Grays #22 - Eyes in the Storm
Have you located the Eye, yet?
I do not wish to hear it, Miss Scabbard.
You'd best get used to it. Here, your mistakes will be remembered.
I cannot be held accountable for the many imperceptibles in a cluster of strix.
Actually, you can. This is war, Mr. Flint. Moves and countermoves. Even standing still is an act of movement. A failure to act that has compromised one of your own.
A temporary setback. He can track it easily.
But a setback, nonetheless. You'll have to learn patience in the field. Don't rely so much upon the martial abilities of your Hats. Though effective they may be, you must admit, they've been a bit messy.
The Shiver's presence forced our hand.
Did it now? As I recall, it was still roaming the basement when the scaffolding fell in my favorite theater.
I thought one of our tenets was not to become attached, Miss Scabbard?
Assets are still assets, dear replacement. Do not lose sight of future opportunities just because you have commitment issues. Only the strongest of resolve can make the most of a situation.
And what strings are you fit to tug on, Miss Scabbard, and how many hearts will be broken by the end?
Don't worry, yourself, darlin'. They won't be any of yours.
Good evening, my lovelies.
Good evening, My Sovereign.
A good evening, indeed. Many clouds on the horizon; a tempest promised. Miss Scabbard, how fares your Sword?
She has entered a process of temperance, My Sovereign. Soon, she will be reforged, and sharper than ever. Her song is set to a strong tether.
It does seem that there might have been casualty?
Mistakes were made; hands were forced.
Your mistakes, Mr. Flint. Your hands. If you cannot control them, I hold no qualm in removing them from your body. If they are diseased and inept, they will be cut out. Do not ever forget what happened to other man in this station.
Yes... My Sovereign. With your infinite wisdom, how do you think it best to proceed?
Find the Dim Fox, Mr. Flint. The Echo won't be far behind. Bleed him if you have to.
Get all that, Mr. Flint?
It will be done, My Sovereign.
Pray that it is, if you value your hands as much as your excuses. ...Be well, my lovelies.
Goodnight, My Sovereign.
Somewhere on a rooftop overlooking the steel forest of Stormwrack...
"Sava, my darling, are you there?"
One in the chamber, two up the hill, five to get started, and four on the hill. "I have never left, My Sovereign."
"Excellent. Did you get my gift?"
Long metal core with a silver strand, crystalline ether and a cunning brand. I eye the metal box, punching in the only code that makes sense. A satisfying hiss escapes the gap as a hatch rises revealing a long outer barrel and a long fissure down the shaft that shifts with smoke and electricity.
"Sent straight from the Assembly. They call it an Anti-Matter Rifle. I think you'll be pleased with its range. I apologize; it is, unfortunately, rather loud."
It glows blue in my grasp, brimming with life, clarity in death's clasp, into each bullet I shall pour my strife. "It is beautiful, My Sovereign." I run my bare fingers over the cool metal; it's lighter than I thought it would be. Balanced.
"I thought you would like it."
"Is there a special occasion?"
"...A storm is coming. It may just be the perfect time. I need you to be my Lance again, sweetheart."
A fleeting sense, a rising breath, calm and dense, I summon death. "I would pierce the moon for thee."
"I fear nothing so extravagant, my love. Just a simple Field Test."
"Thy will be done, My Sovereign."
"Good girl. I look forward to your symphony of thunder. Aim low, and happy birthday."
Happy birthday to me...
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