[and all of you who will one day become brave.]

Bravery is all about risk. There is nothing to be brave about if you are not going where your strength and your power are no longer enough. This leads me to believe that bravery is always preceded by fear. No one ever needed to be brave if they weren't afraid first, because if I know I can do it, it's not something I have to be brave about.

Some people would call it bravery to jump from a twelve foot ledge. But that doesn't really require bravery from me, because I know I can do it. Some wouldn't consider it bravery to confront a friend about a problem they're having with them. But I would, because that is something I have always been weak at and afraid of- that they will reject me, dislike me.

Living in this Kingdom requires total bravery. The more I learn about it, the more I am convinced that I will be the most powerful where I am utterly my weakest, because that is where I must be my most reliant on my Father. And He is perfected in my weakness.

I'm terrified of being weak.

But that's where this leads. Straight into the places I cannot stand on my own.

"... he will stand, for the Lord is able to make him stand."

------

Hi guys.

How are things?

I'm really, really good.

I've been accepted to Bethel School of Supernatural Ministry for this Fall, out in Redding, California. With the way my plans are currently going, I will be driving out there the 1st of September, class starts the 16th.

http://www.ibethel.org/schools/ministry/?page=27

It's a really, really good school. The basic premise- God is real and wants to invade every circumstance and situation where there is not congruence with the Kingdom of Heaven. And the places there are? He wants to come more. And that the amazing, all-surpassing promises in scripture, like-

"And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions. Even on my servants, both men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days," and, "You will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father," and so many others that the religious leaders and theologians have told you and I, "That's for the Millennial Reign of Christ."

Effectively, that everything in the Bible that rocks? That's for the Millennium. And everything that sucks? That's for you. That the world is going to get worse and worse until Jesus comes back.

I think the Bride of Christ is going to make herself ready for His return, and it will be a triumphant Bride in a world where they have made His Kingdom manifest. Where all works of darkness are cast down and destroyed.

But even now, I know I don't comprehend how far it will stretch me to live in this Kingdom. How much it will require, in areas where I am not strong and don't know what I am supposed to do. That this requires that I walk in mystery, in things I have no understanding for.

It will hurt. I don't even realize what this will require.

I don't know how I will get there.

When all of my strength flows out like water, I find out I don't even know what to say. I don't know how to ask questions.

All there I can do is listen. "And He has said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"


We don't want theory or theology- Jesus, we want you.

------

Your humble servant,
-Ethan

you stretched out your arms
over empty hearts
said let there be light
to a dark and hopeless world
your Son was born

Hey friends.

It's pretty late to be writing a xanga post, but I feel like doing it anyway. I'm going to write something short anyway.

It's all about the Father's love.

Jesus and the Holy Spirit are both perfect expressions of the Father's love. But for me at least, the Father was somehow the most distant. I grasped [not understood] the concept of the Trinity, the Godhead, and that the three were one but at the same time unique, distinct entities.

And I was good with Jesus, and good with the Holy Spirit, but somehow, unconsciously, the Father was never really the one I talked to. And this can sound strange or silly, but it was important. Because there is something the Father gives and does that the others do not, even though they are all one. Because they're all different at the same time.

It's common terminology to talk about "the Father's embrace" or "held in the Father's hands."

But have you ever experienced that? Ever had it revealed to you? Or is it all information, and that's just what you've become satisfied with?

I have so much more to say and share with you. And I want to hear what's going on with you. In short- I want us to build each other up and be strengthened.

We are in a season of extreme growth. It's time to length your cords and stretch out your tents and prepare for increase. There is a revelation of the Father's love that is being poured out, even now. And here's the crazy part- you don't have to strive for it. He's absolutely overflowing with desire to show Himself to you.

He's been chasing us forever. He's been passionate about us long before we knew anything about  Him.

It's when we stop running and trying and striving and actually become still enough to listen and wait-

And He comes in a whisper, knocking on the door. He won't force Himself on anyone. C.S. Lewis, a little roughly quoted says, "He does not ravish His lovers- He only woos."

We're very good as basing our relationship with Him on sacrifice.

But that's filthy rags. We have access because of His name's sake. We have access because of Him, not because of us. That was the whole point. Jesus endured the cross for the joy set before him.

That joy? Was you.

I'm going to bed now. I can't wait for it to be warmer. I want to go somewhere when it's warmer and watch the sun come up.

Your humble servant,
-Ethan

[and my heart
burns
for You.]

Here it is, folks. Heavily revised, and much better, in the authors opinion, with a whole new segment on the end. But really, you want to re-read it. It's bery much better. It's long, but you can take it in several goes.

Merry New Year!

===============

"Guardian's Fate"

[this story and characters are the exclusive property and creation of Ethan May. plagiarism and unauthorized reproduction is prohibited and will result in you being punched in the face and spit upon.]
================

The sharp acidic smell of rain accented every breath I took and released, channeled through my nostrils in a cloud of thick gray condensation that trailed away with the night wind.

Rain smacked against the old wooden porch roofing in a drumming cadence and ran off its slanted surface in a cascading waterfall in front of my eyes, creating a curtain that tried to hide the long, winding road that crawled up from the drenched valleys and stinking moors to south. It skirted thirty-seven meters in front of the inn before it plunged on another three miles and into the over-populated city of Dezeon.

All was quiet. Six guests had checked in this night, and all had retired an hour since. The muted sounds of clean up had ceased, indicating staff and the Matron were either already in bed or would be soon. Only a few lights were burning within, and only one dim, flickering lantern hung above the door to my right, in case some wayward traveler might seek shelter beyond normal hours.

I focused my attention back into the surrounding darkness, shifting slightly inside the long black cloak that hung like a shroud around me. Everything was perfectly deadened in the downpour, muted in the unceasing assault.

My senses were on edge and I leaned forward, into the wind, the inner-Awareness feeling cold inside my chest. It knew what thoughts could not know, what wordw could not articulate, but from the very air it drew the impression of what lurked beyond the realm of cognisance.

I stepped off the porch, pulling the hood of the cloak forward and edging around the perimeter of the inn, wearing every shadow and slipping through open space like a wraith. My silent footfalls were completely muted in the ambient sound of rainfall as I slipped to the cellar doors and crouched down in their shadow, my back to the inn.

Something was watching. Out there, in the tall fields of sugar cane. The Awareness did not waver, dancing like icy tendrils across my skull as I felt the heaviness of death. The contemplated violence was as obvious to me as it was beyond definition.

I cupped my hand over my mouth and nostrils and exhaled slowly to mask any condensed breath. The immediate questions were obvious. What brought this death? Was there more than one? What were they here for?

Matron Riva had no enemies that I had cataloged. She paid the bribes to keep the right officials placated. The serving girls lived at the inn and rarely left. They had no enemies that I had been notified of or observed. The Watchmen of Dezeon were not given to acts of stealth when they performed raids, rare as that was. They were government sanctioned and would break down the door in broad daylight, having no need to be secretive.

What then?

For you?

Highly improbable. A Guardian did not enter into intrigue or possess emotive capabilities to conflict with civilians or officials.

Other possibilities?

Here for one of the guests?

The probability of this scenario held my focus. Someone on the run, choosing the isolated Rupali Inn on the outskirts of the city to seek cover for the night. Nature of the potential target? The Conditioning's most common scenarios suggested that the target was some manner of criminal or informant, being pursued by bounty hunters or hired mercenaries.

The target had brought some manner of trained killer here, placing all civilians and Keepers at risk.

I mentally sorted through the faces of the guests while scanning the curtains of wind-buffeted rain that rushed across the field in thick waves. Out of six guests, no suitable person could fit Conditioning profiles. Only two had arrived alone, and memory records showed both had stayed here previously.

There was an open gap of untrimmed, short shrubbery between the edge of the field and the inn, a gap that I had calculated many times to be on average eighty-three meters wide. With a smooth motion I slipped forward the riotgun that had been strapped across my back, pressing the stock against my shoulder, the heavy, .50 barrel painted a drab black that did not glare or catch light. I lined up the sight rail and with a muted click set the weapon to semi-auto.

If anything wanted to get into the inn from there, it had to come across a dangerously open stretch of ground.

Time had no concern for me. I hunkered down in a shadow offered by the entrance to the cellar and stared into the darkness.

Water dripped off the edges of my hood, and I could feel my cloak being soaked through. Time demonstrated its relative nature, dragging out- or rushing by. The joints in my legs began to feel cold as they became stiff from my crouch. But all of that lurked somewhere in my subconscious, like a minor itch under my skin that was enough to register but not enough to distract from my sole focus.

The edge of the cane field.

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

Against the unwavering mutter of the rain, individual sounds began to sort themselves out in my head. The leaky guttering above and the places it was dripping onto my drenched cloak. The mutter began to develop distinct voices, like the low acoustics of the rain falling on the grass contrasted against the higher smacking noise as it hit against the side of the house, accented by the even higher plinking noise as it hit the panes of glass in the windows.

The Awareness held me focused on everything- yet nothing at all.

I could sense it. Whatever or whoever it was, its presence itched across my mind and I tensed, finger tight on the sensitive trigger.

But the stiff stalks bent uniformly with the wind. There was no incongruence, nothing that pointed out what I could detect stronger with every silent breath.

“Anemos?”

The Awareness surged. It was a quiet voice, from the front of the house approximately sixteen meters to my right, but it might as well have been a scream. A rapid glance in that direction showed that whoever had spoken was carrying a light which glowed far brighter than the dim lantern that hung above the door.

Light that made whoever was standing there a brilliantly painted target. I heard the soft foot falls on the wooden porch floorboards, and then recognized the voice.

“Anemos? Are you out here?”

Mahsa Nairi. Twenty-six standard years old. In the employ of the Matron for fifteen standard years. Slight build, one-point-six meters tall. Fair skin, green eyes, dark brown hair.

And I knew that she would be carrying tall mug of strong herbal tea. She always brought a cup of tea to me when it rained, regardless of my lack of need. My focus snapped back to the field and the Awareness brought all senses to full alarm, my heart rate abruptly speeding up as my body prepared to react. The wind had let up for a moment, and the stalks had swayed back upright.

Excepting three groups on the edge of the field.

The blood roared in my ears as I sorted the data in an eye-blink. Unknown targets, three-man squad. Armaments unknown, purpose unknown, intentions believed hostile.

“Anemos?”

Thuh-thump.

My heartbeat echoed around in my ears as I processed the the flood of possiblities and scenarios that raced through my mind from the Conditioning. The Conditioning was a super-complex network of variables and analysis with core protocols and statistics for the purpose of giving the Guardian immediate and concise directives in all circumstances.

Regardless of this, there were too many unknowns in the formula to arrive at a course of action. Would they target Mahsa Nairi, even if she was not their goal? Would they forfeit the advantage of surprise, or did they believe they could eliminate her without risk of discovery?

Thuh-thump.

A shot from the field, in the wind and rain with poor visibility by a skilled marksman with some form of rifle held a fifty-eight percent chance of being fatal, which made that scenario too high risk to allow.

But there were still too many unknowns. If I acted now and alerted all three to my presence unnecessarily, chances for survival were less than forty-one percent. Their ignorance to my location was my greatest asset against them.

Thuh-thump.

"Anemos?"

Her voice held a tremor when she spoke this time. She could sense it, her instincts for survival warning her that something was not right. I heard the sound of metal clanking as she set down the lantern she was carrying, followed her hesitant footfalls as she stepped to the side of the porch and into view, facing the field where the three-man squad sat, undoubtedly watching her. The lantern-light outlined her figure, wrapped in a simple brown cloak. Her hair was gathered back in a wide weave pattern. The mug of tea was held just in front of her, steam rising from it.

Then the wind whisked through and blew the steam away in one fell gust.

And a red pin prick of light from a high-powered laser sight suddenly appeared on her chest and held there for just a moment, its minimal wavering indicating that the hostile, no longer of unknown status, was a trained marksman who would undoubtedly take a single fatal shot.

Something inside my head clicked as the necessary blanks in the formula filled out and the directive was achieved.

Sinew and tendon lurched as I sprang from the crouch I had held. The rain that had drenched and beaded on my cloak exploded out from it as the heavy fabric snapped to keep up with the body it was tied to. I observed rather than felt the riotgun in my hand roar to life with a thunderous belch of flame, kicking a smoking silver shell out into the air as it racked in the next.

And again.

And twice more.

It all seemed to be happening so slowly, the Awareness fully on me. Almost as though I could see the little tunnels through the walls of the downpour, left in the wake of the slugs that I had sent rifling toward their target as I straffed along the side of the Inn.

And then I had leapt onto the raised porch where Mahsa stood, her eyes wide in shock and mouth open in a soundless cry as she stared at where I had leapt from the impenetrable night. The lantern rolled across the porch, the mug of tea was shattered in pieces on the ground where she had dropped it, adding a strange organic tang to mingle with the harsh smell of hot gunmetal and burnt powder that emanated from the weapon in my hands.

She was rigid; with fear? Pain? The scenario that she had been shot as a result of my delay came to focus. That the hostiles were more skilled and deadlier than anticipated.

If I had failed to do what I existed to do.

And then there was the sharp hiss instantly followed by the harsh crack of splintering into wood next to my head. They were caught off guard, I rapidly processed as I grasped Mahsa by arm and sprinted toward the front door, pulling her after me. They would not miss a second time.

There was no second shot as we ducked through the door frame and into the dark front room, its large space empty now, its many tables clean, the bar on the north wall scrubbed and bare. I spun and released Mahsa, quickly closing and latching the great oaken door behind us. It would not withstand any concentrated efforts, but would offer a few moments of delay should the hostiles attempt entry from that point.

I turned back to face Mahsa. She was leaning back against the wall for support. Her face was a shade pale, the muscles around her jaw and eyes tense. Her hands were pressed against her chest, her body showing the tell-tale effects of the adrenaline that would be racing through her system. Her throat tightened as she swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again without having made a sound.

She wanted to know what was happening, I theorized. But there could be no explanation. Not now.

A harsh buzzing filled my ears and words flashing before my eyes, burned into my mind by the Conditioning-

Protocol 1: Insure the safety of the Keeper(s), then all innocent and non-combatant personnel.

The buzzing left and I knew what I must do.

"They will be coming soon," my voice was a low monotone as I double checked the latch on the door. "Matron Riva is likely to have heard the gunfire," I briefly glanced at Mahsa, "you must go to her and instruct her and all of the guests not to leave their rooms. Your safety is priority one. Can you comply?"

No response. Her eyes were shadowed, her hair had slipped forward from behind her ear and shrouded her features. Her shoulders looked unnaturally relaxed, almost limp. Then suddenly she was slumping to the ground- I barely caught her head from smacking into the hardwood floor. It was only then that I noticed it, the dark spot just below her ribcage, staining the white apron she still wore. It had been impossible to see before, hidden behind her cloak and her hands.

Reality collided with my previous conception; I knew because my ears were suddenly ringing as though from impact.

Mahsa had been shot. Had lost consciousness. Was losing blood. The bullet that had missed had been aimed at me, not Mahsa. The hostile already knew she was down.

What I experienced then, I did not understand. But it was deep within my stomach.

I savagely fought the strangling sensation that spread through my chest and throat as I dropped the riotgun with a clatter and lifted her from the cold floor, out of the puddle of water where she lay, the puddle that was smoky with dark tendrils of blood. She was nearly weightless in my arms, my veins pumping with adrenaline as I ran the length of the bar, to the back of the room and through the doorway to the main landing and stairway. The Conditioning directed that I inform the Matron, give medical treatment to Mahsa, give appropriate warning levels-

"Anemos! What's going on?"

I jolted to a stop, nearly crashing into the short, wiry form of Matron Riva as I sprang up the stairs. Judging that she was wearing her bathrobe but did not yet have her dyed and treated hair in a net, I concluded she had been the middle of preparing for bed. Behind her came her seventeen standard-year old son, Phanuel. I could sense the shock and confusion rolling off of both of them.

The Awareness alerted me to how little time we had.

"Miss Nairi is shot. Wound is just below left ribcage." I said, foisting her on the surprised Phanuel, who grunted at the unexpected burden but held her, as my memory suggested he would be capable of.

"Shot?" The Matron echoed with alarm, her pale face paler than usual, "How? Who's shooting?"

Protocol 2.3: All inquires spoken by Keepers or Authorities must be answered accurately, to the fullest detail of the Guardian's memory.

My temples ached as though they would explode. The Matron must be informed of the danger, protocol verified. But there was no time, the assault could begin at any moment, Mahsa required treatment immediately...

"She..." I choked, jerked once involuntarily, a congestion in my throat cutting me off from speaking in monotone, from answering as I was required to. My head throbbed with pain, my body tense, and suddenly something slipped.

"She... is- dying." The words escaped from throat, my voice fluctuating unnaturally.

"Matron," I spoke brokenly, my words strangled. "stop... the bleeding or-" I choked, "she will die. Lock yourselves in your rooms, allow no one to enter." I swallowed painfully, unable to understand myself. That was not an answer. It had nothing to do with her question.

Looking up, I saw the Matron's face was alarmed, entirely confused by my words.  "Guardian," her voice was slow and deliberate, "report."

The single word burned in my skull, and I was cemented in place. My mouth opened and I articulated with exact accuracy,

"The Inn is under attack by three hostile agents. One hostile has been engaged and is believed to be wounded or dead. One friendly down, bullet wound to torso, should be considered medical priority one."

I was a Guardian. The word she had spoken was a command word, one that demanded full explanation.

"All hostiles are assumed armed and should be considered threat level one. Probablity that they are hired squad, possibly tracking inn guest. Appropriate action dictates immediate lockdown of Inn and all occupants seeking cover in their rooms."

As soon as the last word exited my mouth I literally staggered backwards, as though I had been straining and suddenly released. My legs nearly buckled, and I fell onto one knee, a cold sweat beading out across my forehead.

I was instantly reminded of the respect and obedience I held for the Matron, the knowledge of that respect literally appearing before my eyes like written words, hearing it my head like a whispered voice. I had given her the information required, as dictated by the Conditioning.

And as I looked up I saw a small puddle of blood on the stairs that had dripped from the bullet hole in Mahsa Nairi's torso. It had accumulated there over the span of a few moments that had been required for me to give the Matron the information she required.

Inexplicably, the image burned into my mind and my stomach tightened.

"Phanuel! Take her to my quarters!" The Matron had already turned and was hurriedly ushering her son up the stairs, completely oblivious to my reactions.

But there was no time, now. The threat was imminent- I could sense it all around.

And there were currently no calculated scenarios in which my chances of survival were above twenty percent.

My fingers hovered for a moment over a small pocket sewn into the side of my battlevest, measuring the risk and gain. I slipped the thin syringe from the pocket and held it up in front of me, staring into the dark liquid it contained. A nearly lethal cocktail of various stimulants and amphetamines, mixed specifically to effect my body chemistry for the greatest possible gains.

According to my calculations, this only boosted my chances of survival by eighteen percent for twenty minutes, while after that span of time the crippling after-effects of taking these stimulants dropped my chances of survival to four percent. By all formulas I could not justify the gain against the loss for this circumstance, where the siege could drag out for an unknown amount of time.

But curiously, before my eyes I saw the shock on Mahsa's face when she had been hit by the bullet, felt her limp form in my arms, saw the puddle of blood on the stairs.

And I ignored the data.

I flicked the cover off of the needle and inserted it into my neck, my thumb forcing the syringe to empty it contents. The burning itch spread through my jugular vein, down to my chest and then branching out through my system as the stimulants began to throw my body into an impossibly high gear. My heartbeats became a drumming cadence in my ears as the fast acting chemicals sped through my arteries, sending trembling surges through my core muscle groups and fiery tingles up and down my limbs.

Everything became background noise. I could sift through the sounds in my mind like files in my hands, focusing in and out, examining and discarding, blotting out the sound of the Matron hurrying through her door upstairs and the clicking lock behind her, ignoring the low rasp of my own breath.

Then through the myriad of sounds, they came with a booming echo that in my heightened state seemed to shake the room. Foot falls, from the front porch. Near the windows, and the door.

They were coming.

I stood, the drumming rain a backdrop against the quiet whisper of the sword on my hip snaking from its sheath. The single-edged blade was black and I hefted it, feeling the familiar balance and firm grip through my glove. Stepping through the doorway and into the front room, the old floorboards beneath me creaking quietly, offsetting the echo of the footsteps on the front porch that reverberated through the walls to my keenly attentive ears.

My riotgun was on the floor where I had dropped it to carry Mahsa. On the opposite side of the room by the door. The door that was the last, insignificant barrier between this calm and the chaos that every scenario presented with absolute certainty.

Then the footsteps stopped.

And the assault began.

With an impossible crunch the oaken door buckled at its center, nearly snapping off at the steel hinges while at the same instant the far window shattered and a dark sphere flew through it. Standard tactics, I thought, ducking back out of the doorway to the hall and pressing myself against the wall as the entire inn shuddered and rocked with a deafening explosion, red-white flame flashing through the doorway I had just ducked through, chased by an angry tempest of black smoke. Eliminate any possible resistance from entry point in preparation to perform a sweep. They were professionals, probability confirmed.

My mind raced with dizzying calm, analyzing the data as I breathed the sharp taste of burnt timber. Once the enemy was inside, chances for survival plummeted dramatically.

I heard the front door crunch again, not quite destroyed as there was no crashing of it falling to the floor, but close.  Very close. I reached under my battlevest and pulled up the mask concealed beneath it, the elastic black fabric snug over my mouth and nose, filtering out the smoke. I unsnapped the clasp at my neck and the soaking wet cloak slipped off my back to crumple on the floor, leaving me lighter and less encumbered.

The door would come down with the next hit. When it came down, a singular opportunity would present itself.

And I was moving, ghosting through the doorway and knifing through the smoke, leaving it churning behind me like a boat's wake through the dark water. Heightened senses detected the destroyed tables and chairs strewn everywhere and half ablaze, shrouded in the smoke, my feet crunching on murals of glass and splinters scattered all across the floor.

But the sagging door, crumpled and ready to collapse was all I could see, all I could focus on. The enemy was standing on the opposite side of it; I could sense him preparing to administer the last hit, tearing it down.

And I saw the shock playing out across Mahsa's face, etching her features with fear, pain, confusion- she had believed that the area was secure, and was in shock to recieve harm within the range of my protection. And then I could see her dead, in the Matron's room, having not recieved adequate medical attention.

I leapt, almost floating on a cushion of smoke and air, stretching out slightly, my sword arm cocked back behind my head, blade pointed forward, like a viper coiled to strike.

The door ahead of me snapped with the force of the final hit, hinges ripping from the timbers they were bolted into, the oaken gateway collapsing to the floor in defeat, failing in its defense.

And I passed through the place it had stood, my empty right hand grasping forward through smoke.

The air cleared. A huge, dark form was standing wide-stanced in my path. There was no time to focus, but it did not matter. My outstretched right hand seemed to drift forward, fingers latching onto a strap of the thick body armor on his chest. I could sense him starting to react, pheromones of shock spiked the rapidly shrinking amount of air between us.

The mug of tea fell in my mind, from her hand, shattering to pieces on the ground.

My sword arm shot forward like a coiled serpent as I pulled myself to him, still airbourne. His neck offered no resistance to the sword point. I was not even sure of the kill until my fist hit his neck, still clenching the sword hilt.

And then I smashed into him, bowling him backwards, smashing through the railing and off the porch, my momentum and unrelenting grip carrying me on top of him as he went down, thudding into his back in the mud and downpour, a strangled gasp escaping him as I crashed onto his chest. Recovering, I stood and jerked the blade free, pausing over the fallen body of the hostile for the briefest of seconds. I could sense his life ebbing away, his strength flowing out through the wound.

He would be dead soon. Further action was inefficient and unnecessary. Then why this roaring in my ears, this impulse to strike again and again and again?

What I experienced then, I did not understand. But it felt like fire running through my veins.

I turned and sprinted back toward the porch, my throat feeling too tight to swallow. Vainly, I tried to see through the rain that flew in my eyes, expecting to feel the impact of a slug tearing through me at any moment.

But there was no other dark form as I lunged out of the downpour and onto the raised porch for the second time that night. Water slicked through my hair and ran in rivulets on the armored vest strapped to my chest as I pressed against the wall, listening for my enemy.

Only silence.

Why?

Because it was a ploy. A distraction.

My ears rang.

All of this had been meant to draw me outside, to the front. It had been too obvious, too forced. How had I missed the scenarios? Beating down the door when they could come through the window? Making so much noise where they knew I'd be listening for them?

Because they were smarter.

I had killed the wounded one. That is why he had not struck back at me, even after we landed. He was already shot, wounded, probably even dying. They had sacrificed one of their own so that they could gain entry. Because once they were inside, they knew I would have to come to them.

The other two were already in the building.

I did not calculate...

How did they get in? The back door? A window?

I vaguely noticed my entire body trembling, super-charged with stimulants and adrenaline as I stepped off the porch and back into the rain on the same route that I had used the first time this night, when I first sensed the hostiles. All scenarios of attempting reentry to the Inn from the front door and main stairway held an average survival rating of seven percent. Cold rain splattered audibly on the hard armor shell of my battlevest as I slid the black sword into its sheath. Directives with a possibility of success higher than forty percent were non-existent with current circumstances.

Everyone inside could already be dead, I theorized. My mind burned in my skull as it processed probable scenarios at super-computer speeds. Through all that I calculated, the outcome was the same. Two professional hitmen would be fast and brutally efficient. The Matron only kept a knife under her pillow and allowed no other weapons inside the inn's walls. The hostiles would be watching the entry points. The back or front stairway would likely lead into an ambush.

It was going to be an utter massacre.

... the way wherein I walked have they laid a snare for me.

I blinked. Once. Then again. The rain ran through my hair and down my back, but somehow I had lost the ability to move. My head buzzed with the words. They were were nothing. Utterly foreign. But they held my focus. Somewhere in my memory, I had heard that phrase, but I could not place it-

- and my concentration slipped, abruptly flooding my already overloaded brain with a plethora of sensory data, sending a sharp spike of pain through my skull. Reeling, I involuntarily ground my molars and rapidly tried to sort through the sounds, my thudding heartbeat and rasping breath, muting the hissing wind and rain, the-

Plinkplinkplink.

... old guttering, running up the side of the Inn.

And a puzzle piece slipped into its place in the formula. As the scenario unfolded, survival rated in at forty-two percent.

With a short sprint to the side of the inn I sprang upward, latching hold of the slick guttering, almost slipping even as I fought upward, half-blinded by the torrent smacking into my eyes as I squinted through the downpour. The old copper pipe crunched in my grip as I ascended, pulling myself up arm over arm, with the words still ringing in the back of my head,

... the way wherein I walked have they laid a snare for me...

But I pushed it out of focus. My attention could not be divided.

In twenty-one seconds I had scaled the twelve meters to the second story, only to realize that the closest window was at least two and a half meters to my left. Barely maintaining my grip on the slick guttering as it was, there was a very low probability for being able to throw myself that far. I knew there were no entrances through the roof.

I couldn't feel the fatigue in my arms, but I could tell from the way they were beginning to tremble that time was running short. The downspout aburptly buckled, the old rusted fastenings that held this relic together threatening to collapse under the unwanted burden of my weight. A rush of scenarios blurred, nearly all ending with a fall that carried an eighty-seven percent chance of serious injury.

Then with an ominous finality, the gutter groaned and precariously swayed, and I knew there were seconds until it came down.

Before it came down. Out of the blur, a scenario isolated itself and I immediately enacted it.

Summoning my strength I rapidly pulled myself further past the level of the window and higher up the copper pipe, feeling it jerk a little more loose with each lift, glancing down and over through the rain at the window, trying to approximate the potential trajectory-

And there was a final grinding noise as the last of the fastenings sheared off.

I leaned out to the left, stretching myself over thin air as the ancient guttering snapped free of its restraints and fell sideways, submitting to the insistent weight of my leaning and freefalling to the left, sending my stomach into my chest.

The thirty-eight percent chance of success hovered in my thoughts as I reached forward with one hand, riding the guttering down-

My gloved palm smacked against the window sill and I latched hold, nearly jerking my shoulder out of socket as I quickly reached up and grabbed on with my other hand, leaving the ruined downspout to fall with a muffled crash onto the wet ground twelve meters below. For just a moment I hung suspend, legs dangling in empty space before I heaved myself upward to the dark glass with a silent growl, my entire body straining with the effort. I could feel my fingers slipping across the wood. Any attempts to let go of the sill to open the window would've ended with a swift plummet to the ground beneath me. Only one other option presented itself to me.

I took a quick breath, squinted to protect my eyes, and smashed my forehead into the dark window. Which was more than enough force to shatter it into tinkling fragments that clattered across the floor inside.

The pain was secondary in my focus. It was mostly the idea of smashing my head through a window and not the actual doing that caused me pain as I quickly reached through the destroyed window, finding a handhold on the inside and dragging myself through the shattered glass. The battlevest protected most of my torso and I shut out the annoying pinpricks as the little shards of glass worked their way into my hands and arms as I tumbled through and onto the floor, glass crunching beneath me as I brought my feet under me and my eyes adjusted to the new level of dark.

The room was unoccupied. I knew because it still smelled of fresh linen, a smell that never lingered after a tired and dirty traveler had spent the night. I moved in a crouch toward the single source of dim light in the room, which issued from under the door that led to the upstairs hall.

I held my breath and pressed my ear against the door, feeling blood trickling down my forehead with the rain and sweat as I strained my hearing for any kind of identifying sound.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. And then there were footsteps. Quick and quiet, boots on the hardwood hall floor. Footsteps that were rapidly getting louder-

And the door I was pressed against suddenly came crashing down on top of me as someone from the other side kicked it down, slamming me to the floor.

The shocked exclamation point in my head immediately answered itself with a high probability- You shattered a window in the silence of the house. They were alert for you.

I planted both feet against the fallen impediment, vehemently kicking it back up toward its point of origin, the Awareness making the world seem to slow as I rolled upright and sunk into a crouch before the door had even reached its apex. My left hand was white-knuckled on the sword hilt, and I waited for the door...

... to fall over into the empty hallway, with no hostile or target in sight.

Again from the hall, silence. Utterly deafening. I processed probabilities, hot blood trickling down my face from the laceration on my forehead, a distracting itch. And then, so loud my eardrums ached,

Ker-chak.

The unmistakable metal-on-metal sound of a round being chambered, echoing through the vacant doorway.

Adrenaline, like ice. My legs muscles bunched and I dove right, the wall next to the doorway erupting with automatic gunfire, shooting through the old plaster and shredding the bedroom floorboards in a flurry of splinters. I crashed down hard and rolled sideways, coming up away from the doorway in three-point stance, sword drawn and held wide.

The barrage ceased, leaving my ears ringing and dust scattering across the floor. I knew what was coming. He or they would sweep the room, and completely without any kind of answering firepower I would be shot far outside of the attack range of my sword. Two percent chance of survival.

My thoughts flew through the scenarios and weighed probabilities so fast my head ached. The tightness in my chest and throat and the pain in my head and body seemed momentarily overwhelming, and for reasons that I did not understand, I banged my head against the wall to my right- the walls.

My rushing thoughts stopped. The old, daily-weakening walls. There was no true supporting scenario for it, and there were too many unknowns to justify it. But it was the only thing that offered any chance of success at that moment. I caught my breath and strained my ears, trying to hear through the ringing... there. A clip clattered to the ground, then a brief pause followed by the sharp snap and harsh echo as a fresh one was loaded.

I had no other ideas and no more time. Taking a breath, I made a fist, braced, and punched the wall as hard and as loudly as possible, cracking the plaster and making a loud noise of impact that was harshly audible in the silence. I had just barely dropped to my stomach on the floor when the wall next to me was suddenly torn apart in a roar of gunfire. Hot lead came flying through from the other side, whistling shrilly overhead. The barrage peppered the wall in a continuous sweep, up and down and side to side. I noted the accuracy with which they had traced the sound through the wall, another indication of their skill.

And then the barrage stopped again, leaving my ears ringing more harshly. I drew my legs back under me, white plaster dust coating everything, hanging suspended in the air

I paused, listening for the cue.

Footsteps. Slow, cautious, then they halted, and in my mindseye I could see the hitman, standing just outside the doorway, scanning for any sign of movement, the slightest indication of life. And then he would-

Now-

I lunged shoulder first into the wall, barely seeing a dark shape step into the room as I crashed through hundred-year-old plaster and wood that had been reduced to shreds by the concentrated gunfire. I ignored the flashes of heat across the exposed skin on my neck and arms as unprotected flesh was torn by jagged splinters and awry nails.

But then I was staggering through empty space, pieces of ruined wall collapsing onto the hallway floor in front of me, chalky white dust billowing out around my feet-

Out my peripheral vision, perhaps a meter to my left in the hallway, a silhouette was in the process of wheeling around to face me. I felt my left hand float to sword at my side, my fingers constricting the grip as I moved in what seemed a maddeningly slow step to correct my balance, catching the outline of a gun in the silhouette's left hand that I identified as an MK-3 submachine gun. My sword was a rasping whisper as it came free from its sheath, its black edge invisible in the dark-

With a stuttering cough the suppressor on the gun flared blindingly in the blackness, burning lead plowing into my battlevest at point blank, a muted sensation tearing through my right arm.

My left arm jolted as I slashed my sword across the hostile's face and it clanked loudly off of the armor mask that must have been covering it. His head was violently thrown back from the force of the hit, and the gun stopped firing for a moment. I theorized, as I chopped down at the wrist that held the gun, that my battlevest did not possess the capability to truly withstand that kind of firepower from that range. Based on that scenario, was I likely wounded. The probability that the wounds were life-threatening were very high.

The sword edge found a joint in the wrist armor and the gun fell to the floor, the hand absurdly still grasping it. The hitman was reeling backward, his still attached hand grabbing at the severed stump of his left wrist as the second hostile materialized from the bedroom door, holding a gun identical to the one on the floor in front of me. His bead was drawn. There was no cover in the hall.

Except for the reeling enemy in front of me.

I leaped forward, grabbing a strap on his body armor and jerking him toward me. He was hyperventilating, going into shock. For a brief second I wondered if he even realized what was currently happening.

And then his comrade unleashed a barrage of suppressed fire, ignoring the fact that the slugs he shot only ripped into the hostile I held as a human shield. Each time he was hit, a gasp of pain escaped through his mask. He was dying, blood dripping from his back. I could not see his eyes or his face, covered as they were by the mask. But I could sense his life leaving his body with every impact of every bullet.

In that instant, I theorized who he was. Who sent him. Why he had agreed to come here.

And then the repeating cough of muted gunfire was replaced by a sharp click as the magazine ran empty. The clinking of empty shell casings hitting the floor ceased. I felt the hostile I had used as a shield begin slumping to the floor, and suddenly it was just me and one last hitman.

A strange noise slowly made itself heard as I side-stepped slightly, bubbling up through my consciousness, breaking through my filters. It was a low, labored rasp, as though someone needed to cough but couldn't breathe.

Only then did I feel a wet, slick sensation trickling down the left side of my chest and back, thick and cold. I knew what blood felt like, and knew I was bleeding from bullet wounds.

I pushed the distraction from my mind.

The empty gun clattered loudly to the ground. The hostile was moving, dashing toward me, something flashing in his right hand. I was already reacting, my subconscious racing with stimulants, sending me darting backward and raising my blade to ward off a blow-

An electrified gauntlet latched hold of my sword and pumped raw voltage through my body, causing every muscle in my body to spasm violently in a way that would have been excruciating were it not for my inability to feel pain. But numbness did not stop my spine from arching violently as back muscles constricted powerfully, causing me to abruptly collapse to the ground.

I brokenly processed that I was extremely vulnerable right now.

As it registered that I no longer held my sword, a boot kicked me hard in the side, hard enough that I was lifted off the floor and cast a little way down the hall. I theorized that the integrity of some of the ribs on my left side had been compromised, based on the added effort suddenly required to draw breath.

Get off the floor.

I heard his boots thudding on the floorboards as he advanced. I quickly rolled away from the sound and forced myself upright into a crouch, odd itching sensations in my ribs as I did so. A boot flashed for my face and I reacted unthinkingly, blocking with my left palm before my fingers closed like a vise around the ankle. I sprang forward before he could retract the kick, using his leg as leverage to plow against and throw him off-balance. My combat reaction would have been to grab his leg with both hands and violently wrench it to dislocate the hip, but as I stood and he regained his balance, it came to my attention that I had been unable to do so because my right arm was completely unresponsive.

I was beginning to feel very, very tired. Given how much stimulant I had taken, I calculated the only way that could happen is if I was losing considerable amount of blood.

For a moment, neither of us moved. He was nothing more than a silhouette against the vague light of the window at the end of the hall. I could hear his breathing, muffled as it was behind the armored mask I knew he was wearing. It was level, with very little sign of fatigue. For just a moment I allowed the sound of my own breath to trickle through my filters, just to compare. Analyzing the wet, heavy rasp, and I knew that there was blood in my lungs.

With every passing second I grew weaker.

In that instant, I felt a deep burning with my chest, hotter and more aggravated than any kind of pain induced by a wound or bullet. I looked at the shape of the intruder, heard his level breathing, smelled the damp odor emanating from his armor, tasted the salty flavor of blood in my mouth-

And the strangling sensation in my throat and chest spread through my stomach, unnamed sensations digging at my insides, making my heartbeat thud in my ears and my blood vessels become dilated, making my skin feel hot.

Neural implants inside of my skull were burning. I did not understand what this was, why it would not go away.

But I knew that the hostile had to die. And I had to be the one to kill him.

I am not sure at what point I started screaming. Or if I was even screaming audibly. But as I ducked under the sweeping kick he aimed at my head, I heard a haunting shriek echoing in my ears and mind. I answered his kick with a straight punch that he blocked by grabbing my wrist with his right hand.

And raw voltage again coursed through my body in debilitating currents. My muscles begged to collapse, but I fought it. The heat in my limbs and chest- in the split second that he shocked me and I should have collapsed, I instead stumbled forward into him.

And suddenly the very electricity he had been pumping into me was now coursing through his own body, cinching up his own muscles, including the gauntleted hand that now could not let go and could not stop powering raw voltage through both of us.

For an agonizing eternity, I spasmed and convulsed in a white-visioned hell, unaware of any sensation existing outside of the brilliantly focused energy coursing through my mind and limbs.

Then abruptly it lifted, whatever energy source that powered the gauntlet exhausted. As I crumpled to the hardwood beneath me I barely observed my enemy crash backward, into the wall and then to the self-same floor in a twitching heap. I could smell the sickeningly-sweet smell burnt meat and did not have to run any scenarios to tell what part of my body it was emanating from as I saw tendrils of smoke rising from my wrist.

The floor before my eyes phased in and out as black clouds swarmed in my head. I fought savagely to remain awake and out of my peripheral vision I observed the shape of my enemy struggling to his hands and knees, his limbs trembling with the effort.

If he gets up, you are going to die.

I tried to force my body to respond, but I simply could not gather the strength to stand. Breath only came now with intense difficulty and my limbs felt like they were buried in sand. But it wasn't over. It couldn't be over until he was dead. If he got up, he would still be capable of killing everyone in the inn.

Shaking with exertion, fire and agony in every muscle and tendon, I tried in vain to get to my hands and knees but only succeeded in exhausting myself further. My head flopped to the floor loosely, making the black clouds swarm more intensely as my heartbeat drummed a deafening beat in my ears.

I blinked once, then opened my eyes and forced them to focus- on the severed hand of the other hitman, dead fingers still wrapped around the MK-3 submachine gun grip.

With mind-numbing effort I stretched out my left hand and grabbed the weapon, dragging over to me and jerking at the stiffening digits until they released their hold. The grip was sticky with gore as I grasped it and forced my head up, dragging the firearm to bear on the enemy who had his hands braced against the wall, leaning on it as he tried to stand. There wasn't more than meter and a half between us.

There was no way to know how many bullets were left in the clip. Maybe one. Maybe a dozen. I couldn't risk it either way. I took one painful inhale, sighting down the barrel in the dark, and let the breath halfway out and paused-

The mug fell before my eyes again, shattering on the porch, tea spilling out in the wreakage.

I squeezed the trigger, three brilliant flares of light flashing from the barrel in a staccoto burst. The enemy cried out and spun as the slugs knocked holes in him and he collapsed back to the floor in a heap that did not tremble or move at all. The gun fell from my hands, whether because I released it or because I could no longer hold it up, I do not know.

A cough racked my chest, filling my mouth with a salty fluid that I spat out onto the floor before my face. I could not see the color, but I knew the smell and taste.

But it was done. The threat was neutralized.

Another painful cough, stabbing sensations spiking through the deteriorating mental barriers in my mind, no longer able to sustain themselves as the chemicals that powered them became too dilluted to function. I could feel the frigid places in my chest and back where bullets had ripped through. A thousand pinpricks of burning agony were screaming through my body as damage done by the stimulants was making itself manifest.

Nausea churned deep in my gut, my gag reflex choking my throat. This was all part of it, I knew, molars grinding as another wave of nausea wash through me. The shock from the injuries, the side-effects of the stimulants, the exhaustion, the loss of blood- it was more than the body was capable of enduring.

The black clouds swelled and surged before my eyes. Scenarios and probabilities fizzled in my head like sparking cords as I seemed to drift, sinking into the infinite black stillness that swallowed without effort or sound. But then one, sole whisper flowed to me across the chasm between my consciousness and my body, whispering-

"... the way wherein I walked have they laid a snare for me."

And then there was nothing.

--------

Chapter 2

--------

The enemy were everywhere. Too fast. Dark blurs that could not be stopped.

Burning, blinding flashes of light. Hands reaching inside of my body as I am cut open and stitched closed and ripped back open again. There are cold metal objects scratching around on the inside of my skull, searching for something with a freezing itch. Screams- I am screaming as needles go through the waking eyes, rivulets of blood flowing, blurring images of monsters masked in white, strapped down to freezing steel, chanting in haunting voices.

Plunged into a vat, yellow and burning like a thousand microscopic parasites that eat inside. Swallowing a gagging mouthful before tubes were shoved down the throat and up the nose, pumping raw gases into the lungs that freeze and suffocate.

Mahsa was falling. Dying, dying, dying.

Bathed in sterile white light that scalded and set fire to the eyes, even through closed eyelids. Images forced before eyes that could not close, pictures splashed with red and black that buzzed and burned behind the eyes. A woman begging, pleading, perishing.

The way wherein I walked have they laid a snare for me.

Voices blaring into the mind, over and over and over. Shrieking, whispering, bellowing, digging into the mind like jagged fingernails on slate. Male. Female. Encouraging, screaming, instructing, warning, prohibiting, all in one swelling chaotic symphony, drowning out all thought or feeling or life until there was nothing, nothing but an empty echo where a soul once lived. Where my soul once lived.

The one voice roars louder than all the rest.

You are a Guardian. You exist to serve. You are a Guardian. You exist to obey. You are a Guardian.

You exist to die.

I could not catch her.

Then everything turned to screaming.

------

The first pinpricks of consciousness brought wave after debilitating wave of nausea, immediately coupled with the agonizing realization of bullet-holes and broken bones. For a few long minutes I could register no other sensation than the gagging, aching, burning awareness that every cell in my body demanded to communicate at once to my pounding skull. However, with excruciating slowness, the pain calmed itself enough to allow higher brain functions to return.

 At first it was as though there were a semipermeable veil between me, my senses, and my surroundings, like a blanket pulled over my head. Vaguely I picked out that I was in fact taking uncomfortable but not excruciating breaths, and a quick attempt swallow told me that there were no tubes down my dry throat, so I concluded was breathing on my own. Orientation briefly asserted itself through the fuzziness in my head and I ascertained I was lying on my back, on something hard and cold. I tried to open my eyes but they only fluttered, admitting a brief, blurred and indistinct picture of a bright light source above me, but nothing else.

An itch tweaked my nose, but when I tried to raise my arm to scratch it I became aware of something preventing me from doing so. I attempted to shift slightly and so free my arm, only to realize a pressure running across my chest and legs.

My eyes popped open, and after a few brilliantly blurred moments, my vision began to come into focus and I saw them. Two thick medical-issue straps, one across my chest and arms, the other across my thighs, both secured to heavy latches on the stainless steel table that I lay on. A number of white bandages were wrapped around my chest, for the aching in my chest, I reasoned. Blinking painfully I lifted up my head up, fighting the nausea and pounding in my head that immediately resulted in the movement and looked down at my left wrist. It also was wrapped in a bandage white bandage. I could see a dozen or more places where gashes has been expertly treated and sealed with synskin. Somewhere in my head that registered- synskin was expensive. Where was I that I had received a synskin treatment?

The room I lay in was not very large. Bare, unremarkable white walls- no windows. An I.V. was stuck in either arm, one flowing with a fluid as dark as the other was clear. I followed the dark tube with my eyes, back to its source were it fed into a machine with several monitors. On top of that machine was a smaller computer, from which a wire ran all the way to-

A small sensor in the center of my forehead. I had not noticed it before that moment.

The smaller computer displayed a number of indecipherable digital readings, but I did make out that one, with the wavering, sporadic line, was monitoring my brainwaves. It looked... strangely unstable. I carefully lowered my head back down to the table, allowing my eyes close again, trying to swallow again and quell the nausea.

Then it was like a lightning bolt struck right in the middle of my mind. I was completely unaware of the spasm my body locked itself into, unable to experience or sense anything other than the atomic explosion in my head, mushrooming out and echoing inside of my skull. I wasn't drawing breath - I vaguely realized that - as it felt like my brains were literally being shredded apart by little pieces of glass. I retched, dryly, once, endured the agony for a few seconds more before it slowly let up, like a cramped muscle at last releasing.

I inhaled deeply, trying to calm my heartbeat- trying to focus on what would be the cause of so much pain. Drawing my eyes closed again I attempted to think back, remember the night- all I could come up with were vague pictures, shadowed opponents. The rain- yes, lots of rain. It had been raining last night. There had been casualties, three of- no, it was four. Four had died last night.

The fuzziness in my head was strong in the wake of the headache and shrouded my memory from me. Who were the ones that died last night? The enemy had died, some of them, yes. Three of them. All dead by my hand. Who was the fourth?

How long had I been here?

Then the silence in the room was disturbed by the distinctive clicking noise of a latch unlocking, followed by the soft swing of an opening door. These sounds were accompanied by a voice in the middle of a sentence as someone- no, some two stepped into the room,

"... possible way we could have known the extent of the mental and psychical damage before treating him," the first voice was male, sounding upset and defensive as he contested, "My staff and I had zero reason to suspect mental trauma of this nature, while the nature of his wounds demanded immediate attention."

A brief pause as the door was closed before the same voice continued, "For God's sake, he had lost nearly forty-percent of his blood. We didn't have time to scan him. And, may I add, NephCorp policy clearly justifies our rush to salvage the body without a mental evaluation of the subject."

On instinct I kept my eyes closed, giving no sign of my consciousness as they approached, the first man coming to stand on my left while the other who had been thus far silent slowly and deliberately came around the table to stand at my right.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the one standing to my right spoke for the first time, his voice unhurried, but with unmistakable precision as he articulated, "So, I am to understand that a quarter of a million siserstese of company funds have been used to save the body of a Guardian who is essentially brain-dead?"

A frustrated sigh escaped the first man as he quickly spoke up, "Not brain-dead, no. Our scans have confirmed that much. But his mental activity is, well... varied. Very little stability."

"Implying?" the second man asked in a low, calm voice.

"Well, based on the information we have about his attackers' weapons and the burn on his wrist, it's safe to assume that he had a tremendous amount of electricity channeled through his body- for a considerable amount of time."

I heard the smaller computer bleep a few times, the first man manipulating its controls as he spoke, "The scans seem to indicate that it resulted in his neural implants becoming overloaded, severely damaging them. But more than that it would seem that they have-" he paused, searching for the words, "well, in turn overloaded the brain itself. It'll be impossible to know what kind of damage was really effected unless he comes to, but it could have effected dozens of things."

"Such as?" The second voice was the same, unwavering calm.

"Well, motor skills for one. Possibly the ability to use one or more of his senses. It's hard to say with as many implants as he has. But," the volume of his voice changed as he turned away from the computer to face the second man, "the biggest thing is the likely damage to his acutal memory."

There was a trifle of intensity in the second man's voice that had not existed previously as he inquired, "Meaning what?"

There was a shrug in the first man's voice. "Hard to say. Potentially short-term memory loss or a dozen other similar issues. But most significantly? It could have damaged - possibly erased - his Conditioning."

"Impossible."

"Don't be ridiculous. Fifty years ago he," I could tell he was indicating me, "was impossible. Think about it. The Conditioning is just an imprinting of the psyche and memory with an extreme over-stimulus of information. Theoretically then, if the psyche and memory were both over-stimulated again with something similar to, say, a powerful and sustained electronic surge-" he made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Well. Who knows what it could do?"

There was a long silence. Then, "Has he spoken at all? Anything coherent?" the second man asked.

"No, not according to my knowledge," The first man's voice betrayed a frown. "Why?"

No answer was given. There was another long pause, significantly longer than they previous as both men stood there, the machines beeping quietly in the background as I tried to understand what I was hearing. The Conditioning? Overrided? That did not make sense to me, not even when I heard them say it aloud. It did not fit, did not process. I was the Conditioning.

And NephCorp. That name was important. Somehow, somewhere, I knew that name.

Remember, I thought. Remember.

"Recycle him." It was spoken without emotion or vocal fluctuation of any kind.

While the actual meaning of his words escaped me, I understood the disbelief in the first man's voice as after a brief stunned silence he asked, "Recycle him? But he already has a Keeper, who his Conditioning is already adjusted to. If there is any chance of him recovering it is worth it to have a well-climated Guardian. There is no reason to-"

"At what point did you go from a doctor to an adjudicator?" The second man interrupted quietly. For a moment the doctor was completely silent. The second man, the adjudicator, did not wait for him to respond.

"Dr. Hamil. I am ordering the recycle of unit G1-76, common name 'Anemos.' The liability his state presents if he were ever to be reinserted into the populace is risk that our Corporation is not willing to undergo." The way he said it conveyed to me that this decision had already been made. It was not a matter for discussion, it never had been.

Why? It did not process logically. Why ask the questions when the answers did not matter?

Dr. Hamil sighed. "How soon is your departure?" he asked, adding, "That is, assuming you will be taking the harvested specimens back with you?"

"My shuttle departs in six standard hours. Will that be sufficient for your staff to complete the procedure?"

Another sigh. "A full harvest of vital organs and tissues is a significant amount to labor, Adjudicator. You are cutting it very close."

Then it clicked. Recycle. A process in which the organs and tissues of an irreparable Guardian are harvested for the use of transplants in other Guardians whose injuries can be cured.

I was going to be butchered for meat on the orders of an adjudicator. Adjudicator, I said the word in my head, to remember, the inside of my head aching violently as I did, almost more so than what I could mask in my unconscious facade.

NephCorp. It slipped through the haze and into tangibility. NephCorp, the corporation responsible for the creation and continued existence of Guardians. Adjudicators had something to do with NephCorp.

The fact that an adjudicator was standing next to me, ordering that I be recycled, was significant.

But more significant was the realization that, despite having just heard the order given by an adjudicator, an official of the Corporation, whose orders all Guardians were strictly conditioned to obey- that despite all of this, I consciously knew that he was ordering my death.

And somewhere inside of my head, that was not okay with me.

The adjudicator was speaking again, "I recognize the difficulty, Dr. Hamil, but I stress to you that my shuttle cannot be delayed. I suggest that you move with haste."

There was a moment of terse silence, and then nothing. I heard both of the men step away from the bed and walk toward the door, catching Dr. Hamil's comment as they opened the door and step out, "I'll gather my people. We'll begin the procedure within the half-hour."

I heard the door swing closed, the lock snapping shut behind them.

The silence settled, only the steady, muted beeping of the machines punctuating it.

Why should it bother me? I had no answer. There was no reason why it should be of any concern to me if they recycled my body for the use of my brother Guardians or healed it so it could return to service. My purpose was to obey and protect- if the Keepers believed I could no longer do either, compliance with their wishes was the only recourse.

Or was it?

The fourth casualty, last night. It was important. Straining against the haze in my head I tried to remember why- why was that casualty important? Who died that I needed to remember? Then with what could only be described as a harsh static crackle, words and Conditioning flared through the haze, bringing with them a blossoming nexus of agony.

Protocol 5.3: Nothing can be done for the deceased. Retrieval and care of dead bodies is the last and lowest priority in the care of innocent personnel.

The dead were irrelevant. Why this urge to remember someone who died? Whoever she was, she-

She.

It was like there was a severed power line in my head, snapping and spewing sparks out across the ground in its ruin, searching in vain for the destroyed connection. It felt like my mind was splitting to pieces. I knew who she was. She was important.

She was dead.

No. I shook my head awkwardly, trying to sort the thoughts.

Yes, yes she is. She was shot. Shot dead. Dead because of you.

The beeping on one of the monitors next to me was growing more agitated, but I barely noticed as my thoughts violently turned on each other.

Negative. There was no confirmation of a kill. She was wounded.

She was dead. We saw her. She was dead, dead because of you.

Shifting images flashed, contrasted, blasting my mind with blurring flashcards of faces, expressions, a field, a pathway through rocks.

I subconsciously writhed, damaged muscles tightening with sharp sensation. The machine next to me reached a frenetic crescendo of beeping chaos, sweat beginning to bead out and trickle across my face.

She lives.

Agony pulsed through my head.

I saw a gaping gunshot wound and knew she was dead.

The roaring in my ears drowned out the screeching beeps of one of the monitors going berserk. And again, a moment later, I didn't hear the door unlock and open, or the hurried footfalls of a doctor and several nurses as they raced to table where my body lay seizuring, coated in freezing sweat. They were shouting for help, prepping needles and injections, staring in disbelief at the machine monitoring the chaotic spiking of mental activity.

But I could see nothing. Feel nothing. Hear nothing.

All there that existed was a precipice in my mind, at the end of a long pathway through rocks.

A woman stood at the precipice.

And she was going to fall.

No more time.

My eyes snapped open. The doctor was undoing the strap across my chest, shouting at the nurse next to him to deliver the shot directly to my heart. The nurse saw my eyes open and stopped in the middle of draining the vial, making the doctor turn to look at my face as his fingers subconsciously unsnapped the final buckle.

The flashing pictures, the static, the echoing-

It all stopped. And in the deafening silence as the medical personnel in the room froze and the machines all stopped making noise, I knew.

I couldn't let her die.

I bolted upright, the doctor stunned for just a moment longer as I instantly unbuckled the strap across my legs. Then they all reacted at once, two of the nurses screaming for security while the doctor tried to put me in a headlock. He pulled down on my shoulders, trying to hold me while the nurse attempted to steady my leg enough to stick that needle in me.

No.

It was simple to reach back over my head, slipping my left hand behind the doctor's head and and gripping the arm around my throat with my right hand. I wondered then if he realized how little he knew about attempting to restrain someone, and perhaps the wisdom of attempting to restrain, with such limited knowledge, an organic machine whose sole purpose was protection through violence.

But as I heaved him forward off of his feet and flipped him over my shoulder, causing him to collide hard with the nurse trying to inject me, I doubted he was able to think that fast.

As both of them crashed to the floor, the first surge of pain burned its way through my body, muscles still far from recovered, wounds and gashes far from healed. The small, round yellow patches of synskin on my chest were a darker color than they had been a minute ago, paired with an agonizing pang of something not yet healed threatening to tear open on the inside.

Run.

I swung my legs over the edge of the table, the tiles cold on my bare feet. A tremble swept through me as I stood, but I stumbled only once as I shifted my weight forward and ran for the slightly ajar door. I was glad to briefly observe that the two other nurses huddled against the wall and did not attempt to interfere with me.

Glad?

I was a step away from the blue door before it burst open from the other side and I skidded to a halt in front of a doctor whose nametag identifed him as Dr. Peter Hamil. Directly in step behind him was a man in a dark blue and gray uniform, with a badge on his right front pocket. Shock and surprise registered on both of their faces before Dr. Hamil started to step back and the uniformed guard reached for the small black device in the holster on his hip. I didn't have to know what it was to understand its nature.

With an open palm my right arm shot forward and struck Dr. Hamil in the throat, knocking him back into the guard, throwing the latter off-balance. As I expected, the guard half-heartedly endeavored to catch the stunned and asphyxiating doctor while trying to steady himself, leaving himself completely open. I struck him twice in the face before he could wholly make up his mind what to do.

The doorway was clear and I darted through it as both men collapsed out into the hall.
 
The hall was tiled with sterile shades of white and gray, the overhead lighting blindingly bright. Or maybe my eyes just hurt like the rest of my body. I turned to the left and started sprinting, breaths slightly ragged as my bare feet pounded against the freezing tiles. It vaguely occurred to me now, feeling my flesh prickle, that I was wearing only the lower portion of a flimsy gown. If I was going to get out of this building, I would need clothing.

Someone shouted at my back, from a long way down the hall. What they said wasn't important, so I didn't bother taking any focus away from the overly-complicated tasks of maintaining balance and speed as I neared where the hall cornered to the left. There were no exit signs or doors that appeared to lead to anything other than operating rooms or labs. I skidded around the corner, nearly losing my footing as a quiet whine from down the hall registered in my ears.

That was a bad sound.

Muscles bunched sharply as I instinctively dove forward, the action simultaneous with a harsh cracking noise that replaced the whine. Something smacked into the wall above me, exploding with a brilliant electric discharge as I hit the floor and slid.

Non-lethal suppressant rounds. Pre-charged high voltage pellets.

I scrambled to get my feet under me, a black haze crackling before my eyes as I lurched back into a sprint. My lungs were burning now. My left hand subconsciously raised to my side and when it felt a slick wetness I glanced down. One of the Synskin patches had torn open when I dove to avoid the suppressant rounds and dark blood was slowly oozing out of it.

The hallway tee'd up ahead. I pressed my hand tight against the wound and ran harder.

A blue door, several meters further ahead, opened and a man in a white lab coat stepped out, looking at the metallic chart in his hand at first, but his gaze was drawn up by the sound of thudding footfalls. Shock and apprehension played out across his face and he turned to dart back into the room from which he had come, but I had reached him by then.

The static in my head, snapping and crackling like a violent storm, vomited out a Conditioning scenario in which the Guardian attempted to deal with an aggressor who was using an innocent as a human shield. Protocol urged greatest caution and patience when dealing with this situation, as the life of the innocent was in highest jeopardy.
And somehow, I reversed the scenario and saw the advantages gained by such action.

My mind revolted. It was unthinkable.

But it was necessary.

For the moment I ignored the bleeding, reaching out with my left hand and snagging the sleeve of his coat. I yanked him back into the hall, the momentum of my run canceling out any momentum he had, though the blood on my hand nearly caused my grasp to slip. He moved to resist but not fast enough. As we both spun my left arm snaked around his neck and clamped down, not hard enough to break anything but more than enough to get the message across. The spike of fear I sensed from him confirmed that he understood.

And we were backpedaling, he in front of me as a uniformed guard careened around the corner I had just come from, suppressant weapon drawn. His demeanor changed as he recognized the new situation, a mixture of caution and frustration on his face as he trained his sights at us but approached slowly, not intruding on delicate boundaries.

The guard barked an order for me to stand down and cooperate, saying that I was in violation of my Conditioning, as though I were unconscious of the fact. Anything he had to say was meaningless, so I ignored him and spoke quietly to the man I held as a shield as we quickly backpedaled away.

"I-" I began to speak but had to stop and swallow, gasping before continuing, "do not want to kill you."

I could sense his fear as I continued, "But if you move to threaten me, I will break your neck. Your body shields me whether you are alive or dead." I tightened my arm around his throat just a little to emphasize my point.

"Just relax, man. Take it easy," he replied with a strained cough.

I was being pursued by men who planned to disect me. Relaxation was not a viable option, but I did not bother explaining that to him. I theorized his words came out of the instinct for self-preservation, not from any real belief that I would do so.

The hot trickling sensation down my left side kept me aware of the continued bleeding as I glanced back and forth between the still-shouting guard and the approaching hall.

"You are in direct violation of orders, Guardian! Stand down!"

The knowledge that he was calling me a Guardian and at the same time mentioning that I was violating orders defied my ability to comprehend and amplified the throbbing in my head.

Reaching the tee in the hall, I rapidly glanced in both directions. To the right the hall ran a few dozen meters and turned left, implying it looped with way I had just come. To the left at some distance it looked like there was a front desk of some kind. It seemed a strong probability that the exit was that way.

"Do not come any further!" I shouted at the guard, and for a moment he paused but did not lower his unwavering weapon. Lowering my voice to a just a level above normal speaking tones, I indicated the doctor. "If you attempt to follow me around this corner, I will kill him."

I didn't wait for the guard or the doctor to say anything and headed left, pulling the latter after me.

There was a definite tremor in my body now. I could feel it, in my legs and in my core as I fought to keep from staggering. The sharp pains from inside that had been masked by endorphins and adrenaline were demanding attention as I reached the desk. It was unattended and tidy with no sign of recent use, suggesting that the hour was late and the regular shift had already gone. Down a short corridor from it were controls and doors to summon liftpads. Further past it was another door under a sign that read "Stairs."

I glanced back at the corner of the hall. No sign of the guard, no sounds of creeping footsteps. That wouldn't last for long.

"Take off your coat," I spoke to the doctor, my eyes darting back and forth between the stairway door and the corner of the hall, "and your shirt. Quickly."

"What?" He asked, incredulous.

No time.

I wrenched my right arm behind his head and clamped down hard with my left, nearly completely cutting off his air supply.

"Now," I said.

In half a minute the coat and shirt lay on the tile floor. I kicked them down the hall toward the stairway and pulled the doctor after me, removing my right hand from the back of his head to grabbing a stray stylus on the desk as we passed. I pressed its point against his neck as we came to the levpads, dragging him after me as I hit the summon button with my elbow on each of the four control panels. The doctor was sweating profusely now, repeatedly telling to relax, to take it easy.

After an eternal second the first levpad door slid open. It was empty. Directing him with the sharp leading of the stylus I walked the doctor inside, making him face away from the door, hitting as I did so the button to take the levpad to the bottom level.

"Kneel down."

He started blubbering then because he thought I was going to execute him, I theorized. I kicked the back of one of his knees and he buckled to the floor, nearly in tears. Then I took the stylus from his neck and stepped outside of the levpad, the doctor still saying something about not wanting to die as the door slid closed and he descended away with a nearly inaudible hiss.

I snatched up the shirt and coat, unable to suppress a groan at the movement as I slid the shirt on, fumbling with a few of the buttons before sliding the coat on over it, sticking the stylus in the coat pocket. Two of the other levpads arrived and opened silently as I did so. Moving as quickly as possible, inside and then out of them as I smashed a series of buttons to send both to different levels. I didn't wait for the fourth to arrive and ran to the stairway door, opening and closing it without sound. I could feel where the shirt had soaked up the blood that ran down my side, but ignored the sensation and ran to the stairwell, clinging to the railing as I pounded down the steps in bare feet.

I coughed once, hard, my lungs feeling hot and sharp like needles as I raced down a second flight of stairs. A glance down told me there were two more levels to the ground floor. They will be converging on the ground floor, around the levpad, I told myself. My head throbbed again, the black static crackling violently in my ears and before my eyes.

Perhaps sending the doctor and the levpad to the first had not been the most beneficial plan.

I had no more ideas. The sound of a door opening several floors up came echoing down the stairwell, immediately followed by the thudding of boots on the stairs.

No time.

I ran to the door on this landing, marked with a three, swinging it open and closing it behind me as silently as possible. No sooner had I done so than an alarm sounded, blaring throughout the building. The door I had just come through buzzed as magnetic locks activated, closing off the stairway.

They have locked down the building, I thought as I turned and ran out of the short corridor, past an empty desk, identical to the one on the floor I had just come from. Find another way out. The stairs and levpads would all be watched, not that I could access any of them now.

I turned right around the desk and skidded to a stop. A few meters down the hall stood a man who was not a security guard, because he was not wearing the uniform or badge. He was not a doctor, because he wore an armored battlevest and not a lab coat. His blond hair was cut short, and I recognized the fully-automatic weapon slung across his back and the black suppressant pistol in the holster on his hip.

His gaze did not waver. He shifted forward slightly, his stance light and balanced.

And I knew that this was a Guardian.

Seconds crawled by as neither of us moved. perspiration dripped off of my face as I fought to keep my vision focused and my mind clear of the suffocating black cloud. The Guardian seemed to be assessing me, his blank eyes unblinking as the ear piece he wore was emitting noises, undoubtedly orders for him to restrain or kill me on sight. The wound on my side was probably bleeding through the shirt and I wasn't waisting energy by trying to stand upright. I was in no condition to offer a fight.

But neither of us made a hostile motion.

And I remembered, a small part of the fog around my memory momentarily retreating. The Conditioning.

Protocol 6.1 - Even if so ordered by Keepers or Authorities, the Guardian may not engage other Guardians in any form of combat at any time excepting the following:
      6.2 - If the Guardian witnesses another Guardian in the act of threatening and/or harming an innocent, the Guardian may non-lethally restrain another Guardian until authorities arrive.

He could not attack me. In the Awareness he sensed I was a Guardian as I knew he was one also.

I took one slow step backward that he matched with one slow step forward, but he did not make any motion for his weapons, lethal or otherwise. Not a word was said as we froze here, considering each other. He was fully armed and appeared in perfect health. I had a stylus and could barely keep balance. If he decided to attack, I would do well to last ten seconds.

Then there it was. Ever so slightly effecting the focused expression on his blockish face was a frown, creating slight lines across his forehead. He was... emoting, uncertainty showing in eyes. For an instant I was puzzled by this, but in the same moment realization came and along with it, new scenarios.

He was unsure of what to do. His analysis would not come to a course of action. I began backing away, slowly but with purpose. He stood where he was, though I sensed his inner conflict..

"You are in violation of orders." He spoke, his voice a steel monotone as his ear piece continued to produced commands. "Stand down and await authorities."

My pulse beat in my head and the black static crackled as I articulated back in the same monotone, "Protocol one: Insure the safety of the Keeper, then all innocent and non-combatant personel.

"Orders are for you to stand down," he still wasn't advancing, his frown deepening.

"Protocol one point one: Guardian shall utilize any and all protocols and directives to insure the safety of the Keeper that does not intentionally endanger other innocents or non-combatant personel." I said the words in unison with a thousand echoing voices in my head. This was the Conditioning. This was my understanding, my core, my existence.

His voice rose now, and I could see him tensing. "You are in violation! Stand down, Guardi-"

"Where is she!"

The words were screamed in the midst of a hiccup of firing synapses, the black static a roaring tempest in my mind, drowning out the world, the hallway fading into white light before my eyes.

It did not occur to me that my body did not hurt, at this moment, whatever this moment was. I seemed suspended in an infinite void of light that was not warm or cold- but whatever I was drawing into my lungs was cold, although I was not conscious of breathing. Almost imperceptibly, it became colder and colder, and my throat felt raw. My legs began to ache a little, and I felt a sharp stitch in my side from my diaphragm being strained.

But this world of white light, it held me. My mind, my thoughts- they were so quiet. So terrifyingly still.

In a flicker the world of light vanished and I was in the midst a rough path that wound upwards through jagged and snow-covered rocks, my breath coming hard, because I had been running. Freezing winds gusted by me and I shivered, feeling tiny bits of ice that lifted from the stones with the wind and pelted against my face. I could hear my heart thudding so hard it hurt my chest. The sky above was so expansively wide open and filled with pregnant gray clouds, heavy with their load, a knowledge that was uncomfortably prevalent in my mind.

But I was filled with a sensation far, far more terrible than concern about the sky. Something was wrong, very wrong, as I felt the ache in my fingers from the chill.

The door had been open, and the door was never left open. It had been standing ajar and wavering in the wind, the warmth long surrendered. Why was the door open? I had come when I said I would come, but the door was open, and the cold was master within.

Nothing lined up, nothing made sense-

"...uardian!"

Worlds shifted, my entire perception flickering and reentering the harshly-lit hall like crashing through the roof of a building. My breathing was more ragged and my ears rang, and not from the shout of the Guardian that had torn my awareness from the rocky path. My ears simply rang and would not stop, the sound stabbing into my conscio