A Survivor's Guide to Planetary Apotheosis [Postapocalyptic Survival, LitRPG, and Dungeon]

Labored breaths started to pinch against his sides, he was sprinting full tilt on his way back toward the site chosen by Marv and Grace to make their stand, stealth abandoned. Hunger gnawed, the tier strain doing its work on him, as it had since the unfortunate need to inhume the about to spawn Realm Shard. His endurance was down as a result of the heavy calorie burn his body was expending just to keep his own core from maybe killing him. The heavy exertion of the day was telling on him now.

Knowing that his comrades might still be fighting, might still need his help spurred him on. He burst into the small clearing where Marvin had established his beachhead of frost runes. The lamia was dead, its upper body shattered bits of now melted gore jigsaw pieces, farthest across the clearing. Behind, two ogres dead, clearly flash frozen, they'd died pretty hard, victims of the frost runes by the circles of frost-bitten grass. All three goblins sliced cleanly apart, an Infiltrator behind them similarly cloven cleanly at the head. Looks like the fodder had gone in first.

Scanning the pattern of blood and tracks in the field he read the flow of the battle. Marv had hit them first, blasts of ice and runic triggers to either kill or slow. Grace had probably charged those goblins with her first rush, using them to build her fighting momentum to rapidly dispatch the Infiltrator. The lamia had come later, that had the look of Marv's close range freezing grasp spell, and a pick to follow it up. That it had nearly crossed the field said Marv and Grace had probably gotten tied up with the Infiltrators by that point and the lamia had tried to get into melee with the Winterwind Magus, a bad idea. Human blood at the back of the clearing, a trail of disrupted brush that led deeper into the wood. The weight of numbers of Eximius was telling, the effectiveness of fodder waves in absorbing the brunt of the power of the Peacekeepers clear.

Alexander followed the trail at a run.

Past the body of the Slayer, it had bits of melted water on its carapace that said it had tasted Marv's magic. Hacking rents in the armor on its head, exposed brain material, said it had also gotten whacked by a couple of Helmsplitters, his close quarters combat Skill. Blood on its slashing arm said it had returned the favor, but Alexander didn't see enough spatter to say the wound was bad. No spray on leaves to indicate an arterial hit, anyway. Onward he went, an Infiltrator lay cut apart, thorax separated from abdomen, blood on its forelimbs. Another, just a dozen feet away, this one missing half its limbs, with a huge stab wound that had opened its entire underside.

On he ran, following the trail of destruction. Broken branches, rips from the trunks of trees, webs forming silky tents over shrubs, brush, and bole in their attempts to restrain the Peacekeepers. Blood, here and there in dribbles and spatters. More as he went. Bodies of the slain monsters, victims of the Red Cloaks, most of them Grace's work, who must have been fully revved up by that point in the battle.

"Oh fuck!" Alexander gasped, the math not adding up.

That should have been the last of the Eximius. But it wasn't, they'd had some backup.

He hurdled the third ogre, it had lasted longer than he would've thought. Then he snarled, seeing six pale spidery forms ahead, and heard shouts just around the bend of the hill, where the trees opened up. He only heard a man's shouts. That was a bad sign, Grace, with her wrath on, could be heard for miles.

Talon came free, and Alexander summoned a full cylinder of six Chaos Strikes to circle his outstretched hand, sending the volley at the Puppeteer Eximius that were trying to menace a desperately fighting Marvin from behind. Black-Grey fire drilled into the weakly armored spiders and they screeched, turning to find their compound eyes full of point blank Venator, Talon stabbing, chopping, each blow accompanied by a Baleful Smite to rend their insides with Entropic blasts, he mowed down the Puppeteers. With that done, he tore into the clearing scanning. Marvin still held his ground, had refused to move.

At first, Alexander was irritated that the man was being so static, not moving to break the containment of the physically weaker spiders compared to the far more dangerous Infiltrator before him.

That lasted until he noticed the patch of red cloth at the older man's feet, the armored form that lay there. Marvin wasn't evading because he couldn't. He was guarding Grace's body from the last Infiltrator, the last of that monstrous thing's companions sliced apart at the edge of this second clearing. Standing his ground, Captain Pruitt was favoring one leg badly, but he fought calmly, efficiently for his injuries and being surrounded, keeping at bay the creature that would murder his comrade if he were pushed back. Crystals of ice danced and drifted with the swing of the axe, one hand glowing frigid blue, ready to force feed winter into whatever monster tried to close with the magus. This last Infiltrator was mauled badly, the reason it wasn't attacking as aggressively, but still using its spearing claws to try to punch through the Winterwind Magus' Rime armor. Big patches of exposed steel beneath ice and several red stained gouges in his armor said it was finding success in that venture.

Sight dialed to eleven catalogued the state of the armor of Grace, the slowing of Marvin's injured body, and he instantly flung himself at the Infiltrator.

The last Eximius started to turn to face the threat from behind and Marv launched himself into it in a kind of tackle. He couldn't actually tackle a monster as strong as the Infiltrator, but he used his pick to punch into its abdomen to help the cause, and poured ice magic into its body. Two of the five remaining limbs to the creature reared back to stab the exposed Peacekeeper. Streaking bolts of chaos flame pelted its head, boiling its flesh, the skull beneath, the brains beneath that as tissues unraveled at a molecular level, aided by a two-handed overhead chop that sliced down to its abdomen. It dropped to the ground, pinning Marvin beneath its corpse.

"Forget me! Help Grace!" Shouted the old salt below the heavy dungeon spawn, his various wounds making shedding it a herculean effort.

Alexander did so, Ruthless leaving him as his mana fell to critical levels, moving on to the downed woman. He saw almost a dozen major stabs, along torso and limbs, half the wonderful artisanry of Peacekeeper protectives destroyed, most of her cloak torn away. Some of the wounds were partially healed, the evidence of her abilities to pull at the lifeforce of her slain enemies, but not enough. At some point one of the spiders had put webs across her eyes, blinding her. She was missing a hand. Blood ran fitfully from several of the wounds, less than should have, and her normally pale complexion was ghastly now. He rolled the big woman over and immediately went for the Healing Elixir on his belt. Last one, but a Phoenix sunrise wouldn't come in time to save her from this.

A rattling gasp, one he recognized as the last one before the body surrendered, and Alexander forced the contents into the Oread's mouth, upending the viscous silver distilled life into her. Healing Elixir worked so long as even a spark of life could be found inside the body, so long as even a flicker of mana lit the core. It found enough to take hold of. Barely. But barely was good enough.

Burning red gold light filled the wounds, the catalyzed healing of the Elixir at work. The hand regrew in front of his eyes, bones lengthening, fingers forming, then muscles, nerves, and blood vessels, like a time lapse of anatomical dissection played in reverse, skin last to merge with the flesh of the place where the stump had ended. No sign the hand had been gone remained, nor did any sign of the ruinous injuries from a few moments ago. Within a minute there was no visible scar or trace of the horrid injuries that had nearly claimed the plus sized dancer's life.

"Gods above, below, and in between, I love this magic shit sometimes." Alexander breathed, relieved, a shake in the hands at the closeness of the thing, now that adrenaline and Ruthless had left him.

Seconds. That was the difference. If he'd been any slower, any at all, he wouldn't have made it. If Marvin hadn't held on as long as he had, or hadn't been able to hold that bastard still for just a second the way he had, Alexander couldn't have made it.

No stranger to death, he'd lost friends before. It never got easier. Ever. And, while time took the rough edges off of grief, it did little to ease the burning anger in his soul at loss. There would never be a time when he forgave the dungeons for destroying his world or their denizens for killing people everyday who'd already witnessed their whole lives turned inside out, who'd suffered enough. But, at least for today, he wouldn't have to feel that awful emptiness, that bottomless anger again.

Blue eyes shot open, the just about dead woman sat up, turning to face him from an intimate distance and the re-energized voice of Grace Miller shouted, "HOLY SHIT! GIMME ANOTHER SLUG OF THAT, GODDAMN!"

Booming cannonfire of words hit his ears from almost touching distance and he rocked back, shouting in return, "Why?!" from reflex, hands over his ringing ears.

Tired, hungry, and pretty much tapped of his mana, Alexander crawled to his feet. A tough job today. But a job well done. And nobody dead for it. By a frog's whiskers, nobody dead for it.

"Oh, sorry!" the revived Oread shouted, at normal people volume this time, "It's just, wow! That is a rush. Proper jumpstart to the battery, fuck! But why can't I see shit?"

He understood. If only his poor ringing ears hadn't had to pay the ultimate price.

"Never mind, welcome back." Alexander told the woman, too relieved to stay mad.

"Here," he told her, drawing his Messer, "I'm going to need you to hold, and I'm serious, really fucking still so's I can cut those webs off your face. It's like shaving, but you'll lose most of your face if you sneeze, so don't."

Delicately, fighting the tremors in his hand from tier strain wearing away at him, coupled to the exertion of the day, he carried out that operation and the blond bun, disheveled as it had had its protecting helmet knocked loose at some point, shook as she blinked, owl-like at the sudden light.

"Now, since you're the healthiest one of the bunch, can you help me drag this fucker off Marvin? I'm right straight out." He asked.

A flex of bare bicep at him, where a hole had been punched out of the muscle just a minute ago, "You bet!"

She didn't even need his help, just tossed the Infiltrator corpse aside like a sack of flour and helped Marvin to his feet, looking him over and fussing with her first aid kit. Marvin, for his part, slapped her hands away to get enough time to take his helmet off and sit down on a fallen log, "Okay, okay, yes, now you can mummy me, dammnit woman!" was his shrill cry.

Since that crisis was averted, Alexander had some errands to run. For instance, it was four hours since they'd departed to take this offensive action, another hour to get back to camp, maybe more because he and Pruitt were both gassed, and he had a whole fuck load of goodies to grab from all these dead dungeon spawn. An evil look he directed at Grace Miller, all eight stacked feet of her, mighty and fresh and full of juice. Never a prettier little pack mule had he ever laid eyes on.

Muahaha, he chuckled darkly to himself.

The sun was bright on its descent, dappling the forest floor through the leafy trees, starting to golden with the hour of the day. Alexandar trudged, weary, starving, and yet, victorious. They'd done a good thing this day. A meaningful thing. Putting arrows into what amounted to drones was useful, but, ultimately, didn't solve the problem. Deleting more than twenty of the assholes piloting the drones, though, now that was progress. To say nothing of the Infiltrators and Slayers sent across the rainbow bridge through Grace and Marvin's stand. Because he couldn't be satisfied with anything, he couldn't help but analyze the whole ordeal, picking it apart, trying to figure out what pieces had fit rough, what to polish, where to trim. Good traits in a metalworker, good traits in a hunter, good practice generally.

To the cadence of busted armor clacking disjointedly, even louder than it normally was, and half tempo tread of tired feet, save for the jaunty step of the almost dearly departed, he walked himself back through it. That was preferable to thinking about how hungry he was, it was getting really bad.

Classic bait and switch, tactics, nothing to complain about there. Better with a full-strength party, but they'd been over that already, you worked with what you had.

Plans that needed perfect weren't plans, they were fantasies.

Onto the problems. A distraction that had worked too well. The hunter of evil critters had faced almost no resistance at the enemy stronghold, they'd gone out in main force to meet the Peacekeepers, permitting him access to the Puppeteer Eximius, and their reserve of captured dungeon spawn.

A flawless backstab. But at cost. The red cloaked Guildies had only barely made the hold. His fault? Too hasty? Too eager, he should have scouted further in, should have gone ahead, grabbed the complete count of the enemy. If he had, they might have decided to back off altogether, to return to the bridge encampment and plan out a raid, knowing the Eximius position.

A safer play. Slower. That way probably gave the Eximius a look at the encampment, but, if they were all wiped out in a coordinated, overwhelming attack from the Adventurers, who gave a shit what they'd seen? Unless the Eximius Queen could remotely obtain information from her brood, then that kind of reveal could be fatal, could permit the Hive to determine their complement and disposition, establish a concentration of force to crush them, sweep over the bridge and punch through the lines of the Peacekeeper coordinated defense.

He didn't know if that was possible, but assumptions weren't safe with dungeon spawn. Best to give them credit for being even more dangerous than you knew, they liked to prove you right that way.

Give and take. On the balance, he regretted taking the chance a little. They'd almost lost Grace, which would have been a tragedy, both personal and professional. To lose a comrade, and to lose so capable a warrior, it wouldn't have been worth it. Alexander didn't like mistakes, but he did accept them as part of the way of this life. Not every decision was the right one, with hindsight's wisdom. But the two of them had pulled it off, they'd wiped out most of the combat strength of the Eximius and history would chalk this one down as a win.

For a while now, he'd suspected that Captain Miller might be one of the better fighters from the officer corps of the Guild. Not as blatant as the Guild Master, but way up there. He further suspected that she'd picked Captain Pruitt to join her escort for being generally a tough nut, a dangerous mage, a gifted commander, and a hell of a fighter in his own right. They'd probably figured that Alexander, an unknown agent at that time, couldn't cause trouble between the two of them. After seeing them in action, real fights, not getting completely sideswiped from an unknown advanced tier dungeon spawn assassin, he didn't disagree with them.

That took some doing. Trouble and he, they were joined at the hip.

"Not too shabby, Flatlanders." He praised internally, understating vastly the degree to which he was impressed.

All things being equal, that scrap just now, he didn't know that Mark and Ben could have made it out of that in one piece, and those two were amongst the toughest mortal warriors he knew. So, today, their mistake hadn't punished them, it just cost them a scare, a priceless alchemical potion that took half a year and incredibly difficult to acquire resources to produce, most of their armor, and a bit of their swagger. But got them a win. A win was good. A successful gambit, in chess terms.

Even better, the Oread giantess, so fresh off the closest of calls, was in fine spirits.

"You two fucking suck! Just let me die next time." Grace bitched from under the bulging, awkward weight of the packs she bore, hers, Alexander's, and Marvin's all stuffed 'till the seams might pop with Eximius cores, venom in any sealed container Alexander could find that didn't carry food or drinking water, about five hundred yards of spider silk wrapped around greenwood poles in huge bolts, and whatever else had looked useful that they could shove, stash, or lash to the packs.

Neither he or the Marid were in any condition to carry anything but themselves.

It had turned out that Pruitt, stoic that he was, had been worse off than Alexander had initially thought. The grizzled mage class's enforced calm and the application of ice magic to seal his wounds had hidden the extent of the damage. By the time they got done with the emergency suturing and bandaging, the older man really did look like an Egyptian pharaoh risen cosplay. He limped on a thigh stabbed clean through, a slash on his hip that had notched bone, and more wounds on his upper body, if none as severe as the other two.

Donathan, the quartermaster, had his work cut out for him, the armor for both Peacekeepers was trash now. Lifesaving trash that had paid for itself a dozen times over. If Alexander had been caught inside the blender of the diversionary action, it was damned near a certainty he'd have been julienned to bits.

Even so, while his hide was unscathed, he had properly used himself up in the completion of his task. Hunger was beyond merely bothersome, the patriarch of Clan Gerifalte felt his strength ebbing, a general body ache, as if a fever had set in. He was fairly certain his body was eating itself, in the absence of food. Moments of lightheadedness, weakness like blood sugar dips that went all the way to his core had him slowed to a too steady walk, as if a drunkard trying not to lose what little balance remained.

Which was why he and Marvin humped no gear, passing that off onto the one person who was fine as could be, riding a wave of post Healing Elixir rambunctious energy.

She bore her burdens with good cheer, for about thirty minutes, when the excess vital energy burned off, and she realized then that she had an extra three or so hundred pounds of battlefield loot strapped to her person. Not that she couldn't haul twice that in dire need, but it was the principal of the thing in her mind, two grown men, and here she was loaded down holding the bags. There had been a time when the men in her life would have lined up to hold her dainty little purse. Days long gone, now here she was. Pack mule Captain Miller, with her delicates just about hanging in the wind because she'd gotten swiss cheesed by a bunch of goddamned spiders.

"Marvin," Alexander called to the man limping along on crutches cut from saplings, lashed together by cordage from his pack, "You hear something?"

Captain Pruitt looked around, as if mystified by an errant sound, "Damned if I didn't hear some ungrateful donkey braying into the wind." He rejoined.

Grace spit behind them, a good long clearing of the sinuses and then a percussive delivery to the forest floor, "You two chuckle fucks think you're cute. But I'll remind you it was Queen Bitch back here that killed nine of those spider bastards today, four ogres, three goblins, two Red Caps, and a partridge in a pear tree."

Marvin was happy to play against that draw, "Hey, Alexander, what's the count today?"

Without needing to think on it he recited, "Three cyclops, twelve ogres, twenty-eight puppet masters, two Slayers, two Ultra-ox, eighty-five dungeon spawn fodder, and I'll call that last Infiltrator split even with you, Marv. Since I'm the only reason those Red Caps didn't gut all of the rest of you, I'll take credit for halves on them, too, so that's three Red Caps."

"Huh. Sounds like that makes you the King." Remarked Marve, looking over his shoulder to see a scowling Grace, and he drank in her discontent like sipping at a fine red wine.

The older man had long since stopped keeping score on the monsters he'd killed. Being one of the founding officers of the Peacekeepers, his internal tally simply read: and so on.

"He cheats." She accused.

"Jealousy is such a sour perfume." Alexander observed smugly.

"Think we ought to take the cost of one of those Elixirs outta her salary? Pretty sure that last best estimate on one of those things was something like the GDP of France or something." Alexander jibed.

Stolen story; please report.

"Ah, now, don't say that, I got one of those too, you know." The old salt lamented.

"Yeah, but the difference is, I like you." Alexander reassured him.

"Some sexist ass smelling bullshit going on around here." Grace declared from her position in the back, just as they broke over the ridge that they'd been guarding that morning.

A discrete fist was offered for a pound, bros before giantess hoes, and the men enjoyed their comrade's minor suffering.

In truth, the both of them were about as relieved to have her around to complain as she was to be around to complain. Her wide-eyed enthusiasm for the afternoon lit forest, occasional sniffs of the air for the hell of it, jittery cheer were all common signs of somebody who'd been right there at the threshold. Everybody here now knew the score; this was Grace's first real run in with dying. The trick was not to be too showy about it though, warrior culture demanded a certain casual outward face toward death. Alexander knew the rules to this game and played it well.

Onward they marched, approaching the hidden field tents. The three Adventurers who had remained behind to hold the fort came out to greet them, their eyes widening in shock at the state of the three Mithril ranks.

"Oh, shi- I mean darn! Fu-shi-crap, are you guys, umm, alright?" Stuttered Crow, struggling against her injunction against swearing, which Alexander found ridiculous and strangely endearing both.

He traded looks between the Peacekeepers at that question, and the three simultaneously waved their hands in the universal "eh" sign.

"You should see the other guy." Grace added, some of her machismo finding its way back, and she dropped her burdens with a deep breath of relief, knuckling a lower back that hadn't enjoyed hiking with such ungainly distributions of mass hanging from her.

"Yeah, um, Miss Miller, about that, you should come inside, we have some spare clothes." Ventured Crow, and she went to usher the Oread into the tent while the rest of the mercenaries stared.

Grace, misinterpreted her gesture, "Oh, no, don't worry about me, it's Captain Pruitt that needs attention. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Your tits are out Captain Miller." Marvin pointed out, cutting to the heart of the issue.

She looked down, and saw that was indeed true.

"Ah! Well, would you look at that. Seems the breast plate strap gave up some time ago, probably in that slick creek bed. Neither one of you decided to say anything before now?" She challenged, making no move toward modesty.

Marvin Pruitt was old enough to know better than to attract attention, he had the right to remain silent and invoked the fifth amendment. He was also certain the younger man at his side was too young, and too socially maladapted to share this wisdom and struggled to contain his mirth when the brave idiocy of youth showed itself.

Alexander shrugged, "I didn't see anything to complain about. They look fine to me. It is starting to get a little chilly though, might be rain coming in."

She nodded and turned to her fellow Peacekeeper, "When, exactly, am I allowed to kill him?"

"When he stops being useful." Marvin answered, holding hard to his reserved composure, in front of the mercenaries, "Now, why don't you go get that change of clothes? I'm going to sit down, before I fall down, and these other rubberneckers can start stowing kit. I'm fucking over this; we're going home as soon as we get this joint packed up."

That was satisfactory to the entire party and they made toward that end. With an exception, just a couple of minutes later.

Alexander was un-staking a corner of the command tent, wrapping the tensioning cord in tight, efficient loops, and looking forward to the kitchens back at the encampment that was probably a fairly cozy fort by now when he felt the footsteps behind him and heard an abrasive, "They come back all chewed, you don't have a scratch on you, what gives?"

It was Christoph, for some reason. His assignment was across the camp. A tingling sensation along his neck, a something in the man's posture rang alarm bells in his head. Oh, damn, Alexander sighed. At last, the reason for his lingering hesitations toward having the three adventurer mercenaries. Not the anchor, not the strange, but potent Morrigan. It was this guy, the flanker who seemed to like stabbing backs in more ways than just the monsters. He'd had a feeling about this guy. Just a feeling, a buzzing that kept him on his toes around him. A little hint of Gary Lee. A far lesser evil that still had time to find a better way. Or not. But Alexander would give the man his chance, he deserved that much.

A sardonic shake of his feathered head before he continued winding the cordage and gave advice that he was certain was wasted on the man, "If the enemy is hitting you, you're probably doing it wrong."

It was a joke, a small one. The same kind he made all the time. There was no humor in the show of teeth on the mercenary's face in response.

A harsh laugh, "Ahh yeah? That so? You better than them then?" Christoph said, being intentionally leading and loud with that last part, and Alexander knew he was going to have to Gibbons this poor man, for reasons he didn't know, for certain, but that also didn't matter.

"This is a bad idea. We won, man, don't fuck it up now." Alexander tried to reason with him.

"Stand your gangly ass up, since you think we're doing it wrong. I'll show you how to do it right then, yeah? You look tired, a little wake-up call might be what you need." Christoph demanded, no, threatened.

Alexander kept wrapping the cord, then knotted the loop, and didn't look up. It would appear that the man had chosen his moment, when he thought everyone else distracted by their tasks to try this little move. A shame he'd gotten that part right. If no one was around, there wouldn't be anyone to stop him from hurting himself in his confusion. From indulging in his instinct to target the weak. The finished stake the dungeon slayer laid aside and took a steadying breath, because this was stupid and stupid aggravated him. Being tired aggravated him. Being hungry aggravated him. Gods above, below, and in between, this was not what Alexander needed today, this close to calling it an unequivocable win.

Sometimes the apes got aggressive when you looked directly at them, but, if you didn't, they went away. Another game some played. Instead of rising to pull the next stake, he stayed crouched, which made the apes feel less threatened, or, that was the idea. He would play along, just a little bit longer.

In the hopes of salvaging this, he did volunteer more advice that wasn't going to amount to much. Hell, he'd even throw in just a tiny white lie to give the guy an out, calmy stating "If you think this is useful to you in some way, it isn't. I don't have anything to prove, and neither do you. You've been a fine ally and an able fighter; you can leave it at that. I won't say anything, you won't lose face with your companions."

A hand reached for his shoulder, to do violence. And that was the end of playing Christoph's game. Now they got to play Alexander's.

Footsteps came from around the corner of the canvas tent the party had been dismantling. Dick by the sound of the stride, and a not quite yell of "Chris? The hell'd you go?"

The hand over his shoulder closed in, intending to haul him up, the other cocked back to sucker punch him, a glance was all he needed to confirm the situation.

"Chris!? No, don't touch him!" Came Dick's warning too late.

At the faintest pressure of Christoph's palm, Alexander pulled his Messer in a hammer grip, flipped the blade up, and drove it into Christoph's guts behind him, twisted to line the blade up, then threw his arm forward to open him along Talon's edge in a smooth motion the man hadn't even seen. Gibbons he'd gone out of his way not to kill. The man behind him got no such consideration.

Slopping of guts behind him, and Christoph starting screaming. Alexander did stand then, turning to face the eviscerated Adventurer.

"Last piece of advice," He told the dead man without emotion, "Don't assume you're playing the same game everyone else is. Fighting isn't my thing."

Much could be forgiven. Weakness, sloth, wrath, poor judgment, even cowardice. But he had in him no countenance for a man who would turn on his comrades when he thought he could raise his stature, using their temporary weakness as a springboard in some lunatic bid to appear powerful, to become powerful. Betrayers betrayed; it was in their nature.

"Ranger Gerifalte, stop!" Marvin ordered, and the blade that was starting its decapitating stroke halted.

Alexander tilted his chin toward the Marid soldier, meeting his dark eyes with his own. Christoph was on his knees now, trying to pull his intestines back inside. A waste of time.

"You sure?" the Venator asked, not particularly concerned, "He's pretty much worthless now, even if he makes it. Nobody's going to team up with this guy when word of this gets out. And, I hate to break it to Dick and Crow, but this guy is going to get them killed. At the least."

He gestured with the other hand at Dick as he predicted that last part, the one that wasn't lifted to solve a problem. Dick was a good man, so was Crow Cries Under Moon. It wasn't their fault they were loyal to garbage.

Marvin shook his head, his gaze holding the younger man's, "I know. Which is why he's done, this moment forward. I'll have his papers drawn up before dark. But we don't execute people in the field without following Protocol."

Ah, rules again. Not his, but that was fine, he'd signed up for this.

"Your call, Captain." Alexander agreed, slinging the blood off the blade before flipping the war knife down and throwing it home into its sheath, "But somebody else is going to have to put him back together. He's dead to me."

Marvin Pruitt let go the breath he was holding, and the spell he had prepared. Chain of command was important. Discipline was important. He couldn't fight with someone he couldn't rely on, no matter how talented. That went for both Christoph and Alexander. A man of principle, Marvin Pruitt, he applied the same standards to everybody. For some reason he didn't feel like going to the aid of the mercenary though. Sometimes stupid paid its wages. Marvin had a feeling this was an earned manslaughter, even if he'd stopped the gratuitous killing blow. This too, gave him a Captain Ecklund vibe.

Dick ran over to his former comrade, started helping, as best he could. The mercenary had pulled this little stunt without even having Crow hold a ticket for him, just in case. Not his problem anymore, there was a camp to break down. The Outsider was pretty certain he wouldn't be back with these people, even if the idiot lived, which he wouldn't, outside a miracle. Alexander's second blow was mercy, not death. Death was the first one.

Heavy footsteps stomped over and Grace announced herself, "WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!" while she tucked her shirt. She pulled up short when she saw the mess, and said simply, "Oh."

"Chris?! Oh god, what? Why?" Crow had seen her bleeding party mate and come running.

Bitterly, Dick spoke up, "He let his prick do his thinking again, that's what! The fuck were you thinking man? Look at that bastard, this is why you don't do this kind of shit around those monsters, you hear me?!"

Monsters? That remark caught him up short. After a week of fighting together, he was surprised to see such attitudes. Alexander took a second to think about that. In point of fact, he did have little in common with Normals. Probably as little as some of the Otherkin, like the Elves, Dwarves, and Gnomes. Tier three was a few degrees of separation from the old humanity. He accepted it, because it was the only way humanity survived in any form going forward. At some point, not long down the road, Normals wouldn't exist. Children were born at tier two, with cores and bloodlines in evidence, not requiring a dungeon core's energies to light the inner fire of their magic, as it had been for those who had emerged after the Pulse. Was that so very different than tier three?

Maybe. But, looking at the two Adventurers who'd decided to cripple their growth by refusing to advance, who were leaning on the nigh immortality provided by their third member for reasons that should offend her greatly, fear of becoming inhuman, he found himself disdainful. They were less than they could be, on purpose. Less useful. Less capable of championing humanity against the dungeons. They didn't Walk the Path. Alexander left the unworthy behind, getting back to the task at hand.

He was joined by Grace who was in her casual wear, for lack of any better options.

"Care to explain?" She asked, not accusing, just wanting to know what offense earned getting your insides made outsides.

"He's a predator." Alexander summarized the situation succinctly while he pulled the next stake and wound its support cable.

"I noticed it in the way he went after you, the way he behaves around people, even how he treats his party mates. Those two, they're legitimate, they care. They have their own problems, but they're good people. Not him. He's constantly trying to find ways to climb over other people. It was fine while it was just social shit, but today he wanted to try something more aggressive, when he thought I was too tired to do anything about it. He thought I was the weakest one of the bunch." Alexander explained.

The Oread woman narrowed her blue eyes at him, "What's this have to do with me?" She asked, suspicious.

Alexander didn't know how much he should say. He wasn't a mind reader, and he didn't like dealing with people very much. But he could be perceptive towards certain things; disingenuous folk tended to have tells that stood out to him. Did Grace really want to know? When in doubt, ask.

"You really want to know? You might not like the answer." He warned.

Hands to hips, the superman pose. Uh oh.

"Yeah, give it to me, I'm a big girl." She demanded, then scowled at the phrasing, which brought a hidden smile to his face when he looked down to "concentrate" while he wrapped the cordage.

"It was a status thing. Peacekeeper. Officer. Lady in charge. And, yeah, your size was part of it, you're big, powerful, beautiful. In his calculus that made you a kind of trophy. Someone worth targeting. So was the cheating. He threw you away, it was a way to make you less and him more, a dominance sign, like you weren't worth his attention. He was "killing you" but in a social fashion he could get away with. Like I said, a predator." Alexander said, hating to inject more pain or embarrassment into that situation than his friend had already had to suffer.

She chewed her lip for a second and he finished the stake, putting it aside and rising to go to the next, this one would bring the top of the tent down, collapsing it.

Grace followed along, collecting the wrapped stakes, putting them in a bag made for that purpose.

"I beat the mortal piss out of him for that." She remarked, "How's that give him status?"

Alexander raised up on his haunches and held one hand to his chest, the other to his head, "Because you're fucking huge, Grace. He didn't stand a chance. You beating him up didn't matter, because of course you could. Just another page out of the playbook, here he is standing up to the belligerent, jealous Peacekeeper. It's the type of shit that went on in high school, just twisted. I saw a cheerleader do the same thing to her 'boyfriend' once, abused the shit out him, constantly, eventually he snapped, hit her. She rode that horse until his life was destroyed, forget about what she'd been doing to him for a couple years. He was a pariah after that. No excuse, everybody that wasn't him said. His family moved away after that. It's the dark side about small towns people that live in them don't like to admit."

Graduating early from high school had been an easy decision thanks to shit like that. He had no interest in dealing with that level of nonsense. Oh, how the fates do laugh at our efforts to escape the worst tendencies of our kind.

They continued pulling stakes until the supports of the tent were down. The huddle of hired Adventurers continued their own little pow-wow, probably trying to save a man who would have thrown the other two under a bus if he'd been completely certain it wouldn't backfire on him. Alexander wasn't the only person who had an excellent bullshit radar, and the guy knew it, hadn't wanted to risk offending the only people he could ride to better position.

"Alexander, are you pretending to be autistic or something?" Grace the Graceless asked.

He laughed at that blunt question. The idea had occurred to him, on a few occasions. Most of the literature indicated that he wasn't though, just smart, somewhat of a social klutz, and deeply traumatized. Grace might not realize it, but the two of them were very similar, she was just a touch better at people generally. A little worse in some ways too though, like misreading Christoph's interest in her.

"Nope. I just checked out of most human bullshit about six and a half years ago. Eyes on the prize, Grace. I want to undo the Pulse, I want to kill all the dungeons, I want my parents unpetrified, I want my family uneaten by monsters. I don't have time for people that act like we aren't in a war for our existence. And people that think violence is how they will compel me, will receive violence in turn. Only, I don't fight." He explained, clarifying his position pretty neatly as they straightened out the mass of canvas for the pattern of folds that would compactly store it.

"How about you?" He asked, considering the various rather blatant violations of social norms or mis-readings of seemingly obvious social cues he'd witnessed from her over the past few weeks.

"No. Or, at least nobody seems to make too big a deal of it. If they did, I'd smash them though, so maybe that's my fault." She confided, pulling taut the fabric, then giving it a sharp shake to throw the kinks out of it.

For a minute they worked, efficiently processing the series of folds to stow the canvas. His stomach rumbled, loudly, and they both traded the understanding look that only people who were always hungry shared before continuing to pack away the large canvas shelter.

"Eyes on the prize, huh?" Grace eventually said, after they finished lashing the bastard canvas main tent away, just three more, thankfully smaller, tents to go.

"So, you didn't cut him open for two-timing me." She double checked as statement more than a question.

"Nope. I did twist the knife after I stabbed him while thinking of you though." Alexander told her, completely deadpan.

"My fucking hero." The Oread grinned at the odd Outsider, "That guy might not be wrong. I think we might actually be monsters."

Alexander did laugh at that.

"Grace, I hate to break it to you, but casual inspection of any history book will tell you we didn't need the Pulse or tier three to achieve that. Them other fuckers? They're just afraid to wear it. Me and you and Marv and the rest? It's our Sunday finest."

Half an hour later they had finished disassembling the camouflaged canvas tents, leaving only the trenched earth to evidence the temporary camp on the ridge. Gear in its bags and boxes was stowed, lashed to sturdy sleds for easier hauling down the hill back to the bridge encampment.

Marvin approached the them, looking like he'd bitten a lemon.

"Well, he didn't make it." The Officer said, although his tone didn't exactly sound like that was a tragedy.

Alexander nodded. He could have told them that a while ago. He didn't fight. It was the Adventurer's fault for assuming that other people had to play along with his little pissing contest, for assuming that there would be no consequences. Christoph hadn't been the first to make that mistake, and wouldn't be the last, probably. Some folk needed killing, before they got better folk killed, and that was all there was to it. Not doing so let a psychopath lead two thousand people into the grave for no reason. There would be no second Safe Harbor while he lived, no more Gary Lee Harvard, Butcher of the North's.

"The other two, they went on ahead, my blessing, took a sled of stuff to help out when they went. They aren't deserting, they'll find a place in the bridge fortifications to help the cause. They just won't be assigned to forward positions or units that leave the prepared defenses, is all." Captain Pruitt told his fellows, wondering if there was any regret for this at all in his companion warrior.

"For the best, they deserved better. He'd have killed them, sooner or later." Alexander told the older man, as sure a bet as he'd ever placed.

So, the Winterwind Magus had an answer to that tiny, little question.

"Yeah, probably," Marvin agreed, scrubbing his beard, "But that's not our prerogative. Charter dictates good cause. What am I putting in the report? I didn't see the event, just the aftermath."

Alexander narrated verbatim the series of events exactly as they had occurred.

"Killed him because he touched your shoulder?" Captain Pruitt said, skeptically.

A shake of feathered hair, "Killed him because he was attempting to assault an Envoy of Falcon's Rest in the execution of their duties. Killed him for violation of his Contract to do nothing knowingly to attempt to bring harm to his comrades. It's why I let him touch me first. Could have opened him up pretty much whenever, but didn't until then, since that fulfills the attempt part. It's legal. I follow the Contract to the letter."

Captain Pruitt's lips pursed, then he nodded.

"Assault of a superior officer in war time is a capital crime in the Peacekeeper charter. Good enough. I need to know though, this isn't something you're going to make habit of, is it?" Checked Marvin, asking not just as a commander, but as a friend.

"First it's happened since I got to New Chicago, isn't it?" Alexander reminded him, which mollified the senior warrior.

Nobody had died tangling with their Outsider guest, not the citizens who'd tried to mob him with clubs, hammers, and wrenches, not Gibbons and Howard who got overly enthusiastic on gate duty, not three drunk idiots who'd kicked over his table in a mess hall in Springfield, rowing at the nearest convenient target.

"Well, you did sorta stab Gibbons." Captain Pruitt mentioned, almost in passing.

That was easy to wave off, after weeks with the Peacekeepers, it had become an oft repeated adage that everybody wanted to stab Gibbons sometimes. Even if they had to walk to the midden heap he was tending to do it.

Alexander smiled a little at that bit of guild culture, and held his fingers an inch apart, saying, "Just a little bit! He got better. I'd never accidentally murder anyone."

"Uh-huh, just on purpose." Marvin Pruitt stipulated, not quite believing he was having this conversation.

"Ayuh." Alexander agreed, glad that they'd straightened this out, it was important that folk understood each other.

Whilst massaging the bridge of his nose, the Marid leader turned to his protégé and said, "Well? Awful quiet on the western front, anything to add Captain Miller?"

Grace narrowed her eyes after a few minutes, "Bastard had a pair of my knickers in his kit I hadn't got back from him yet. I'm going to police those when we get back to base."

Captain Pruitt, with defeat in his tired voice, beseeched the skies for answers, "Why God? Why are both of them like this? I just wanted to build furniture and get old. Shit! Why does it have to be this way?"

It was the Oread woman who offered the answer, "Only two ways to improve the breed Marv. They both start with an 'F', and that asshole chose door number two. When we get back to camp, I'm gonna take this weird bastard to my tent and choose door number one."

That was news to Alexander, and he straightened out of his tired slouch.

"When did that happen?" He asked, too wrung out to offer much resistance, and with a witch's dark prophecy in his coat pocket foreseeing the inevitable.

"When did that happen?" Marvin echoed, with slightly different emphasis.

Grace rolled her eyes at the two ignoramus, ignorami, whatever you called two dense clods, and growled "Sometime between getting donkey kicked in the tits by a demon spider and fucking dying today, that's when. Take your bets."

"Soon as this is over, I'm putting in my papers. Gonna retire to a farm somewhere. I'm too old for this shit." Marvin complained, at long last saying the thing, before taking up his pack, stuffing the harness to the overloaded sled into his younger red cloak's hands, and glaring at the major source of his annoyance, even if that one had probably saved dozens of lives today, both by slaying monsters, and by the death of one flawed human.