Agent Fahrenheit and his commander soared through the blistering cold air, having been airborne for several hours. Fahrenheit was normally a man of stern belief, although the day he had just left behind caused him to falter ever so slightly. He checked his watch, and gazed at the cloud-veiled land that lay beneath him.
"Almost there?" he shouted over the sound of the blades slicing through the thin air.
"Few more minutes, Fairz," his commander responded. "We've made splendid time. Think they'll have a surprise party waitin' for us home?"
Fahrenheit chuckled. "Doubt it. I could go for cake though. Hell, I could go for elephant shit. I'm famished."
They shared a good laugh. Then, after a few more short minutes, Fahrenheit could see Saint Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica. Finally.
Fahrenheit and the commander made it to subterranean level one after finding a suitable place to land the helicopter, and were greeted with open arms and longing sentiments. Fahrenheit's thoughts, however, were occupied. He couldn't stop thinking about Ray Hancock's death. Where he could've gone. Why it happened. What could've saved his life.
"Hey, Fairz. Anyone home in there?" one of his squadmates reached out. "We've got a little outing tomorrow and you seem like you need rest. Go lie down and get some shut-eye, 'kay?"
Fahrenheit grabbed a big gulp of water from his personal canteen. "Awright, if you say so." He stumbled over to his quarters and unpacked his things, not even waiting to properly undress before passing out.
Fahrenheit awoke in his pajamas; clearly, someone had tended to him, and for that he was thankful. He felt a new rejuvenation in his body, though negative thoughts came coursing back with time.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," his commander called out from the darkness. He answered the call with an annoyed "Shut up, you!" With haste, he dressed himself and went to the breakfast table. They serve miniature pizzas today.
He took his seat and scarfed down the pizza, satisfied with its flavor. He felt wholly like a new man already. He partook in chat with his friends, sharing a plethora of conversational words such as "Good morning," "How's the kids?", and "Nice weather we're having!". He was off to a good morning. It was time to gear and deploy now.
The four of them rode in the bustling, though snow-blanketed roads of Ontario. Although Fahrenheit was anything but upset, more wicked thoughts began to reenter his head.
"I'm in Tactical Theology. He's an honest construction worker. I do know that."
"It's the most important thing in the world."
"It was just human error."
He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He shook his head anyway, as if to rid himself of the feeling. Besides, it was cold. That warmed him up a little bit.
"Alright, I forgot to brief you happy few, so let me take the stage: the UIU called in this abandoned apartment building with mannequins that carry EVE and a whole bunch of decomposition. Now, you might ask yourself, 'O Commander, my Commander, why must we bear this trek? Why is the GOC naught, and Nu-7 abandoned?' and my answer would be that they already called in the GOC, who found a shitload of holy artifacts in the attic and forwarded the dung to us. We're just gonna take some measurements, then bag and tag. Simple, 'aye?"
"'Aye" was chanted in unison.
They entered the apartment. "Jeez, commander wasn't kidding about the decomposition. That smell is wicked!"
"You said it man. Check out these fucking mannequins." The squadmate poked one with his gun. "You sure they aren't gonna pull some 173 shit?"
"They're good. Friendly. FBI's theory is 'trapped souls', but that would be boring. We're not here to figure them out though. To the attic, mateys!" The squad drew near the attic, where the artifacts lay. "Fairz, you did Akiva counter calibration in the van, right?"
"Yeah, it's ready. I've got no good feeling about this damn place."
"You hear that boys? The American has no good feeling!" The team snickered amongst each other.
All but one. "For once, I agree with Wisconsin Man. This attic is dreadful."
"Yeah well," the commander started. "dreadful is in your job descriptions. It was right up there next to 'existential,' 'guilt-ridden' and 'lethal.'"
They tore open the door and faced the darkness.
Fahrenheit took a reading of the room. "Alright, ambient readings are at…" BEEP "…two. Indicates desecrated grounds."
"Or defecated," a teammate snickered. "Should find one of the artifacts and see what they read." Fahrenheit began to move towards a crucifix, but suddenly stopped. He heard someone speak to him, not of his squad.
"She should've caught the error," it spoke, with such intense inflection it moved Fahrenheit back. He stared at the golden cross on the wall.
"Fairz? You're freaking out again, man. You want me to take the counter?" He didn't respond. His teammate took the device and started to take measurements.
He took the counter up to the crucifix, and it let out another ear-splitting beep. "Twenty-seven. What other artifacts are there again?"
Fahrenheit stood in the middle of the room, eyes trained on the crucifix, and breathed. It spoke again. "Exasperation is no excuse for failure." It drove him mad. He drew his handgun and shot the crucifix, driving his magazine empty in anger and fear, desperate.
His teammates got the gun off him and managed to calm him down. "What the hell is up man? You've never been out of it like that before." Fahrenheit apologized and sat down in a small wooden chair, conveniently placed in the corner.
"I'm sorry guys, I've just been hella stressed this past week." The commander placed his hand on Fahrenheit's shoulders.
"Wouldn't hurt to talk about it. What's the matter?"
"Ironically, I think I'm losing my religion. I just don't know what I'm doing wrong. I feel like despite how many gods and relics we deal with weekly, not one is responsive. Not one is willing to help, or to reach out. It seems like they loathe us for what we are and we praise them senselessly, when we just don't have any good reason to."
"Well, that's the point. The layman doesn't know what the next life holds, or if it's real, so they pray in the hopes that someone is out there. We make sure that they see their heaven one day."
Fahrenheit shared a look with him, before training his gaze back on the floor. "Sorry for so suddenly dropping a whole lot on you guys. A lot has happened."
His commander shared an understanding look and squeezed his shoulder, before taking his face piece off. "Listen Fairz, What happened with Light may be difficult to cope with, but she should've caught the error."
His teammate dropped the Akiva counter.
Fahrenheit looked back up. Then at his commander. He was smiling. The whole squad was smiling; all of their masks were off. "How do you… why are we even discussing this in the AO?"
Then it hit him. "Oh." He wrapped his arm around his commander and stole his gun, shooting him once in the dome and killing him. The rest followed suit. That didn't matter.
The wicked ratcher was due. It seeped through the floor, through the window, through the door, through the walls, through the ceiling, through their clothes, through the gun. A dark, acidic substance that burned him to touch. It felt like two hundred degrees inside that uniform, but he dared not to show his bare body to the ratcher.
He tried to shoot it, but to no avail. He tried to run from it, but the walls enclosed him in the attic. He tried to pray to it, but it covered his mouth. He locked eyes with that golden crucifix, before they were overrun with darkness. He dared not to question how it had regenerated from his previous barrage.
He reached out, unable to see or hear or smell or feel but only to touch, and made contact. But it was now wooden. And rigid. He grabbed it as the tendrils subsumed him and suspended him in the air.
He stabbed it into his mouth and once more he could breathe. He jabbed it into his eyes and once more he could see. He ripped it against his ears and once more he could hear. He plunged it into the wall and they retreated, stunned by his gall.
He fell to the hard wooden floor, and he was met with the wicked ratcher, in its total glory. It was a monolithic creature, made of a grassy, yet inky substance, and with many tendrils and long pointed limbs. Its dozen eyes looked down upon the measley Fahrenheit, who felt a supernatural compulsion to pray to it. It was disgusted at the pathetic little thing, flailing the wooden dragon about like a toy sword. It backhanded him into the wall and he fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and started praying.
It was gone.
Fahrenheit woke up in the middle of the night in a violent sweat, panicking and flailing. "Fuck!" he screamed before quickly covering his mouth. He nicked himself; there was a wooden dragon in his hand. He tossed it to the other side of the bed and ran to the restroom to wash his face and take his uniform off.
Fuck me! It was so obvious it was fake! Jesus Christ! he screamed at his thoughts. He even hit himself on the head. He couldn't believe he thought it was real, but then second guessed that thought considering how many weird things he had ever had to deal with. Then, something in the mirror caught his eye:
His eyebags were much darker than usual. And there was some sort of ink around his mouth. O, God. I'm gonna need to take a vacation.
I'm taking one. Had a real fucky dream last night that screwed with me mental and I'm really unsure of what to do. I've had all sorts of weird dreams but the thing is it's actually affecting me like there's a wooden dragon that doesnt belogn to me that was just in my room and theres inkblots on my face from the thing I was fighting so I'm starting to think a dream demon wants me or some shit
im scared and I don't want to go to the medbay or to Pandora so I'm gonna take the load off and only come to them if I absolutely need.
jeez sorry for going on I'm just freaked again. I love you