Chapter 1
Scylla slowly lowers herself into a chair, attention never leaving the older woman as she spooned her meal into two bowls. She ignores her gnawing hunger, letting the food sit untouched as Willa joins her at the table.
Willa spreads a napkin over her lap, looking down. “You must have some questions-“
“No shit,” Scylla responds, jaw taut.
Willa spares her a soft laugh. The sound lights a fire in the younger woman.
“Does Raelle know?” Scylla blurts out.
Willa shakes her head. “No,” she plunges her fork into one of the mushrooms. “As far as she knows, I gave my life for the cause.”
She says everything so evenly. There’s no remorse in her explanation, and it’s fucking infuriating. To know Raelle has been tormenting herself over this woman’s death as she sits, alive and well, at the helm of the very cause the army is fighting against. For once, she takes terrible comfort in her parent’s deaths, because them being gone stings less than the thought of them choosing to leave.
“And leaving Raelle to die was a price you were willing to pay for the cause, right?” Scylla sneers. She ignores the small voice begging for caution. “She joined to make it quick.”
Willa’s expression hardens. “She didn’t join anymore than you did, Ms. Ramshorn. Which is precisely why I had to go. Do not pretend you understand what sacrifices I’ve made in my daughters name.”
This quiets the younger girl for a moment. She idly scratches her palm as it itches.
Scylla cries out as a burning sensation suddenly covers her entire hand. She looks at Willa, expecting her lips to be moving in some sort of fucked-up incantation, but finds only mild concern. The pain fades away slowly, but a stark realization springs to her mind.
“Raelle,” Scylla breathes tremulously. She traces an S along her palm, waiting for the familiar pressure of a response. “Something’s wrong,” she whispers.
Willa rises to her feet, crossing to stand in front of a mirror at the far end of the kitchen. Scylla pays her no attention, moving her finger along her hand over and over again. A lump forms in her throat as each subsequent attempt is left unanswered.
One of Willa’s lackies appears in the kitchen doorway a few hours later. He spares Scylla a cursory glance before nodding. “Alder is giving an address.”
Scylla follows the older woman into the den. Several dying lamps illuminate the space to dispel the night that had fallen over the neighborhood.
Tenants of the safehouse gather around an outdated TV set. A hush falls over the group as the general positions herself at a podium. The camera briefly pans to the older women stationed behind her.
“Tally,” Scylla gasps. The vibrant young woman Scylla had been introduced to had disappeared, replaced by a wrinkled, worn stranger. She stands stock-still, with a faraway look in her eyes. She disappears from view as Adler begins to speak.
“My team and I have returned from what was supposed to be an extraction mission in China,” Alder pauses as cameras flash around her. She swallows hard, and Scylla feels bile rise in her throat at her feigned sorrow.
“We suffered substantial losses when our unit was ambushed by an ancient enemy I had thought to be extinct before today.” Scylla’s breathing stops. She finds herself stepping closer to the screen, searching for a familiar flash of blonde hair. Or, hell, for Abigail.
Reporters start to yell out questions before she silences them with a raised hand.
“Attacks which were thought to be the work of the Spree were instead carried out by a coalition known as the Camarilla, who, with the barbaric slaughter of our kind, have twisted our work with the intention of using it against us. But, rest assured the witches of Fort Salem are prepared to fight a battle on two fronts, if needed.”
Alder stops, drawing in a breath as she grips the podium. She tears her eyes from the cameras, looking down. “Before I make my next statement, it is with great sorrow that I must announce the names of the fallen. To those who knew them, please know that they saved the lives of the entire unit, as well as the civilians they swore to protect.”
She pauses, and it feels personal. Deliberate. Her attention returns to the viewers.
“We at Fort Salem salute privates Abigail Bellweather and Raelle Collar for their sacrifice.”
-------
Raelle and Abigail walk until their feet can’t carry them anymore. They collapse somewhere a few miles away from where the Camarilla attacked them, reaching for their canteens and downing their meager contents. They lay there, their hands still clasped together. Afraid of losing whatever strange protection they’d conjured if they let go.
“What the hell is this?” Abigail finally asks.
Raelle lets out a weary laugh, though sobers quickly. “We should be dead.”
“I’m glad we’re not,” Abigail whispers. Raelle turns to see the other girl giving her a tired smile.
“Me too.”
They almost don’t hear the helicopter. It appears over the horizon, obscured by the heat before its colors come into view. An asset of the Chinese military. Not their ideal rescue, but welcome nonetheless. She and Abigail would endure whatever came next. A safe return, or imprisonment for espionage or some shit.
The two women spring to their feet, using the last of their energy to flail their arms at the incoming birds. As the two choppers maneuver to land, they fall to their knees. Abigail claps Raelle on the back. A superior and several guards spill out of the machine, guns drawn. Assholes.
His attention flits to the sleeves of their uniforms.
“State your business,” He commands.
Abigail puts her hands in the air. “Private Abigail Bellweather,” she nods towards the other girl. “And that is Private Raelle Collar. We’re operatives of the United States Witch Army, deployed on an extraction mission for a nomadic group. There is a hostile force operating in your territory. We evaded capture, but our team was forced to evacuate without us. Sir.”
For once, Abigail’s high-and-mightiness doesn’t make Raelle roll her eyes. The commander regards them for a moment, before instructing his men to lower their weapons. He motions two of them to their positions.
The men reach out to help them to their feet. “I got it,” Abigail and Raelle say in unison. They share a bemused glance as they back off.
The ride to the military base is silent. One of the troops offers them ration bars and small bottles of water, which they take gratefully. They disembark an hour later, rolling their eyes as the unit surrounds them as they walk. The floodlights illuminating the base pierce the night sky.
They’re led to what looks like an interrogation room. A metal table is bolted to the center of the floor, two chairs on either end.
“Seriously?” Raelle sighs. The guard closest to the door looks confused, motioning to the door. Raelle rolls her eyes. “Alright. We’re going.”
She follows Abigail into the room. The door shuts behind them, the echo dying quickly in the oppressive space. A one-way mirror takes up the entire left wall. Abigail leans against the table, crossing her arms. Raelle settles into one of the chairs with a groan. “Would it have killed them to put a cot in here?”
A corner of Abigail’s mouth twitches upward. “Only the really bad hostages get those,” she responds. “Alder will get us out of here soon enough.”
Raelle’s isn’t as confident. She thinks bitterly that the general would find better use for them as martyrs if she had sourced Petra’s tip to the president. “You’re sure about that?”
The other girl nods, raising a hand to wiggle her fingers.
Oh, right. The proverbial big-bang of a new world of witch powers. Alder wouldn’t let it slip away quietly if she caught wind of their possible survival.
“Right, wouldn’t want-”
Abigail interjects with a soft shhh before she can finish, just before the door swings open. The general who’d rescued them stands at the threshold, holding a tablet towards the two women. General Alder sits at the other end of the video call. She regards them with mild surprise.
“Bellweather, Collar,” Alder greets, quirking an eyebrow. “I couldn’t believe them until I saw it for myself. Are you well?”
Raelle and Abigail each give a weary nod. “Tired,” Raelle quips, brushing a strand of dirty hair from her eyes.
Alder hums. “Right. Well we have negotiated a deal with General Zuocheng for your safe return to Fort Salem. You should be transported within the hour. We can discuss your.. ordeal after you both get some rest.”
Ordeal. Discuss feels like too light of a word. Dissect feels better. Or abuse. Raelle scoffs inwardly, but plasters on a cursory smile.
“Thank you, General Alder,” Abigail responds. “We look forward to it.”
The older woman nods at the two of them before the screen goes dark. General Zuocheng looks kinder up close, though his features are worn just the same as Alder’s. The weight of the position’s secrets must be a universal burden. He holds up a hand to direct them out of the room.
Raelle lets Abigail take the lead, clapping a hand against her back.
------
It had been three days since their mission went awry. Immediately after returning to base, Alder offered Tally the choice of returning her to her youth. There were plenty more naive privates who would be willing to take her place.
While the thought of knowingly allowing someone else to serve the general’s bidding left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, she took the proposition. She hadn’t regretted her impulse to resign herself to the duty- it kept Alder alive, after all- but it had not absolved her of all blame. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that the release from biddy duty wasn’t unwelcome.
She sits alone in the mess hall, pushing her food around her tray for the second time of the day. Not much stayed down with her emotions as frayed as they were. She had felt them as they left. Fading slowly, and then abrupt silence.
The hostages had all released a rush of fear and adrenaline before they went. Raelle and Abigail seemed to have been consigned to oblivion. Here one moment, gone the next. It's enough to bring fresh tears into her already swollen eyes.
She starts as someone places a hand on her shoulder. Anacostia stands over her, composed as ever but with a buzzing fervor..
“Come with me.” she instructs. Tally immediately rises to her feet, dumping the contents of her lunch into a trash can on their way out of the mess hall.
“Is something wrong?” Tally inquires, keeping her voice low as the sergeant leads her out of the building.
Anacostia shakes her head. “Alder just received word of an incoming transport from the Chinese government.”
“Directly to Fort Salem?”
The drill sergeant nods. She comes to a stop beside one of the larger fields on the base. Alder and Petra Bellweather stand a few hundred yards away, talking amongst themselves. Petra glances at the sky every few moments. Some of the grief seemed to have disappeared from the General’s face- replaced instead with something else. Worry. Hope.
Tally lets out a tremulous exhale. “Is it-”
“I don’t know,” Anacostia replies intuitively. “Figured you’d want to be here, just in case.”
Tally nods, blinking fast to dispel the moisture that had sprung into her eyes. She reaches out to give the older woman’s forearm a grateful squeeze before standing at attention. The four women stand in silence for what seems like hours, straining to hear something beyond the grounds.
A faint whirring descends over them before they spot a bird at the far end of the base.
Each woman raises an arm over their eyes as the helicopter stations above them, and gently lowers onto the grass. The pilots switch off the ignition and spill out of the cockpit. Alder steps forward to greet them.
A door opens on the side facing them. A decorated older gentleman removes his hat as he steps out, greeting Alder with a curt nod before stepping aside. Two figures crawl out of the machine’s shadows, squinting against the midday sun. Disheveled. Alive.
"Oh my god," Tally whispers, before taking off in a sprint.
Just adjusting to the sun, Abigail and Raelle only have a moment's notice before Tally crashes into them, choking out a sob. Three pairs of arms wrap themselves around whoever’s close. The soft cries they let out have no distinguishable owner, and they stand there like that for a few minutes.
They pull apart to wipe their eyes, letting out thick laughs.
“You’re not old anymore,” Raelle sniffs, gently punching Tally’s arm.
The other woman lets out an incredulous laugh. “And you guys aren’t dead,” Tally whimpers. “Don’t ever do that to me again.” Abigail and Raelle chuckle.
The three of them turn as Petra and Anacostia approach. Abigail brushes her hand along Tally’s cheek before breaking away from the group to fall into her mother’s outstretched arms. General Bellweather holds her daughter tightly. She rests her chin on the top of her head as they sway against each other, eyes closed as silent tears run down her face.
In a gesture that surprises both of them, Anacostia pulls Raelle into an embrace. The younger woman’s shock quickly fades, and she eases into the hug, returning the gesture. Anacosta swallows hard as they pull apart.
“Thanks for keeping your word, Collar,” Anacostia praises, a corner of her mouth pulling upward.
“Always,” Raelle hums. She surveys the rest of the group. It only takes a moment for her to remember. Her expression shifts slightly as her attention settles onto Anacostia. The older woman sobers, but she nods.
She kept her promise, the implications of which Raelle would deal with later. For now, the assurance is enough.
Scylla is safe.