Ashen Crucible

Chapter Fifteen: Lost Part

Chapter Fifteen: Lost Part One

Su sat atop the mountain, gazing at the scenery.

This peak was the only high vantage point in the region, offering an expansive view. Before him stretched endless grasslands, monotonous in color and scenery yet imposing through sheer vastness. Leaden clouds hung perpetually low, scudding swiftly forward under fierce winds. If one stared long enough, an optical illusion emerged - it seemed not the clouds advanced, but that the earth itself retreated beneath him.

Su raised his scope. The world through his lens remained unchanged - dull, quiet, devoid of anomalies. Deer herds, jackrabbits, and prairie wolves roamed below, occasionally clashing in bloody contests where losers became victors' sustenance. The wind carried no scent of danger.

Such peaceful, uneventful existence felt profoundly alien to Su. Since gaining consciousness, his days had oscillated between scavenging supplies, seeking shelter, and fighting for survival. Even company outposts offered no true respite, merely resupply points requiring heightened vigilance - humans proved more treacherous than mutated beasts.

Now sheltering near N958, Su possessed sleeping quarters, inexhaustible pure water reserves, and armories overflowing with weaponry. The anti-aircraft machine gun alone had an entire ammunition crate. All his firearms shared characteristics: immense power, simple mechanics, easy maintenance. His shooting style emphasized single fatal shots - brute necessity from penniless years when automatic rifles requiring bursts proved unaffordable. Though premium sniper rounds cost more, their one-shot efficiency ultimately proved economical.

Perhaps conditioned by hardship, this sudden wealth of resources left Su's existence purposeless. Only two purposes remained: await the Black Dragonriders' arrival, then die fighting.

Sudden awareness of life's absurdity gripped him.

The world churned heedless of individual concerns, much as the sun kept rising behind permanent clouds of radioactive dust. Thus Su's baffled existence continued - five days elapsed since the ambush without Dragonrider retaliation, though he knew they'd strike eventually. Leaving this chosen battleground risked losing even a mutual-kill opportunity. So he waited in the mountains, subsisting on sterile calm and nutrient paste.

Uncertainty plagued not just Su.

Outside Saratoga, the Dragonriders' camp maintained military precision, though restless energy now crackled through the ranks. Luther had developed a habit of perching on his armored vehicle's hood, alternating between scanning horizons and studying tactical tablets. After six days of empty vigil, the posture felt increasingly foolish.

Following their leader's example, Saratoga's inhabitants avoided the perimeter, stealing furtive glances through building cracks. To Luther's paranoid mind, those stolen looks brimmed with mockery. He yearned to abandon this wretched backwater, but protocol imprisoned him here. His failure report had reached headquarters days prior. Colonel Julio's initial reply promised swift approval of new strategies. Normally, authorization would arrive within hours, freeing Luther's squad while leaving casualty units to await reinforcements.

Yet six days crawled by without resolution. Initial query responses morphed from "awaiting approval" to dead silence. When Colonel Julio finally blocked communications entirely, Luther contacted his family's political channels - only to receive identical bureaucratic rebuffs.

Bureaucracy? The antiquated concept unnerved Luther. Black Dragonriders leadership prized decisive action. Sixth dawn broke over confused inaction. Even the usually taunting Justin now shared the camp's nervous energy. All surviving Dragonriders made discrete inquiries through personal channels - answers consistently vague, implications dangerous as snakes.

Thus Su's mountain purgatory continued. He occupied himself with industrial equipment, analyzing metal shard compositions, smelting matching alloys, then milling thousands of fragile tabs scattered across foothills. Easily snapped with distinctive supersonic fractures, these formed makeshift sensors detectable kilometers away under his enhanced hearing.

Base maintenance filled spare hours - scrubbing facilities, dozing precisely ten minutes at the entrance by biological clock. Armory time yielded intricately grooved bullets, patterns evolved from frontier-hunter tricks into ornate ballistics. Yet Su instinctively avoided the decadent third-floor bedrooms, cleansing them mechanically without lingering.

Through it all he remained unaware of hidden cameras recording his every move. A lifetime honed for survival granted acute threat detection, but passive surveillance escaped notice. Central computer's "sole user" proclamation proved adequate reassurance despite lingering unease - subconscious discomfort without identifiable source.

Meanwhile, Luther's sanity frayed. Camped near poverty-stricken Saratoga subjected him to imagined humiliations. On the seventh morning, phantom mockery from a distant window broke his resolve.

Luther snatched a subordinate's modular rifle, shifting it to sniper configuration. Ten high-caliber rounds arced across a kilometer's distance, most punching through flimsy window-planks. Anguished screams confirmed multiple hits - Luther's momentary triumph curdled seeing two bloody children tumble from the hovel.

A woman staggered out, collapsing as she clutched lifeless offspring. Eight bullets riddled her body, yet she crawled meters toward camp, smearing crimson trail until a mercy bullet ended her agony.

All Saratoga emerged to witness this atrocity. As silent accusation crystallized, Dragonriders retreated into camp without meeting collective gaze. Luther's fear-pale face told all. When a village elder defiantly discarded covering cloak to retrieve corpses, not even the most hot-blooded grunt lifted weapons.

For both Su and Luther's people, strange purgatories stretched onward.

Three hundred miles north in Dragonrider headquarters, Persephone's world deepened into gloom. Elevator-music enhancement despite floor-to-ceiling windows couldn't alleviate misery. Her virtual workspace cascaded endless documents - "inbox" icon spawned digital avalanche each click. Normally finding humor in "trash piling" visualization, now she fantasized pixel murder upon the cheerful owl mascot.

The outlier emerged through flood-her colleague Julio's recurring operation request against "Subject S-G-2171". Initially dismissing radical sister Phoebe's appeal, Persephone rubber-stamped denial without reading. Standard protocol dictated revision and resubmission through proper channels... but the document kept boomeranging up hierarchy.

Third reappearance finally drew attention. Fine print revealed tactical nuclear deployment request against N958 Mountain Stronghold. Persephone's lethal-precision pen slashed denial before burying into fresh workload.

Outraged when identical application reappeared next day flagged "URGENT - PRIORITY", her quill stabbed virtual paper. Administration algorithms nonetheless sustained the feedback loop.

Unseen orchestrator dwelled in attic suite above Persephone's office-monitoring through base cameras while enjoying her administrative crucifixion between cat videos and weapons procurement forms. Whenever attempt bypassed secretary's desk, highwayman's veto redirected to Persephone. Agent J's complications thus multiplied exponentially.

While Su laid sonar traps and Luther drowned in collective guilt, established powers reveled in perverse chess game-fate permitting, mountain showdown might culminate months ahead rather than weeks. Neither insurgent nor institution appreciated how administrative gridlock prevented escalatory tragedy.

Thus trajectories continued:

Su's metallic chaff scattered,

Luther's trauma festered,

Persephone's signature throbbed,

And audiences behindscreens chuckled.

Chapter Fifteen: Lost Part Two

Throughout the Black Dragonriders headquarters, Colonel Julio had become the week's most pitiable figure.

His subordinate Lieutenant Luther's failed operation spread like wildfire, reaching even the gate guards. Not due to operational shame, but because the colonel's follow-up plans received unprecedented high-level scrutiny - each iteration vetoed by multiple superiors. Most notably, this administrative bloodsport involved multiple directors.

When the second veto struck, Julio's immediate superior abruptly developed "chronic illness" requiring month-long leave. Without political backing, Julio couldn't follow suit. Whispers now swirled about why mid-level bureaucrat Julio warranted such attention. The colonel's paunch, swarthy complexion, even body hair density became locker room topics. None questioned Julio's competence - seven years of service had proven his strategic brilliance, particularly in threat assessment and personnel selection. Though lacking combat prowess, Julio represented intellect over brawn.

Now Julio doubted his vaunted intellect. The first veto made tactical sense - deploying single Perception-specialized captain seemed risky, though Julio deemed the force adequate.

Revised Plan B added a Combat-specialized captain. Julio's recovering superior rubber-stamped approval, only for another overruling veto to materialize mid-signature. The crimson "REJECTED" stunned the room. By afternoon, the superior relapsed into extended medical leave.

Stubbornly adhering to principles, Julio's third revision swapped the Perception captain for equivalent major. He maintained overkill force wasn't solution - tracking abilities mattered more. Black Dragonriders resources shouldn't be squandered. Bypassing convalescing superiors, Julio directly submitted to General Persephone.

Instant rejection.

Colonel Julio drowned himself in whiskey that night. Next afternoon, hungover and reeking, he locked himself in the office. Liquid courage birthed Plan C - personal command of experimental squad with cutting-edge gear. Transmitted by dusk, veto arrived within fifteen seconds as Persephone rushed to dinner engagement.

Sleepless night followed. Julio reviewed Subject S-G-2171's files thrice, cross-referencing R&D's "potential value" assessment. Conclusion: Target's capabilities capped at mid-tier lieutenant level. Ninety percent of "potential" remained theoretical - lab graveyards overflowed with such maybes.

Dawn found Julio projecting Persephone's signature across his screen, imaginary gaze burning through self-doubt. Casting aside career suicide fears, he drafted Plan D - ludicrously disproportionate response.

Three majors - Close Combat expert, Sniper virtuoso, Wilderness Tracker - led eleven lieutenants. Over 1,000 personnel, 50 armored vehicles matching support convoys, three VTOL gunships for ten-day deployment. Army-scale force to crush someone barely lieutenant-tier.

Trembling, Julio hit send.

Persephone's intuition proved accurate upon entering her office. The flashing "URGENT" file greeted immediately. Suppressing demolition urges, she donned specially-framed glasses, black-gilded pencil tapping the submission.

Plan D's absurdity startled her. Deploying armies against mice? Had Julio lost all reason? Curiosity piqued - what mouse warranted her ice-prince brother's fascination and this insanity?

Accessing files, the sketched portrait froze Persephone mid-breath. Obelion's artwork captured S's quietude masking existential solitude.

Crack. Pencil snapped.

Hours later, revised orders emerged: All existing personnel recalled. New handler assigned - Persephone herself.

At Saratoga, near-mutinous Dragonriders received withdrawal orders. Confidentiality oaths followed. Justin's protest earned two replies: "Idiot." and two screens of creative expletives incinerating his career prospects.

Unaware of administrative maelstroms, S maintained mountain vigil. Delayed response meant apocalyptic retaliation. His survival now relied on beginner-tier Mysticism ability - marginal luck enhancement manifesting as 51% coinflip advantage.

Scope-swept grasslands remained inert. Then footsteps.

Stiletto clicks materialized from nowhere, bypassing sonar traps. S's golden hair lifted statically - primal danger sense overriding sensors. Warmth trickled down his nose bridge.

The steps circled phantom-like before crystallizing left.

A canvas satchel thudded beside S. His gaze traveled upward: sheer-stockinged legs stretching into infinity, modest pumps belying astronomical cost. Further ascent revealed pencil-skirted hips, stress-tested blouse, neckline geometry defying physics, until meeting silver-haired perfection crowned with librarian-chic glasses.

"Enjoying the view?" The pencil tapped crimson lips.

"Thoroughly."

"Want more?"

Instead of answering, S emptied his Magnum into the horizon. Five thunderclaps echoed through valleys. The sixth pressed beneath his jaw.

Persephone's supercomputer brain blue-screened. Suicide after coquettish banter? Had her appearance triggered existential crisis?

Reflexes intervened. The Magnum teleported into her grip. Fumbling the revolver, she accidentally discharged the suicide round skyward, recoil nearly dislocating her shoulder.

"T-take it back!" she stammered, offering weapon like toxic snake.

S reloaded calmly. "More bullets exist. More methods too. Capturing me alive won't be simple."

"Overreact much?" She nibbled pencil angrily. "Was my question that terrifying?"

"Jokes fall flat, Dragonrider."

Surprise widened jade eyes. "How... Ah." She rotated the pencil, revealing insignia - golden dragon clutching shield.

Reluctant hand extended. "Persephone. Charmed."

"I'd prefer otherwise."

"Such petty masculinity!" She withdrew from his gloved hand. "Etiquette dictates bare skin, especially with beauties."

S unwrapped bandages, revealing sculptor-perfect hand eclipsing hers in calloused elegance.

"Handshake seals friendship!" Her grip became caress. "Join us. We'll cohabitate while I persuade you." She gestured at laughably small satchel. "Packed essentials."

S eyed the purse barely holding hairbrush. Silence stretched.