CHAPTER SIXTEEN- BATTLE OF ENDECOTT: PART 3
Saturday 12th May, 2018- ENDECOTT FOREST STATE PARK, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
James slightly prayed to God, asking for a miracle to save his friends from the clutches of these exterminators, and if by some form of divine intervention, some of Hollows choose to ignore the pain of the blue dust and started to attack the armour-clad knights, while ignoring James and his two friends.
James using the opportunity started dragging The Artist and Claire towards the tree line of the open clearing they had once taken shelter in, moving the gang has fast as he could towards the forest.
Jamesâs breath came in ragged gasps as he dragged The Artist and Claire deeper into the forest. The sounds of the chaos behind them. Gunfire and the unnerving screeches of Hollowsâ faded slightly, but the danger wasnât far behind. Through the trees, James caught glimpses of the strangely dressed knights, their gas masks and steel armor blending eerily with the haze of the forest. They moved with terrifying precision, cutting down the few Hollows that managed to break through the dust-induced agony and attack.
As James stumbled forward, trying to get The Artist and Claire to safety, one of the knights caught up to them. The knight leveled a Full-Auto Crossbowâ an unusual sleek one-handed device that looked custom-built for dual-wielding. With a sickening thunk, a bolt flew out, embedding itself deep into The Artistâs right leg.
The Artist screamed, clutching their leg in agony as the bolt pierced through flesh. The blue dust in the air made the pain even worse, causing their skin to sting and burn wherever it touched.
âI...I canâtâ, The Artist gasped through the pain, gritting their teeth, âJames, leave me. Take Claire and get out of here!â.
James ignored them at first, his determination unwavering as he struggled to carry both of his friends. But when The Artistâs voice grew sharper, he slowed.
âYou need to save Claireâ, The Artist continued, their face twisted with pain, but their voice clear. âSheâs notâ¦sheâs not going to make it much longer. You canât save both of us. Kaitlynâ¦sheâll come back for meâ.
âNo way!â, James shot back, panic edging his voice, âThatâs suicide! Iâm not leaving you behind!â.
The Artist grunted, shifting in Jamesâs arms as they tried to ease the pressure on their injured leg. âClaireâs foaming at the mouth, Jamesâ, they said, gesturing weakly toward her. Claire had gone pale, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, a thin mixture of blood and saliva dribbling from her mouth, âWhatever these guys didâ¦sheâs running out of timeâ.
James looked down at Claire, his heart sinking as he realized the gravity of the situation. She was slipping away. But still, he couldnât bring himself to abandon The Artist. âThen take herâ, he suggested, desperation coloring his voice, âIâll hold off these guys. Iâm not affected by this stuff like you are. Iâll give you enough timeâ.
The Artist shook their head, their expression a mix of frustration and pain. âThatâs the dumbest thing Iâve ever heard! What? Are you going to take on an entire squad of knights alone?â, they winced, gripping the bolt in their leg tighter as another wave of pain hit, âIâve got a crossbow bolt in my leg, James. I canât carry Claire anywhereâ.
James realized the futility of his plan, a bitter smile creeping onto his face, âYouâre right. Iâve always been a dumbassâ.
The Artist managed a weak laugh through the pain, âI didnât want to say itâ.
Reluctantly, James finally nodded, accepting The Artistâs plea. He crouched down, carefully lowering them to the ground beside a thick tree trunk. âOkay. You win. But you better hold out until Kaitlyn gets backâ, he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.
âIâm not going anywhereâ, The Artist replied, gritting their teeth.
James quickly stripped off The Artistâs jacket and used it to cover Claire, shielding her from the blue dust that hung thick in the air. He handed The Artist his AR-15 and nodded toward the M1897 shotgun still slung over The Artistâs shoulder.
âYouâve got two guns, now. Make âem countâ, James said.
The Artist nodded, taking both weapons. Their hands shook from the pain, but they werenât about to give up. âGo!â, they urged, âGet her out of here. Find Kaitlynâ.
James didnât waste another second. He picked up Claire, cradling her in his arms as he started running toward the direction where Kaitlyn had gone. âKaitlyn!â, he shouted into the dense forest, âWe need help! Kaitlyn!â.
The Artist watched him disappear into the trees, their breathing labored as they leaned back against the tree trunk. They could still hear the sounds of battle nearby. The clash of steel and the unmistakable growls of the Hollows. The crossbow bolt in their leg throbbed painfully, but they fought to stay alert. With an assault rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other, they were ready for whatever came next.
Alone, wounded and surrounded by enemies. The Artist knew their chances of survival were slim. But they werenât going down without a fight.
âLEUR ICI!!! â (THEIR HERE!!!)â, a voice boomed in French from behind the trees which The Artist perfectly understood. A group of knights, rifles raised and bayonets gleaming, pushed through the underbrush toward The Artist.
The Artist acted on instinct, swinging the M1897 up and pulling the trigger. The incendiary shell burst out with a thunderous bang, hitting the knight square in the face. His gas mask split apart as the flames consumed him. He screamed, his voice muffled but clear in its agony, as he clutched his burning face and dropped to the ground, thrashing in a futile attempt to extinguish the flames.
But it didnât matter. More knights closed in within seconds. One of them leveled a Full-Auto Crossbow at The Artistâs right hand, letting loose a burst of bolts. Thunk! One bolt found its mark, driving into The Artistâs wrist. Pain exploded through The Artistâs arm, and the AR-15 slipped from their grip, hitting the forest floor with a hollow thud as its magazine emptied with the last shots.
The Artist winced, clutching their wrist, blood already seeping through their fingers. The other knights raised their bayoneted rifles, crossbows and swords, surrounding The Artist in a deadly semi-circle. A voice called out in French from behind them, âArrêter! â (Stop!)â.
The Artist understood that well enough it meant to stop. They were too tired to keep fighting, their body screaming in pain from the bolt lodged in their leg and the dust still stinging their skin.
Reluctantly, The Artist dropped the M1897, the shotgun landing softly beside the fallen rifle. The knights stepped in closer, creating a line in front of them, weapons still pointed as if daring The Artist to make a move. The air felt charged with tension as they waited, standing unnervingly still. Then, a figure appeared between the ranks of knights.
Moving with a commanding presence, the figure was tall around 6-Feet tall and distinctly female. Unlike the armoured knights, she wore a uniform that looked less like battlefield armor and more like the attire of a high-ranking officer. Her cream white jacket was accented with azure blue, the fabric pristine despite the grime of the surrounding forest.
As the woman approached, the knights in unison shouted in French, âCommandante de la grêle! â (Hail Commander!)â. Their voices echoed through the woods, reverberating with respect and discipline.
The woman came to a stop before The Artist. She was young, no older than mid-twenties, with long ginger orange hair that had been tightly coiled in a bun, now loosening as she reached up and removed her gas mask. Her emerald green eyes gleamed with cold intensity, the contempt on her face unmistakable as she surveyed The Artist.
âYou are Jamesâ child, are you not, oui?â, the woman asked, her French accent thick but her English clear enough. Her voice was as cold as her gaze, calculating, but there was an edge of curiosity. âI am Chloé de La Salle. It is nice to meet youâ, she said, her tone suggesting the opposite, as she extended her right hand for a handshake.
The Artist, despite their injuries, glared up at her from the ground. Pain wracked their body, but they mustered enough strength to speak through gritted teeth, âIâm...not shaking your handâ.
Chloéâs lips curled into a slight smile, not out of warmth but amusement. She lowered her hand and tilted her head slightly, studying The Artist like one might study an insect caught under glass, âVery well. It is no matter. You are in no position to refuse much of anything, I thinkâ.
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The Artistâs vision swam, the pain in their leg and wrist intensifying, but they refused to look away from Chloé's piercing gaze. The commanderâs presence was almost suffocating, but The Artist wouldnât give her the satisfaction of seeing fear.
âWhat do you want with me?â, The Artist spat, their voice ragged from exhaustion.
Chloé raised an eyebrow, as if the answer should have been obvious to explain.
âOur Orderâ¦â, she began with a calm but cutting tone, ââ¦wants what it has always wanted with your kindâ extermination. To rid humanity of the blight you and your ilk have brought upon this world. The Order of Dawn is all that stands between us and the savage mongrel creatures you call Magickal Beings and Creatures. As if you havenât blessed us with enough of your vile magicksâ¦â
The Artist clenched their jaw, fury bubbling beneath the surface despite their pain. âThe Order of Dawnâ¦â, they spat back, ââ¦are nothing but vile murderers and criminals hiding behind self-righteous liesâ.
Chloéâs eyes flashed with amusement, but it was cold and cruel. âBy whose law? Yours? Or theirs?â, she shook her head, as if The Artistâs words were beneath her, âYou MBCs are nothing but troublesome aliensâ beasts from a distant world. A world that neither wanted nor cared for you. Youâre intruders. Invadersâ.
Chloé leaned in closer, her voice almost soft, as if sharing a personal secret, âYour father, Jamesâ¦he understood thisâ.
The Artistâs heart skipped a beat. Their father? James?
âHe was more than just a mentor to me. He was like a father to me as wellâ, Chloé continued, her words carrying an unexpected weight, a sort of reverence that chilled The Artist more than the pain ever could.
The Artistâs thoughts whirled. What the hell is she talking about? This woman, this Chloé, was claiming to know their father, to have shared some kind of bond with him. But how could that be possible? The Artist had been told by Lucius that their parents were part of The Cult of Blair, followers of a sinister and corrupt path, nothing like this.
âThatâs impossibleâ, The Artist murmured under their breath, their mind racing to reconcile this new information. âMy dad wasâ¦â, they stopped short. Sharing too much with this woman would only complicate things further, and The Artist knew better than to trust anyone aligned with The Order of Dawn.
Chloé noticed the hesitation and sneered, âSpeak, Half-Breed, speak. Donât you understand English? Or must I use Ma Langue Maternelle for you to comprehend me?â.
The Artist, though battered and in agony, couldnât help but retort sarcastically, âCe nâest rien â (Itâs nothing)â. The words slipped out, a mocking edge in their voice, as they deflected her question with biting indifference.
Chloéâs face twitched ever so slightly, but her demeanor remained controlled. âYouâre disappointing, you knowâ, she said, her voice now laced with a calm cruelty. âFor the child of the great James of Faubourg Saint-Germain, I expected more. Butâ¦â, she sighed, as if resigning herself, ââ¦perhaps you still have your usesâ.
Without another word, Chloé turned to one of her knights and gestured dismissively. âPick our guest upâ, she commanded, âTake them to the rendezvous point for premature extraction. And make sure to wash off the Dawnstar Aerosol before it kills themâ.
The knight stepped forward, gripping The Artistâs arm as they winced in pain, unable to resist. Chloéâs emerald green eyes lingered on The Artist for a moment longer, studying them with that same clinical detachment as before.
âTo the rest of youâ, Chloé called out to her soldiers, âContinue with Operation: Whisper Forest. Leave nothing aliveâ.
As The Artist was dragged away, barely conscious and their thoughts a blur, Chloéâs final words echoed in their mindâ James of Faubourg Saint-Germain. Who was this woman, and how did she truly know their father? There was more to this than they had ever been told.
(5:00 PM)
The Artistâs surroundings blurred as they were carried through the chaos, but the sounds of the battlefield were all too clear, screams of dying Hollows and the crackling of fading gunfire echoed in the distance, blending with the heavy marching of soldiers and the shouted orders that kept them in line. As they were hoisted over the knightâs shoulder, the air grew thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and ashâ the remains of Echo Park Ranger Station.
Each step brought a jarring pain to The Artistâs body, the crossbow bolt embedded in their thigh sending waves of agony with every movement. Still, they forced themselves to remain alert, tilting their head enough to observe their new surroundings. The smoldering ruins of Echo Station disappeared behind them as they were brought closer to two grey trucks parked along a dirt road deep within the forest. The large storage containers on the trucks were ominous, their purpose unknown but foreboding.
One of the knights carrying The Artist reached for a black walkie-talkie attached to his belt, signaling someone on the other end. âExtraction team, this Sparrow 1511 signing in. I repeat Sparrow 1511 signing in. Pin signal for extraction. Weâre coming inâ, the knight grunted, his voice muffled by the gas mask but the intent clear.
Through hazy vision, The Artist watched as a driver stepped out from one of the trucks. His uniform matched that of the knights, though he lacked the bulky gas mask they all wore.
The knight carrying The Artist lowered them to the forest floor, where they groaned in pain as the dirt scratched against their injuries. âHelp me with this oneâ, the knight barked at the driver, who was already reaching for a bucket near the back of the truck, âGet the water. Use the drinking bucket to wash off the Dawnstar before it does more damageâ.
The Artist, barely able to move, glared at the knight as he sneered. âPathetic creatureâ, he muttered under his breath, his disdain evident.
But before the knight could turn away, a sudden gunshot pierced the tense air, and the driver collapsed, blood pooling beneath him as he crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The Artist, barely processing what had just happened, widened their eyes in shock, as figure jumped out from the back of the truckâs storage container and started firing their weapon at the knight.
Before the knight could react, more shots rang out, quick and precise. The knight stumbled as silver-finished Beretta 92FS came into view and fired rounds that struck the exposed gaps in his armor. He hit the ground with a thud, his Full-Auto Crossbow falling beside him. The Artistâs breath caught in their throat, but their relief came swiftly when they saw the familiar figure rushing toward them.
âLillyâ¦â, The Artist croaked, barely able to form the words through their exhaustion.
Lilly Lou, her wolf-cut black hair framing her face as she moved with speed and precision, skidded to a stop beside The Artist. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in their battered state. Crossbow bolts still lodged in their wrist and thigh, with burns covering their skin from the blue dust.
âOh Godâ, Lilly whispered, her voice trembling as she knelt beside them. She gently touched The Artistâs shoulder, trying to soothe them. âYouâre going to be okay, Iâve got youâ.
The Artistâs throat was dry, and every word came out as a hoarse rasp. âWaterâ¦truckâ¦â, they managed to say, pointing weakly toward the storage container the driver had been opening before his death.
Lilly sprang into action, dashing into the container in search of water. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes for The Artist, their vision swimming from the pain and fatigue. But soon, Lilly emerged, clutching a large metal bucket in her hands. Without wasting any time, she rushed back to The Artistâs side, lifting the bucket high before pouring the water over them.
The cool water cascaded down their body, washing away the lingering blue dust and providing immediate relief from the unbearable burning. The Artist gasped as the pain finally began to dull, though it didnât completely vanish. Still, they could breathe again, no longer suffocating beneath the agony of the Dawnstarâs effects.
âThank youâ¦â, The Artist whispered weakly, their body still trembling but the relief undeniable.
Lilly knelt beside them once more, her face filled with a mixture of concern and determination. âIâll get you out of hereâ, she said softly, her dark brown eyes meeting The Artist with fierce resolve, âJust hang on a little longerâ.
Lilly hurriedly but carefully carried The Artist to the driverâs seat of the truck, their limp body weighing heavily in her arms. She managed to lay them down, taking care to position them gently as she fastened the seatbelt across their chest. The Artist, still reeling from the pain and exhaustion, could only groan in acknowledgment, their head lolling to one side. Lilly took a deep breath and stepped away, closing the container doors behind her and scanning the area for any more threats.
Her eyes fell on the bodies of the fallen knight and driver. Noticing the Full-Auto Crossbows on both of them, she paused, bending down to grab the weapons. âThese could come in handyâ, she thought grimly, slinging them over her shoulder. She snatched the keys from the driverâs corpse before stepping back to the truck. Climbing into the driverâs seat, she laid the crossbows beside her and glanced over at The Artist. They were still pale, their breaths shallow but steady.
Starting the truck, she shifted into gear and accelerated, navigating the rough terrain of Endecott Forest with as much speed as she could while still keeping the ride steady for The Artistâs comfort. The forest was a blur of charred trees and smoldering ground as they left the battle behind, but the tension in her chest refused to let up.
Lilly glanced over at The Artist, her eyes landing on their jeansâ pockets. âI need helpâ, she muttered under her breath. She reached over, feeling through the pocket of The Artistâs blue denim jeans and finding their phone. Pulling it out, she recognized it immediately from the sleek familiar designâ dark, polished and with a wide screen.
She unlocked it by guiding The Artistâs limp right hand and pressing their index finger against the fingerprint sensor on the back. Once the screen lit up, she quickly scrolled through the contact list until she found the name she was looking forâ Sir. Haggins Hopkins. Her fingers moved fast as she dialed the number, the line ringing only once before it connected.
Before Haggins could speak, Lilly cut him off. âHaggins, itâs Lilly. Listen, me and my artistic friendâ¦are in dangerâ¦serious danger. The Order of Dawn hit them with some kind of strange substance. Iâve got them, butâ¦it doesnât look goodâ.
There was a tense pause on the other end, followed by Hagginsâ concerned voice, âIs it blue? Did they spray something blue on them?â.
Lillyâs stomach twisted, âYeah, itâs blue. What the hell is it?!â.
âDawnstarâ, Haggins said, his tone now grim and sharp, âThey wonât have much time left. That stuff eats away at MBCs like acid. We need to act fastâ.
Lilly glanced at The Artist, their face pale and sweaty, the burns from the Dawnstar still visible. âWhat do I do, Haggins? Iâm driving out of Endecott Forest now, but I donât know how much longer they can hold onâ.
âEndecottâs too far from any of our secure locations. But if theyâre still breathing, we can try something. Drive to the Lower Ninth Ward in New Salem and ditch that truck. Iâll have Red Society Regents and Deathstalkers ready to meet you thereâ, Haggins replied.
Lillyâs grip on the steering wheel tightened, âOkay, Iâm on it. Iâll get there as fast as I canâ.
Hagginsâ voice softened, though still laced with urgency. âLillyâ¦thank you. I know itâs tough, but right now our friend needs us more than ever. Youâre saving a lifeâ.
âIâm not about to lose my best friendâ, Lilly said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her, âIâll get there in timeâ. With that, she hung up the phone and pushed the truck harder, her eyes now fixed on the road ahead, focused on one thingâ getting The Artist to safety.