RISE UP DEAD MAN

BLACK HOLE SUN

WASTELAND, PIT STOP, 1090, 0300 HOURS

After the skirmish had been elided, all that remained was a sombre atmosphere;

The stars from above had been muted from the smog of below, leaving a layer of hazy grey for all who still draw breath. For the scenery that they bear witness too is of decimated tents and warm corpses. Though many have been touched by cinder, more have met their end with other ailments. Yet those who remained shan't weep for their fallen comrades, as they had hope. For he could save those damned from their peril.

~⁕~

A loose gathering lies around the centre circle, two piles of stacked bodies opposite the dying light that rests between. On one hand, a neat row of corpses lines with dignity, covered with cloth. Opposite the other, a mangled flesh wall filled with all forms of tinder hangs. Reeking of oil and blood, anyone can tell it's soon to be lit.

Honestly, though, I can't tell what's worse at this point-the nightmarish event. Or the irony that the very same hypocritical people who once hated my power or general existence are now doe-eyed and staring at me like I'm the panacea to all their problems in life. Of course, there are still some who hold me in contempt, but that will change soon.

Dammit all, this place is such a headache.

"So, tell me exactly why there was nobody on night guard duty. Even if I'm not from around here, it's obvious that this place is prone to night raiders. Why wasn't there even a single measure put in place?"

"There were." The looming voice of Ferrok speaks, slightly turning his head towards the neat row. "They died."

In the background, behind all of the faces, a medic rushes past the row of mercenaries with a case in each hand. A brief flicker of dismay flashes across her eyes before she rushes into a nearby tent, keen on preventing the row from growing.

As the tent flaps idle, an aching sensation brings my attention down to my arm. It's been a while since the medics patched it up and put it in a sling, but I'm still out of commission for the time being. Where's Stacy when you need her...

A sudden jolt of pain at the back of my skull forces me to flinch as my hand moves to soothe it. The thought of having been throttled around like that almost hurts as much as the pain my back is in.

I stretch as much as I can as someone with an immobilised arm could-not very much, as the aching nearly starts to set in again.

...

A pair of light footsteps slowly came from behind me, prompting me to turn around. I'm met with the jackass Gilliean, who... looks a little like me right now.

Stained from his mouth all the way down, his entire being is inked with a dried river of blood.

"...What."

...

He's just staring at me, or rather, through me. Raising a hand to point in the distance behind himself.

"Gari is dead." Here it comes...

"Alright then, and that exactly concerns me, how?"

"Bring her back." That brings a chuckle out of me.

"Why? Aren't I supposed to let the dead rest? Isn't that what everyone here wants? After all, what I'm capable of doing is heresy, and such abhorrence shouldn't ever be practised, right?" I turn my head a little, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. I look up at him, waiting for an answer.

Gilliean tries to rebut, but the words die in his throat after noticing the stares of all the mercs present. Clearly, he's unsure whether to respect their Sarkaz beliefs or not. But soon comes a sharp decision.