The barracks hallway stretched east to west in a short line of pale gray walls and white steel doors, lit by the harsh glare of fluorescent bars set into the overcast ceiling. The doors were uniform and symmetrical, devoid of any decoration or individuality, the walls scarred here and there with stains of what could be blood.
The grey of her skin-armor seemed to blend in and out of the walls, becoming one and separate with the color over and over. Her eyes drooped, heavy-lidded with fatigue, blue irises barely visible through their curtain.
His pale, feverish face gazes up at her with vacant eyes like patches of summer sky. The medics can’t even get a word in before she has him in her arms, pounding her feet towards the medical units as fast as she can go.
The fear in their eyes is nothing compared to the terror in her heart; Dante is dying and she knows it.
The intensive care pod looms up to her right, swollen to enormous proportions in the rush of adrenaline. Aaliyah immediately dumps her son into the cushioned interior, slamming the glass lid shut with one hand as the other shoots into an arm-shaped socket.
The medics work all around her, lobbing vials of chemicals and fragile beakers full of dangerous material back and forth between one another. It’s a wonder the floor isn’t dissolving underneath them from a wash of nanacids and catalytic solutions.
She twists her other arm into the second socket, the mechanical arms inside the pod whirring to life. She makes a hasty grab for the healing syringes, almost smashing the rack. She recovers and quickly grabs hold of one of the delicate glass needles, whipping it to Dante’s neck and stabbing the cruel-looking tip into his left jugular.
Dante jerks up, drawing his first breath in nearly four minutes and screaming in agony. Aaliyah looks away as her apprentice thrashes about the padded interior, the pain of forced cellular regeneration wracking his body in fiery waves.
All that matters is that he’s safe. That he’ll live.
Aaliyah jerked up from the dream and staggered forward, breathing hard, covered in a cold sweat. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes and stood back up cursing softly. The memories of the night before were raw in her head, like open wounds, scabbed over and throbbing. The terror of seeing her son like that, unbreathing, burnt, slashed, the manic energy that had possessed her at the sight of his body…
She shivered and leaned back up against the wall, bringing her wrist-monitor back to her eyes.
At least he’s alive. And he passed! Damn kid, always needs to be at the top.
She smiled to herself. She could not deny she was proud of him, as she was for any new member of the runner hierarchy.
Is he ready?
The thought troubled her. Dante was young and strong and fierce, there was no way to deny it.
But the young are almost never ready for the junk the old pile up on them.
She lapsed into brooding thought, fighting to stay awake and planning for the future, absentmindedly typing at the touchscreen of the wrist-monitor. After a short while she looked up, hearing the quiet sound of armored footsteps on the steel stairs.
A door to her right opened and a tall, thin man stepped through, eyes fixed on a holoboard flashing figures and charts up at him in a whirl of orange. She smiled tiredly and rapped her knuckles against the wall, jerking the man up to look at her.
“’That for me, Stephen?” she asked, flipping her monitor closed and walking over to the medic. Stephen nodded silently and handed her the holoboard, standing back with his hands clasped behind him.
Aaliyah looked down at the holoboard and began to read, tapping here and there to blow up the injury figures and internal readings. She winced more than once, grimacing at the sheer level of damage Dante had inflicted on himself. When she finished reading a passage about a “particularly fascinating plasma bullet lodged in the base of the patient’s spine”, she tossed Stephen the clipboard and leaned back against the wall.
“One day that kid’s going to kill me,” Aaliyah muttered darkly, “And I’ve still got a good long while with him as my partner.”
Steven nodded. “With that adventurous streak he has, I think he’ll need your help for a long time,” he said seriously, his soft brown eyes fixed on hers, “But at least he’s alive and healed, Aali.”
“How in the hell did he get shot in the spine by a plasma slug and live, much less move?” she demanded, gesturing incredulously, “How was he still moving after fifteen second-degree burns, a fractured jaw, a ligament inflammation from Lera poison, how was he running with a broken hip? Is that even possible?”
Stephen grinned and clapped her on the shoulder. “Maybe he learned from the best,” he said, “And maybe he learned well.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes and let her head bump back into the wall, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. Stephen stepped forward, ready to remind her that her son was alive and almost completely healed, but stopped as he saw a smile growing underneath the hand.
“Ohhh…,” she sighed, turning to look at Stephen as the grin spread fully over her lovely face, “I know I sound ungrateful, Steve. Thanks for all your help with keeping the damn kid alive.”
Stephen shrugged and smiled, spreading his hands as if to say it was nothing.
“That was much more than nothing to me and Dante, Steve,” she said warmly, her right hand flipping open her wrist-monitor and tapping the screen with a frightening speed. “Here…”
Stephen’s own wristpiece snapped open and began to bleep loudly, making him jump and jerk his left hand to the hidden holsters in his lab coat. Aaliyah laughed aloud and gestured him to calm down.
“I’ve given you a little gift. Compensation. ‘Cause my damn brother doesn’t pay you anything,” she said, flipping her monitor shut. Stephen raised the monitor to his eyes and squinted to read the amount written there.
His gaze jerked sharply to Aaliyah, who grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. He looked back and forth between the monitor and her face, goggling slightly, his jaw working but making no sounds.
“Aaliyah-” he choked out at last, “I can’t accept this!”
“You medics need all the money you can get!” she exclaimed, “If he won’t pay you, I’ll try and make your life a little easier.”
Stephen started to protest, gesturing wildly between the monitor and Aaliyah, but silenced as she threw her hands into the air and shouted, “Just take it, Steve! If you desperately don’t want to call it pay, consider it a gift!”
Stephen shook his head and grumbled something about “more money than I can spend,” then straightened and looked her in the eye, stern and unsmiling.
“You are,” he said tersely, “the most annoyingly and endearingly indomitable woman I’ve ever met.”
Aaliyah laughed and punched him on the shoulder again, putting a tiny bit of force behind the blow. Stephen staggered back into the doorframe of the exit, dinging his head against the rigid plasteel. He grunted in pain, rubbing the spot tenderly and then speaking with the same deadpan disapproval.
“And it doesn’t help that you’re stronger than a bloody power lifter.”
She winked and cocked her fist back dramatically. “You know you love me,” she said sardonically, “Now, don’t you have some work to do?”
“Yeah,” he said wearily, stretching and rubbing his eyes, “Work never stops. Take care of yourself, Aali.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Aaliyah reassured him, “I’m not the one who needs the care right now.”
Stephen nodded and turned back to the stairwell, vanishing from sight with the sound of something like stone tapping on steel. Then a second pair of footsteps joined the sound of his, much louder and much quicker. Aaliyah stood up straight and narrowed her eyes, unconsciously beginning to sink into a combat crouch. She heard Stephen ask something, his voice inaudible but his tone shocked.
Aaliyah’s eyes widened in shock as she heard something begin to roll down the stairs, Stephen’s shouts and curses ringing up to her where his wo
rds hadn’t, the running footsteps getting louder every second.
The doors shot open, a grey boot emerging from the gap, then a body followed quickly and stopped as it caught sight of Aaliyah. The man, nearly six feet tall, brown-haired like her, with the same deep blue eyes and dancer-lean body, looked around quickly and caught sight of Aaliyah. He made a disgusted noise and walked forward, his fists balled at his sides, his mouth curved into a sneering frown.
Aaliyah stared as he advanced on her, unsure how to react; her brother had just smashed through the doors.
He looked like he had sat on a porcupine.
"What do you need, Jac?" Aaliyah asked pleasantly, adjusting a lock of her brown hair and keeping her stance slightly crouched, ready to move.
Jac’s eyes flashed with anger, his voice knife-sharp as he stopped two steps away from her.
"What did you tell him, up on the helioscraper?” he asked quietly, his tone deadly serious. She feigned innocence, lifting her eyebrows and shrugging her shoulders defensively.
“Tell me, dammit!” he shouted, thrusting his face forward into hers, “I order you to tell me!”
Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed in anger and she stepped forward, shoving her brother away from her with both hands. He stumbled backwards and hit the opposite wall with a loud curse, a dull boom resonating through the hallway.
"I told him exactly what you and I were told before we had our initiations, Jac," she told him coldly, folding her arms across her chest and fixing Jac with a glare that burned like napalm.
“You what?” he hissed, his eyes widening in incredulous anger. In an instant he jerked forward, taking Aaliyah by surprise, his hands slamming her shoulders against the wall.
“You fucking what?!” he roared.
Three loud smacking sounds rang out around the hallway as his hand flicked back and forth across her face, two slaps and a backhand with all his considerable strength behind them.
Aaliyah stood like she had been frozen in place, her angry glare subsiding into something cold, something dark, something dead. Jac stepped back, the flush of his anger draining from his face as he watched his sister slowly raise her hand to her burning red cheek.
Then she was on him, a blur of speeding muscle that darted forward and lifted him by the throat, squeezing hard before slamming him backwards face-first into the floor. A fist lanced into his stomach before he had time to fall to the ground, a vicious kick crashing into his ribcage and flipping him onto his back.
Then she was atop him before he had time to scream, her hand clenching his throat and squeezing just hard enough to let him breathe. Her eyes shone like lamplight reflected by frost, her teeth clenched and bared like fangs, one fist poised above her head like a hammer waiting to fall. Jac choked and grabbed at her hand, squirming and writhing underneath her. She tsked, tightening her grip just a hair around his throat.
“Jac, Jac, Jac,” she said severely, like a teacher chiding an uppity student, “Don’t you know not to mess with a girl who hasn’t had her sleep?”
He growled and twisted underneath her, trying and failing to throw her off. She breathed out a disgusted sigh and gave him a parting shot on the jaw, the bone crunching under her fist. She stood and stepped back against the wall, watching her brother struggle to his feet, blood dripping from his split lip and internal injuries.
Jac heaved himself up against the opposite wall, leaning on his left arm as he fixed Aaliyah with the same death glare as before. But now the stare was cautious and restrained, the anger tempered by her little reminder.
"You… told him… that we were out… to liberate Omega?!” he gasped, wincing in pain as his jaw slid back into place. “You know damn well that the Forerunner told all of us not to spew any propaganda in the initiate’s ears!”
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes still sparking with the same cold fury.
"Some of us actually hold to our laws, Jac," she retorted, her words cool and sharp. He sighed in exasperation, making a disgusted gesture in her direction.
"Or do I have to remind you about the Virtues too? I thought those had bored through even that thick head of yours a long time ago.” Her tone held a mocking edge, but the brutal honesty of her belief was far more prevalent.
“‘It’s our job to preserve freedom wherever we find it and bring it to those who can’t help themselves’,” she said, her gaze locked with his, “I told him what I was told, and what he needed to hear. I taught him what I was taught, and what you were taught, and what every runner should be taught. I followed the law. The first law.”
"Old laws can be set aside by any Forerunner and you know it!” he spat at her, “That wasn’t a recommendation or a discouragement, that was a goddamn order!"
Aaliyah closed her mouth, just on the verge of reminding him about her disinclination to follow rules, and stared at Jac with an expression of mixed horror, disbelief and horror.
"He can’t... he didn't... did he? You’re- you’re joking." Her voice was like a broken record, jarred and disjointed.
"No, I’m not,” he said grimly, a small and bitter smile breaking over his face, “He did it for our survival. If we continue with the laws the first Forerunner gave us, we‘ll attract too much flak from J.U.!"
"Jac, that's exactly what we want!” she exclaimed, incredulous and angry, “We want them to waste soldiers on us! You know we're superior fighters. We can handle anything that they throw our way!"
"We've lost too many good runners on attack and defense. Nearly two hundred have died just this year, Aali!” Jac shot back angrily, “We need to adopt a new angle, a new approach if we want to survive! People like you are endangering the order!"
"Is that you talking, or is that the Forerunner?" she asked venomously. He went bright red, the insult of toadying too much even for him. She did not wait for him to reply, bulldozing over whatever excuse he would give her.
"And I'm guessing that's not all,” she continued icily, bunching up her fists and taking a step forward. “I bet he wants us in a new angle too! So what's it going to be, Jac? Couriers? Spies? Soldiers for that new movement, the Demokratos Party?"
"All three, Aaliyah," he said quietly, a triumphant look spreading over his face.
She fell silent in a heartbeat. Her sapphire blue eyes were wide and furious, and when she was able to bring words back to her mouth, she spoke like someone holding back a murderous rage.
"Mercenaries," she said in that deadly calm voice. Jac instinctively took a step backwards, paling, his hand unconsciously traveling to a light scar on the his armor’s surface.
"He wants us sell our ideals for money,” she stated, taking another slow step forward.
“He wants us to become prostitutes, using our skills for any bastard who can pay enough cash to hire us. He wants us to throw away everything for cash.”
Another step, inexorable and terrifying as the stone that starts an avalanche. Fear raced across Jac’s features, replacing triumph and spite.
“Aaliyah, it wasn't my decision, but it's the runner law now!” he jabbered, backing up against the wall, “He’s made his decision, I can’t change that, so just, just back off-"
Her eyes blazed as she drew a breath to answer, hard and lean muscles tensing for another fight. Her armor hardened into plates around her fists, her stomach, her neck, solidifying into battle form as she took the last step forward.
A groan emanated from Dante’s room, faint and tired and pained, and stopped Aaliyah dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened in fear as she turned her head back to the door she had been guarding, listening with all her might.
Another moan, louder and more insistent, and she whirled around, barreling forward and bursting through the door.
The room had no windows and was spartan in decoration with a steel-and-mesh cot set in one corner, a sink and mirror next to it and a bank of computer monitors set across from the sink. Dante was stirring on the bed beneath the threadbare cotton blanke
t, his eyes flickering open and closed as he flexed his wounded arms and legs.
Aaliyah rushed over and checked his pulse, feeling for irregularities or spikes that could indicate a heart attack. He shook his head and muttered a curse, swatting weakly at her armored hand and tossing back and forth.
Aaliyah sighed and sat back against the wall by the bed, relief washing over her in a cool, tempering tide of gratitude. Dante rolled onto his side and groaned, his eyes forcing themselves open to look at her. He smiled tiredly at Aaliyah’s wan grin and cracked his neck.
"Have I died and gone to heaven?" he muttered groggily, pushing himself up and swinging his legs slowly over the side of the cot.
Aaliyah raised an eyebrow, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. "Is that any way to talk about your teacher?" she asked.
He chuckled and let himself fall back against the cot with a creaking squeak.
"I notice I'm not in the Initiate's Quarters,” he breathed, putting his arms behind his head, “Did I pass?"
His voice held a tint of excitement, but also a little fear. Aaliyah smiled a little and pulled him back upright, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"You aren't an initiate anymore, Dante,” she said. Dante’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Nearly killing yourself doesn’t stop you from being the winner. You're a Nightwalker now, an official adult. So I’d like to be the first one to welcome you to hell, kid."
He sat there for a second, staring at her shocked, digesting the news. Then a wide grin broke out on his face, and he pumped his arms into the air with a loud shout.
Aaliyah grinned with him, grabbed a grey cylinder from under the bed and dumped it in his lap. The soupy contents of the canister swirled slowly in the light, glossy and thick and not unlike slime. Dante wasted no time, popping the lid of the tube and dropping the thick fluid onto his skin.
It seemed to come alive as it touched him, a great grey amoeba crawling slowly up his arm and over his torso, down his abdomen and over his face in a living flood.
“Not exactly painless,” Dante complained, grimacing and squirming a little, “Coulda warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, grinning slyly, “If you don’t feel a little agony, you aren’t doing it right.”
She stood up and walked to the computer monitors across the room, alive with diagrams and charts and status updates as the grey stuff slithered over Dante’s body. Dante growled in mock anger and closed his eyes, fighting back the pain as he became sheathed in a grey carapace of armor-matter.
“Activating. Get ready,” Aaliyah called from across the room, pressing the enter key on the computer’s keyboard. In a heartbeat the grey substance submerged under his skin, leaving no trace of its existence across his bare skin. Dante turned his arm this way and that, his skin crawling a little as the armor settled back under his flesh.
“Genetically Integrated Advanced Combat Armor systems online without error. Marrying program complete,” Aaliyah called to him, reading from the diagnostics on the monitor of the computer.
Dante stretched and leaned back, flexing his powerful muscles against the many bandages. As his eyes fell on each burn or scabbed cut or bruise the armor ran out across his wounds and they began to reknit, melding back together and healing without scars or blemishes. It began to cut away the bandages, grey and razor-sharp ridges of bone and cartilage slicing through the mesh and submerging back beneath his skin.
Dante stood and turned to the wall behind his bed, curling his hand experimentally and watching the grey rush to the surface and coat his fist. His hand shot out and smashed into the solid concrete-and-steel wall, sending a spiderweb of cracks racing out in a foot-long radius around his fist. He laughed out loud, drawing his hand back slowly and feeling his knuckles; hardened, skin protected by a grey shell of bone and metal.
"When do I get my first mission, ma’am?" he called over his shoulder, sardonic and brash. He chuckled to himself and turned back to his new skin, calling up the GIACA again and again all over his body.
Aaliyah frowned and rapped the desk for his attention. He turned and leaned against the fractured wall, a cocky and easy grin plastered all over his young face.
"You're still my charge, Dante,” she told him sternly, “And I’m still responsible for you in a few big ways. From here until you beat me in the Trials you’re an adult runner, with autonomy and ability to roam, but also my son. Once you’re a Master you can treat me with a little disrespect, at long damn last."
Dante’s smile faltered, momentary surprise then disappointment flickering across his face. He opened his mouth and closed it, as if on the verge of saying something. Then the grin was back before she had time to blink, and he gave her a deep, melodramatic bow.
"As if I’d ever challenge you,” he scoffed irreverently, “Lead me on then, mom. I look forward to dying under your command.”
"Hopefully that won't be necessary today,” came Jac’s calm, steady voice from the doorframe, where he had leaned up against the wall and watched the whole proceeding. He smiled at Dante, his newly-repaired jaw and teeth giving no indication of the fight.
“Go down to the mess hall, Dante,” he said, not looking at Aaliyah. “Breakfast was stalled for you, and we're all hungry."
Dante nodded and rushed out the door, propelled with a child's excitement, his footsteps echoing down the long hall and fading into the distance. Jac watched him go, his smile fond, almost fatherly. But when he looked back to his sister, it was replaced with the same old icy glare. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand and spoke instead.
"There's nothing more to discuss,” she told him coolly. “I’ll teach him the new laws, but I’ll also teach him the old ways. My ways. He is mine to instruct, and you have no say in it."
She stood up. "But let's forget about that now and celebrate,” she said, keeping eye contact with her brother as she walked out the door, “It's a big day for Dante, and we shouldn't let anything get in the way."
He was impassive for a second more, then smiled stonily and nodded. Aaliyah walked down the hall to the mess hall and did not notice the expression of dark worry that flashed across his face.
Dante’s special. Not a doubt about it. He could make or break the order. He’s a scion. He could mean anything, good or bad.
He stood in that doorway for a long time, thinking and planning for the future.
Episode 3: Eight Years Later