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Zephyriah Beccaria

Tuesday August 3rd, 2027, 9:05 AM

The silence rang in her ears by now. She lurked for what felt like a slow-moving eternity. Despite the fluttering of her anxious heart, Zephyriah kept her head low, her body cloaked by the mysterious aether that she controlled, and her projected spear clasped in her delicate fingers. The moment would come, she knew, and after years of attempting, she knew that waiting patiently for that moment would be infinitely better than charging in without a clue. The impulsive side of her had spoiled many hunts.

Zephyriah wore the projected aether shroud like a cloak, forcing it to slither around her body in the quietest, softest manner she could conjure. That cloak blended into the background—all of the rubble and ruin around her. On one hand, the debris served as great cover; there were simply so many shapes and textures that even the deer’s acute eyes could hardly catch all of them. On the other hand, the wreckage was painfully difficult to emulate, and she knew that she had to do it slowly, because even the slightest ripple in her disguise could send the animal scurrying down the nearest back alley.

And she knew better than to follow things down back alleys; they simply weren’t safe.

With the slightest of perceptible movements, Zephyriah keenly cocked her arm back, steadying her projected spear for that perfect strike. She knew that it was simply impossible to move at all without leaving some mark, some indentation, some iota of evidence to the keen enough observer. So instead of worrying about the tiniest of faults in her cloak or the smallest of sounds from her movements, she instead trained her mind on her aim. She had done it so many times before, rearing back her arm at that perfect angle so she could strike the beast in the side, resulting in a painless kill and an early return home with food for the week.

She shifted her weight to her back foot, readying herself for that critically important throw. If her spear found its mark, she could finally end this game of cat and mouse and look forward to a good meal of roasted deer. If her spear missed, she would probably go home hours later, likely empty-handed. But she had no time to think of those possibilities now. Now, she must act like the hunter, with an empty swath in her cloak just wide enough for her light blue eyes, and arm reared all the way back, ready to spring that deadly weapon upon its mark.

One last time, she lined up her sights, adjusting ever so slightly as the creature grazed on some patch of earth. She moved as it moved, until at last, the beast was still… It popped its head up, swiveling its head back in forth as if gazing upon some intruder—had it seen her?

Zephyriah released her weapon. The spear, composed entirely of her aether, acted notoriously like a real weapon. It sung through the air as she heaved it, whistling its descending tune as it moved away from her. Her aim was true, and the weapon sailed effortlessly through the air, embedding itself into the creature’s side. The sharpened point slid in easily, and the creature’s aura instantly faded, its body keeled without a sound.

So then why did she hear a cry?

From the shadows of the alley, a hideous creature sprang forth, eyes and skin peeling and rotting. The monster, bounding on all fours like some revoltingly twisted man, sprang upon the fallen creature and bared its teeth, reaching to bite at the vulnerable skin…

But Zephyriah was faster. With a feline pounce, she burst towards the Walker, a sword projected into her hand where the spear had been just moments earlier. With a deft cleave, she sprang upon the abomination. It barely had the time to turn and look up at her partially cloaked aggressor before she swung. The blade, though just a projection, felt real in her hands, and the subsequent impact when the edge met rotting flesh also felt real. She hewed stiffly, and with a piercing inhuman cry, the Walker’s head rolled from its decaying body.

It was her catch, and she wasn’t going to let some intruder steal it away.

__________________

Cosmo Grimaldi

Downtown always seemed to produce a smoky, dingy smell. Even after several years of meandering through Manhattan’s collapsed buildings and craquelured streets, Cosmo never got used to the smell. Part of him, he figured, must have wanted to retain the significance of that odd, slightly off-putting sensation, perhaps to serve as a reminder about the significance of the island. Just a year before, Cosmo’s great successes all seemed to come in relative anonymity in Queens, and Manhattan served as the conspicuous exhibition of his military failures. Manhattan continued to remind him of his shortcomings as a Golden Banner lieutenant, boldly taunting him with that distinctly strange smell.

Maybe Cosmo would be better not to let those memories fade into obscurity, along with the infinitely many observations and recollections that Cosmo’s hyperevolved mind had come to capture. Maybe his very being had insisted upon Cosmo remembering Manhattan. Maybe there was something significant that he would do better to educe.

Whatever the reason, the Golden Banner’s prodigal lieutenant rarely stepped foot in Downtown Manhattan. When the Golden Banner wrestled the territory from the clutches of the Crimson Saber, Cosmo was not one of the principal orchestrators. He was not one of the lieutenants that returned to Noten Park with heaps of praise. Consequently, when it came time for Mr. Kingsolver to parcel out territories for his illustrious lieutenants to control, Cosmo drew Queens, and not Manhattan—not that he had a preference either way.

Yet, despite the rarity of his visits, the faceless stragglers seemed to avoid him instinctively. Cosmo did not have the renown of a Seneca Sepulveda, the presence of a Leon Chambers, the intimidation of a Gareth Richelieu, or the reverence of a Zinnia Almassy, but he still noticed the quiet recoils from the scurrying residents as he passed them. Maybe it was the sight of a confident figure striding down the center of a street in broad daylight, with no particular destination and no urgency in getting to wherever he was going. Maybe it was because people, upon looking at Cosmo, often got the dreaded sense that, beneath the handsome visage and charming façade, something… was… wrong.

But if there was anything wrong, Cosmo never took any of it to heart. Instead, he continued sauntering down the middle of the abandoned street, counting to himself the number of stragglers that made it a point to avoid him, peering out from their shelters as if believing that Cosmo could not see them. Instead, he continued to add to his mental tally, amused by the behavior of people from whom he seemed to drift further and further away, “Forty-seven—forty-eight—forty-nine.”

Not much could make Cosmo break his gallivant and stop to watch. Though he did not move towards any place in particular, and though he lacked accompaniment by anyone, the Golden Banner lieutenant did not have an ounce of fear in his entire body. In fact, depending upon their definition of the word, some would say that Cosmo Kingsolver had no fear at all—that he had lost the ability to show fear or be afraid. Certainly, the era where adrenaline would course through his veins and energize his fight or flight response was years in the past, but Cosmo dismissed those dehumanizing complaints as trivial matters. He had the power and cognizance to recognize the gravity of situation—to recognize danger—and to react with the proper strategy; that, he claimed, was just the same as fear.

As he continued to make his way through the deserted streets, Cosmo eventually encountered one of those rare sights that could legitimately halt his step and engage his attentions. Though the distance between the two was still long, and Cosmo could only see her because of his superhuman eyesight, he could clearly discern the sight of a slender woman, fingers clutching a blackened weapon that had just cleanly decapitated one of those pieces of “abstract art.” But unlike others, who used rusted iron or recycled metal, this particular woman seemed to have a marvelous weapon that she seemingly conjured from thin air.

Unveiling a peculiar tilt of his head, Cosmo lips curled into an inquisitive smirk. He was, at least, human enough for curiosity, and this woman was, at least, amusing enough for his interest…

Felix Dahl

Tuesday, August 23, 2027. 8:42 AM.

Aided by Felix's time manipulation, the spindly legs on the band of cockroaches zoomed faster than his eyes could follow. He let out a strangled breath, half sigh, half snort. In short order, they'd ended up in the safety of the shadows of another pile of rubble a few feet away—he would just disturb them again in a couple more minutes anyway. He knew he should not have wasted any energy on them, but they were gross enough that he thought it was worth it to have them out of his sight a few fractions of a second earlier.

The bugs were the only thing in the city that seemed to have recovered ably from the catastrophes of the past decades. As he kicked through the debris, he wondered whether there had ever been any damage for them to have recovered from. Hell, the roach population had probably benefited. Certainly they were able competitors for the remaining humans. At least they could make use of the junk in front of him as a hideout. It offered nothing to him, all useless fragments of brittle plastic.

Aiming one final kick at the worthless crap, Felix moved on down the line, where the cockroaches had gone. He was beginning to regret the trade, his companions for roaches. Certainly they had been grating on his nerves back at camp, but the roaches were just horrible company. They weren't even really digestible, as he had learned on one dispiriting occasion a few years earlier.

He was relieved when they did not put in another appearance. Perhaps his—adjustments—had been too much from them and made their legs fall off. He could, at least, hope. It appeared to be a rewarding activity: his fingers brushed something smooth and unusually cool as he sifted through the garbage. His mood shifted quickly as he wrapped his hand around the object and yanked it out with eager expectancy.

The motion dislodged a large cloud of dust and grit, attacking his unprotected nostrils and eyes before he could do anything to stop it. He sneezed eye-wateringly and effectively, clearing his nasal passages as dirty tears streamed out of his eyes. Swiping at them just scraped the remaining particles around and made things worse. "Shit..."

It was hard to stay annoyed for long, though, as Felix had, indeed, found a prize. With the city extremely well picked-over by the scavengers living there, it was rare to come across anything of any value, but here was a decent piece of metal, a tube that looked like it had once been part of a rolling desk chair. Felix shoved it into the bag slung over his shoulder. No doubt Adrian could do something nifty with it.

His spirits higher, Felix pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth. There was nothing he could do for his eyes. Well, he was used to living dangerously, he supposed, as he looked at the crumbly building around him. Liable to fall at any moment... And crawling with walkers, of course. He spotted one rounding a corner into the—well, it was a stretch to call it a room now, but it had been once.

Felix dodged out around the unfortunately animated corpse-thing, slowing it down to make his escape. He flitted out of the building, not even bothering to slow it down. With such a head start, he would be just fine, though he could hear the sounds of its shambling progress following after. Eventually, as he took several turns down vacant Manhattan streets, the sounds died away. Smart move, on its part, to go after more likely prey.