#bellafide

The war begins. 

Bonus:

Tumblr’s fucked up the res on this thing so check the image in full screen if u want the good stuff.

Anyway, a little RTS game came out recently called “Tooth and Tail.” Basically, it boils down to an excuse to make a game about war and cannibalism in a Russian Revolution setting. Is gud gaem.

So naturally, I’m starting a fanfic of it. Kill me.

Red Sky at Morning

Arroyo stood in silent vigil. His office was mostly dark, save for the setting sun, very dimly lighting up the room through the northern window. The hardwood floors were always kept waxed, and his desk was always kept tidy, as free of papers as possible. The only thing that was a mess, was a small area in the corner. It was unremarkable, save for the fact that it had a smaller table placed in the corner. Two stacks of paper sat on it, collecting dust; and several dozen toys encircled it. They ranged from stuffed toys to carved wooden trains.

There was a picture hanging on the western wall, on the right of the arrangement of toys and the table. Arroyo remembered when Junior asked him if he could have his own office, too, in the corner. He remembered laughing. He thought it an odd request at the time, but Junior had his wish. Arroyo taught him how to output simple papers, mainly counting assets and revenue so he could do the hard work. “Start them young,” was his policy, after all. A year before Harvest, Arroyo had requested a painting of Junior. It set him back a few thousand bones, but he was so well-behaved. In this painting, he looked proud, yet innocent. He wore a coat Arroyo had worn during his younger years, and it matched his blue eyes. In this timeless state, his son was still alive. His son was immortal.

He sighed, trying to keep himself from shedding any more tears. He was able to do so much easier when he heard someone knock on his office door. Arroyo looked over at it, still somewhat detached from reality, but walked over and swung the door open. His cook, the prestigious Uncle Butter was standing behind it, still cleaning a stein with a rag. “Oh, sorry Bellafide...Were you busy…?”

“Yes, I…” Arroyo sighed deeply and massaged his forehead. “I’m done now. What do you need, my friend?”

“Those scouts you sent out to secure The Docks earlier?” Butter said. “They haven’t come back yet. I think we should look into it, if not send out a few soldiers after them.”

Arroyo grimaced and groaned. “It must be The KSR,” he muttered dejectedly. “They really enjoy sticking their noses in everyone’s business.” He walked out of the office and down the hall, but eventually let Uncle Butter walk ahead. “You go tell the Freight Unioneers I’ll need seventy of their number, twenty Engineers, and at least ninety of the Distillery Brothers need to stop drinking enough to walk in a straight line for two hours. I’ve got to plan our attack, if we need one.”

“Will do, Arroyo,” Butter said as he walked down the stairs and went back to the tavern proper, still raucous and full of life. Bellafide stayed and watched him go, then went back to his office and lit one of the lamps. He took out several maps from a drawer in a cabinet behind his desk and rifled through them for a few minutes before he found a detailed layout of The Docks. They bordered the south sea, which allowed orn and ale to be shipped out and around to the east and west to get to other cities. Expensive, yes, but it was faster than sending shipments through The Ends. At the end of the day, it was worth the investment.

Either way, the plan practically unfolded itself: The Longcoats entered from the north using the Warrens, and if a significant KSR presence was found, they would split up and surround them in a pincer move. They couldn’t retreat into the sea, and if they ran north, the Longcoats would follow them until either The KSR forces gave up and stopped running to fight, or until they reached The Ends. Arroyo looked over his plan, nodded, and then walked over to the far wall and picked up the crest of the Longcoats. “War won’t win itself,” he said to himself.

The travel through the Warrens was swift, as it always was, and the Longcoats came out amassed in a line, far enough away from The Docks to see the whole of it. It was quiet; no lights could be seen in the tannery sheds or the boathouses. Arroyo stood at the front of his forces. He told half the troops to split and circle around to the other side of the dackyard, and wiping his nose with a handkerchief, he led the rest forward. “Be as quiet as possible,” he warned them.

“You-*hic!*-you got it boss!” one of the Distillery Brothers called.

Arroyo rolled his eyes and they kept processing forward, into the dockyard proper. The moon illuminated everything in a sickly pale glow, casting unnatural, sharp shadows on walls. Many of them looked like grasping hands, reaching out to grab and eat the Longcoats alive.

Arroyo marched onward, however. He remained undeterred . They did not know there were pigeons perched on the tops of some boathouses, and once they caught sight of the advancing enemy, they cried out, “Longcoats, Longcoats! Raise the alarm...!”

Arroyo looked up, along with the rest of his troops. The ferrets clutched the triggers for their artillery tighter, and the squirrels loaded their pistols (the ones too drunk to do so were given a hand by their brothers). Arroyo himself clutched his banner, and he could begin to feel his knuckles going white after a minute.

There was a piercing blaring sound in the air a moment later, and out of the boathouses, shacks and storehouses, came hundreds of pigeons, falcons, and lizards, all clad in yellow. “...More Civilized…?” Bellafide asked himself. “How…?”

The machine guns started firing off and riddling the Longcoat troops with bullets, killing dozens. Bellafide ducked down, and he could hear his men hitting the ground behind him. “Keep moving,” Arroyo instructed as he stood back up. “Don’t give them an inch!”

The squirrels charged in first, liquid courage running through their bodies. They kept shooting their revolvers, the sounds lost amidst a sea of gunfire and shouting. Many of them fell where they stood, and the ferrets weren’t much better off despite being in the back lines. Arroyo had to make his move now. He stomped on the ground three times as hard as he could, and kept his head low until he felt the dirt under him moving. He backed up.

A second later, a mole poked his muddy head out from the ground. “Is time to make big move?” he asked.

“And as quickly as possible,” Arroyo added. The Engineer nodded and hoisted himself up, out of the ground, followed by nineteen more moles who saluted Bellafide as they entered as fast as possible.

Arroyo himself nodded to them and raised his flag, rallying what troops he could to him amidst the chaos of war. “Everyone, to me!” he called. “We have our winning ticket!”

The Longcoats turned to face Arroyo and made their way to his side as quickly as possible. The bullets of the Wing Demons and the Nomad’s javelins remained merciless, and cut down more soldiers as they ran to Arroyo’s side, but luckily he still had significant numbers...though not significant enough to fight in open warfare. He looked at his forces, thought for a moment, then yelled, “Get into one of the boat houses and advance at all costs!”

His soldiers took his orders to heart and barreled through the doors to a nearby shed, which was met with gunfire from the rafters that mowed down the squirrels that had led the charge. Arroyo ran ahead of his troops to let them fight through. He had to get to the other side of The Docks to move the troops over there.

So he ran, his stamina from his time as a boxer coming in to aid him. Of course, he never actually ran while in the ring, but he could at least keep his pace up as he ran up a flight of stairs and out onto the roof of the boathouse.

In the streets, the Longcoats were still fighting bitterly to advance; the ferrets remained in the back lines, launching artillery shells through the streets. They soared, and many of them landed on their targets, turning the Nomads into mangled, bloody messes. At the same time, the Wing Demons were flying directly into the back lines and firing their machine guns, either killing or severely wounding both the artillery and the infantry as they tried to push forward through what lizards still lived.

Arroyo could only look down on them for a moment before he too was brought back to reality by machine gun fire whizzing past him, brought down by more of the falcons. He grunted as he ducked down, then sprinted like mad across the rooftops. “I only wish I knew how Civilized forces even got here,” he said to himself. He jumped across a gap between buildings and kept his pace up, but saw a few bullets whiz by and then heard the machine gun fire kick in full-force.

He could hear the falcon behind him yell, “Die, you fat, treasonous bastard!” Arroyo stole a quick glance behind him and saw the Wing Demon approaching quickly, the gun trained directly on him. Directly in front of him was a warehouse with a wide window.

He jumped the gap between the two buildings and covered his face as best he could. Arroyo heard the glass shatter into pieces, but he kept his eyes shut tight. In time, he felt his body hit the ground, and he tumbled forward a couple more feet.

Arroyo could barely feel anything on his body other than the glass digging into his arms and chest. He forced himself to stand up and saw that he was now in a large warehouse with empty rafters and sparsely populated with crates. “That’s muscle...not fat,” he said to himself.

Unfortunately, the falcon had decided to follow Arroyo in, heralded by the sound of more shattering glass and the rush of wind as he took a sharp one-eighty degree turn in the rafters to charge back at him. Though he had been cut in a few places from the flying glass, he was in no way weaker, and Arroyo had been winded already. The Wing Demon came streaking down from on high, the machine gun blazing to life again, and Arroyo ran. He ducked in between crates, using them to shield himself from the gunfire. All he was focused on was getting out of the enclosed space, and part of him must have thought he was going to die here. No such chance came.

The door on the ground floor flew open and off its hinges, and in came several squirrels and ferrets. They saw the falcon harassing Arroyo and immediately went about launching everything they had at him; bullets, artillery, everything. The falcon dodged and weaved between them for awhile, but eventually, a couple bullets clipped his wing, and he spiraled out of control, crashing headfirst into a wall. The resulting *crack!* echoed around the room, and the falcon crumpled into a useless ball of feathers.

One of the Distillery Brothers ran up to Bellafide and reached out to help him up, which Bellafide quickly accepted. “You okay, sir…?” he asked.

Arroyo huffed. “I’ve come back from worse,” he said. “It’s just some glass anyway. You had best get back to seizing as much territory as possible!”

The squirrel saluted him and replied, “Yes, sir!” before he followed the rest of the squadron while Arroyo ran in the other direction, out of the warehouse. Back outside, even the stars of night were eclipsed by the mortar explosions going off, as well as the fire-halos of landmines in the distance. Arroyo looked left and right, then took off down the pavement, running to the east side. He at least knew the troops on the west side were pushing in, so he had nothing to fear about them.

Several yards over, he could see soldiers, fighting to the bitter end on stairs, rooftops, and piers to push forward. His Longcoats were holding...but they weren’t gaining anything either. In the heat of battle, he ran forward, waving the crest of the Longcoats. “To me…!”

When the forces on the east heard his call, they looked over to him, and all at once, fought harder than ever before to get to him. Even the most inebriated of squirrels knew when to push himself to his limits, and many of them paid for it. The bullets came flying back at the Civilized tenfold, and pigeons and falcons alike began to drop as the east-division Longcoats pushed their way to Arroyo.

And when they finally met, Arroyo felt his blood boiling with a newfound sense of conviction; so he called out, “Everyone...follow me…!” And follow they did. Arroyo ran forward as the Wing Demons, Volunteers, and Nomads began circling in. In the beginning, the pigeons kept their combat-oriented friends in the fight, but slowly, surely, the squirrels and ferrets began focusing them down, and in turn, the Civilized began to retreat.

The Longcoats shot them down and took over their ground, inch by grueling inch, until they had pushed them back into the central area of The Docks, where all the boat houses and the entrance to the main piers were. As it so happened, Arroyo marched up the avenue just as he saw a lizard tail slip into a warehouse door. He motioned for his army to halt for a moment. He surveyed the area, and noticed the warehouse itself was separate from the surrounding buildings, as well as being alone on a three-way intersection. Arroyo considered his options, nodded, then directed his squirrels to move out to the right. In the meanwhile, the ferrets opened fire on the warehouse, hammering the walls with artillery shells.

This, of course, made the residents inside peeved, to say the least, and they sent out a wave of lizards. They lasted about as long as a pile of now in the summer, as the squirrels on the right shot them all down, or otherwise finished them off if the ferrets didn’t. Arroyo crossed his arms. He knew the Civilized wouldn’t come out any time soon if they knew the Longcoats were outside. “Keep the artillery shelling going,” he instructed. The Freight Union obliged, and kept their dents in the walls fresh with iron and hot lead.

The Civilized inside sent out more lizards, which were wiped out as they marched out of the doors in single file, and Arroyo decided it was time for a counter attack. He raised his banner and marched forward, signaling to the Distillery Brothers it was time to move. With a hearty (and for most, half-drunken), warcry, they marched to the doors, and through sheer force of number and added shelling, completely broke them open. What waited inside was a firing squad.

Dozens of falcons up in the rafters and the remaining Nomads below were arrayed in tight formation, all facing the entrance, and once the Longcoats broke the door, they opened fire.

Bellafide immediately ducked down as he heard the roar of machine guns coming to life, and saw, all around him, holes opening up in the bodies of his soldiers. They fell in rapid succession, a strange mix of fear and numbness in their eyes. He retreated with what few squirrels had miraculously been spared, and set up a front line just outside the entrance, and kept the Distillery Brothers firing inside. Soon, the lizards began pushing out as more squirrels fell. With dwindling numbers, Arroyo began muttering to himself, trying to keep his head down. “I think it would be safer…” He instinctively ducked when he heard another artillery shell explode. “...Safer to circle around and meet up with the western division.”

But then, a dull thud sounded out, across the street. For a moment, the fighting froze. The thud sounded again. The Longcoats and the Civilized remained still, listening for what might be happening, and how it could benefit them. The thud sounded out one last time, and immediately after, a huge squadron of Longcoat moles burrowed out of the ground around the warehouse, yelling their battle cries. Just like that, the fighting resumed, though the Longcoats were first to start slinging bullets once they recognized the moles were on their side.

Soon, the intention of the Engineers was clear: after striking the walls of the warehouse, a deep groaning could be heard; even part of the roof broke off, due in part to the moles bashing on the supports and walls with their hammers.

And that, combined with the constant shelling of the Freight Union, brought the whole structure crashing down in an avalanche of steel and mortar.

Arroyo couldn’t help but smile as he watched the warehouse buckle, crushing almost every Civilized soldier inside. This left them weakened and easy to be destroyed. He decided to switch up his initial plan and force the Civilized toward the piers; they wouldn’t be able to scatter in every direction that way. And as if that crushing blow to Civilized forces wasn’t enough, he could see his own soldiers running down the streets from the west, any opposing presence in front of them being butchered. He looked down to see a mole standing in front of him, looking at the wreckage with his hammer over his shoulder. The Engineer looked back up and grinned.

“Is good,” he commented.

Arroyo nodded at the mole, then brought his gaze forward again. “Push…!” he commanded, and his soldiers answered with conviction. They marched down the streets, a steady tide of artillery and bullets forcing the Civilized backward, first down the streets, then across the piers, then into the sea. When the Civilized forces realized what was happening, many of them fled. It was easy, since most of them could already fly, but the Nomads were not so lucky. Either they died on their feet or they jumped off the docks and tried to swim away, which made killing them as easy as spear-fishing with a harpoon.

The Longcoats settled down to rest and feast before they returned to the Old South, but Bellafide stood on the edge of the pier; there was still blood in the water, and it stung his nose. In the lull, he couldn’t help but start talking to himself. “I wonder if these old docks will ever see honest workers again,” he murmured. “I wonder if everything will be peaceful...Because I know nothing will ever be normal after this.” He sighed deeply and remained staring out over the deep sea, the moon glinting off the water’s surface.

Someone cleared their throat, and Arroyo turned around. Standing a few feet away was one of the Unioneers, holding a bottle of whiskey. “Heyyy, you okay, boss...?”

Arroyo sighed. “Yes, I just...I’m just thinking about what might happen after this war.”

The ferret shrugged and replied, “Eh...war’s war and you gotta push forward while you can. Worry about rebuilding when that time comes, maybe.”

Arroyo was silent for a moment, but he looked down at the street and nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” he said at length. “Besides, I still need to see Archimedes flayed alive before I rest.”

The ferret chuckled and uncorked his bottle. “Glad to know you’re still brimming with enough rage to lead an army,” he said. “C’mon, boss, you better eat before all the meat’s gone.” He turned and left, taking another drink from his flask as Bellafide followed back to the camps.

As the smoke of the fires rose, they were watched. Carefully, collectedly, as if being searched for signs and portents. A lone figure was crouched on a hill, a pair of binoculars in his hands. He wore a mantle and cloak that completely concealed his face, and his gloves supported two mechanisms; one that concealed a blade above his right wrist, the left hiding a syringe of poison on a spring-action launcher.

Yet, the only thing that could be seen under his hood were a pair of cat-like, yellow eyes. He sat, watching the victory feast, his mind putting more and more pieces of a metaphysical puzzle together. He muttered something under his breath before putting the binoculars away and running in the other direction.