Aristomache and Adam continue her stroll

“Its not my fault Adam, they started it. I was out having a walk, and this ‘heartless brute’ here decided to have some fun with me. So, I obliged. Can’t vouch for them, but I had fun…”

Adam jumps off the dumpster with the agility of a cat, and lands as silently as a snowflake. To watch him fight, defies belief.

"Actually baby cousin, you did start it. You started this war. So, in effect, you caused this fight too.”

“Don’t talk semantics with me, and stop calling me your baby cousin. You know I don’t like it. I’m not a baby! I haven’t been one for almost two thousand years! I wish people would remember that!”

“Ok, fair enough, my bad. So, what were you doing out here any way Aristomache? There is no war left here, its passed through. You not looking to pick a fight with any Wraiths are you? You know how possessive they can get about bodies.”

Wraiths are another inhabitant of the spirit realm. The collectors of the dead, or soon to be. They go around in groups, as they are basically very weak unless there is a death for them to fed on. Then, they become frenzied, and like to fight. Some are stupid enough to try and pick fights with War Spirits. This is where Adam comes in. He not only fights in the physical world, but he is a commander of his own militia back in the spirit realm. It’s not enough that war is fought in the physical world, but its also fought in the spiritual one. A truce has existed for almost 500 years. Basically, if the Wraiths ignore the War Spirits, the War Spirits will ignore the Wraiths, and the status quo is maintained.

“No, I was just having a look at what I’ve accomplished so far. Dad is going to be so impressed with me. It’s better than anything Garfield ever managed, the loser. All he is good for now is helping out around the house.”

Adam shrugs his shoulders, and prods a corpse with his boot. He wouldn’t ever tell Aristomache, but he had been extremely impressed as he watched her deal with these humans. He has killed thousands himself, maybe hundreds of thousands. When you get to eight thousand years of age, like he has, you have been around and seen it all. Humans can still surprise you though. He had lost more than one friend, who had underestimated a human in a fight. But, Aristomache had taken down 11 of them, single handed, in less than a minute. And she’s only a kid. Yes indeed, her dad will be pleased with her.

They walk out of the alley.

Adam, six foot tall, muscular, the typical physique that the renaissance masters chiselled into marble. Across his back, a large tattoo of a dragon face looks out from beneath his sword. His Katana. He likes the traditional weapons. Besides, it was made for him by a master sword-smith at the height of the Samurai era, so it holds sentimental value too. His helmet is a Spartan warriors one. He liked those blokes. Really embraced the lifestyle of a true warrior. Some of his closest friends in the War Spirit realm came from those days. His body armour is of Roman lineage, but with his own twist to it here and there. Some metal pieces replaced by leather or fabric, and vice versa. He does like to wear modern cargo pants though. Combat trousers. Plenty of pockets to keep things in. Old army boots complete his ensemble. They are worn in enough to feel like he is wearing slippers on his feet.

His hair is jet black, and his eyes are emerald green. A real lady killer. The Valkyries and Amazons always make a beeline for him in the parties. His only feature that he doesn’t like, is the scar that is on his face. He was lucky not to have lost his eye. The sword swipe had been just that right amount of distance to have cut him deep enough to scar. A centimetre further away, it would’ve missed completely. A centimetre closer, goodbye eye. Bloody Trojans. He was glad to have torched that city in the end.

That isn’t his only scar, but it’s the one he resents the most. His favourite, is the one, well, two really if you want to be technical, on his waist. He calls it his ‘through and through’, it always gets a gasp from the ladies. A Native American Indian had almost bested him in a fight by being damn sneaky, and run a spear through him from side to side. Took a while explaining that when he got home, and he was the butt of loads of jokes from the boys for years afterwards.

Stood next to Aristomache, he dwarves her in sheer size. His thigh is the same size as her waist…

Aristomache Gaia Vondaraan. The youngest daughter of Atrimus Vondaraan. Not quite twenty-one hundred years old, yet. Five foot and three quarters of an inch tall, petite, some may say. Elfin faced, very pretty, delicate features framed by a head of fiery red hair. Her dad doesn’t like the way she dresses, but, as she points out, its how the youth of today dress. His fashion sense betrays his age. He can be so embarrassing turning up to a party in nothing but a loin cloth…its not like he has the figure for it anymore either…

“So why are you here anyway Adam? I thought you were off recruiting for your newest militia or something?”

Adam squats down, looking at a piece of rubble that looks kind of like a face, if you turn it sideways.

“Oh, I still am. The Sisters of Fate told me that there would be a ‘person of interest’ here for me. Well, not here, but over on the coast, where the current fighting is. When I heard you were here, I thought I would pop over and say hi, see if you wanted to come along too? Feel up for it?”

The coast was about thirty miles away. The fighting could be heard, if the wind was blowing in the right direction. She had been over there last, a few days ago. Plenty of carnage, no need for her to push it along at that point. But, still, keeping an eye on proceedings wouldn’t hurt none.

“Lead on sport. I was getting bored here anyway. One bit of rubble looks the same as any other after a while, don’t you think?”

They cover the thirty miles in about two hours. As they ran, they played a game that they had played since Aristomache had been little, and Adam had babysat her. They try and come up with the best warrior, of all time, and have to include his weapons too. When they get to the coast, an argument is in full swing…

“Look I don’t care. You can’t have a Klingon, ‘cos they aren’t real. Its like saying you want to have the Predator, or the Terminator or something. Same for weapons. Nothing fictional, no laser rifles or plasma cannons or nuclear grenades, that’s just being silly. So I win this round with my Ninja-Spartan, armed with a katana and throwing stars.”

“Humph. Well, can your ‘Ninja-Spartan’ dodge bullets? Or throw a star up to a mile? My sniper would shoot him before he even knew he was there. Klingon or not. You always go for that Spartan slant Adam, its getting predictive you know, and you should try a gun one day too. Bloody traditionalist.”

The smile on Aristomache’s face reveals that she has yet again succeeded in winding Adam up. All she needs to do is have a dig at his swords and whoosh, he goes off on one. After almost a thousand years, you would have thought he would know when she was teasing him.

They sit on the edge of a crater, atop a rise that has been laid waste, and look at the ending of a one sided battle below.

“There’s my boy. End of that trench on the left, see? Looks like the sole survivor of his unit. Lets see if he fights till the end, or gives in and accepts it.”

Down below, the human that Adam had come to see, is preparing for his death.

Private First Class Ron Ward. Second Infantry Regiment, is preparing to die. He knows it. He doesn’t like the idea, but hell, what can he do. The enemy don’t take prisoners, and from the stories he heard, they like a bit of torture. That wont be how he goes, no sir. They want him, they will have to kill him.

He has checked the bodies all around him for ammunition, grenades, anything, but it had all been used up in the last attack. That was when he realised he was the last of his Squad. Last of his Platoon. Hell, last of the Company and Regiment. He ejects the magazine from his rifle, knowing what he will see. Still only two bullets. He had hoped by some miracle they may have fallen in love and had babies, and made hundreds of bullet babies for him. No such luck. After two shots, he will be left with his entrenching spade, and his bayonet. So be it. He resolves to go down swinging, and to make them pay for his death, with some of their own.

“Bet you a weeks chores that he gets killed in less than five minutes”

Adam looks at the human, then looks at Aristomache. He wrinkles his nose, as he does when thinking.

“Ok, you’re on. One weeks chores he dies after five minutes. But. If he lives…you have to sing at your party next Thursday…”

Aristomache groaned. It would be just her luck the bloody human would survive just to embarrass her.

“Oh, alright, it’s a deal. Did you bring any food, ‘baker-boy’, I’m famished”

Adam digs out some cake from one of his big pockets and hands it over.

“Hey-up, here we go. The attacks starting…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End

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