Metrics Of Ragnarok

Log 37

"No movement, lieutenant."

Atlas flinched, unable to recall even his name– but for a brief moment. He looked up from the human skull he was using to sharpen his blade and stared at who had spoken.

It was Matthew, and not Gerrard, so this wasn't the time the MacMillan drew near. That would be almost two days from now.

Luckily.

"That's good, keep at it," he said, trying not to sound too commanding, because he was dealing with huge disdain here.

But for the orders of Achilles, none of them would accept a stranger as their lieutenant.

Atlas stood and walked towards the shabby hut at the edge of the kingdom's border. It was originally a war room for the army of this kingdom, but like most things, they were no more.

Now, it was a sort of haven for Atlas, his home. He got in and took a pen and his diary, or LOG book as he preferred it to be called, and began scribbling. The day was coming to an end, and he would need to be up all night as a sentry, so he'd better not waste this chance.

"LOG 37:

Ahh...the last log was horrible. I was barely able to survive three days, and worst of all, I died before Kael did.

And oh, he didn't die with a smile this time. I'm not even entirely sure how he died, but it must have been grueling.

And I should try to get over him now. No point fawning over a stranger.

This time, I don't plan to defeat MacMillan, just delay long enough for something different to happen.

Wish me luck :-)"

Atlas stared at his LOG book entry and winced. He wasn't exactly poetic, but his writing was just becoming downright stupid.

Well, it wasn't his fault, not entirely.

Those who could have taught him how to become the next Shakespeare didn't exactly fare well in this kind of dystopia, so yes, he was living in a world populated by illiterates.

He slid the LOG book into a termite-ridden drawer and got off his bed. By bed, that meant hay covered by treated animal skin.

He reached, drew a box out from under the bed, and opened it. It contained all he needed not to run insane this night:

Adrenaline injections– which were an alchemical liquid made to stimulate blood flow and muscle activity, at the expense of cell breakdown–, high caffeine content, pain relievers, and pills that drove the biting cold from his insides.

It wasn't healthy, but to be fair, nothing about survival was. He emptied a small sack, containing the used wrapping paper from the last trip– a trip that he never went on, and never existed.

Then he took a few of everything, locked the box back up, and pushed it under the bed.

"Time to relive the nightmare again...how fun."

But first, he needed to visit Achilles, thank him for how he's been helping, and maybe pick up some food on the way.

"Can I tag along?" Hope asked.

Atlas spun round, drawing his blade out and having it on her neck before he noticed the faint glow emanating.

"Damn it! I already had my axe up too; I could have hacked you," Atlas said, annoyed and concerned.

"Well, you couldn't. It would pass right through, and you'd just destroy your furniture again."

He huffed and sheathed his blade back, bending to pick the sack and conceal it inside the puffy coat he later put on.

"Atlas?" she asked, her voice sweet and melodic.

"No, you can't follow. The atmosphere is going to be grim, and I'm afraid you don't fit well in that kind of setting."

"Well then...see you there," she said, smiling, disappearing into the next gust of wind as she said.

"...yeah, I figured."

***

From his outpost home to the city gates was about a mile in between, and it was such a hassle to trek every time his tea got finished.

Worse, he had to endure the entourage of the coming blizzard today, and his padded coat just wasn't enough.

Nothing was enough to stop the cold, since Winter had lost. And now, Achilles was about to too.

An arrow tore through and struck the snow beside Atlas, as the kingdom sentries had seen him.

"Blue, blue!" he screamed, appealing to them to fire no more. Luckily, the wind was up, and not everyone had a gun to spare; otherwise, they may have alerted him with a wound in his chest and not silent boundary declarations.

"It's Achilles boy, open the gate," echoed the husk voice of someone on the walls. Atlas wasn't close, but he could hear the disgruntlement.

The gates pulled open with a sizzling sound. Frost usually formed around the bottom of the gate, making it incredibly hard to pull, so they connected pipes to it and blasted hot water through it anytime they wanted it open.

Atlas walked in and didn't even spare them a glance. He wasn't going to give them the chance to snub him again.

The kingdom looked bleaker every time he walked into it. There were fewer lit homes, fewer shops that actually looked functional, no children playing in the streets– although that might have just been because of the incoming blizzard –, fewer and fewer signs of human activity.

It could have been migration, but people typically migrated to places under the protection of the Xhosa, of which this kingdom was one of them. Besides, there weren't too many places to go to still, and going to the few usually involved getting killed.

He knew the reason, but he just... just hoped otherwise.

"Rats, she must be close by," Atlas said under cold breath, and he increased his pacing.

Achilles lived where all kings and warlords lived, in a giant castle overlooking the kingdom.

Atlas walked right in. Usually, there would have been a few dozen traps preventing people from having easier access, but those had been removed a day earlier, because it was wiser to fear Achilles as of now than protect him.

The castle was devoid of all its beautiful maidens, and what a bummer that was.

Atlas got to a door at the end of the hallway inside a hallway, and knocked politely.

"Come in," came Achilles' voice a few seconds later.

As he did, a young girl ran out, half dressed and incredibly fluttered. Atlas frowned.

"Atla–"

"My greetings, Valor. How wonderful to see your urges haven't failed you yet."

Achilles stared, then laughed wildly. "Even corruption cannot stifle the will of a hungry man, and I am not just any man."

"You are none at all."

"Or all of them."

"How long do you have left?" Atlas asked, a sudden change of tone in his voice.

The smile faded off Achilles' face. "Not long...a few weeks at best. The medicine priestess was found dead, so I'm on my own here. From your expression, I presume you haven't assembled my execution guillotine yet."

"That stuff doesn't work. I'll have to wait until after your death, and I haven't made any preparations for that. I still have the MacMillan to deal with the day after tomorrow, so I encourage you to keep alive."

"Oh, he will."

Atlas flinched. "Goddamn it, Hope!"