Puddles

Arrik stared down at his feet; water was beginning to pool around his boots. The air was cold, and the rain splashed unrelentingly against the top of the small awning under which he stood. He picked his head back up to gaze out over the empty field in front of him. The motion caused the water pooling at the top of his cap to trickle down his neck and drip down his back beneath his long jacket. Cursing, Arrik drew the garment tighter around himself, wishing he could be back in the barracks at the edge of the field.

He had a new blanket waiting for him on his bunk. It was one of the good ones; warm and soft. After some bribing and cajoling, he had managed to convince the quartermaster to replace his too-thin rag of a blanket, and Arrik had been the first to receive a blanket from the latest supply drop. While it would be nice to be wrapped in it, Arrik had decided resolutely that he would not spoil this new blanket by bringing it out in the rain.

Crouching down, Arrik tried to huddle closer to the mysterious boxes he was guarding. They were a dark grey, with indecipherable foreign markings painted in neat lines up the sides. The boxes were just the right size to climb into, and Arrik briefly considered breaking the seal to do just that. Anything to get out of the rain.

Lightning lanced down in the field roughly 100 meters away, bringing with it the sharp crack of thunder. Arrik could feel the waves of sound resonating with his chest as he averted his eyes from the bright flash. He crouched, holding his hand in front of his face. The light should have faded almost instantly, but he could still see that the world around him was still blindingly bright through his eyelids. Arrik turned to face away from the light's source. Removing his hand and cautiously opening his eyes, he almost fell backward in shock at what he saw.

The mass of tents and support structures of the camp were all brightly lit, casting too-dark shadows where they blocked the light. A few of his fellow soldiers stood beneath awnings similar to the one under which Arrik crouched, hands shading eyes, unnaturally still. Drops of rain and debris flying in the wind were frozen in place in the air and unsecured tent flaps were held open as if by invisible hands. Sliding his foot back to leave his crouch, Arrik felt the water resist the motion; it was like trying to push through slushy ice.

Bracing against one of the boxes, Arrik began to stand, but froze when he caught sight of several figures clad in dark armor making their way to his shelter. Their movement through the still scene around them was surreal, gracefully navigating around camp furniture and other obstacles like silent predators. His heart pounding, Arrik tried to remain utterly still, as if caught in whatever spell had brought stillness to the rest of the world.

As the figures drew closer, he could pick out more details; their armor was sleek and well jointed, allowing for an incredible amount of dexterity. Their helms were dark grey, almost to the point of being black, with rectangular clear viewports dimly backlit with a soft green light. One of them approached him, bringing the front of her helm within centimeters of his face, through the viewports he could see her eyes coldly staring into his own. Arrik could feel the point of her long knife at his neck.

"Did you think we could not see you moving, grutello?" she hissed, her voice sounding almost mechanical as it emitted from the audio transducer at the front of her helm. "Do not think to move, or I will bring your life to an end, gru-tel-lo."

Grutello. "Dead man" in the slang of the forsaken. "I won't." He whispered, feeling the knife digging in a bit as he spoke. "Aesalien, why is he yet able to move?" one of the other figures asked. "I think that he is perhaps one of our kind." she replied without turning. Aesalien tilted her head, surveying Arrik's face. Then, pulling the knife away from his neck, she deftly sliced the thin fabric of his jacket sleeve up to the inside of his elbow, leaving a long scratch and revealing a small circle enjoined with a shepherd's crook and rod tattooed on his forearm. It was his "ward's mark" indicating that he had been conscripted as a child.

Orphans were never wasted, rather, they were put to work as soldiers and guards. Those that lived long enough were even paid. Arrik had been shuttled between battalions, city garrisons, and support camps for just over ten years. He had just received his first pay the week before, and had spent most it on the pair of boots that were currently doing an admirable job of keeping his feet warm and dry despite the pooling water all around him. The rest of it he had used to bribe the quartermaster. Ruefully, Arrik wondered who in the camp would get his boots and blanket before realizing that it really didn't matter, he didn't care.

With a sharp twist, Arrik felt his wrists being pulled back and immobilizers being fastened to his arms. One of his captors had slipped around behind him to take him by surprise, not that he would have struggled. Taking being bound as a sign that they didn't immediately plan to kill him, he looked hopefully at Aesalien, who had drawn back a few paces. Her temperament was unreadable and she gestured for him to step away from the boxes he had been guarding. Arrik hastily complied.

Looking around, he could see there were teams in the same armor as his captors working under the other awnings, checking the contents of the boxes, then fastening large metal rods to the corners. The team under Arrik's awning were doing the same and he caught a brief look at what lay within. With horror, Arrik realized that he had been guarding a grotesque, fleshy cybernetic quadruped that appeared to be fitted with several tentacle-like appendages. Before he could get a better look, the rods at the corners emitted a dull flash, the boxes and their contents seeming to evaporate in large uneven particles.

Still recovering from his surprise, Arrik barely noticed Aesalien approaching him until she stuck a large metallic disk to the front of his jacket. He opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off as he himself evaporated, leaving nothing behind.