Added a whole new Amber chapter, this clocks in at around 3500 words.
Actions leading up to Chapter 9 now happen on screen. The followup from what happens in Chapter 3 is also included. Also fixed is the prologue, mainly to kill the annoying tense shift from present to past. It's probably going to turn out to be a frame off restoration. Yes, the chapter that I added in was one that was removed in the original edit. But it's another frame off restoration.
Mainly Ch 9 was added in because I felt I wrote myself into a wall and had lost faith in Sarge's character after previous events. Those are also being corrected, especially an out of character action scene.
Spoiler below for those who cant wait or are curious.
Spoiler:
The funeral was brief. The food was crap. The visitors and wellwishers were few and far between, no one seemed to care. No one cared. It was a gray day, like all the gray days that had come before. The City felt sympathy and turned on the rain machines. And as the cold hard rain fell to the dusty ground, settling in pools and potmarked holes, no tears were shed. The tinny thunder of the machines droned on above, thunder crushing the soft spoken voices. The steam rattled in its guts while it floated above, belching black fire into the sullen skies. Smog pushed upwards into the clouds, heavy sediment rained down and mixed with the sulfurous rain. There were no friends here. No enemies either. Just people. Same as her. People with their own hopes and dreams. People with their own desire to survive. People whose world changed drastically in the span of days. All because of him. The man from the sky. It was his fault Ryu was dead. It was his fault the world was turning to shit.
Where did he come from? Where did he belong? She wished he’d crawl back into the hole that he climbed out of. But, he was their problem now. She hoped he was dead somewhere, left for vulture food. An early present for Malachai and his carrion friends. Or maybe the devil took him whole? Then, the Selechai would have to deal with his curse. She hoped for Selechai.
They had been quiet lately though. Quiet, as if they were planning something. Something catastrophic. It had been too long since the last skirmish. Ryu had fought in that one. Earned his scar and his mark as a man. The monsters had been pushed back that night, back to their hills and their hell. Something was amiss. Things had been too quiet.
The man had left in as much a hurry as he came. She was there for the meeting, it was just yesterday. Jackson Browne had called them to the hall. Like lemmings they followed obediently. It was there that her heart was broken. When Browne proclaimed a new Warden, a little bit of her died. They had not even mourned the last. Ryu.
Not even enough left of him to fit in a box to worship. Nothing. Just a fractured abstract painting on the walls of the whorehouse. This is what her life had become. Thirty years in servitude. Thirty years a doctor, a nurse, sometimes a fighter. She had given life to babes and brought death in battles. An avenging angel. The last crusade had left her scarred on the inside. You can’t fix those. Scars on your heart. Scars in your head. There’s no magic, no science in the cure. She should have been on that cliff. Should have been side by side with him. Not him, not the stranger from above. No, it was her fate. If he wasn’t there, then things would have been different. Yeah. Different.
She had given up the fight though, didn’t want to slaughter another baby. Another tiny soul to reap with her sickle of blood. They had made her then. During the revolution. Kill babies. Kill children. Sure, they were different. With their blue faces and big eyes. She knew they were human inside. Just like her. They had to be. But it didn’t affect her any less. Genocide. War.
War happens. War happens all the time. It’s never any different, always the same.
And here she was, the only person in this god forsaken land, worshiping a dead idol. A soldier. Nothing more. All he did was fight, all he did was give his life. No big deal. Just another day in the office. But the Oger was dead, a job well done.
By him. But she didn’t know where he went, where he ran off to.
She left after the meeting. It was only Sarge and Browne then. They were speaking in hushed voices, whispers faint on the windless night. What were they talking about? What was it? He left right after. Didn’t even say goodbye. She watched him go, all grim face and stiff jaw. She meant to ask Browne what it was about. Wanted to know out of morbid curiosity. She looked for him, intent to ask.
Their fearless leader was nowhere to be found.
Amber eyed the sparse crowd that assembled to say goodbye. Sister Beth Ellen was leading the procession, she had been speaking in mock admiration for the boy she never knew. Her words were meaningless and hollow. Deaf ears turned away at lies of love and lust. Three farmers in dirty coveralls stood in tiny rows, like corn waiting for the combine to come. It never came. There was no quick reaping, no sudden slashing to sever the awkward silence and restore hope and spirits. In between the mix of wishes and cares, there was a second conversation. Hushed. Quiet. War was coming.
There were rumors of attack. A caravan slaughtered. Selechai they said. The people were left there, in pools of their own blood. Soup for the hungry. Everyone was going hungry, starting to get antsy. If it was true, black times were ahead. There would be no food for weeks. No supplies. No medicine. No chance of survival. The sun was growing weaker by the day. Amber wondered how long it would be until the fire died forever. One month? Two? It hadn’t been shining like usual. The mornings were dark. The nights darker than days never imagined before. Murmurs of quiet, respectable silence soon were overthrown by boisterous bickering and screams that echoed from town to town.
“My son is sick!”
“What about our crops?”
“Medicine. Food. We’re going to die!”
A hushed silence filled the streets. Amber stepped up to the podium.
“You all make me sick.” She spoke softly, deliberatly. Amber pointed down the road to the painting on the capital. Grafitti. Nothing more. But a damn good likeliness. It was Ryu, in full battle armor. Just before he left. Just before he never came back.
They tried to speak out in protest. But her voice carried above all, killed their cries.
“He was a hero. My hero. He died so that others may live. To sit here and watch you all piss and moan about nothing is not doing any good to us. Oger is dead. Ryu died fighting it. Our caravans are safe to travel, people can walk and hunt again.”
More protests from the crowd. “They still hunt us.”
“What hunts us now is man. We fear no man.”
“War? What about war?” There was a female voice raising above the others.
“War. War happens all the time. As long as we walk the earth, we will be at war. Selechai have tried to take our land. They have failed. Humans have tried to take our land. They have failed. We have what others do not.”
“No supplies!” Another anonymous voice rose above the clamor. The funeral turned to chaos. Respect faded into anger and flared into dissention.
The world was slowly spiralling into chaos. With a sigh, she turned to walk away.