Wardens Lament
This short story serves as an optional bit of reading for those interested in getting a more in-depth look at some characters behind the lore of Willard Networks. While also providing a bit of insight for what is to come in the weeks following, and the motivations behind it.
This short story serves as an optional bit of reading for those interested in getting a more in-depth look at some characters behind the lore of Willard Networks. While also providing a bit of insight for what is to come in the weeks following, and the motivations behind it.
 Alessio Keller:Shepard of the shattered Warden forces, who once represented the height of rebellious influence within Urban Centers. Alessio is seen as one of, if not the most, commendable but ruthless anti-citizen commanders within Sector 10. His capacity of leadership, persuasive charisma and daring actions matched only by his ambitions - and willingness to surpass moral boundaries time and time again to accomplish them.  |
 Vivian Bessette:One of the central leaders of a large resistance force known as the Nachtigallen. While technically he is only one of several council members, who collectively share power across the group, he is widely considered to be its absolute leader. Being both its founder and primary guiding hand. His ethics are the Nachtigallens. His will is the Nachtigallens will. His adherence to quiet rebellion gaining him much admiration and loathing alike.  |
 Grach'Eythn (Ethan):A Vortigaunt hailing from an elusive group of tribals North of City 24. Soft spoken and heavily delved into the fickle fates of prophecy and soothsaying, Grach'Eythn is a prophet first and a warrior second. Such mannerisms have seen him find kinship with the like-minded Nachtigallen. Though his insistence on scrying the ever-shifting Vortessence makes him a fickle ally.  |
The smoldering paper roll fizzled away from life with a faint shower of sparks. The crumpling form of a spent homemade cigarette floating down the gentle stream, knocking and deflecting off of rocks as it faded beyond the morning gloom. As Alessio shifted his weight the wooden bridge holding him above the serene water below creaked fiercely. A portion of wood splintered deep within its frame. Damp moss hung from the decorative rail. The soft, green lumps of moistened plant matter swinging against the steady, cool breeze like a beloved pet's tail. Tall grasses resting below the bridge reached out towards each stringy form, chittering softly in unison.
Alessio listened to the running water more than he looked upon it. His gaze was that of empty, sleepless eyes that poised resistance to any attempts at focus. He rubbed upon them with his little finger, the only one which remained positively clean. Dried mud, grime and spots of discolored blood clouded much of his hand otherwise. An exhalation. The last of the tobacco laced smoke shrouded the air before his mouth, the acrid smell of aged and rough nicotine reaching out towards his nose, before joining the breeze. He remained idle for a moment, leaning over the railing, the water still running beneath him, rocks once obscured by the stream's surface shone as if the star above shunned all else. These rocks, pale and dry, were all he could focus his vision upon.
Noting his idling after a short period, he reached towards his hip, drawing an elongated weapon from a customized holster, its reinforcement panel and pocket having been stretched and its clips adjusted at an awkward angle. He held the weapon gingerly in his palms, examining it with exhausted curiosity. It was a Model Ten revolver, though aged and modified beyond the point where most would recognize it as such. Its sights had been replaced with a homemade set of luminous irons, crudely applied with photo-sensitive chemicals to provide the desired glowing effect. A redwood shoulder stock, attached to the original grip of the weapon jolted out harshly beyond the weapons rear. It was Whittaker who had made this little modification, promising increased control, accuracy, and of course, aesthetic. On the latter account, Whittaker had lied.
The wood was harshly joined, and even splintered at this stage in its life. The redwood having most of its color sapped away from it, looking pale and dry compared to what it once had been. One of the screws, stripped and older than the weapon by any estimate, still rested at an oblong angle. The metal was scratched along the cylinder, chipped at the hammer and bent inwards beneath the trigger guard. He remembered that one. Bent it thrashing away at a particularly feisty headcrab that he had managed to narrowly avoid becoming prey to. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, aimlessly applying it to the weapons frame, wiping water and stains from its sullied form.
His labors ceased as he heard a branch crack violently some forty feet behind him. His head turned and body straightened, thumb instinctively resting upon the hammer as the rag fell freely to the wooden deck. The stock rested against the grivet of his arm, rough and taut. The brown jacket on his back blew forth with a sudden burst of wind that whistled behind his ears. Heavy boots slowly propelled him forward, body leaning forth to peer towards the sounds source. A small refueling station rested ahead. Surrounded by trees and leaf covered foothills on all sides save for the road at the opposite side of the building. An empty propane tank was visible, along with a broken window which led into some deprecated office.
From the faintly tinted morning light, he saw a figure emerge beyond a partially collapsed arch at the structure's flank. Despite the sudden appearance, he felt himself become disarmed at the sight of him, letting the hammer free of his thumbs grip. He returned to his original posture casually, hoping that the man had not noted his alerted stance. A minute later, longer than even Alessio would have anticipated, he could hear the distinct sound of footfalls against the wooden bridge. As the man walked, a hollow beat followed suit with his comparatively soft and slow steps. The repetitive tapping of a refurbished cane, one gathered from a woodland floor rather than a storefront. Suddenly, two louder bangs struck the wooden boards below, a wordless call for attention. Alessio turned to regard him.
He was an old man, venerable even, limping his way across the shallow woodworking. Receded white hair with a frayed scalp, hunched and bent with sunspots dotting regularly exposed skin. Every few breaths sounded raspy, and laden with an elevated effort of drawing in air. The clothing on his back was unbefitting a man of his years and temperament. A small vest which housed four different magazine pouches atop a forest camouflage sweater. A holster at his hip and baggy pants which had clearly been reinforced at the knees. Combat boots, laden with mud both old and new. A poet dressed for war.
Alessio, in spite of himself, only now realized the man was not alone. An alien creature, one that stood taller than the old man and equal to himself in stature loomed nearby. A vortigaunt. A red eye shone at the old man's flank where Alessio could have sworn it never had before. Its hoof-falls were silent despite its equivalent height and where the bridge creaked and groaned beneath even the old man's bulk, the Vortigaunt suffered no such tells.
“We wish the Keller well.” The Vortigaunt said, breaking the absolute silence, clearly taking note of his sudden appraisal. Alessio could see the Vortigaunts lips curl, mutate and shift into some unknowable expression. A smile? No, he thought, it was pride. The creature was both aware and proud of his ability to blend in within plain sight.
Alessio responded to the Vortigaunts greeting with a grunted nod, as friendly a greeting as he could muster for a reason he did not understand himself. The old man took one last step forth, leaning on the branch which aided his journey, “Well, here I am, old friend.” He mused.
The phrase lit a small spark of irritation in the back of Alessio’s chest. Friend. That word alone cascaded a plethora of emotions throughout his mind; guilt, resentment and most of all, confusion. He closed his eyes a moment, repeating the greeting he presented to the Vortigaunt, following it with a short remark after a pause, “It’s good to see you…arrived.” Alessio panicked internally as he narrowly recovered from his would-be compliment.
His attempt at appearing more distant and cold seemingly failed to pass beyond the old man, as he smiled, “I suppose there is business to be discussed? Given we are so far beyond any comfortable grounds.” His voice put emphasis upon his protest of location, bringing an even more hoarse quality towards it.
“There is. Not the kind for the ears of your…council.” Alessio responded, unwittingly applying a measure of venom to his final utterance.
The old man took note of it quickly, nodding his head once in benign understanding, “Well then, we had better cover it quickly.”
Alessio marched towards the old man, approaching slowly, letting his increased height and stripling form tower over him. He would never admit it outloud, not even to himself, but it was, deep down, an intimidation tactic. Such things came naturally to him despite his recognized charm and charisma. His instinctive intrusion into the old man's space made him consider just how rare it was for him to engage in genuine, equivalent conversation, “You have something I need Vivian.”
Vivan, despite his years, did not balk nor shrink from the far more ripe man's approach. His eyes remained locked as he responded, a faint smile breaking through the tension he did not allow to fully manifest, “I’ve known you to be ruthless, Alessio, never cruel. You dragged an old man out all this way just to tell me something I already know?” He let the smile fade and sighed, “The answer is as it always will be. The weapons - the vault - remain closed.”
“I’m not talking about the weapons your people stole, Nachtigallen.” Alessio hissed, the mere mention of the past treachery in such mild terms boiling his temper.
“No?” Vivian replied, his curiosity rising, ignoring the barbed words.
“I need an Osprey. Someone who knows how to maneuver through Combine terminals. High security, large data-flows, the works. I don’t pretend to understand it all.”
Vivian remained silent for a moment, sneaking a glance towards the Vortigaunt at his flank, “For what cause, exactly?” He asked, words laced with underlying suspicion.
Alessio sneered, curling his lip, “Fighting the Combine.” He scanned the man's face to prepare for what would surely be another question. He knew, even then, there was no good answer to give.
“Our definitions of that diverge more often than not,” Vivian replied curtly, “Vague answers don’t disarm me, as much as they heighten my hesitation, Alessio.”
Alessio found his search fruitless. Just as he thought, no answer would leverage an old man's mind away from his chosen path. Nothing he could say would do anything but further entrench his lack of understanding. As such, he baited the elder with silence - forcing him to divulge another window of opportunity.
“Is this why we are meeting all the way out here?” Vivian asked, looking around as he broke the silence, “You wanted to ask me to grant you access to our valuable technocrats without the knowledge of the Nachtigallen?”
The answer was certainly yes, but Alessio dug deeper to thin out the inherent implications of such a maneuver, “I brought you out here because you are the only one I trust, especially amongst that council of yours. I ask them for a pack of smokes, the Combine are likely to know of my habit by day's end.”
Vivian couldn’t help but chuckle, catching his breath with a deep inhale shortly after, “I see you have yet to change your mind on the past, even still.”
“I would be a fool to do so.”
“The treachery you have accused the council of for these long years is as fallacious as the day it was first uttered.” Vivian protested, softly. His prophetic voice provided an air of wisdom even to words he knew not to believe.
“I accuse you all, Vivian.” Alessio reminded harshly, leaning forth as the reaffirmed accusation spilled forth, “There is no innocence within the Nachtigallen, only degrees of guilt. Yours just happens to be lower than that of your fellows.”
Vivian remained stout in the face of the accusations. He had heard them all before after all. Many times. Alessio knew this and he knew that insulting someone whose favor you've just sought was a truly horrendous diplomatic move. Lying, playing nice with someone who knows exactly what you think - is worse.
“The choices we made were difficult, perhaps the hardest we have ever made. They were made for the people, the people you had forgotten about in your search for triumph.” Vivian began at length, “But, we had no part to play in the Waivers that fell upon your people.”
Alessio tittered as he searched passed the words of insult and violence he would have otherwise preferred, “so sure of it all. As if corruption couldn’t possibly exist beyond the whims and wishes of the great poet Vivian,” he remarked caustically, taking a step away and leaning his elbows against the bridge's rail, “To any other it wouldn’t even matter. Your betrayal - yours - let those people die. Cut down without a hope of fighting back.”
“My decision was made in the name of the many. Honoring those you forgot, who had no choice in being caught up in your personal war.” Vivian paused, letting a vision overtake his sight behind closed eyes, “I stand by it, even when standing before you. Had we surrendered to your demands, the many would have died instead of the few.”
Alessio launched himself from the railing, the wooden bridge creaking violently beneath his quickened movements. Stopping just short of Vivian, his hands held back by transparent restraint, he bellowed, “Few?! There were hundreds of Wardens in those streets! Hundreds cut down by traitors and synthetics! You…” His voice trailed off, from a bellowing roar to a regretful indictment, “...You, Vivian, let them die.” Alessio looked towards the Vorgiaunt at the man's flank. Nothing had outwardly changed about his stance, but an unseen aura emitted a chilled intention. Enough that he took note without any direct clues.
“Your men and women, though fighters they were, didn’t even last the week. Had I given you those weapons, the outcome would have remained the same. A broken rebellion,” He looked towards Alessio, a pleading reason in his gaze, “Only the city would have followed in your idealized outcome. The people, the citizens, to no fault of their own would have suffered needlessly.”
“There are no citizens.” Alessio quickly countered with a quiet envenomed tone, “Prisoners of war, too stupid to see their cages.”
Out of turn, the Vortigaunt approached from behind Vivian, hands clasping as it began to speak in earnest - albeit alien - vocabulary, “Such is the fate of the shackled. Tides of time await no sudden exertion.”
“The hell does that even mean, Vortigaunt?” Alessio hissed towards the intruding creature.
The Vortigaunt blinked twice, as if in thought, “Patience must be paramount. As we await salvation.”
Alessio scoffed, almost completely bemused by the simple utterance of such a phrase, “Await.” he mocked quietly to himself. Vorgiaunts were always known for such opinions and the unique manner in which they were presented. Such prophecy begged for stagnation - for inaction. The one thing he could never muster tolerance for.
“Tell me, Vorgiaunt, which salvation is it you're referring to? Your precious Free man?”
“Alessio…” Vivan interrupted gingerly.
“No!” He snapped, looking towards the man, “No, it can’t be that one, rumors are vortigaunts in America already claim to have found your little prophetic human. A woman, welding technology envied by even the Combine, isn’t that right, Vortigaunt?”
The creature remained quiet for a time, his face contorting once more. Though the expression was ultimately unreadable, Alessio could have guessed it to be anger, repressed but ever present, “She is not…the Freeman.” It replied, with feigned calm.
“You’ve let yourselves get poisoned by promises of magical men and destined salvation, Nachtigallen.” Alessio remarked, turning to regard Vivian directly, “How many prophecies led the Vortigaunts to this place? How many heroes and salvations did they predict before coming upon this ‘Freeman’ that plagues their minds?”
The Vortigaunt dipped its head forwards, running its hands together, clasped in a ball of fingers as the base of his occupied chest, “Too many.” It replied simply.
“We prepare for any eventuality,” Vivanin said following the Vortigaunts own words, “Perhaps there is truth to it. Perhaps there is none. In either case, we will approach the outcome, grim or hopeful, in the same manner.”
“It will be too late then.”
“Only if we burn all we have in an effort to futility rise against our foes with might alone. Tell me Alessio, what have your wars accomplished? What do you have to show for the dead you’ve piled? The units in the streets. The loyalists in their homes. What salvation have you earned beyond that of prophecy?”
There was a pause. Alessio remained silent, not by his own choice. There was, again, no answer to give. A sinking feeling rose within, the same one he always had following conversations with the old man. The feeling that a lifetime's worth of effort wasn’t righteous or just. But iniquitous and utterly wrong. The answer…it wasn’t there. Search as he might it couldn’t be summoned, none that he didn’t know deep down were nothing more than false veils. If he could tell, so would Vivian.
He looked away finally, submitting to the notion without words. His eye trailed back to the stream, the shallow waters running through the mud below. He listened to the sounds of the trees and what occupied them. It was all faint. Some rustling. A single twig snapping as it fell from it's dead host. The world was quiet - it was quieter today than it was yesterday. Silent when compared to the year before.
The answer came to him.
“We can never get it back. The more we wait, the more we lose. No matter what happens, no matter how this ends, everything lost can never be regained.” Alessio pondered out loud, speaking to himself more than Vivian. The Vortigaunts central eye narrowed at the sentiment.
“And rushing to our death, collective and whole, is better?”
“Yes!” Alessio countered, his inflection making the answer sound as if it were the most obvious choice in the world, “We’re meat on a slab! The Combine freely take chunks of our bodies, our world and our future without a care for the pain or wanton suffering it brings. They won the war fifteen years ago, but still we fight it. They lacked even the decency to end us quickly - something they can and will eventually do. But, only when we’ve let them take every last scrap. When our cities are filled with nothing but the very last remnants of our people, the final vestiges of the then starving loyalists who placed the last hope they could summon on an uncaring ethereal horror that made a holocaust of their people.
“Even when it's gone - cities broken, our world stripped bare and our star left to linger in a dead system - we still will not be free of them. They will take us, what scarce, horrifying masses of us are allowed to remain, and they will use us until the end of time. To bear witness to the burning of another thousand worlds, none of which will even recognize a shadow of our former lives.”
Vivian stood facing the young man, a tattered wreck of youth who had never even had the chance to break beyond childhood when the Combine arrived. He saw the despair and distant gaze as he spoke aloud, speaking words he had rehearsed within his mind a thousand times…but never spoken. His stoic face faltered in the face of it, he looked away.
“It’s better that we all burn in our own ambitions than live to see the final desecration of our species.” Alessio concluded, heaving a sorrowful breath at the finality of his admittance. The old man, to Alessio's surprise, did not let the silence linger this time.
“You would condemn all life on the grounds of futility alone?”
He shook his head, confident in his mind's conceptualization of his own visions, “No. But I would see all of it lost in the vain effort to preserve it.”
Vivians demeanor shifted against the following silence. His wise calm being repurposed into a cautious hesitance. A curiosity laced with fear derived from partial truths already known. He waited some time before mustering himself to complete the puzzle, “What are you planning?” The words were no longer laced with measured compassion. He sounded genuinely distraught. Anxious for the answer to come.
Alessio supposed he ought to be. He had never confessed so much of his ideals to anyone, and only rarely to himself. He painted himself as the defiant optimist leaking the charisma of a leader, who no matter what crimes they committed along the way, held the vision of a bright end behind dreaming eyes. His eyes no longer dreamed, however. He held no hope for a truly bright end - not ever since the Waivers of October fell and washed away everything he had known.
“You are right about one thing,” Alessio began, turning away from the old man, holstering the weapon he only now realized had been held at his side all along, “We never did stand a chance. Those weapons wouldn’t have saved us from defeat. They certainly wouldn’t have brought about any liberation.”
“But?” Vivian asked, briskly, lacking the patience of ease of mind to delay the answer with riddles.
The Vortigaunt watched as Alessio moved to collect the rag hanging from the bridge's deck, pocketing it beneath his jacket. His curiosity spiked at what he only now noticed, as the wind shifted North and a steady breeze brushed across his arched body. Every fiber of him sensed it with an onslaught of sudden clarity. Through the collective, weaving memories of history and life, the familiar tang of the domestics hung in the air.
He saw them as much as he did smell, the Vortessence ever an unbreakable obsidian bridge connecting all senses beneath an umbrella of shimmering luminosity. Particulates danced around the Vortigaunt. He reached out, not able to resist catching one into an extended hand, watching as the glowing particle gingerly dashed itself against an idle claw. Dozens of rapidly fading lights exploded from the impact zone, becoming stale and hollow within a single breath.
The Vortigaunt took that breath, whispering within his mind, free of intrusion or comprehension by those around him, but open for interpretation by the many with him, “Myrmidont pheromones.”
Responses flooded in, a hundred voices conversing with great renewed interest. By the time he regained focus on the material realm, casting his gaze from that bright eternity, Alessio had already spoken.
Vivian stood petrified, he protested without delay, speaking of madness and carelessness in equal measure. Alessio did not listen, instead he looked to the Vortigaunt whose passive expression had shifted considerably. The Vortigaunt looked back, catching a whisper of his gaze in the song. The voices continued, the rhythmic chanting and ringing debates forming a deepened symphony of thought. The crescendo passed over him, his world alight with soothing melodies of clashing and concurring philosophy - all caught and mingled together as the song reached its ultimate conclusion.
The music died. The Vortigaunt blinked.
The die was cast.
Alessio listened to the running water more than he looked upon it. His gaze was that of empty, sleepless eyes that poised resistance to any attempts at focus. He rubbed upon them with his little finger, the only one which remained positively clean. Dried mud, grime and spots of discolored blood clouded much of his hand otherwise. An exhalation. The last of the tobacco laced smoke shrouded the air before his mouth, the acrid smell of aged and rough nicotine reaching out towards his nose, before joining the breeze. He remained idle for a moment, leaning over the railing, the water still running beneath him, rocks once obscured by the stream's surface shone as if the star above shunned all else. These rocks, pale and dry, were all he could focus his vision upon.
Noting his idling after a short period, he reached towards his hip, drawing an elongated weapon from a customized holster, its reinforcement panel and pocket having been stretched and its clips adjusted at an awkward angle. He held the weapon gingerly in his palms, examining it with exhausted curiosity. It was a Model Ten revolver, though aged and modified beyond the point where most would recognize it as such. Its sights had been replaced with a homemade set of luminous irons, crudely applied with photo-sensitive chemicals to provide the desired glowing effect. A redwood shoulder stock, attached to the original grip of the weapon jolted out harshly beyond the weapons rear. It was Whittaker who had made this little modification, promising increased control, accuracy, and of course, aesthetic. On the latter account, Whittaker had lied.
The wood was harshly joined, and even splintered at this stage in its life. The redwood having most of its color sapped away from it, looking pale and dry compared to what it once had been. One of the screws, stripped and older than the weapon by any estimate, still rested at an oblong angle. The metal was scratched along the cylinder, chipped at the hammer and bent inwards beneath the trigger guard. He remembered that one. Bent it thrashing away at a particularly feisty headcrab that he had managed to narrowly avoid becoming prey to. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, aimlessly applying it to the weapons frame, wiping water and stains from its sullied form.
His labors ceased as he heard a branch crack violently some forty feet behind him. His head turned and body straightened, thumb instinctively resting upon the hammer as the rag fell freely to the wooden deck. The stock rested against the grivet of his arm, rough and taut. The brown jacket on his back blew forth with a sudden burst of wind that whistled behind his ears. Heavy boots slowly propelled him forward, body leaning forth to peer towards the sounds source. A small refueling station rested ahead. Surrounded by trees and leaf covered foothills on all sides save for the road at the opposite side of the building. An empty propane tank was visible, along with a broken window which led into some deprecated office.
From the faintly tinted morning light, he saw a figure emerge beyond a partially collapsed arch at the structure's flank. Despite the sudden appearance, he felt himself become disarmed at the sight of him, letting the hammer free of his thumbs grip. He returned to his original posture casually, hoping that the man had not noted his alerted stance. A minute later, longer than even Alessio would have anticipated, he could hear the distinct sound of footfalls against the wooden bridge. As the man walked, a hollow beat followed suit with his comparatively soft and slow steps. The repetitive tapping of a refurbished cane, one gathered from a woodland floor rather than a storefront. Suddenly, two louder bangs struck the wooden boards below, a wordless call for attention. Alessio turned to regard him.
He was an old man, venerable even, limping his way across the shallow woodworking. Receded white hair with a frayed scalp, hunched and bent with sunspots dotting regularly exposed skin. Every few breaths sounded raspy, and laden with an elevated effort of drawing in air. The clothing on his back was unbefitting a man of his years and temperament. A small vest which housed four different magazine pouches atop a forest camouflage sweater. A holster at his hip and baggy pants which had clearly been reinforced at the knees. Combat boots, laden with mud both old and new. A poet dressed for war.
Alessio, in spite of himself, only now realized the man was not alone. An alien creature, one that stood taller than the old man and equal to himself in stature loomed nearby. A vortigaunt. A red eye shone at the old man's flank where Alessio could have sworn it never had before. Its hoof-falls were silent despite its equivalent height and where the bridge creaked and groaned beneath even the old man's bulk, the Vortigaunt suffered no such tells.
“We wish the Keller well.” The Vortigaunt said, breaking the absolute silence, clearly taking note of his sudden appraisal. Alessio could see the Vortigaunts lips curl, mutate and shift into some unknowable expression. A smile? No, he thought, it was pride. The creature was both aware and proud of his ability to blend in within plain sight.
Alessio responded to the Vortigaunts greeting with a grunted nod, as friendly a greeting as he could muster for a reason he did not understand himself. The old man took one last step forth, leaning on the branch which aided his journey, “Well, here I am, old friend.” He mused.
The phrase lit a small spark of irritation in the back of Alessio’s chest. Friend. That word alone cascaded a plethora of emotions throughout his mind; guilt, resentment and most of all, confusion. He closed his eyes a moment, repeating the greeting he presented to the Vortigaunt, following it with a short remark after a pause, “It’s good to see you…arrived.” Alessio panicked internally as he narrowly recovered from his would-be compliment.
His attempt at appearing more distant and cold seemingly failed to pass beyond the old man, as he smiled, “I suppose there is business to be discussed? Given we are so far beyond any comfortable grounds.” His voice put emphasis upon his protest of location, bringing an even more hoarse quality towards it.
“There is. Not the kind for the ears of your…council.” Alessio responded, unwittingly applying a measure of venom to his final utterance.
The old man took note of it quickly, nodding his head once in benign understanding, “Well then, we had better cover it quickly.”
Alessio marched towards the old man, approaching slowly, letting his increased height and stripling form tower over him. He would never admit it outloud, not even to himself, but it was, deep down, an intimidation tactic. Such things came naturally to him despite his recognized charm and charisma. His instinctive intrusion into the old man's space made him consider just how rare it was for him to engage in genuine, equivalent conversation, “You have something I need Vivian.”
Vivan, despite his years, did not balk nor shrink from the far more ripe man's approach. His eyes remained locked as he responded, a faint smile breaking through the tension he did not allow to fully manifest, “I’ve known you to be ruthless, Alessio, never cruel. You dragged an old man out all this way just to tell me something I already know?” He let the smile fade and sighed, “The answer is as it always will be. The weapons - the vault - remain closed.”
“I’m not talking about the weapons your people stole, Nachtigallen.” Alessio hissed, the mere mention of the past treachery in such mild terms boiling his temper.
“No?” Vivian replied, his curiosity rising, ignoring the barbed words.
“I need an Osprey. Someone who knows how to maneuver through Combine terminals. High security, large data-flows, the works. I don’t pretend to understand it all.”
Vivian remained silent for a moment, sneaking a glance towards the Vortigaunt at his flank, “For what cause, exactly?” He asked, words laced with underlying suspicion.
Alessio sneered, curling his lip, “Fighting the Combine.” He scanned the man's face to prepare for what would surely be another question. He knew, even then, there was no good answer to give.
“Our definitions of that diverge more often than not,” Vivian replied curtly, “Vague answers don’t disarm me, as much as they heighten my hesitation, Alessio.”
Alessio found his search fruitless. Just as he thought, no answer would leverage an old man's mind away from his chosen path. Nothing he could say would do anything but further entrench his lack of understanding. As such, he baited the elder with silence - forcing him to divulge another window of opportunity.
“Is this why we are meeting all the way out here?” Vivian asked, looking around as he broke the silence, “You wanted to ask me to grant you access to our valuable technocrats without the knowledge of the Nachtigallen?”
The answer was certainly yes, but Alessio dug deeper to thin out the inherent implications of such a maneuver, “I brought you out here because you are the only one I trust, especially amongst that council of yours. I ask them for a pack of smokes, the Combine are likely to know of my habit by day's end.”
Vivian couldn’t help but chuckle, catching his breath with a deep inhale shortly after, “I see you have yet to change your mind on the past, even still.”
“I would be a fool to do so.”
“The treachery you have accused the council of for these long years is as fallacious as the day it was first uttered.” Vivian protested, softly. His prophetic voice provided an air of wisdom even to words he knew not to believe.
“I accuse you all, Vivian.” Alessio reminded harshly, leaning forth as the reaffirmed accusation spilled forth, “There is no innocence within the Nachtigallen, only degrees of guilt. Yours just happens to be lower than that of your fellows.”
Vivian remained stout in the face of the accusations. He had heard them all before after all. Many times. Alessio knew this and he knew that insulting someone whose favor you've just sought was a truly horrendous diplomatic move. Lying, playing nice with someone who knows exactly what you think - is worse.
“The choices we made were difficult, perhaps the hardest we have ever made. They were made for the people, the people you had forgotten about in your search for triumph.” Vivian began at length, “But, we had no part to play in the Waivers that fell upon your people.”
Alessio tittered as he searched passed the words of insult and violence he would have otherwise preferred, “so sure of it all. As if corruption couldn’t possibly exist beyond the whims and wishes of the great poet Vivian,” he remarked caustically, taking a step away and leaning his elbows against the bridge's rail, “To any other it wouldn’t even matter. Your betrayal - yours - let those people die. Cut down without a hope of fighting back.”
“My decision was made in the name of the many. Honoring those you forgot, who had no choice in being caught up in your personal war.” Vivian paused, letting a vision overtake his sight behind closed eyes, “I stand by it, even when standing before you. Had we surrendered to your demands, the many would have died instead of the few.”
Alessio launched himself from the railing, the wooden bridge creaking violently beneath his quickened movements. Stopping just short of Vivian, his hands held back by transparent restraint, he bellowed, “Few?! There were hundreds of Wardens in those streets! Hundreds cut down by traitors and synthetics! You…” His voice trailed off, from a bellowing roar to a regretful indictment, “...You, Vivian, let them die.” Alessio looked towards the Vorgiaunt at the man's flank. Nothing had outwardly changed about his stance, but an unseen aura emitted a chilled intention. Enough that he took note without any direct clues.
“Your men and women, though fighters they were, didn’t even last the week. Had I given you those weapons, the outcome would have remained the same. A broken rebellion,” He looked towards Alessio, a pleading reason in his gaze, “Only the city would have followed in your idealized outcome. The people, the citizens, to no fault of their own would have suffered needlessly.”
“There are no citizens.” Alessio quickly countered with a quiet envenomed tone, “Prisoners of war, too stupid to see their cages.”
Out of turn, the Vortigaunt approached from behind Vivian, hands clasping as it began to speak in earnest - albeit alien - vocabulary, “Such is the fate of the shackled. Tides of time await no sudden exertion.”
“The hell does that even mean, Vortigaunt?” Alessio hissed towards the intruding creature.
The Vortigaunt blinked twice, as if in thought, “Patience must be paramount. As we await salvation.”
Alessio scoffed, almost completely bemused by the simple utterance of such a phrase, “Await.” he mocked quietly to himself. Vorgiaunts were always known for such opinions and the unique manner in which they were presented. Such prophecy begged for stagnation - for inaction. The one thing he could never muster tolerance for.
“Tell me, Vorgiaunt, which salvation is it you're referring to? Your precious Free man?”
“Alessio…” Vivan interrupted gingerly.
“No!” He snapped, looking towards the man, “No, it can’t be that one, rumors are vortigaunts in America already claim to have found your little prophetic human. A woman, welding technology envied by even the Combine, isn’t that right, Vortigaunt?”
The creature remained quiet for a time, his face contorting once more. Though the expression was ultimately unreadable, Alessio could have guessed it to be anger, repressed but ever present, “She is not…the Freeman.” It replied, with feigned calm.
“You’ve let yourselves get poisoned by promises of magical men and destined salvation, Nachtigallen.” Alessio remarked, turning to regard Vivian directly, “How many prophecies led the Vortigaunts to this place? How many heroes and salvations did they predict before coming upon this ‘Freeman’ that plagues their minds?”
The Vortigaunt dipped its head forwards, running its hands together, clasped in a ball of fingers as the base of his occupied chest, “Too many.” It replied simply.
“We prepare for any eventuality,” Vivanin said following the Vortigaunts own words, “Perhaps there is truth to it. Perhaps there is none. In either case, we will approach the outcome, grim or hopeful, in the same manner.”
“It will be too late then.”
“Only if we burn all we have in an effort to futility rise against our foes with might alone. Tell me Alessio, what have your wars accomplished? What do you have to show for the dead you’ve piled? The units in the streets. The loyalists in their homes. What salvation have you earned beyond that of prophecy?”
There was a pause. Alessio remained silent, not by his own choice. There was, again, no answer to give. A sinking feeling rose within, the same one he always had following conversations with the old man. The feeling that a lifetime's worth of effort wasn’t righteous or just. But iniquitous and utterly wrong. The answer…it wasn’t there. Search as he might it couldn’t be summoned, none that he didn’t know deep down were nothing more than false veils. If he could tell, so would Vivian.
He looked away finally, submitting to the notion without words. His eye trailed back to the stream, the shallow waters running through the mud below. He listened to the sounds of the trees and what occupied them. It was all faint. Some rustling. A single twig snapping as it fell from it's dead host. The world was quiet - it was quieter today than it was yesterday. Silent when compared to the year before.
The answer came to him.
“We can never get it back. The more we wait, the more we lose. No matter what happens, no matter how this ends, everything lost can never be regained.” Alessio pondered out loud, speaking to himself more than Vivian. The Vortigaunts central eye narrowed at the sentiment.
“And rushing to our death, collective and whole, is better?”
“Yes!” Alessio countered, his inflection making the answer sound as if it were the most obvious choice in the world, “We’re meat on a slab! The Combine freely take chunks of our bodies, our world and our future without a care for the pain or wanton suffering it brings. They won the war fifteen years ago, but still we fight it. They lacked even the decency to end us quickly - something they can and will eventually do. But, only when we’ve let them take every last scrap. When our cities are filled with nothing but the very last remnants of our people, the final vestiges of the then starving loyalists who placed the last hope they could summon on an uncaring ethereal horror that made a holocaust of their people.
“Even when it's gone - cities broken, our world stripped bare and our star left to linger in a dead system - we still will not be free of them. They will take us, what scarce, horrifying masses of us are allowed to remain, and they will use us until the end of time. To bear witness to the burning of another thousand worlds, none of which will even recognize a shadow of our former lives.”
Vivian stood facing the young man, a tattered wreck of youth who had never even had the chance to break beyond childhood when the Combine arrived. He saw the despair and distant gaze as he spoke aloud, speaking words he had rehearsed within his mind a thousand times…but never spoken. His stoic face faltered in the face of it, he looked away.
“It’s better that we all burn in our own ambitions than live to see the final desecration of our species.” Alessio concluded, heaving a sorrowful breath at the finality of his admittance. The old man, to Alessio's surprise, did not let the silence linger this time.
“You would condemn all life on the grounds of futility alone?”
He shook his head, confident in his mind's conceptualization of his own visions, “No. But I would see all of it lost in the vain effort to preserve it.”
Vivians demeanor shifted against the following silence. His wise calm being repurposed into a cautious hesitance. A curiosity laced with fear derived from partial truths already known. He waited some time before mustering himself to complete the puzzle, “What are you planning?” The words were no longer laced with measured compassion. He sounded genuinely distraught. Anxious for the answer to come.
Alessio supposed he ought to be. He had never confessed so much of his ideals to anyone, and only rarely to himself. He painted himself as the defiant optimist leaking the charisma of a leader, who no matter what crimes they committed along the way, held the vision of a bright end behind dreaming eyes. His eyes no longer dreamed, however. He held no hope for a truly bright end - not ever since the Waivers of October fell and washed away everything he had known.
“You are right about one thing,” Alessio began, turning away from the old man, holstering the weapon he only now realized had been held at his side all along, “We never did stand a chance. Those weapons wouldn’t have saved us from defeat. They certainly wouldn’t have brought about any liberation.”
“But?” Vivian asked, briskly, lacking the patience of ease of mind to delay the answer with riddles.
The Vortigaunt watched as Alessio moved to collect the rag hanging from the bridge's deck, pocketing it beneath his jacket. His curiosity spiked at what he only now noticed, as the wind shifted North and a steady breeze brushed across his arched body. Every fiber of him sensed it with an onslaught of sudden clarity. Through the collective, weaving memories of history and life, the familiar tang of the domestics hung in the air.
He saw them as much as he did smell, the Vortessence ever an unbreakable obsidian bridge connecting all senses beneath an umbrella of shimmering luminosity. Particulates danced around the Vortigaunt. He reached out, not able to resist catching one into an extended hand, watching as the glowing particle gingerly dashed itself against an idle claw. Dozens of rapidly fading lights exploded from the impact zone, becoming stale and hollow within a single breath.
The Vortigaunt took that breath, whispering within his mind, free of intrusion or comprehension by those around him, but open for interpretation by the many with him, “Myrmidont pheromones.”
Responses flooded in, a hundred voices conversing with great renewed interest. By the time he regained focus on the material realm, casting his gaze from that bright eternity, Alessio had already spoken.
Vivian stood petrified, he protested without delay, speaking of madness and carelessness in equal measure. Alessio did not listen, instead he looked to the Vortigaunt whose passive expression had shifted considerably. The Vortigaunt looked back, catching a whisper of his gaze in the song. The voices continued, the rhythmic chanting and ringing debates forming a deepened symphony of thought. The crescendo passed over him, his world alight with soothing melodies of clashing and concurring philosophy - all caught and mingled together as the song reached its ultimate conclusion.
The music died. The Vortigaunt blinked.
The die was cast.
