A Tale of Destiny, Chapter 13

​The Crucible was no place for mercy. In the midst of a ramshackle pile of rusting metal structures, the pageantry of the Iron Banner was underway. The manmade stronghold sat atop a natural ridgeline overlooking the last human city, nestled safely in a windswept valley far below. The Tower, a resolute symbol of the lost glories of the Golden Age, was ablaze with the final defiant rays of the setting sun. In this broken world, haunted by the ghosts of a billion screaming dead, it was a brief moment of beauty. Vane Stratos was momentarily distracted by the scene, even as gunfire rang out all around him. ​Something hot and hungry whizzed past him just over his left shoulder, followed immediately by a distant crack of thunder. The unseen sniper’s aim had been slightly off, but it snapped Vane from his reverie. He scanned the area, not for the source of the shot, but for something far more important. There it was. A small drone flew high overhead, one of several that were tasked with relaying footage of the event to the bloodthirsty spectators of The City. Vane lived for this. He waved to the camera, striking a daring pose as he twirled his massive revolver like a gunfighter in a Hollywood Western. His helmet’s faceplate resembled a pair of shimmering Aviator sunglasses, chosen more for its cosmetic value than for any real measure of protection. Another bullet zipped by, and Vane reacted by hurling a single-edged throwing knife far out over the horizon in the shot’s general direction. He cupped a hand to his ear, feigning to listen for the telltale sound of a registered kill. A bell rang out over the mass of rusted girders, and Vane bowed generously to the camera overhead. The City loves a winner, and today, The City loved him. ​Vane briefly checked the scrolling messages in his HUD. It was time to give the crowd what they wanted. The Crucible, at least on the surface, served to allow guardians to test their mettle against their peers and sharpen their skills in preparation for future conflicts. In reality it was often merely an outlet for frustrated Tower-bound warriors to take out their aggressions on likeminded immortals who knew no fear of death, and Vane was no exception. He hefted the revolver and charged for his target. Fame was a fickle mistress, and he intended to curry her favor. ​Upon rounding the nearest bend, he encountered a strapping pair of armor-clad guardians wielding heavy machine guns, their precious ammunition doled out by the grace of the Iron Lords, all in an effort to add drama to the games. It had achieved the desired effect. Vane slid on his knees to avoid the white-hot rake of flaming death that chewed through the steel superstructure at eye level, narrowly escaping certain doom. Purely on instinct, he lobbed a laser-triggered grenade at his attackers. A moment later, a deafening explosion rocked the area, obliterating his foes and leaving Vane reeling. He shook off the daze and tried to gather his senses as tiny red dots converged upon the radar display in his peripheral vision. They were coming for him. ​Vane swallowed hard and squinted to see, his head still pounding from the concussive blast. Blurry shapes flickered past his vision on the outskirts of the steel arena. He fanned the hammer of his revolver, and it barked an erratic and eager reply as fire spewed from its muzzle. The gurgling groan of a dying man struck his ears, and Vane was relieved when he realized the voice was not his own. A flash of brilliant white, bright as the midday sun, burst forth from his right. Temporarily blinded, Vane emptied his weapon into the fog. Four hundred pounds of meteoric rage slammed into him, mortal wounds not sufficient to slow the behemoth’s charge. Vane was thrown like a ragdoll, impacting against an iron girder with a meaty thud. ​Several agonizing moments passed. Through the splintered plastoglass of his faceplate, the dead guardian that lay on top of him was a Cubist nightmare. Vane became aware of something warm and wet coating the inside of his helmet, further obscuring his hazy vision. Shattered ribs clawed at his insides like probing fingers, each ragged breath tightening their grasp. From atop a distant tower the dying sun signaled to him, its light revealing a hidden jewel amongst the rubble. Vane reached feebly for the scarlet prize. It gleamed brightly for a fraction of a second before darkness called him home. ​This was how it always was. No yesterday, no tomorrow, only the now and never. In these moments he thought fondly of the woman he once loved, or was it the woman he might one day meet? The old memories would always come flooding back. Happier times, peaceful times, times without worry or war. This was not the glittering, sanitized world of Golden Age splendor. It was still heavy with ruin and rot, but there was something more than today. There was hope. Sharp morning light pierced his vision. He slid a callused hand across dew-slick metallic skin. There were words. His dreaming mind struggled to make sense of them. Something long buried in the depths of his psyche, now free of its mortal coil, surged to the surface. A sudden geyser of realization inundated every fiber of his disembodied soul. This! This is- ​Vane blinked his eyes. His formerly obscured vision had returned to normal, the fractured faceplate of his helmet now clear and new. Kind, violet eyes stared down at him, accompanied by a smile the color of orchids at midnight. Vane never knew how to read his mysterious friend, and the Awoken’s boyish looks didn’t help in this regard. He could have been fifteen, or fifty. The familiar ghost hovered nearby, faceless but clearly self-satisfied. Rubik offered a lavender hand to Vane, unable to hide his amusement. “Gathered more than you can carry once again, I see”, he muttered. ​Vane knocked his hand away and sprang to his feet. “Hey! That wasn’t my fault!” he roared. “There was a delay in my display. That guy wasn’t even on my radar! I oughta report him to…” his rant died off as a final bell rang out across the blasted landscape, echoing down into the valley below. The match was over at last. Vane sighed and strode over to the edge of the steel platform, followed closely by Rubik and the fist-sized ghost. The night sky had all but vanquished the last glow of westerly light. Down in The City, myriad twinkling colors winked a friendly welcome to weary travelers. For a moment, they stood there in silence, taking it all in. ​A low hum buzzed in the air. Rubik cocked an eyebrow as blocks of white light rotated before him, the hallmark of an incoming transmat. Curious, he reached into the light, and a heavy piece of ordnance dropped into his waiting arms. It was an exquisitely crafted rocket launcher, adorned with lupine decoration. Rubik looked to Vane, confused. “It’s a reward. Something they give out at random after a match. Wait, isn’t that…” His voice trailed off as he examined the weapon, his eyes growing large. ​Rubik shrugged and heaved the ornate launcher off the precipice. Vane emitted a shrill squeak as he watched the priceless artifact disappear into the yawning black. The warlock took his speechless friend by the shoulders and looked deeply into his incredulous eyes. “We have no time for such things” he remarked simply. He wrapped one arm around Vane, and gestured broadly towards the distant city. “Come, there is much to be done.” This was Chapter 13. If you liked the story, you can select any of the other chapters here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10856982/13/A-Tale-Of-Destiny