09/11/2001
10:29 AM
7th and West 51st
Frida Haussman’s brain was having trouble registering the breaking world around her. The sky was red now, her eyes seemed sure of that. It was also raining black snow. Or ash. Or another type of sludge that, by all accounts, wasn’t supposed to be there. Extradimensionality and ectoentropics were well out of her field of expertise, but she had seen enough esoteric material to know that the precipitation wasn’t of this world.
But, regardless of how pressing the world-changing meteorology she was suffering seemed, there were bigger problems. Like the mob trying to trample her.
This she felt in her pain receptors as the faceless people running away from someone or something pushed her out of the way and into the nearest wall, and stepped on her feet and elbowed her on the face. They were screaming, talking in foreign voices that she couldn’t recognise. Some were crying. But none bothered to tell her what was going on.
Within her mind, she could make the easy connection. There had been some sort of change. She had felt it subconsciously but also heard it: an explosion somewhere above the city. The best guess she had was that she was in the middle of some sort of disaster. From her limited experience with New York City, that either meant a big storm was coming, or the local baseball team had lost. None of these usually entailed stampedes, scarlet skies and raining sludge. Then again, since the day she watched Poland get eaten by Cicadas in the morning news three years back, she had learnt to change her views on what was considered normal.
Furthermore, her life wasn’t the most normal, or so she liked to remind herself. To punctuate this thought, a voice spoke inside her brain.
“My liege, we ought to vacate the premises.” The intonation, pitch and vocabulary used revealed it to be the minor muse inhabiting her quill. Unsurprisingly, it was the most vocal of the menagerie of possessed objects she owned.
“I’m trying,” she answered inside her mind.
Frida took refuge against the nearest building entrance until the crowd had passed.
“What is happening?” she asked. None of the last stragglers bothered to answer.
In turn, voices emerged from inside the Broca’s Area of her brain:
"Don't know," answers her comb.
"Won't know," answers her quill.
"Can't know," answers her water bottle.
“Doing the three wise monkeys routine doesn’t help anyone at the moment,” she comments in turn. “What do we know?”
“I think those individuals there come from Park Avenue. They retreat down 7th towards Central Park.” That was the spirit of a 1930s mechanographist who inhabited her notebook. “Nevertheless, we lack the reasoning for their fleeing.”
She felt exhaustion in her bones. Her spine was warning her of soreness in her joints and at least two developing bruises where she had been punched and elbowed. And the new palette of pervasive redness that assaulted her eyes was causing a headache to emerge slowly from her temples.
Waddling through the confusion of her current plight and the pain in her muscles, two possible courses of action materialised. The first was to go in the direction they were coming from, back to the hotel where the other Prometheus employees were preparing for the conference in the ICSUT New York campus that was allotted to start during the afternoon. The other was to follow mob to not find out what they were running away from.
A cacophony of voices invaded her synapses. They are unintelligible within her brain matter so she silences them with a practiced meditation technique. She hits her head once with her knuckles and then recites a small litany. Slowly, silence arises once again in her cranium. Thankfully, this also clears her headache and her nostrils.
Frida's recently achieved clarity gave her the correct course to follow. Going directly into the place 200 people had just fled from was probably going to put her on the way of whatever had turned the sky red. And she didn’t want to face whatever that was. At least not without preparation. Thus, the only sensible course of action was to go follow the stampeding multitude. Her bag, possessed by an unnameable entity from the Nevermeant tugged her along towards the unknown.
09/11/2001
12:35 PM
Site-310
The skyline of Manhattan was turning an ever-bloodier red, while a cloud of rising fumes escaped from Santiago's lips. In theory, no one was allowed to smoke in Site-310 outside cafeteria hours, but the current situation had made rules into suggestions; no one was going to bother themselves to make him stop.
Santiago’s foot went up and down and up and down again. Tapping without end on the suffering faux-wood floor of the hall. People rushed in from one room to the next constantly only to not be seen for hours on end, the whole facility felt equal parts busy and empty. His gaze was focused on the yellow walls which made the sky look even redder. More specifically, he couldn’t stop looking at the three speakers hanging at the wall, which until recently had been shouting names non-stop.
He took another long drag whilst his foot turned more violent against the floor. In truth, he did not like the taste of tobacco, much less the smell, but smoking wasn’t his decision anymore; the situation called for it. Santiago was in fact suffering from a disease worse than any cancer, virus or bacteria: boredom.
The situation in the city was far from boring for sure. That needn’t to be said, Manhattan was in literal Hell! Had been so for hours! And yet, Santiago Arango Nassar had found himself chained to the Site. Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for orders which didn’t arrive.
I shouldn’t be here.
That thought was what bothered him the most. As the only Foundation Type Red currently available, he had expected to be sent to the most dangerous front lines the second shit had hit the fan, cutting down the chain of command of whichever CI unit had the brilliant idea to launch this operation. But no, the Foundation’s wisdom had made him wait and wait and wait.
Until now at least.
Just in time for noon – at least what Site clocks claimed to be noon – he was summoned, without the Foundation’s regular decorum, to Site 310’s Meeting Room. There he saw he wasn’t the only one in fact, a dozen other men and women had been sent there too. Santiago recognised many as Site-310’s security officers, not a proper fighting force; if he was going to be sent alongside them, a mission to the heart of darkness felt far less appealing.
Answers wouldn’t come soon. As the speakers began blaring names the hall grew ever emptier. The cleverer of the personnel – that is to say not Santiago – had brought with them cheap plastic chairs, and as their owners left the meeting room – their faces betraying no sign of success – they were left to their own devices in the hall; red and blue, they looked appropriate for the Site. One by one the people in the hall had gone from thirteen to just Santiago, and since then, there was only silence.
So here he remained. His cigarette now a sad stub whose smoke could scarcely reach the tall ceiling. He was already thinking about where to get some more to keep his brain busy. Walk out, bribe some guard (or imply a bribery) and they would offer a box whose origin was known only to them. Then again, the speaker’s silence was taunting. The embers of tobacco finally dying gave him the last motivation needed to exit the hall. And then, one foot in front of the other about to join it.
“Santiago Arango Nassar, please enter the room,” was finally shouted through the speakers. His entire disposition changed in an instant; his back straightened, he moved weightlessly rather than irritated and his mind raced with a thousand battles in ever more dangerous scenarios, the cigar irradiated again with new fire.
He stopped himself before opening the door – first impressions were a bother that the world could do without, but right now they still existed and he had to deal with them. Nothing too serious, just making sure his red hair wasn't a greater mess than usual, checking for any unfortunate stains in the uniform and of course turning his current smile less noticeable, not to let them think he was too excited.
Now ready, he entered the meeting room, swiftly, as if there was to be a shootout the second he opened the door. But there were no bullets. The only thing coming from Santiago was a half smile he wore across his face.
The place wasn’t too large, some fifteen people could fit at most, and the lack of windows made it feel even tinier. The outline of the room was broken only by the presence of a long mahogany desk with a map of The Big Apple on it. Seated just behind it there was a middle-aged woman whose face he didn’t recognise, but he didn't make a habit of knowing most personnel in any site.
“Please take a seat,” she asked and he complied, quickly getting on the nearest cushioned chair. “How much do you know about the recent situation?”
“Well, Manhattan has gone to hell and we are in Manhattan.” Santiago cleared his throat. “There is not really much more to say, is there?”
“That's a correct assumption for the first few hours of this incident, yes, but everything is moving quickly, faster than we can act. There is ongoing fighting in all five boroughs and no such thing as a front line.”
“And that’s where I enter, I presume. Gracias a Dios, I was starting to worry.” Santiago’s disposition turned casual. “So whom will I be with?” He hoped the answer wouldn’t be the guards from earlier. “My usual team wasn’t in Manhattan today.”
“There won’t be anyone, not from here at least,” she said plainly, leaving Santiago perplexed. "Our resources are limited and stretched thin. Everyone who can fight is already doing so or being sent their way."
“Except me.” Santiago couldn’t stop himself from bringing that up.
“Correct. We have to be careful where each of our personnel ends up at.”
“And you now found a place, I presume.”
“Not one but many. There are eight million people currently trapped here, most still outside our, or the GOC’s reach, all in peril from Tartarean entities and the Insurgency. You will be sent to zones outside our current control, to try establishing safe escape routes. Don’t be mistaken. This is not a proposal for a well-organized rescue mission, but a gamble. We’ll offer no support, nor directions, just an initial nudge. For the rest, you're on your own."
“Well, why didn't you lead with that? I’m in.”
09/12/2001
06:22 PM
Penn Station Underground
The radio crackled as Abbas Laabi left the light of the Penn Station subway platform behind. By all measures, it should've been freezing cold in the New York underground, but the air was thicker than a summer in Casablanca, and the only time he'd let his boots touch the rails had caused a sizzling that made him check his footing every few steps, just in case he'd stumble and land with his hands on the metal.
"Are you there, Captain? Over." The voice of Eli Alperstein came, surprisingly clear despite the interference. "Walker said you were going to try radioing in for medical resupply, but I can't find you anywhere. Over." He sighed, and pulled his radio off of his belt. "I'm fine. Couldn't manage to tune into the GOC's channels from anywhere around the station. Told her I'd go on foot, and that you and her were in charge now. Over."
The radio was silent for a moment, before Eli's voice returned, with a noticeable pang of irritation. "You've gone off alone again, haven't you?"
"Correctomundo. Over," he responded, before the ensuing response came loud enough to make him pull the radio away from his ear. "For fuck's sake, Captain! We've been over this! Did Ibb mean NOTHING to you? Twenty people dead, all because you couldn't stick around long enough to wait for an extraction?" Eli's voice had come through the radio so loud that he still hear the fuck echoing off the walls.
"Okay, first of all, what happened in Ibb was NOT my fault. If I hadn't left, there'd be fifty more people on that mission's casualty list, and there's a very high chance both of us would be dead." He waved a hand indignantly, as if anyone was there to see it. "And secondly, it's either I hang around trying to call in support and get nothing as an answer, or I go out and send them over here myself. I'm in the tunnels, I'll make my way to Central Park, send some support your way. Over."
"Cut the 'over' shit, Captain. We're having a serious conversation here."
"Oh, sorry. Thought you were calling me to ask if I was free to come over and have dinner later. How's your mother, by the way?" he stumbled as a misplaced foot on the rails almost sent him tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself, making sure his feet were in between the sleepers, before continuing on his way, just that little bit slower.
"Not the time, but she's fine." The annoyance in Eli's voice sounded like it'd shifted more towards exasperation than irritation, which was fine in Abbas' book. "Just… look, I-"
"Yes, yes, I know our time together has meant a lot to you and you're scared to see me die here." Abbas stopped walking, and leaned against the side of the tunnel. The bricks were surprisingly cool. "But it's safer than going overland, and bringing everyone else with me. There's, what, five hundred wounded civilians up there, and fifty of us? If a horde of those demon-looking things got the drop on us, we'd be done for."
"I mean, I guess…"
"Hey, look." He smiled. "If I don't come back, don't assume I'm dead, maybe someone else needs my help. You're still fifty percent captain of the company now, so call the shots as they come. I know Walker can be a bit of an ass sometimes, but just try to work with her. I believe in you."
"Alright…" A sigh came through, as the interference began to spike. "Just take care of yourself, if I don't see you. And you really need to cut it back with the comedian act. It's not the t-" Eli's voice was cut off, and replaced with a chorus of static. Abbas cursed, and slammed the radio with the side of his fist a few times to no avail. Cursing the airwaves in the underground, he clipped the radio back onto his belt and continued north, speeding up ever so slightly. Eli's words lingered in the back of his mind. He was right, Abbas supposed. A complete dimensional collapse in one of the densest urban areas in the world wasn't really the time to be cracking jokes.
But, then again, Abbas got shit done, and he did it well. Heroes deserved a little leniency in their duty, and if he wasn't one, then he didn't know what he was. So, who cared if he decided to try and have a laugh on the job? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he unclipped a torch from his belt, flicked the light on and kept moving. In spite of what he'd seen in movies, it was surprisingly easy to move around down here. Probably less of a hassle than usual, moving trains probably made it a lot harder day-to-day.
He passed through a few smaller stations, each largely empty. The fluorescent lights flickered constantly, but the brief moments in the platforms when they did work almost made Abbas forget about the red-stained sky aboveground. Just for a moment. About halfway between 79th and 86th Street, his radio returned to life, and Eli's voice came through again. "Still alive, Captain? Over."
"Feeling incredible, Eli, thanks. Over." Abbas squinted at the faint light up ahead, trying to make out a vague shape on the tracks. "Miss anything after I left the party?"
"Well, Walker's really taken a liking to the whole 'commander' shtick. Acting like you won't come back." The other end went silent. "I think she might want to make sure you don't. At least, on paper."
"Astagfirullah!" Abbas stopped, glaring at the radio like it'd personally insulted him. "I'm being couped? Now, of all times, of all the places, she thinks it's a good idea to try and start a takeover?"
"This one's on you, chief. She's been 'joking' about this since—"
"Since Ibb, I know. One bad deployment and she starts planning my downfall. Incredible."
"In all fairness, all our trips before then were less than ideal as well. Mostly because of you, with all due respect."
Resisting the urge to chuck the radio on the ground and stomp on it, Abbas took a deep breath before responding. "Sure, but we get deployed to kill demons, and things adjacent to them. We get the job done!"
"You get the job done." Eli's voice corrected. "You are a TERRIBLE glory hunter."
Abbas rolled his eyes, and began to walk again. "I'm not that bad. I don't steal kills, I just get the most on almost every deployment."
"You also neglect the rest of the company members on the mission, which usually ends up with one or more of us getting into what you insist on calling 'sticky situations,' that usually end up with us seriously injured."
"But never dead. Never had a Malleus death while I've been in charge." As he came close enough to the station's light that he could make out the thing inside, he froze. "Hold on for a second. Demon." As Abbas peered at the thing in the light, Eli sighed loudly over the line. "I assume you want to play the game, then?"
A small grin grew on Abbas' face. "Only if you want to. First guess?"
"Hmmmm… Head. Always something up with the head." Eli and Abbas had come with this 'game' yesterday, when they'd just dealt with a horde and needed to take a break to treat the injured. It was Guess Who, really. Just significantly more morbid. "Alright. Head." He squinted into the light, ignoring the squelching sounds of flesh being torn away and eaten. "One major anomaly."
"Horns."
"Lower."
"Too many teeth, fangs?"
"Getting warmer…"
"Bug mouth."
"Bingo. Currently using it to eat a police officer," Abbas said, as the demon took another chunk out of the man's body. "First round down. Looks like an ant, sorta. Big bony mandibles. Second, arms."
"Exoskeleton. Or armor. Same difference, really."
Abbas squinted harder. There did, in fact, seem to be an armored layer on the upper parts of its arms. "Fast answer. Also correct. Also bony."
"They're always bony. Do I get a bonus round?"
"Guess the wardrobe."
"Ohhhhh… I'm gonna take 'Saturday Morning Jogger' for 500."
Abbas made a noise with his mouth that sounded something like a buzzer. "Wrong! So close, yet so far! 'Renegade Hot Topic Employee' would've gotten you all the marbles!"
"Chara!" Eli swore, as Abbas suppressed a laugh. "Always the ones that want to be goth. Always."
"Tough luck, pal." Abbas slowly stepped toward the side of the subway. "Good run at the start, though. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take care of this one."
"Show 'em a good time, Captain," Eli said. Abbas set the radio down where the wall met the gravel on the floor. He returned to the center of the tunnel, eyes trained on the bug demon. His free hand went to his belt, grabbing the hilt of his weapon. Slowly, he slid the blade out of its scabbard, and held it in front of him. It was his service weapon, a nimcha from somewhen in the 17th Century, that he'd been given by the Initiative's armory the day he'd joined. Every day since, he'd made sure to keep it in peak condition. As it left its place at his side, a faint indent in the blade's surface began to emit a faint purple light, and a voice came from it, reciting the line of writ it'd chosen to bring with it this time.
"Even a lowly person may think of something that does not come to the mind of important people." Egyptian, he thought. Lovely.
While his sword's penchant for poetic entry and exit from its sheath was charming, it also made stealthy drawings nigh-on impossible. The creature's head snapped toward him, its eyes two balls of glossy yellow, and charged at him on all fours. "Just a second!" he yelled into the radio, before tossing it to one side and sidestepping. The bug-face lunged, its claw-like hands passing barely an inch in front of his face. It sailed by, and he brought his weapon up as it went. He felt the blade hit flesh, and pulled it back.
The demon shrieked as it hit the ground, its legs leaking black blood into the semi-darkness. It looked at him with what he could only assume to be contempt, and let out a hiss. He brought the sword up in front of him, both hands gripping the hilt. He grinned at the demon, licking his lips in anticipation. "That it? Yalla,1 you're disappointing me here."
The demon charged, limping slightly as its legs continued to bleed. He ran up to meet it. It extended a hand, its fingers scratching the air as it came closer and closer to his face. In a single, clean movement, Abbas swung the sword in from the right, cutting off the creature's arm at the elbow. It shrieked again, as he quickly adjusted himself for a second swing. Before it could react, another slash tore its abdomen open, the blood oozing from the wound thicker than elsewhere. It groaned quietly, before collapsing forward onto the ground with a crunch. He wiped both sides of the blade with the sleeve of his uniform, and slid it back into its scabbard, another line murmured quietly as it came to rest.
"Time's vagaries crush us like glass; thereafter, we'll never be remolded as one piece." al-Maarri. A favorite of his.
He nodded appreciatively, almost as if the sword would care, and went to retrieve the radio. Miraculously, it hadn't been broken by his careless discard, and he raised it back to his head. "All good over here. You still there? Over." The response was near-instant. "Still here. Over."
He glanced back at the body of the demon, laying lifeless behind him. He took a step back, and gave the body a kick in the ribs, just to make sure it was dead. No response came, outside of the squelching of blood being forced out. "Ya khara,"2 he spat, before returning to his trek northward. "Alright, time to get back on track. Just two more stations until Central Park. Think you guys can hold out until then?"
"We'll manage. Just make sure they send an exorcist, too. Someone's foot just detached from their body and keeps trying to shove itself down people's throats."
Abbas smiled. "I'll get the Ghostbusters on it for you, don't worry." He carried on walking, leaving the station behind. It took him a few minutes to work out how he wanted to say it, but eventually he spoke up. "I can just… not come back, if it's easier." Eli was silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. Abbas started. "Or I could, and just-"
"I think it might be easier that way." Eli's voice cut him off. "It's… easier to just report Walker after the fact. Still have that sword hanging over your head, but at least it might have something come of it without you having to… Well, you know."
"Now, I doubt she'd be able to do much if she did try, but it saves her the humiliation." Abbas smiled as he heard Eli laughing on the other end of the line. "And I think you might be the better man for keeping her in check. Just a hunch."
"Gee, it's an honor," Eli said, still shaking off his laughter. "I'll try. But only if you try at whatever it is you end up doing."
"Same as we were before, probably. Lot of civilians stuck out. Need to find a way to get them out." Abbas sighed. "Inshallah, this hell swallows up every kalb3 who helped let it loose."
"B'ezrat HaShem, Captain. Good luck."
"Thanks, Eli. Make it through this alive for me. That's an order."
"If I do, lunch is on you next time there's a day trip. Whole company."
Abbas snorted. "Don't push it. We'll talk specifics if we both get out of here, sound good?"
"Perfect. So long, Captain. G-d bless." The radio crackled off, and Abbas put it back onto his belt. Mouthing a silent prayer, he sped up, and continued toward Central Park North.
09/13/2001
12:29 PM
Central Park
Commander Nieves Rosa Arcadio sat under the watchful gaze of the Bethesda Fountain angel, which itself sat under the wrathful red sky that had overtaken Manhattan just two days prior. Though she had never been much for meditation, and having been raised in an atheist country, not one for God either, she was hoping He could hear her now.
She prayed for the rest of her Strike Team, which had fallen at the Battle of Three Bridges. She prayed for the Coalition to succeed in its Five-fold Mission. She prayed for an end to the crisis she found herself in.
There were thousands, no, tens of thousands of people huddled around Central Park as a last bastion of safety against the encroaching demons and terrorists which had attacked the city. The barrier surrounding the park was held up by Horizon Initiative Sihr al Khushoos, Kabbalists, and priests working in harmony. Said barrier was further protected by what was left of the three Strike Teams that had been sent in originally, as well as a few of the Foundation's own units. Arcadio sighed, her gaze shifting up from the ground to the angel behind her.
"¿Qué debo hacer?"
The angel stared back, silent as a church mouse, bathed in scarlet and Cack Ash from above. And pigeons. How could she forget the damn pigeons? Those things didn't seem to care that the world was ending right in front of them. They didn't care. They didn't even care. Damned rats with wings.
They reminded her of Alex Merchant, the ORANGE Suit pilot from Strike Team 9999 who had called for the destruction of the Manhattan, Williamsburg, and Brooklyn bridges. The man who doomed her entire Strike Team, and dozens more, not to mention upwards of a thousand civilians to die. She knew his reasoning, and she knew it well; if the demons and Insurgents got out of Manhattan through the bridges, there was no telling what would happen.
But no matter how well she knew his reasoning, Arcadio felt that things could have, should have gone differently. That was the tricky thing about feelings, though; they don't always reflect rationale. Maybe Merchant knew something she didn't. After all, she wasn't zipping around in an ORANGE Suit, she just had her modified BLACK Suit. Perhaps it was something about being able to fly that made him, and the pigeons, see the futility of it all.
She stood, looking around. Tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of Manhattan's teeming shores populated the park. Memories of the time a hurricane swept by Havana and knocked over her neighborhood flooded her mind. The soldiers, the engineers, the rescue crews, she remembered all of them working around the clock to save her friends and family. Arcadio had vowed then and there that she would do the same for others one day. This was her chance.
Just as she was about to head off for the front lines again, she noticed a tan man accompanied by a tall woman with several objects floating behind her. Arcadio recognized the man as Commander Laabi, one of the most decorated Horizon Initiative units deployed on the field to deal with the Manhattan Crisis.
"Do you see the vision, Miss Haussmann?" he asked, gesturing towards the angel.
"For the last time, Commander, it's Doctor." Haussmann rolled her eyes and folded her arms. She took a moment to size up the statue and shook her head. "Though yes, I agree it would be beneficial to the battle if we were to animate the Bethesda Angel, it is impossible. It is made of bronze, a material non-conductive to thaumaturgy."
"Are you sure?"
"I co-authored a paper over at Prometheus for Beryllium Bronze and its effects on extraversal neuroscience, I learned a lot about standard bronze too. Unlike its cousin, it's pretty useless when it comes to thaumaturgy."
"Most unfortunate," Laabi replied solemnly.
Arcadio watched as the two proceeded to circle around the fountain, eventually coming to a stop in front of her. Laabi looked at her, a frown plain on his face.
"Hello, Commander Laabi," she nodded, "Doctor."
"See, she knows how to tell us PhDs apart from the rabble. You should learn it as well, Commander," the other woman smiled. "Doctor Frida Haussmann. Pleasure to meet you…?"
"Commander Nieves Rosa Arcadio, Strike Team 0726."
She paused.
"Last surviving member," Arcadio added.
Laabi and Haussmann looked down, avoiding eye contact with her. A silence blanketed the group, or at least, as much a silence as could befall a ring of peace in the middle of a conflict zone. Arcadio sighed and took the opportunity to break the silence.
"Sorry. Anyway, Commander Laabi, how are the Golems the Kabbalists are constructing? Are they reinforcing the Strike Teams and Mobile Task Forces?"
Thankful to be relieved of the awkward situation, Laabi smiled and nodded. "Yes! Indeed! We are harvesting the East Meadow for clay, and we are holding strong against the Insurgents and demons. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that the giant demons aren't approaching our location," he laughed, hand on his nimcha's hilt.
"I suppose so. A few fell into the Hudson and seemingly drowned after Alex made the—"
Arcadio was cut off by a sudden shockwave from the west, accompanied by a burst of green light. The amassed civilians screamed, and the barrier held up by the Horizon Initiative units was instantly destroyed. The sound of the barrier shattering rang across the park, faint lines of white energy falling to the ground like loose pieces of string. Civilians screamed, scattering in all directions as the armed forces in the area rushed to pull themselves together. The threat detection unit on Arcadio's wrist went off, blaring the phrase 'TYPE BLACK ENTITY DETECTED'. She grimaced.
"Holy shit," she said. "I don't think anyone packed Black Bullets." Arcadio looked in horror to the other two.
"What's going on? What happened to the shield?" Laabi drew his blade.
"Justice is the basis of prosperity," it sang, quoting Rifa'a Rafi al-Tahtawi.
"Type Black? What does that mean, Commander?"4 Doctor Haussmann asked over the rising screams of the people.
"It means there's an angry god out there," Arcadio answered. She instinctively reached for the communicator at her hip only to have it blare to life with radio chatter from her fellow Coalition units.
"The order is given. Procedure Pizzicato is to be carried out on Manhattan. All Ego units evacuate to the Bronx and escort civilians along. You and the civilians will be moved out with ARC units to a safe zone in Kewpie Site-19." Alex's familiar voice came through the speaker.
Arcadio looked at Laabi and Haussmann for a moment. They had no idea what this meant, but she could not explain it to them now. There was no time. She furiously pressed the voice button and roared into it:
"Alex, this is Reading Rainbow Leader. We cannot carry out Pizzicato, I don't care what the Council says. Do you have any idea how many civilians we would be executing here?!"
"I copy you, Reading Rainbow Leader. But this order is above me. Came from Madam Undersecretary herself."
"Do you really copy me? After the stunt you pulled at the bridges?! Now this? We need to get everyone out before we can even consider such an order!"
"I'm just following orders. You would do well to follow them too."
Arcadio let the communicator fall back to her waist, fuming. She looked to Laabi and Haussmann, who both appeared mortified at what the Coalition was about to unleash, despite neither knowing the details. Just as she was about to open her mouth to explain the breadth of what was going to happen if they didn't get out of there fast, the voice of a man coming from behind her, closer to the fountain, spoke up.
"Pizzicato, huh? I used to be Coalition, back in my early days. That's not good. That's not good at all." the man speaking was facing away from them, staring up at the angel. He was wearing a Foundation-issue tactical defense vest and wielded a semi-automatic. "You, Commander, are you sure the Coalition is so willing to destroy a quarter of a continent over this?" He took a drag of a cigarette.
The color drained from Laabi and Haussmann's faces.
"Madam Undersecretary is a vicious woman. I'm sure she does." Arcadio sighed. "And you are?"
"Agent Santiago Nassar. My MTF unit doesn't matter, since they weren't in town for this disaster, so I'm flying solo." He finally turned around to reveal his glowing red eyes, an unmistakable indicator of a Type Red.
"Hmph," Arcadio nodded. "And what is your mission, Agent Nassar?"
"My orders were to evacuate as many people as possible. I was taking a break here when this happened," he gestured.
"Look, whatever the orders were, they don't matter anymore, we need to get out of here, now!" Laabi pointed to the distance, where a skyscraper-sized demon was slowly approaching Central Park from Fifth Avenue.
"Actually, hold on just a moment." Nassar reached into his pocket, retrieving a vibrating device. He tapped a button on it and brought it up to eye level, quickly reading over its contents. "Hmm. Interesting."
"This is Commander Alex. Looks like you got your wish, Reading Rainbow Leader. Pizzicato is abated for 48 hours," the voice of the Strike Team 9999 Commander crackled Arcadio's communicator to life.
She breathed in relief, as did Laabi and Haussmann.
"Thank God. More time to escape," the PhD sighed.
"Actually, this is interesting, Doctor, and Commanders. According to this message I just received, the SUSEOCT parties and Horizon Initiative are launching a 48-hour Hail Mary war on whatever is going on. The tip of the spear is on Liberty Island. I bet we can get there using your technology, Commander Arcadio." Santiago smiled, putting away the device in his pocket again.
"What? Why would we? And how would you know?"
"I recognize an Apportation Pack when I see one. I know it was still in testing when I was in the Coalition, but perhaps it is ready."
A smile appeared on Arcadio's face.
"Heh. Okay. Let's do it, then. Everyone, gather up." She reachws to the odd contraption that her BLACK Suit had been outfitted with. It whistled to life, energy pulsing from it as it powered on. She flipped a switch on her side and looked to the group. "Come then. Don't be shy."
"Apportation technology is still in its infancy… I don't think this can take us to Liberty Island from here, and the—" Haussmann approached wearily.
"Do not be such a worrywart, Doctor," Laabi said, also approaching.
Santiago wordlessly grinned and stood beside Arcadio.
"Okay. Let's go. Everyone hang on!" The group all braced themselves and the machine thrummed with power momentarily. It flashed brightly, only for nothing to happen. Arcadio looked around, then sighed.
"As I was saying, Commander, the Bodhisattva backlash from the God being born a few minutes ago is interfering with apportation thaumotech. In short, I don't think we're going to be able to go anywhere with that while we're in the dimensional collapse area." Haussmann huffed.
"You sure sound like you know what you're doing. Plus, you're from Prometheus. Here." Arcadio detached the core of the Apportation Pack and handed it off to the PhD. "Get it working. In the meantime, let's head to Liberty Island."
Laabi and Santiago exchanged a knowing look as Arcadio started moving.
"B-but—" Haussmann started. "Wait! This isn't my field of expertise! I'm an Extraversal Neuroscientist! It's like asking a neurosurgeon to operate on a donkey!"
"Ah, but you can still do it, correct?" Arcadio reached for her communicator and began typing up a message to her handler.
"I— Fine. I guess. I am not happy about this, but this will require a stop at Columbia University to grab some supplies."
"Don't worry, Doctor. We'll protect you." Laabi pat her on the back, sheathing his blade again.
"We live in biological time, and we have beginnings, middles, and ends."
"Well said," the Malleus Commander chuckled. "Let our ends in the defense of Manhattan be glorious."
"I have no intention of dying. But then again, I have the advantage in that." Santiago grinned.
"All of you quiet down and hurry up," Arcadio called out, already crossing the nearby meadow. "We have demons and Insurgents to kill."
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