Logan’s Story
Logan raced across the battlefield, bullets zipping overhead, ricocheting off trees and rocks, none quite hitting their mark. He found a nice hollow where he could take shelter while he flipped his military uniform from Imperium blue to rebel beige, then continued on toward the rebel lines. He still had Imperium-issued weaponry, but previous missions proved the rebels paid little attention to that.
Upon reaching the checkpoint, Logan flashed some letters, “Urgent message for General LeFaire.”
The guards waved him through without a second glance and Logan quick-stepped his way to the command center. He couldn’t help but smile in anticipation. Finally, another fight!
The Imperium always held him back for the toughest jobs, the ones only Logan could do. Logan hated it. He’d prefer if they just sent him on constant missions. While everyone slumbered, he was still fresh in the boxing ring, itching for a good brawl. Ever since those torturous injections and vile serums – Logan never felt at rest. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax.
Oddly, the only time he ever felt at rest was in battle. In battles he became a flood of water – slipping past every obstacle, near impervious to blades and bullets, finding every opening in an opponent’s defense, leaving destruction in his wake. At this point, Logan likely had the largest body count on either side of the war. The problem was the moment a fight stopped – Logan’s restless energy got trapped by an invisible dam, aching to burst forth again.
Thus why Logan was always so irritable once back in camp. Thus why he got into so many fist fights. Thus why he was usually confined to the brig between missions, punching the wall out of sheer boredom. The Imperium researchers never said it to Logan’s face, but he suspected their experiments on him had been a bit too successful.
Little matter. The researchers likely wouldn’t need to keep working much longer. If Logan managed to assassinate General LeFaire today – the lynch pin of those bloody rebel’s success – the rebel armies wouldn’t be able to survive and the Imperium would finally win this war. Logan suppressed the flash of anxiety he felt whenever he thought of the war ending. Surely the Imperium would always be able to find a new fight for him. They had always had many enemies, after all.
Approaching the command center, a former cathedral with wide bell towers, he flashed his false letters at the guards. One took a lingering glance at his weaponry – far too lingering – but waved Logan through. Oh how Logan yearned to break their necks. Their suspicions could give him away, after all. Right?
Unfortunately, killing them in the open would attract more suspicion, not to mention take precious time from getting to the general. Logan simply had to hold the dam a few minutes longer.
He slipped through the door, not noticing the flag waved by the suspicious soldier the moment the door shut. Logan raced up the stairs, his fists shaking. The attic appeared oddly empty, but Logan barely spared it a glance as he stepped across the landing to the stairs leading to the bell tower . . . and General LeFaire.
The far wall exploded in a hail of bullets. The force of a dozen bullets knocked Logan to the ground. He tried crawling back to the stairwell, but what sounded like a machine gun (a machine gun in an attic?) kept firing round after round into him. His body could shrug off glancing blows, but dozens of straight-on bullets were another story, and this was more than even his freakish body could handle.
When Logan finally stilled, so did the machine gun. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the sounds of Logan’s labored, wet breathing. Logan tried to think of a way out. He considered trying to drag himself to the stairs, but suspected the machine gun would start right back up if he so much as twitched a finger. What’s more, he couldn’t feel his legs, a sure sign a bullet had hit his spine. He was oddly unconcerned about that. Even with wounds that should have been deadly, once the bullet had been removed and Logan’s internals stitched up, he healed within weeks with barely a scar.
Still, that healing wouldn’t happen if there were no one to take out the bullets, and the pool of blood spreading around Logan became disturbingly large.
One agonizing minute passed. Then two. Then five.
Finally, as Logan’s vision began blurring around the edges, General LeFaire stepped from behind the wall with a pack of armed guards.
“Well, well, well,” the general murmured. “It seems that with enough bullets, even you drop, don’t you Captain Hollet?”
And with that, Logan faded into unconsciousness
– – – –
The pungent smell of incense flowed through Logan’s nostrils, filling his lungs. His ears woke next, a sing-song whispering in a language he’d never heard before.
Odd, so far the part of the Undershade reserved for damned souls like Logan’s (because, let’s be honest, there was no way he was going to end up in paradise) seemed rather nice. Nothing at all like the hellscape his mother had warned him of.
Logan opened his eyes to a wood-paneled room ringed with torches, his bed at the center. A man waving incense circled him, continuing to murmur. Logan tried to sit up, but laid back with a hiss of pain as dozens of still-healing wounds lit his body on fire.
Ah, so he wasn’t dead yet. That was good news, Logan supposed. He’d hate to leave the war with victory for the Imperium still in doubt.
The hooded man stopped his incantations and brought his incense to rest in both palms.
“You must lie still, Captain Hollet.” The man said, deep voice rumbling. “Even a body such as yours cannot heal easily from 34 bullet wounds.”
Thirty-four, huh? Definitely a new record.
“How do you know my name? And who are you?” Logan asked, his voice rasping.
The man gave a chuckle. “I doubt there’s a rebel soldier who hasn’t heard of you. Guildmaster Griffith thought it a shame for the world to lose a talent such as yours, so he brought you to me, his personal healer.”
“A talent such as mine?” Logan scoffed. “Your Guildmaster realizes that once healed, I’m just going to break every neck I see, including yours, on my way back to my people, doesn’t he?”
The healer shrugged. “He realizes it’s a possibility, of course. But he hopes you will recognize that, as a Guildmaster, he is a neutral party in this war and will refrain from your, ah, natural instincts.”
Logan snorted. “Neutral party just means he’s a gutless coward or a two-faced, scheming grifter. You’ll get no mercy from me, traitor.”
“Be that as it may,” replied the healer, utterly unruffled, “you should still rest. Sleep now, Captain.”
Chuckling, Logan shook his head. Oof, bad idea. Sleep? Beyond injury-induced unconsciousness, Logan hadn’t slept in over two years. And yet, as the chanting and incense waving began again, Logan closed his eyes, feeling oddly peaceful. Before he recognized what was happening, he fell into a deep slumber.
– – – –
Three weeks later, Logan dressed in the fresh clothes given him by Guildmaster Griffith, his wounds barely twinging.
“Are you sure you want to go back, Logan? You know you are always welcome here,” the healer asked.
Logan stood up straight, staring at the man. “Of course I need to go back. I swore my life to defend the Imperium. And defend it I will to my dying breath!”
Part of Logan screamed that he should rip out the healer’s throat for such traitorous talk, but those screams had gotten quieter the past few weeks.
Regardless, it was past time to go. LeFaire had taken all of Logan’s belongings, so he had nothing more than the clothes on his back. It didn’t matter. The front lines were less than a day away. He’d be back with his comrades, his home, by nightfall.
Logan waved goodbye and the healer waved back, muttering yet another healing incantation, Logan supposed. He felt a pang of guilt for not thanking him for that final gift – he’d never even learned the man’s name.
Logan shook his head. How sentimental he was getting! Refraining from breaking the traitor’s neck should have been thank you enough.
And yet, as the hours passed, the guilt built within Logan. He should have thanked them. Guildmaster Griffith had saved his life, healed him. Logan kept trying to shake the thoughts away, but they kept returning. Before long, Logan realized that a mere thank you would be insufficient, but he had to keep going. He had a duty to his country.
Logan finally turned a corner along the road and saw an Imperium checkpoint. He stopped. Staring. All it would take would be to walk up to that checkpoint and get them to find a commander who knew him. But Logan found he couldn’t take a step. That tugging, a yearning kept urging him back to Gearhaven. If Logan walked through that checkpoint, he’d forever lose the chance to thank Guildmaster Griffith. And the Guildmaster didn’t deserve a simple thank you – he deserved some action. Logan shouldn’t say words, he should serve him, protect him from the might of the Imperium sure to come for Gearhaven and all traitors therein.
Logan spun on his heel and raced back to Gearhaven. He had trudged all day to get to the front lines. Now he raced back to the Guild Hall, never stopping for a break, the need to return granting more energy.
When he finally banged on the Guild Hall door well after midnight, the healer was already waiting for him.
Logan would later describe the healer’s greeting smile as beatific, holy. Any other observer would regard it as predatory, smug.
“Welcome home, my brother.”
