You gather up your things, stuffing them into your rucksack. Grabbing your rifle and slinging your bag over one shoulder, you open the hatch and begin to climb down. Every rung of the ladder feels like a thousand miles, the trip down feels like days, and your heart pounds in your chest. Your feet alight upon the ground, and you duck from shadow to shadow, avoiding the windows that cast shafts of light upon the tiled stone floor. This hallowed ground, your refuge for over a month, remains ever peaceful -- tapestries depicting various historical and religious events, stained glass windows with images of Tam, Goddess of Order, and her brother, Jal, the God of Chaos. Between long oaken pews and over lovingly-weaved rugs of blue, red, and purple, you head to the back rooms. It is eerily quiet -- the Manchatii say nothing, and the gentle clacking of their talons upon stone cannot be heard through the thick walls of the temple.
The back rooms are largely empty, with just a few desks, chairs, and bookshelves containing various ledgers, holy books, birth and death certificates, and other day-to-day religious paraphernalia. You approach the door that leads downstairs into the basement boiler room, take a deep breath... and enter.
Two miles away, in an artillery encampment. The loud thud of howitzers firing echoes overhead every few minutes, shelling the distant trenches of the Covenant armies. Soldiers mill about, patrolling, ferrying ammunition, examining charts and maps, and relaying information to the artillery crews.
A breathless courier runs up to Sergeant Major Markos. Markos is a Lupii -- the tall and strong wolf-people from the east, well renowned for their military prowess. He is the first Lupii NCO in the Noble Clan Armed Forces, and quickly rose through the ranks. It's no wonder, considering he is descended from the great Lupii hero Nicomedes of Artemesia -- good blood runs through his veins. He looms over the courier, eyes narrowed, grey tail flicking back and forth in anticipation. He says nothing, but the commanding look on his face says it all.
The courier quickly salutes. "Specialist Jameson reporting, sir! Urgent message from our front-line spotters, sir!"
"At ease, soldier," Markos says in a low growl. He has been tense all day. Something feels wrong, and he suspects that this message may have something to do with it. He waves a dismissive hand, as though brushing away formality, allowing the courier to speak freely.
"Yessir! Our spotters have seen a red emergency flare in sector twenty-two, Calchester town!"
Markos freezes, though his tail continues to twitch. "The red flare?" he says, putting extra emphasis on 'the'.
"Yessir. There's a scout team there. We suspect Private Brimwater set it off."
Markos mulls over these words for a few moments. How in the hell did a private get their hands on one of those flares? Theft? A mix-up with the supply drop-offs? His mind races for a few seconds, trying to decide whether it's truly an emergency, a mistake, or a really stupid prank. Calchester is nowhere near the heaviest of the fighting. At worst, there might be a scout or two sneaking through there... nothing that would require the use of the red flare.
He sighs, and shakes his head. No, it has to be done. If it really is an emergency, then failing to respond would get his ass in the hottest of water. Besides, if it isn't an emergency, there won't be any evidence left behind to prove otherwise. He pulls a whistle out from his pocket, giving it three loud blasts. Every soldier within earshot stops what they're doing, and stands at attention. A nearby private runs up and hands Markos a megaphone. He clicks it on, gives it a quick test, wincing at the brief feedback screech.
"Attention, Gunnery Position Charlie," he growls into the microphone, sending his words out to every corner of the encampment. "An emergency flare of Class Red was spotted in sector twenty-two, Calchester town. All authorized gunnery personnel, prepare for the Paragon. All non-authorized or non-essential personnel, remain calm and retreat to the bunkers for safety. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."
He clicks off the megaphone and hands it off, turning back to the courier. "You religious, son?"
The courier nods eagerly. "Yessir! Nightly prayers and weekly temple services, sir!"
"Are you familiar with Tam's Teachings, sermon 18?"
The courier shakes his head. "I'm... I'm afraid I don't memorize Her teachings, sir."
Markos chuckles. "If you can help those in need, do so. If they are too far to help in-person, help from a distance. And if you cannot help from a distance, help those that can. Tam's Teachings, sermon 18. Remember it, son. Now get down to the bunkers and brace for a shockwave."
The courier salutes, then runs off. The whole encampment is abuzz with energy -- soldiers being ushered towards the bunkers, while higher-ranking specialists grab their gear necessary for this not-a-drill situation. Murmurs of excitement, fear, and nervousness can be heard, but Markos ignores it all. He takes in a deep breath, squinting into the distance.
"Mm... someone's about to have a very bad day..." he mumbles under his breath.
The basement is cold, damp, and dark. You can barely make out an oil lantern hanging on a wall hook, and you fumble with it for a second, trying to turn it on. Thankfully, it lights, casting a dim orange glow through the small room. Except for the large boiler and furnace in the corner, it's empty. You find a corner to sit in, huddling and hugging your legs. It's chilly, and you forgot to bring a blanket. Too late now, unfortunately.
Deep breaths. You wait. It feels like an eternity. Every pause between your heartbeats feels like an hour passes, and the blood rushing in your ears sounds like a storm at sea. You think of home, back in Sunnyport. You think of your younger brother, Remy, who wanted so badly to become a state-sponsored Magi, casting spells for the good of the Clan... then he was struck with polio, and now remains bedridden at home. He looks up to you all the time, even more so now that he's lost all feeling in his legs. You're his hero.
You let out a sigh, tucking your legs into your chest tightly and rubbing them to keep warm. Are you a hero? You're hiding in a basement, after firing off a flare you shouldn't have had in the first place, while demons swarm overhead. The yellow flare would have been enough, probably. It's just a few dozen demons, no need to overreact...
Another sigh. What's done is done. You wonder if you'll be safe down here. You wonder what will happen to the town. You even worry about nana's grave, which isn't far from where you are. Your family paid a small fortune to get her interred into that graveyard, and a bit more to get a nice headstone.
You chuckle a bit, and wipe a tear from your eyes, which are beginning to moisten. No, nana wouldn't mind. This was a nice, quiet town. No bad things ever happened here. These demons, these ruffians... they deserve what's coming. Oh Tam, if she were still alive, she'd be waving her cane at them and swearing up a storm! An artillery strike would pale in comparison to the whoopin' she'd give those demons.
You rest your chin on your knees. The oil lanterns' flame flickers a bit. And you wait.
