Metrics Of Ragnarok

All In!

Four steps back and this would be over; the monster would be under the ridge, and he could go home and record the first win he would have had in about a month.

The MacMillan was looking ragged, but ever ferocious. But it was basically harmless at this point.

Its species didn't grow claws on their paws and only had stubby glorified fingernails. They relied on their heavy biting power to hunt enemies, and unfortunately for it, it no longer had a functioning jaw.

That said, it could still break more than break their bones with a single pound if they got sloppy.

They wouldn't, but errors were bound to happen at some point, and Atlas would like for the battle to be over before that happened.

"All in!" he roared, signalling the terrain control team to surface– from seemingly nowhere– and join the fight.

The MacMillan swiped and threw someone a few feet in the air; it stomped and caught Kael's hand under its press, fracturing it; it roared and spluttered unholy spit onto their faces, but Atlas didn't let anyone back down.

The final stand was so feverish that the sniper elites instinctively abandoned their positions and jumped down to provide extra manpower.

Blades and bodies flashed, but no one cared about the pain, and kept clawing at the Macmillan's throat.

Then, Atlas noticed...the shade.

He looked up and found them under the ridge, far enough in to execute the last part of the plan.

"Retreat!" Atlas roared, watching everyone fall back as he attempted to engage the beast all on his own.

Even for a second, that wasn't possible, so he gripped his axe and broke apart two of the imbalanced rods.

The rest couldn't bear the weight, and the structure began collapsing.

The MacMillan rushed for Atlas, and punched him squarely in the chest. His wooden plate shattered and pierced into his chest.

In the last Log, that happened seconds before defeat. Now, it was seconds before victory.

He gritted his teeth and endured the pain as he flew out, streaking back past the ridge's shadow and landing on cold snow.

The ridge collapsed and buried the MacMillan underneath with a dull rumble.

Fog and wind boomed past, announcing the end of this enemy.

Atlas gasped for air. The wooden splinters had jammed into his chest, preventing him from breathing.

Kael rushed to him, helping to pull them out. He held Atlas' shoulder and tore the front part of his vest off.

"It's okay," he said. "Don't worry, we've got you, lieutenant."

Atlas couldn't hold back a weak grin. Kael had said this so many times, but for once, it actually meant the truth.

***

"Ahh... what the hell–"

He woke up on a bed much more comfortable than the one he had at home, but still felt restless.

It was probably the IV equipment connected to his hand. For a moment he thought this was Log 38, and it would have been a shame if it was, meaning he died after winning the battle, but luckily he wasn't.

It was the hospital, and for him, it was almost the same thing as dying. He hated the sterile smell the rooms had, and needles too.

"A dim candle was lit in the corner, barely pushing back the darkness, but its weak light didn't stop him from seeing the dead body beside his bed, covered in sheets.

'What a nice surprise.'

He turned to the other side and avoided the thought, especially since the figure oddly resembled that of his mother when she died.

No, not possible. It was definitely just him being paranoid.

A few minutes later, a nurse walked in holding a tray, followed by a few other people, most notably– apart from his cousin– being Achilles' personal guard, or student.

They had a weird relationship. Just like Achilles had with women.

"He is awake, everyone," the woman said calmly, revealing some injections she intended to administer to Atlas.

The lieutenant gulped. "Um, ma'am, I'm quite okay, and I won't be needing those."

The nurse chuckled, although she wasn't amused. "Yes, sir, I'm sure you won't, but the Lady of Desire insisted that I give you these, regardless of your protests."

'Damn you, Hope.'

The others who came to visit just filed along the wall, watching Atlas struggle to remain composed as he was given pain relievers.

Atlas wasn't weak; he usually took injections of adrenaline, but that was usually self-inflicted and done because there was no other choice.

Regular ones were just too scary. During his childhood, when a plague had ravaged about seven of the Northern kingdoms– of which only two remained– he had caught an illness that forced him to receive injections twice a day for almost a month, and that just scarred him really badly.

After that, the nurse instructed him to wait a while for the drugs to do their work before leaving, and in subsequent periods, not push his physique too hard.

He wouldn't listen to any of it.

"So, how are you feeling, sir?" Matthew asked.

"Nauseous, having a headache, usual stuff," Atlas replied dryly.

Everyone knew that was a fine sign, so dim smiles flashed across.

Atlas sat up. "While you are here, who is in charge of the sniper elites?"

Gerrard identified himself by stepping forward.

"Good," Atlas began. "Didn't I tell you and your team to hold your point, or retreat if necessary, and not join us in melee?"

Gerrard's eyes widened at the petty question. The fight was over, so why would he care, but still, he had to answer. "Um, sir, we thought the moment too dire not to intervene, since it was a sort of all-out last resort at the end."

Atlas wasn't convinced. "I'll see you guys when I return," he said, trying his best to hold his laugh. He smiled still. " Is anyone dead?"

"No. Kael over there is our only one injured, apart from yourself, that is. It was all minor bruises for the rest of us."

"That's good. Kael, I'll treat you to a drink when I have the time, you know, from one injured comrade to another."

Kael nodded. "Yes sir, I'll be clearing my schedule then."

"Don't hope on it, I'm a tad busy during the year, and there aren't days outside the year, so."

Kael chuckled.

Then Atlas turned to Achilles' pupil and asked:

"You know, I thought I was to be treated as a guest; why don't I have such a comfy bed back at my home?" Atlas asked, pointing at the hospital bed.

"Well, I believe it's because you no longer have a home."

Atlas raised a brow.

"What I mean is...the wind blew it down."

"What!"