Call of the Freedom Fighter: Guarding the Light
Guarding the Light
Death before cowardice.
A lowly placed table amid the darkness of an earthy room; the heavy scent of tobacco and sweat lingered in the air— a strong and penetrating odor that clung to the crumbling walls around him.
Him; a tall, and filthy hunk of an ape. Long, curled hairs matted in filth hung from the brown shell of a head on top of his shoulders; his barrel of a chest clad in heavy, metallic plating that gave off a low hum every other past second—faint glowing stripes running down its sides.
"Steady there, mate. You's a moving and me's sure as daylight to toss us all off into the space." A thick, croaking sound his voice was— not of the tall, burly man, but of the skeletal figure standing behind it— hands busying themselves with a sizable crater on the large man's armor–the cause for the humming.
"On with it, oaf."
The skeletal man scowled and continued— both hands deftly manipulating the tools in his grasp, while his eyes kept watchful vigil over the multiple changes that occurred on the armor as the damage was repaired.
Beyond the room and up a flight of stairs a man stood vigil by the entrance, and down the corridor that led away from that door a second guard checked his ammunition— eyes heavy with sleep and body deprived of washing. Throughout the building, much of the same stood at attention, waiting.
Waiting for the time; the hour when all life would be placed on the line, for while they stood guard and kept vigil— a force slithered in the blackness of their surroundings. Strong and mighty as a hurricane it moved— advancing on horses of steel; on birds of iron that spewed fire, and wielding stingers of death on the palms of their hands.
Lone as the watchful falcon their leader stood, gazing down at the vastness of the desert extending forever in an endless blanket of sand and heat. The darkened face of the earth gave no signs of life— nor did it hint at the tribulation to be suffered.
It was during the dark of the night that the Guardian stirred.
Standing on the tallest platform on the mission's rooftop, Guardian brought a hand to his chin and realized he needed to shave— much to his annoyance, as the last razor had already grown dull. His knife it would be, then.
Eyes gazing out into the unknown–yet so familiar, as though he'd spent a hundred childhoods wandering the nonfinite vastness of the desert–, Guardian carried hand to hilt and drew his knife from its scabbard— the rasp of the blade against its sheath flying into the cool night air, flowing into his ears.
Walking down the steps that led down to the mission's courtyard, Guardian grabbed a red plastic bucket— hand holding a small bar of soap, and attached a rope to the bucket's handle. He dropped the bucket into the well, and pulled it back out filled with murky water.
Sighing, he set to work on the stubble covering his face. Clad in his armor he knelt and brought the blade to his naked face— being cautious not to cut where there was no need of cutting.
Beyond the walls of the mission–covered by the shadows of the night–a shape commenced its advance. Quiet and swift as a feline it moved— darting from rock to boulder; keeping out of sight from the watchmen on the mission's walls; concealing itself from thermal visors and any one thing that could detect it.
Stealthily it reached the stone walls of the ancient complex. With swift precision— the drone shot upwards in perfect silence, and hovered over the section of wall before it. The drone's inbuilt camera rapidly snapped photos of the area— focusing on the faces and equipment of the men. Without alarm, the drone swiftly sped away once done.
Guardian lowered the knife as he finished shaving. He looked around— his eyes scanning the mission's walls and the men guarding them. Bringing his hand to his chin once more— Guardian smiled faintly.
'The enemy may try as they might, but men like those are what keeps us above them.' He thought and walked— moving away from the well and back to the interior of the mission.
As he walked, however, something stirred in the blackness of the desert. Engines roared to life; men jumped to their feet, and the skies were filled with energy. From the north it descended unto the men within the mission— like hammer to anvil it struck, and it did so swiftly.
Missiles and gunfire filled the air; boots falling and conjuring a storm of sand as black and dark as the night that surrounded them. Drones in the air; armored vehicles racing through the ground; birds of steel cascading in and out of combat— shredding those who stood before them to pieces with shrapnel and fire. It was violence on a scale few have witnessed, and it tinted the heavens in red, and it colored the sand in black.
Throughout it all, the most notorious casualty was silence. Broken in every way— be it by men screaming or shouting; the cacophony of explosions and buzzing of missiles, or the hollering motors of vehicles— sound had been killed first of all. Though, it did not lessen all other deaths.
By the end of the night–lying by the well within the mission's shattered walls, and surrounded by hundreds of men, dozens of drones, and several tanks–Guardian gazed out into the opaque sky, dying as he wanted to.
Beside him were men he had known his entire life— men who had not feared the ultimate sacrifice for their nation. They were men who placed their lives, minds, and bodies on the line to defend those who could not do so for themselves. They were his brothers, and he did witness the starlit skies ablaze with a glimmer of hope as the blood drained from a wound on his chest.
He would see them on the other side.
Princess Celestia stood beneath the setting sun— eyes filled with determination. Beneath her, truly, all throughout the land she had seen sorrow, as their own ferocious foe rushed their fields and burnt their woods. No more, she now knew. No longer, she'd come to understand.
"If it does save us in the end, then dear Luna you will need to forgive me." Her jaw clenched. Celestia gazed into the depths of knowledge itself–a magnificent pool of silvery liquid that stretched beyond the fathomable understanding of mortal minds.
Her own thoughts and ideas were read and handled as her mind went through the process of the spell. She felt her every emotion and mental singularity— her very being as it was taken from her and duplicated. A copy went to the archives of unending understanding, and the other was returned to her. She felt and witnessed creation and existence— going as far as to see the face of purity and the architect of all things.
With her every last piece of strength, Celestia fired her spell into the depths of the universe, and hoped. Her mind drifted afterwards, and she fell to the floor of her chambers— consciousness departing her tired mind, as her body fell to the floor.
The clatter of the guards battering down her door— the only sound.
