Capt. Brian W. Manchester, No. 002

16 August 2030

22:47 QCT

I swing open the front door and see him leaning on the porch railing. "What do you want?"

James groans. "So, this is how you're going to be, huh? Not everyone can be blessed with my presence, you know."

The door clicks behind me as I sit on the steps. "Lucky me."

It's a quiet night, for once. The low hum of vehicles near the city is muted, uncharacteristically for a summer Friday night. Moths swarm the porch light above my head, periodically tapping the glass. The sea breeze sweeps through, even up here on the hill overlooking the churning ocean. I heard on the news that a storm is coming in from the southeast.

James presses off the railing and takes a seat beside me. He cups his hand and rests his chin, staring out to where the city glare dies out into the stars. After appreciating the life beyond, he smiles, turning to me. "No murders today."

Though I wasn't planning on expressing the happiness that comes with such news, I find myself copying him. "Finally." I extend my legs so the block soles of my shoes discover the dirt at the base of the steps. "So, what, did they just give up? They've killed enough people, don't you think?"

"They wouldn't just give up like that. They're probably taking a break before starting again."

These past couple days have been hectic, to say the least. Up until today, we had some crimes to attend to. We have made no progress on any of them, even dating back to when Slater was first found with the mark on his arm. There is nothing to go off of besides that mark, and even that is virtually nothing. It's gotten to the point where there are no reported murders of people without the M. All the other petty criminals have hidden in their holes, probably knowing that whatever they intend to do cannot match up to what the Medo is doing.

Wednesday night was the last time I spoke to Slater, right after he got into a fight with that Luke Bradley kid. Apparently, this guy has a track record of fucking up his day, even before the violence started. But it seems to me that the rankers and any of the Class 29 supervisors have turned a blind eye to all the madness, considering he hasn't received any sort of major discipline.

I hate to reminisce about my days as a recruit, but for the sake of comparison, I have to point out one thing. Kids like Luke Bradley would have never made it past the first day in Class 0's ranking. I don't know when the culture changed where being an asshole to other recruits was tolerated, but I shouldn't have to reiterate that I'm disappointed it did. The ranking is about being better than the rest, yes, but at the end of the day, we're all in the Imperial Guard. Someone shouldn't put another recruit down to build themselves up, especially if they get away with it.

I wonder how Slater turned out with the new group he was placed in. I spoke with Talia Rory, Sergeant of Class 27, who is helping out with the ranking this week, earlier. She said the group consists of recruits who are expected to make it into the top ten, which could be good for Slater to adapt to. Hopefully, they can be a positive influence on him, but I have a slight pain in my chest that keeps me from certainty. The chance he doesn't make it to immediate duty is still significant, and if he is sitting at the ranking ceremony, eight days from now, he might have to watch all his new friends be ranked while he stays in his seat. The thought... well, it hurts.

Yesterday, there were four murders in the Meadowlands. A couple of hikers traveling through the mountains discovered a family lying dead along the rocks near the base of the incline. A mother, father, and two young daughters, no older than fifteen, branded with the mark of the Medo. They were from Glanz, on the other side of the region. The man was an architect, and the woman was an engineer who designed prototypes for the Empire-wide train that allows transport between the regions. The older of the two daughters played the violin, while the younger daughter was a straight-A student in her private school.

The more I think about the victims and their lives, the more the anger builds up inside me. I cannot describe how badly I want to find who is behind all these murders and teach them a lesson. This case, that of the Fischer family, has stung me more than any of the others. All of them were murdered, even the daughters, who have never deserved to be thrown into this massacre. The Medo is targeting families now, and I can't help but contemplate about my own. I may have never met these people whose lives were stripped from them, but there is one thing I do know. They were real.

The unrest has caused some of us at the Imperial Guard to go mad. Last night, there was a meeting between all the top officers from every region of the Empire. As always, James and Arthur Jameson were animated, making sure their opinions were heard over the large roundtable. Colonel Rosa Giguere, of all people, stood up and told those two to stop arguing, and that the fate of the Empire was far more important than whatever feud they had. For the rest of the discussion, the two just sat, staring at each other.

Today was when things really bubbled over for those two. I was talking to Lieutenant Keira Hill in her office when I heard some yelling from down the hall. We knew it was James, but who could be arguing with was a mystery. Keira and I blew it off, considering we know how James loses his temper, until we hear a slam and louder yelling. We ran to the break room, and lo and behold, James and Arthur were throwing down. I grabbed Arthur, the bigger of the two, while Keira got James. Our Colonel got the worst of it. They were both sent home for the weekend.

So, that's where we stand now. James isn't allowed at the headquarters until Monday morning, and Arthur is on the train back to Glanz. The good news is that there are no murders to discuss, which is why James' appearance at my house at this time of night is strange at the least. Maybe he can't get enough of me.

Highly unlikely, considering how many times he reminds me that he hates me on a daily basis.

"What were you and Arthur fighting about today? Besides the usual." I inquire, placing my back against the step railing.

He shakes his head, looking up at the moon in the west. "I asked him what he was going to do after the Fischers were found. He told me to mind my own business and worry about Queens. I said that I probably care about the Meadowlands more than he does, considering he hasn't done jack shit since. He said something under his breath, and I heard him. It was something about Keira, and," he stops. "It was uncalled for. You think I say inappropriate things, you should've heard what he said."

"What did he say?" I brace myself for the statement. It's one of those tensions you get when you know something was said about a friend, and you don't want to know what it was. I don't know why I want to.

James glances at me and scratches near his lips. "I don't know if I should tell you. I know how you feel about her-"

"What?" I pull myself up. "Keira and I are friends, James. We aren't allowed to date, and even if we were, we wouldn't." I realize how quickly I finish that second sentence, and my face flushes. Lieutenant Hill and I are friends and nothing else. He will never understand that for as long as we all work together.

"Yeah, okay. Sure. I've seen the way you act around her." James crosses his arms and sighs. "If you don't like her like that, then I guess I could tell you what Jameson said and you wouldn't have any of that pent-up boyfriend rage."

I hear a car approaching the house from down near the mailbox. The headlights dull out from the gravel on the driveway. "No, I really don't want to hear it."

He notices the car climbing up the hill. "I didn't think so. And look, here she comes now. Maybe I should leave so you two can be alone."

"Fuck off."

As soon as it takes a right to head toward the shed, I recognize it as Celeste's small car. I haven't seen her since Monday night when she ran off to her friend Felicia's house. I tried calling her, making sure she was okay, but it always went to voicemail. She was purposefully ignoring me, which I didn't quite appreciate, but deep down I knew she was okay. I wanted to leave it up to her to come back when she was ready to, but I didn't think her strike would last four days.

Her car dies down and she flings herself out of the driver's seat. The door slams behind her, and I see her bleak figure sprint through the darkness toward me. If she missed me this much, why didn't she come back sooner?

"Dad! Oh my God, Dad!" There is a weakness in her voice, a shakiness that eliminates the possibility of anger or bliss. Something is wrong.

I rise to my feet right as she approaches. "Hey, Celeste, what's-" She constricts me with her arms, and I feel her tears against my shirt. I place one of my hands on the back of her head as she sobs. I didn't expect her to be this happy to see me again, or so sad she left. "It's okay, Celeste. You're okay."

After a few seconds, she pulls her head away from me and tugs at my hand. "On the road, the road," she points toward the mailbox. There are hiccups in her voice, attempting to stifle her outward emotion. "Someone was stabbed. Right down the street, Dad, you have to see it, I think he's dead."

In what feels like a reflex, I turn to the Colonel as I pick up speed with Celeste. "James, grab a flashlight from the garage. You know what else. We'll be on the road."

He takes off to his car as I run along with Celeste down the drive. When could someone have been killed? A stabbing means someone was attacked and probably in an altercation. I didn't hear any kind of resistance, yelling or calling for help from down near the street. If they're nearby, that killer could still be out there somewhere. Time is of the essence.

Celeste and I reach the line where the gravel meets the macadam, down by the mailbox. At this lower altitude, I can hear the cars in downtown Stanville a bit better. The pavement is illuminated a rusty color by the ancient streetlamps that haven't been replaced since my wife and I first moved in. Fireflies sprinkle their radiance amongst the twilight down the way, where there is no light to brighten the road. I'm praying that's not where my daughter witnessed the murder, though my duty as Captain swaddles me closer to its grasp.

I stand firm, peering down the north road to the city, alongside rows of trees that mask the ocean. "So, you wait until now to come home and this is what happens."

She turns to me with her face crooked. "Are you serious? Somebody is dead and you still find a way to make this about me."

"Am I wrong?"

She says nothing more, tucking her long hair behind her ear.

"Listen, Celeste, I'm sorry. After you left, I did a lot of thinking about, well, everything. All these things that have been happening, bizarre things, have never happened in my lifetime, and certainly not James'. We're all on edge because of the murders, and Slater," I pause, considering how that sentence will end. "I think this all started after we brought him in, and I'm worried about him. Things aren't going so well at the ranking. And you know me, I don't sugarcoat much, so I mean it when I say his chances of making it are minimal."

"You said you didn't believe in him," she snaps. "I know neither you nor James care about him like I do. You two see him as, what, a piece in the Imperial Guard? Well, he's my friend. He's more than someone that you can just use."

"Celestine, I don't want to use Slater. I know how it feels to be ordered around, and I wouldn't want that to happen to him. I just want him to make it into immediate duty. It's all one step at a time."

James crushes the dirt beneath his feet on his way down to the street. I watch as he flickers the flashlight as a test. He pats around his belt, assuring his means of protection is on his person. He turns to my daughter. "Where to, kid?"

"This way, toward town," Celeste mutters, pointing into the infinite void. "It was near Lance's neighborhood."

Lance lives around the bend, where the glow from the streetlamp is drowned out by the trees at the turn. Beyond that point, the world is a dark storm. One that must be conquered if we want to get a step ahead in the mystery of the murders. If it was up to me, I wouldn't even bother risking my life walking into the unknown, blind of what's out there. But I know I'm obliged to take this role since no one else will. And even if James offers to go alone, I couldn't bring myself to allow him to. It's a strange balancing act of cowardice and courage or loyalty.

Silence accompanies the journey to the site of the murder, which gives the hastily-illuminated setting a more horrific tone. I stay near my daughter as she leads James and I to where she witnessed the killing only minutes ago. The Colonel follows close behind, keeping the only light we have right in front of us. We all need to stick together and not get separated from one another. The murderer could be anywhere.

"We should be getting close," Celeste utters, slowing her pace. She seems to have calmed down from earlier. For someone not constantly subject to such grisly matters, she has handled the situation quite well. It's a new type of strength, and I can't say it's from me.

I see the stream of blood before the body itself. Celeste stops in her tracks as her shoes narrowly dodge the flow downhill. I brush past her and walk along the path until it all starts to thicken to form a lake. James raises the brilliance to observe what lies right ahead, and as soon as it all comes to fruition, the beam of light jolts away.

"Oh, fuck," James coughs, slowly motioning the light back to the body.

I have not seen a corpse in God knows how long. A decade, at least. I have spent the last ten years behind a desk, approving orders and attending meetings. I haven't been a part of the dark side of the Imperial Guard since we took over the North Forest in 2020. Since then, it's been filing papers and staring at the medals in the glass case. And I don't miss it one bit.

Come to think of it, maybe I do. Just a little bit of excitement instead of being bored to tears. Except there is no killing. Just... who am I kidding? I don't miss it.

The victim is most definitely dead, no doubt about that. Both ears are sliced off and lying beside him in a bloody mess. Where his eyes would be are two dark holes, and the corners of his mouth are chopped up through his cheeks. His blonde hair is matted with the abundance of blood that never made it to the dirt. Behind the crack pattern of red lines across his face, I recognize that this young man outlived Slater by around five years. The same age as Hayes, I would say.

The head is only the introduction to the massacre wreaked on this individual. His black jacket has been torn off of his shoulders by hangs on his arms, revealing the portrait of red lines that covers his entire torso. From what I can count for sure, he was stabbed twelve times in the stomach, and thrice in the center of the chest. The murder weapon is held in his lifeless clutch, with his own blood running down the blade and all over his hand.

The murderer even made sure to leave four slices on his left forearm.

I straighten my legs to tower over the body once my investigation is complete. "Shit, this one's bad."

James leaves Celeste's side and approaches me. "Yeah, it's ugly. Typically it's just one stab or one bullet wound, but this is... God. They're getting more serious about this. They're not messing around anymore."

"They never were. People don't mess around with murder, James." I find myself staring at the mutilated corpse from above. I let out a sigh, finally turning away from the horror scene. "You need to let Stanville know there's a killer on the loose. Tell people to stay in their homes. We don't know what this guy is capable of."

He hands me the flashlight and reaches into his pocket. "I'm on it."

Celeste stands at the base of the stream of blood, paralyzed. She shades her eyes from what lies ahead, and I don't blame her. It's a terrible sight for someone her age to take in at once. From witnessing the crime to observing the victim, dead, I can't imagine that this won't haunt her. She's strong, and I know that, but there are some things that can't be forgotten. This is one of them.

James breathes into his cell phone what has transpired while I take short steps toward my daughter. I don't want her to experience any more of this, but I need her to understand what is going on, and why this matters so much.

"Hey," I say gently. I pull her in close to me, and her emotions remain stagnant. "I'm sorry you had to see all this. But you're okay. Whoever did this isn't going to hurt you. We're going to find him."

She draws a finger under her nose for a brief moment. "I don't know how you two can look at it without feeling sick. It's a dead person, Dad."

The wind picks up from the east, fluttering my shirt against my body. "Just because we don't show it on the outside doesn't mean we aren't disgusted. Any untimely death makes me sick to my stomach." I glance over at the young man, whose life vanished only minutes ago. "I guess there came a point when I just got used to it."

"Dad, I don't understand."

"What's that?"

Celeste removes herself from my embrace and takes the chance to look at the body. She glares at it for a few seconds before turning back to me. "I don't understand why people murder."

"Well, if you could give me a positive outcome for killing anyone, I would be genuinely surprised. Violence isn't the answer to our problems. I raised you to know that, but not everyone was."

"Why do you think he was killed?"

I juggle the flashlight in my hands, bouncing the beam of light to and fro around the trees. "I don't know, but I'll teach you something else. Whatever this young man did to provoke his death means nothing to me. Are there some cases where the reasoning matters? Very few. But we never blame the victim of a horrific and traumatizing crime. He did not do the killing; his murderer did. He did not die on his own."

Celeste crosses her arms. "Well, what if the one who killed him was just trying to protect himself?"

"It would be a different story. But I don't think someone trying to protect themselves would stab out the attacker's eyeballs and cut off his ears."

She winces. "Dad, too graphic."

The Colonel stuffs his cell phone back into his pocket and steps away from the body. "Flynn's sending guys over now. They'll be sending out an alert to everyone within ten miles. Tell people to st-"

The piercing of a bullet in the vicinity echoes against my ears. James ducks down, holding his head under his hands and reaching for his belt. My legs tense up, shining the flashlight into the seemingly endless exhibit of healthy trees. I pull Celestine back by her arm so that my body stands between her and the forest ahead.

"What the hell was that?" She inquires, remaining close behind me. "Is someone shooting at us?"

James holds his gun at his side, staring into where the flashlight illuminates the shrubs. "I don't think so. It was one shot. If they were trying to shoot us, we would've heard a few more."

"Wait a minute, Dad, do you see that?"

"See what?"

Celeste navigates around me with her index finger extended into the woods. "That blue light, way out there. What is that?"

My eyes adjust to the disparity in light from the flashlight to the flame in the distance. Radiance of that color is extremely rare, and I don't believe I've ever seen anything like it before. The color of summer ocean waves with the sun beating down on it, a small candle in a vast woodland. What could that possibly entail?

"Slater!" Anthony squirms in his hold, flailing his arms to break free. "Let me die!"

There's no way.

I take deliberate strides toward the edge of the safe, known world. James and Celestine stand firm behind me as my nice office shoes crunch some diminutive branches scattered about. The wind has died down, leaving the heat of twilight to have a lasting effect. I'm not just sweating because of the temperature, however.

"So, you're just going to walk in there alone?" The man I consider my closest friend reaches for my wrist and nearly strangles it. "I'm going with you."

Before I can deny his offer, my daughter adds, "I'm going too."

No. This is something that I must take on alone. It has nothing to do with the crime or finding an answer. I need to see the mark. I need to see what kind of monster it turns humans into. The Medo is behind this, there is no question to that. My mind requires assurance and confidence of visualizing the mark without being reminded of my past. I need no distractions.

"James, stay here with Celeste." I pass the flashlight back to him. "I'm going to see what that was. I'll be back in a bit."

"Dad, they have a gun, and you have nothing. Someone needs to go with you," Celestine insists.

"Listen, I'm going out there by myself. There are some things that I could never allow you to see. I don't know what that blue light is. And you can't be left here by yourself. James is going to watch over you until I return. I won't be long."

"But," she begins. A sigh follows. "Please be careful, Dad."

"I will." I turn toward the fire of the clear sky, glancing back to her for a second. "Promise."

A relentless pursuit of the light follows the final interaction. Piloting myself around the forest without a flashlight was a mistake, though leaving it with those two is probably the better option. What good is a gun in the dark? I'm not taking James' weapon with me. I don't plan on killing anyone, anyway, even if they are part of the Medo.

The center of a perimeter of tall trees is illuminated by the cyan glow. I slow my pace as I approach where the brightness is originating from; down near the forest floor by a crashed tree trunk. The warmth of the area increases with every step I take.

With her back to the thick log is a young woman with her arm facing toward the sky. The M shines from there, almost blinding from where I'm standing. Blood trickles down her temples and all over her mouth and lips, like a baby who never learned to eat. Her tank top is drenched in dark liquid, though there is no telling whether or not that it's actually her's.

"Roarke," She mumbles, spitting blood. "Roarke, is that you?"

I don't move from my position, feet away from her unnatural radiance. I've heard that name before, somewhere. "I don't know who that is, but it's not me." I recognize the firearm loosely bound in her hand. "Was that your gun that went off just now?"

She twists her forearm to shine on her leg. Black water erupts from a hole near her inner thigh. "I missed."

"I think you hit an artery," I conclude, kneeling down by her side. "If you were trying for results, you surely didn't miss."

Her hand dives toward her leg where the spout is located. "I'm laying here, near-death, and this is what you say to me? Not very gentlemanly of you, is it, Manchester?"

I rise to tower over her. "I don't have sympathy for murderers."

"Not even Slater Tross?"

My eye twitches and my fingers curl into my palms. "Leave that boy out of this. He is nothing compared to you vile heathens."

Blood seeps between her teeth as she gives out a brief laugh. "A hypocrite. I expected no less." The light from her mark flickers and her eyes meet mine. "Roarke made me kill him. It was the only way he would let me into the Medo."

The Medo. Something I wished would be purely a part of my imagination is true to life. They are the ones committing these heinous crimes, leaving dastardly traces in their wake of destruction. The one murdering people could not only be this woman, there must be more. Roarke must be one of their higher-ups. They're a calculated group.

"Make your last few moments productive. What is the Medo?" I clench my jaw, feeling my fingernails dig into the rough skin of my palm.

"As if I would ever tell you." The woman croaks. I can hear the blood beginning to clog her throat. The blue light dims into the bleak darkness. "Roarke is about the bring Oltima to its knees. And you can thank Slater for that."

The cobalt insignia of the Medo burns out as the woman's breath escapes her body. I liberate my fingers into the open air and release my muscles. Crickets whistle all around where I stand, staring at the first real lead the Imperial Guard has had since Slater was taken into captivity.

God, it has been twenty-five years since I last heard from them. But the Medo is alive.

Brutal.

And above all else: real.