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To the left, a cratered road. To the right, IPC employees pouring out of a company carrier. In front, a city on fire. Kafka stood in the middle of it all.
Part of the Script. Always the Script. Kafka counted to five, as she had been instructed, and shot blindly to her left. Two and a third seconds later, an IPC mech skidded to a smoking halt inches from her feet, its pilot's brains splattered across the inside of the cockpit. This in turn blocked the infantry vehicle that was attempting to run her over.
The Script had warned them of today's ambush — not even a concerted effort by the IPC. This was the work of a single, determined middle manager with too much time on her hands and a little too much ambition.
Kafka sighed, feeling a vague sense of malcontent as she sidestepped a footsoldier's overhead strike, then cleanly nicked through the cartilage separating their second and third lumbar vertebrae. They squawked as they fell, but not really in pain. The sudden absence of sensation could be considered a form of pain, perhaps.
If so, oh how Kafka ached.
She pursed her lips and swiveled, bringing her gun to bear at another oncoming driver's head. She counted to six, then fired. The vehicle swerved out of control and collided with a transport truck, sending its cargo spilling across the road.
Then something happened that was not in the script, at least not her version. The screech of another vehicle. She turned to it, mildly surprised, and only got as far as opening her mouth to give an order before Blade was between her and the threat.
Half mauled from his responsibilities elsewhere, back at her beck and call, he launched himself at the van. There was a wet crunch as body met vehicle. She saw the brief flicker of triumph in the driver's body language, then horror and revulsion as Blade dragged himself up onto the hood of the van and stabbed his sword into the windshield.
He did... miss the driver. Bladie was a bit of a klutz, after all, but he hated having it pointed out. Kafka politely looked away as he struggled to get to the driver just like she politely looked away when he struggled to open a can of soda for himself. He'd ask for help if he wanted it.
Kafka turned her shoulder to him as he continued his assault, the windshield covered in spiderwebbed fractures, and busied herself with the rest of the battle. She heard panicked screaming from Blade's direction as he forced himself into the vehicle, dragging himself through broken glass to reach his target, then abrupt silence.
This continued for some time while they all marched towards the climax of this event. Blade, now free of the van, walked backwards with her as her shield. They were to take shelter in the shadow of a bombed-out building and she guided them to their places by tugging on the bow at the small of his back.
Right on cue, the middle manager herself arrived in her airship. The use of military equipment in civilian airspace was strictly prohibited here, which served the interests of the local government and Elio's plans, but it did mean that Kafka and Blade were outgunned. Twin spotlights converged on them and, without further fanfare, the airship fired.
Elio neglected to share the details of what happened next with her. Kafka pressed her back against the concrete wall as Blade caged her in, fully covering her smaller body with his own, his elbows braced on either side of her head as he absorbed the hail of gunfire meant for her. A few went all the way through, but the vast majority stopped somewhere inside of him. She was unharmed.
One might think she had the worst view where she was, stuck chest to chest with her companion as concrete exploded to dust around them, but she actually had the best seat in the house. Blade choked as a few rounds found his lungs. He coughed blood onto her face — just a little bit, like a chaste kiss. She was content to just admire his dedication as warmth splashed onto her cheek. His job was to live and die for her — to kill and rend and tear and bleed and bleed and bleed for her, without complaint, and he was very good at it. He was her willing tool and scabbard too, and she loved him for it.
At least she thought she loved him. That was what she decided to call the vague possessiveness she felt towards him, the little flutter of warmth in her chest whenever he leaned on her or asked her for help. Presently he did something that she did not tell him to. His eyes, unfocused with pain, fixed somewhere around her cheek as he raised a trembling hand to it. He mumbled something unintelligible as he attempted to swipe his thumb through the mess, slipped, then dragged the entire heel of his palm against her face.
He was still braced so solidly, not quite touching her where he would reasonably be allowed to lean on her. The rest of the world faded away as she watched him struggle. His body jerked with the last of the gunfire, but not once did his attention leave her. Blood dribbled from his mouth and bloomed in rosettes through his shirt as he tried again to wipe her face. His hand was shaking. The bandages had been torn, half scraped off.
Kafka took his hand after the second attempt to clean her and intertwined her fingers with his, pricking herself on the healed-over glass embedded just beneath the skin. She tilted her head as she looked at him, really at him. He wasn't fully present anymore, too pained, too close to Mara, and that made his absentminded gesture all the more meaningful.
Elio really knew how to deliver in the most unexpected ways.
Kafka rubbed her thumb against the back of his hand as the gunfire petered out, then pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt. "Relax."
He obeyed instantly. He slumped over her, panting into her ear as his organs healed around the bullets inside. His head thumped against the wall and she had to crane her neck back to place a gentle peck on the underside of his jaw, but he hummed his appreciation when she did.
Something else happened while they waited for the falling action. The airship landed and, without the hail of gunfire or the roar of engines, the world was silent. Silent, except for Blade's haggard breathing. She rubbed comforting circles against his waist with her free hand and he groaned.
He never complained. Not once.
A new emotion burned low in her chest. Not fear — still not the thing she craved most, but something... adjacent. Kafka reached for the sensation, digging her claws into it and stoking it stronger until it billowed out into an all-consuming flame. Blade was still crushed against her. His blood was still on her cheek.
She heard footsteps in the silence, though she had to strain to hear them over the dull roar deep within her. For the first time, she had to think hard to remember the next section of the Script.
"This is going to hurt, Bladie," she whispered against his throat.
He nodded his approval, then, as the shadow of an IPC grunt tasked with confirming their death fell over them, Kafka stabbed her sword through Blade's stomach and into theirs.
She shoved forward, using both Blade and the hapless soldier as a shield as she turned and started shooting. The battlefield immediately erupted into fresh chaos. Elio's next instructions were to "go for gold" and, lo and behold, the fuel tankards of the grounded airship were painted IPC bronze.
"Blade," she said after grounding it permanently, its pilot staring at her in abject horror.
She waited for him to alert on her before continuing.
"Sic."
"Again, listen to me."
Kafka had to admit: the leader of this little stunt had a strong will. This was the third reminder of their session — two attempts to get the middle manager under control in the first place, a second reminder en route to her family's residence, and a third now that they were all joined in the living room — Kafka, Blade, the middle manager, two cute kids and a husband that seemed as much for decoration as he was minding the house.
"Do you want to explain to them what you do for a living," Kafka drawled, "Or should I?"
The husband had a kitchen knife, bless him, and was standing between his wife and their sniveling offspring. Kafka leaned against the door jamb and pantomimed for the officer to point her shaking gun at her own family. Tears streamed down her face.
"Kafka..." Blade grumbled. He was lucid again but his coat — that she just bought, mind you — was more blood-brown than blue at this point.
She ignored his protest. "Do you want to explain to them that you feed them by stealing food out of the mouths of others?"
The woman couldn't respond. Kafka didn't give her a direct order to speak.
Kafka pushed off of the door and sauntered closer, twirling her own gun around her finger while that new feeling raged inside her. "You know I do understand. Your employer doesn't exactly give you an option. You're just doing your best with the hand you've been dealt, just like everyone else on this backwater planet. The only problem is: I don't care."
Kafka punctuated every word with a step, her heels just barely louder than the children's crying. "I was content to leave you be and have you sort it out with this planet's government, eventually adding them to the IPC's catalog of conquests, but, well, you broke my things. Give and take, an eye for an eye."
"Kafka." She ignored him again. "So listen to me, and—"
"Kafka!"
She dropped her arm and turned to Blade. "What?!"
He had his arms crossed, the freshly healed skin of his stomach and chest visible through the bullet-riddled shawl that used to be his coat. He jerked his head in the direction of the cowering family. "They didn't do anything."
"Has anyone?"
His lip curled, an expression he'd never worn around her. Not at her. "This isn't in the Script."
She cocked her head at him, her silence its own kind of communication. Blade met her curious stare coolly. That new sensation still burned within her, but now there was yet another new thing with it. He was glaring at her... just like Stelle did, once.
She didn't like it. "So? It's not not in the Script."
He didn't answer her. He just turned to look at the children with an odd expression, one she couldn't understand.
Kafka made a disgusted sound, mimed fingerguns under her jaw, then yanked the trigger and spun on her heel to leave. The family screamed as their mother executed herself in front of them. Kafka didn't bother to watch the aftermath. They had to be elsewhere in exactly forty six minutes and this detour had cut significantly into their travel time.
Blade waited a moment, his face softening as he watched the father usher the children into a different room. He mumbled "Sorry," too quietly for any of them to hear, then dutifully fell into step behind her.