Chapter 2 – Major pain in the ass

  It has been two months since I blew up my hospital room sleeping. Since then, I have neither seen the old geezer that healed me from my initial coma, nor was I hassled too much by the researchers afterwards. All in all, I felt like I was on a retreat, being able to fully recover and even gain a lot of strength through mana nutrition and training sessions. Although, I did get practically robbed blind with the medical and repair bills I just received yesterday. A sour expression overcomes me when I think of the massive chunk of savings that I just lost. But I ignore my stinginess while walking down the hospital corridors towards the training field, being kindly greeted by most of the medical staff.

  It wasn’t a secret that the global big players like the USA were fond of SGEs, to the point that they paid not only insane wages but tried to lure them in with access to state-of-the-art training, medical, and production facilities. The Ramstein airbase wasn’t any different, and even though I am an unaffiliated freelancer, I was still allowed to frequent those areas. The icing on the cake was the joint training sessions with the Gjallarhorn people—that alone is a privilege only a few have access to. I was simply in the right place at the right time.

  I step outside the large hospital building, clad in the standard-issued mix of leather and iron gear I borrowed a month ago. I stop right at the entrance, stretch as much as my joints allow, and stare at the clear sky, enjoying the pleasant spring breeze. It sure is nice to be all patched up again, I think to myself.

  “Good morning, Bro!” a coarse-sounding voice calls out to me, ripping me out of my short tranquillity.

  It’s Marley, another SGE who is the newcomer of the Gjallarhorn special unit 8. I wave at the tall archer, who is clad in yet another exotic leather getup. I make my way towards him with an impish grin on my face.

  “Did you get in trouble?” I ask him while being greeted by a few of his team members.

  “What do you mean, dude?” Marley replies with a puzzled expression.

  “You know, when you robbed yet another Paris fashion week,” I clarify, getting a few giggles from the bystanders.

  He only sneers at my remark, looking at my rather plain outfit. “Said the guy who dresses like a medieval hobo-knight.”

  I overact being offended, grab the gloves from my belt, and throw them at his feet.

  “I demand justice, good Lords! This outlandish derelict has dared to mock my proud armour!” I declare, while Marley plays along, much to the amusement of his wrung-out looking mates.

  “I was afraid that our guest may have fallen into yet another coma, but it seems he is just a lazy bum again,” a soft voice calls out.

  Marley and his squad hastily fall in line, greeting their captain, Hinemoa Whaanga.

  She is the major of the Gjallarhorn platoon and a high-ranking US military officer. She may be in her late thirties, but good heavens, she is a testament to Māori beauty. Her silky black hair cascades down her back, ever so slightly dancing in the soft spring breeze, while long braids flow along her angelic face with plump, playful lips, emphasized by her traditional moko kauae chin tattoo. I was smitten from the moment I first met her, completely oblivious to how ice-cold and diabolical she tends to be—especially with strangers who blow up hospital rooms and stay on base for two months.

  I am not sure why, but she despises me with every fibre of her being, using every little chance to provoke and pester me.

  “Sadly, no coma, Major Whaanga. I doubt the heavens will bless me with another break anytime soon,” I reply while greeting her with a half bow, only receiving a contemptuous scoff.

  “Look at you, acting like your vacation is over because you train every now and then with us,” she rudely remarks, her eyes moving along her tired soldiers, inspecting both their gear and their form, also raising an eyebrow at the tall archer’s choice of clothing.

  She then gives the relaxation command while plucking the 7-inch tablet from her belt. Her uniform is akin to mine: a combination of leather and iron pieces for decent protection while not confining the wearer the way plate armour does. Although, my standard-issue gear pales in comparison to the expert-level craftsmanship that is evident in every little detail of her set.

  “The German Bundeswehr reported another dire wolf outbreak near Heidelberg, with an urgent request for backup. Gjallar-Team four and six are already deployed elsewhere, so it’s up to you to intercept the wave.”

  The impromptu mission briefings always follow the same pattern: first, the major announces the mission, gives the chosen unit their marching orders, and receives head nodding in return. Although I know for a fact that they are probably cursing their luck for having yet another deployment without proper time to rest.

  But no one here is crazy enough to complain in the face of their menacing commanding officer, especially not if that CO is among the strongest SGEs of their country.

  I stare at the lineup of soldiers and feel sorry for them, but orders are orders, I think, as I wait for an opportunity to excuse myself.

  “Requesting permission to speak, Ma’am!” Marley barks out like a desperate bloodhound—his easy-going personality replaced by a stern, almost feral version of himself.

  That woman really has a terrifying effect on her people.

  “Permission granted, greenhorn. Let’s hear it,” she replies, slightly perplexed, clearly not used to getting interrupted mid-briefing.

  He stands tall like a tower while holding his massive compound bow upright like a spear.

  “Ma’am, for the sake of both my comrades’ survival as well as that of the endangered citizens, I recommend we bench Rogers, Diaz, Carlos, and Milwaukee—Ma’am!” he practically shouts, drawing confused and fearful looks from his mentioned squad members.

  “Are you trying to tell me how to run my units, private?!” she replies, oozing a murderous aura that sends chills down my spine.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Marley is a brave son of a bitch, but even he starts to sweat like a pig, shifting his weight on his great bow to keep himself from collapsing.

  “No, Ma’am, I…” he stops, gasping for air as if running up a hill. “I would… never dare to… dispute…” Every word feels like it’s being forcefully dragged out of his lungs.

  Hinemoa releases her crushing aura, but her ember-glowing eyes remain. Marley falls to his knees, still gasping for air. His oversized compound bow drops to the ground with a big thump as she addresses the other members of the unit.

  “Does someone agree with the greenhorn’s assessment? Diaz? Milwaukee? Carlos, maybe?” she asks the practically frozen bystanders, but they are scared shitless.

  She lets the silence hang like a sword over their heads, making them more nervous by the second. Her burning gaze then settles on me, feeling like she is watching right through me.

  “Let us ask our esteemed guest. So, what do you think, deadbeat?”

  I roll my eyes, clearly not comfortable partaking in her power play.

  “I don’t think it’s my place to join the conversation since I am not part of Gjallarhorn… or the US military,” I explain as I hold onto the hilt of my sheathed standard-issue steel sword.

  “I didn’t ask you to put me to sleep but for your opinion, freelancer,” she counters my deflection.

  I let out a defeated sigh and put my hands on my hips.

  “I agree with Marley, Ma’am,” I sheepishly say, unsure if I should continue or not.

  “I can’t remember asking you to stop, and I am really running out of patience,” she adds impatiently, her anger clearly visible.

  “Of course, uh, sorry… uh, well, the sorcerers are showing early signs of mana overuse, while the close-combat personnel seem to be somewhat sluggish and hesitant to fight,” I pause, staring at the ground while scratching the back of my braided hair, unsure if running my mouth any further could get my new friends into trouble.

  “Well, the freelancer did make some sense for once,” she adds, almost disappointed. “So, you people want to stay tucked away in base, I hear?” She glances over her subordinates, gauging their reactions, but they only keep staring at the ground.

  “As our guest pointed out, you lot have become lazy and soft. That is not your fault but mine. It’s my error to correct, and I—WILL—correct it, I promise,” she continues in a growl, clearly thinking towards a dark place.

  “I can’t blame them,” I interject, already hating myself for not being able to shut up. “With such a lovely CO, I too would hate to leave base,” I say, trying to break the depressing mood with a cheeky remark.

  Naked terror is painted on the faces of everyone, as if they have just seen the Grim Reaper. I try to downplay the awkwardness with a laugh, but much to my dismay, the major’s patience truly runs out. She closes the distance between us in a flash, relentlessly gut-punching me across half the field. After flying and hitting the ground like a broken jet, I shakily rise to my feet, involuntarily parting ways with my late breakfast.

  Fuck me! I thought she was a magic-fight hybrid like me, not a full-strength barbarian.

  “You will address me properly, deadbeat!” she yells commandingly from a crouched position over 200 yards away. Signs of an incantation manifest, and cryptic runes surround her. Her eyes glow even more sinister now—but her beauty is still uncanny. I spit out another mouthful of blood.

  I grunt and wipe the grime off my mouth. High rank or not, I am not her plaything, I curse to myself, as I fail to contain my anger. After so many weeks of being pushed around and bullied, I cast away common sense and let the pent-up fury get the better of me.

  “I am very sorry. Of course, I will address you properly, dear Major Pain in the Ass!” I shout in her direction while I take off my sword belt.

  Since she is unarmed, I will be too. The pale faces of the Gjallarhorn members are truly priceless.

  “Won’t need this for you, love!” I add tauntingly as I throw my belted weapon in her direction, knowing how much she despises being doted on.

  A bestial laughter erupts from her in response.

  “Here she comes,” I mumble to myself as I stretch out my arms with clawed fingers, embracing both a flood of ambient mana and the thrill of my magic. My irises turn a bright gold-white tint with a soft glow.

  It’s time to see how much I’ve improved in the last months.

  I feel the sensation of the golden path again, forming in my mind’s eye and releasing me from all fears and doubts. Ever since my coma, I was able to tear down a few mental walls that had handicapped me for years. Among other things, I’ve gotten a better grasp of how to access and channel my magic more efficiently while not overtaxing my body. That reduced my crippling reliance on weapons and raw physical strength altogether.

  I even came to realize that the closer to death I am, the more alive and capable I feel. Major Whaanga is seething with rage at my brave facade; her bloodlust spikes to the point of flooding a substantial part of the airbase, clearly giving in to her anger herself. She doesn’t waste a moment after completing her incantation and shoots off from her crouched position like a hellish tiger.

  I open my palms, and white-golden flames burst out, covering my arms like burning ethereal sleeves. I conjure one light-forged spear after another, throwing them at my incoming nightmare, but she either dodges them with ease or swats them away like annoying fruit flies.

  She is a genius and well-trained through and through—undoubtedly a whole world apart from me. But the more superior they know they are, the more careless they tend to be.

  She emerges as a blurry silhouette right in front of me, her speed almost too fast to track with the naked eye. She aims at my throat, ready to crush it like an empty soda can. I can practically feel her pointy nails just inches away from my skin. I don’t even try to escape her grasp; she’s too fast anyway.

  But she notices that I don’t even lift my arms as shields, and that is the very moment she knows: this was bait. Before her fingers find purchase in my jugular, all the dispersed javelins disappear in a flash of light and shoot out of my radiant body—a nifty skill I developed with the crystal Golem in mind. The enraged huntress gets impaled quite a few times, but not a single spike manages to penetrate her skin to a dangerous degree.

  “Clever, you joker, but your toothpicks are not nearly strong enough to hurt me!” she spits mockingly while breaking the spears by simply flexing her rune-covered muscles.

  “I knew I couldn’t get through that thick skull of yours,” I retort through gritted teeth as my eyes start burning with a whitish fire.

  Her eyes shoot open in surprise. I clench my fists and scream from the depths of my soul, releasing an absurd amount of light mana that I enhance with my ancient magic affinity. I go off like a bomb, pushing myself beyond my limits. After moments of pure force and luminosity, I realize I am on my knees inside a little crater, desperately holding on to my fading consciousness. I look out for Major Whaanga, but I see nothing—only the large crowd of soldiers, SGEs, and medical staff that has assembled to witness the fight from a safer distance. My body feels completely trashed; I can’t even stand up to look around—my fearlessness replaced by sheer dread.

  “Are you looking for me?” the soft voice of Hinemoa jump-scares me.

  I glance over my shoulder with a sore neck, seeing her bleeding but smiling from ear to ear. My attack was by no means weak, but besides a few shallow wounds and tattered clothes, she seems perfectly fine.

  “I think you dropped this,” she says, holding up my sword belt. “You should be more careful with your borrowed equipment, you know?” she lectures me with a sweet and calming voice, bent forward while rubbing my shoulder.

  Every muscle in my body seems to be torn apart; I can barely sit upright. I am just relieved that the fight is over and the major has calmed down.

  “I will, Major Whaanga, thank yo—”

  The artificial leather of the belt hits my face with the ferocity of a thousand whips. Before I can even grasp the situation, she strikes me again and again.

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T NEED THIS, LOVE?!” she screams mockingly, while imprinting the very design of the belt on my body.

  “MAJOR PAIN YOU SAY?!” she keeps screaming and whipping me into another blackout.

  If there ever was an example of ‘play stupid games, win stupid prizes,’ the Ramstein airbase was just witness to it.