his hands can be just as deadly when they need to be. 

It's fight or die.

Or not.

They're swarmed, at least a dozen Grimm soldiers piling into the box, immediately going to work on Altair and his friends. He's struck five times with the butt of five different Forerunner shooters. He can barely stay conscious.