Chapter 124: 122 – Cry For Retribution

The remainder of the box - and its majority - contained a number of round metallic pills that could almost be mistaken for ball bearings by a layman’s eye. Catalysts for Sodan’s abilities. He knew not why that man cared, or how he knew the specifics of what Sodan could do, but he was thankful nonetheless. Perhaps swallowing one of these could help him bring this tin can up to par, for a time.

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Crossing the Willowdale/Rigport state border had a delayed effect, but a rather pronounced one. It was innocuous at first, with distant signs of pollution and a marginally increased human presence, especially when it came to armed forces traveling roads that didn’t lead into Willowdale’s territory. Even dozens of kilometers out from the coastline - let alone the city proper - things were noticeably worse. 

On their way through Willowdale’s territory they’d come across a hamlet or two, even a few villages way off in the distance, all visibly damaged in one way or another, but none truly abandoned. Rigport’s territory was a whole other story.

In the first three hours since crossing the border, they came across a burned-down farmstead. There was a dead apple tree in the yard, from which hanged the mostly-rotten corpses of a woman and two children, if the derogatory wooden signs nailed into their chests were to go by. More such signs could be seen at the base of the tree. They passed the grizzly scene by.

A decrepit, although still functioning farmstead was the next landmark. There were three graves with makeshift headstones next to the house, and an old man tilled the field using a plowshare clearly meant for a beast of burden.

When the sea was finally in view and the steel spire of rigport’s lighthouse pierced the horizon, they finally came upon the first notable infiltration hazard. A secured perimeter surrounding the territory immediately surrounding the city, the only legal way to pass being heavily-guarded checkpoints known for levying extortionate tithes at the best of times if one wasn’t in with the authorities. It was an outright imposing sight, a multi-layered wall of crumbling earthen plates, emblematic of Pateirian geomancy - tough and effective barricades, but hopelessly vulnerable to water erosion. They had clearly been raised very recently, yet were already falling apart.

Their safe crossing through this checkpoint had been secured thanks to that very corruption, but it wouldn’t be possible until another hour and a half when the guards changed, and so they waited, concealed in an overgrown field dangerously close to the checkpoint proper. From there they saw a small group of raggedly-dressed people with a pair of mule-drawn carts, each loaded with a few sacks of what was most likely grain, approaching the checkpoint.

They were stopped and searched. At first it seemed like they would be let through, the guards heaving hefted the grain sacks onto the ground and rooted around in them for anything other than grain. They were Ikesian to a man, wearing some curious uniform that Alcerys was not familiar with, though it was a conspicuous mixture of the core Ikesian style with Pateirian flourishes.

...And then came the barked orders, accompanied by violent gestures and brandished weapons. The commotion was loud enough to actually make out what was being said, at least with the basic sensory amplification of Fog-breathing.

“S-sir we’ve already paid our tithe this month! Any more and we’ll starve!” begged the sole man in the group as a pair of guards hefted a sackful of grain off the back of the cart and began carrying it away. 

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“Really? Shall I call the commissar to ask him?” sneered the more authoritatively-dressed of the checkpoint guards, looming over the farmer.

“You can’t-” responded the farmer desperately, only to be struck to the ground. The checkpoint commander began kicking the man, shouting accusations of collaboration with anti-occupation terrorists by selling grain to those affiliated with them, even daring him to try and cross the border to “those filthy fencesitters up north”. It was obvious that people were not allowed to leave the territory under what was likely pain of death.

Strake felt the bile rising into his throat, the pressure building in his chest. He felt the veins in his neck bulging with such pressure they pressed up against the insides of his suit’s neckband.

He unlocked his helmet and partially lowered it with one hand, just enough to expose his mouth. With the other, he pulled out the old mint box, opened it, and took out a pill, stowing the box away. Before he could toss the pill in his mouth, Alcerys interrupted him.

“Leave it be. Do you think you could kill them all? And the ones watching from the treeline? What of the ones that’d come for him and his family, hm?” she questioned, but there was no conviction behind her words. Only the automated caution of a decade’s service.

Strake looked back with a beastly glow in his eyes and a snarl on his face. 

“Yes,” he growled, gulping down the pill and locking his helmet back in place. “Yes I could. And I will. And their commanders, and their families, and all those sycophants who permit them to infest our lands. Whether you choose to aid me or oppose me makes no difference.”

With a sigh, Alcerys bit her tongue, weighed her words, even as the Eye’s chain grew thorny and tightened around her wrist like a murderous serpent. She was here to keep him in line, she was insurance… But this, she could not abide, no matter how it endangered the covertness of the operation. 

Before she could even take a moment to quickly formulate a plan of approach Sodan had already sprung into action, carelessly striding into the open road with a gait so swaggering one could see the disrespect in every step he took towards those soldiers. She couldn’t help but notice the eyes of his helmet glowing a baleful red, as well as his movements having become far more forceful. She had assumed that even the Second-model suits had a separate travel and combat mode, but this was something more.

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