Day 5 Morning

[Red]

Pre-F2F

Trunks and Ammy—over the last few hours, he had gotten to know her well enough to refer to her by her nickname—stayed put. The temporary alliance with the mechanical creature's group—Kopaka? That's what he heard the Kai looking man with the receding hairline called him—ended as soon as the last battle came to a conclusion. They split off, and traveled east, murmuring about the warlock as they departed.

“So, what should we do?” Ammy asked.

She did her best to cater to her wounds. She used her moist tongue to lick her burns, calming the pain. It may have been a momentary comfort for the wolf, but it was one that Trunks wished he had at his disposal for when he had been cooked.

Trunks mulled over their options as he tended to his own injuries—a couple of wild gunshots, which struck him in his shoulder and thigh. The one in his thigh had gone right through, in the front and out the back, and missed every major artery; however, the wound in his shoulder was without an exit, signifying the bullet lay lodged somewhere in his bone or cartilage. He took the blue blanket from earlier and ripped it into two long pieces, bounding one around each bullet cavity. They turned purple quickly, infused with the color of his flowing blood.

“I don't know,” Trunks replied.

He glanced ahead. Barely visible past the collage of trees, the swordsman could still make out fragments of the group they had fought earlier—the group that Trunks had fought twice now, by his count, both times getting the short end of the stick. The robotic teenager and the two-toned mouse hunkered over their deceased teammate. It was disturbing. Not the attention they gave their fallen comrade, but the lack of remorse they exhibited; the forest was silent enough to drop a pin in. They just stared.

What're they up to? Trunks pondered. A mixture of anxiety and unease brewed in the pits of his bowels.

“I feel another battle coming,” he muttered as he glanced over towards Ammy. “Prepare yourself.”

The wolf's eyes bulged up. “Another one?” She stopped licking her front leg. “Why would they do that? Aren't well all on the same team here? I don't understand the senseless mayhem.”

All part of Teucer's plan, the swordsman thought, but reserved his opinion from the wolf. “Not sure, but there isn't any point in running, not in our current conditions.” He pulled his rifle from his lap and held it on his right side, index on the trigger. “Okay, so if—or when—they come back over here, I'm gonna launch a few of these grenades, then spray for dear life.” He looked back over at Ammy. “Hit them with your most powerful attack, and then get the hell outta dodge.”

One of the wolf's brow ridges curved upward, out of perplexity. “I don't understand.”

“Just give them a quick offensive, then run. I'll stay behind.” He checked the explosive compartment of his gun—four shells left. “I know what being roasted like a chicken feels like, and its no way to fight.”

“No,” Ammy retorted; Trunks whipped his head back to his ally. “I'm not going to leave you here to die.” The fire on her back rekindled, engulfing the disc on her back with a blue-hued flame.

Trunks smiled, and then nodded. “Let's blast these guys.”

“Hey!” a voice shouted from the distance. It was a familiar female voice, soft but with a hint of aggression. “Got a problem on your hands?”

Trunks and Ammy both looked over their shoulders. Behind them, the woman who had saved the swordsman's life stood. It was Orihime, and with two friends. One appeared borderline bipolar, and the other an adolescent with ebony hair. All three of them wore the decorations of battle experience—their clothes tattered and their skins scuffed.

Post-F2F

The third time against the Mouse Squad had proven not to be a charm; a new fusion left the swordsman laying on the ground. Stars winked across his vision like cigarette burns flashing on the corners of theater films. He went to stand, but sharp pains stabbed at the innards of his chest, and he collapsed on his side with a dull thump.

“Faaaaalllll baaaaaack!” one of his allies cried, and then repeated.

The ebony-haired teen dashed over to the swordsman, and slung him over his shoulders.

Trunks picked his head up and watched as his odd crew made haste behind him, following the teenager into the forest.

After they accumulated some distance away from the other 'Heroes', the ebony-haired teenager stopped. He gently leaned Trunks against a tree, and placed his firearm next to him. The rain finally started to gradually subside; however, it remained dark, and partially cloudy. Bolts of lightning flashed sporadically, cutting through the night sky, revealing a red dot perpetually nearing. It grew in size with every passing of lightning.

“I can't tell you how much I owe you, Orihime,” he said, giving the redhead a soft smile as he glanced her way. His body was battered to a pulp, but he was still alive.

“It's only right,” she replied. “You came to my rescue earlier, when I was outnumbered.”

“I shoulda gave them my all,” the adolescent growled. “Victor was a good man. He didn't need to die, nor did your wolf companion.” He shot a look towards the swordsman.

Trunks' eyes popped wide. “Ammy's dead?!” he exclaimed. He wildly swiveled his head in every direction, searching for the white coat of her fur. Nothing, but he distinctly remembered her retreating with the rest of them. “She can't be dead, she musta just got lost!” With an episode of coughs and groans, he mustered up the energy to reach down and grab his rifle, and then pushed off of the tree. A few of his coughs spit out wads of blood mixed with saliva, but he brushed his chin across the collar of his coat before anyone could catch notice. “I'm gonna go find her. She's still out there, somewhere.”

“She left when you were still phasing in and out of reality. Something about ending all of this. In her state, she be lucky to make it a half mile before dying.” the teenager countered. “There's no point in going after her.”

The swordsman had to try; Amaretsu would.

He went to walk forward, but Orihime threw herself in front of him, outstretching her arms to make a human barricade. “You can't go! If Sasuke said it's not worth the risk then it's not worth the risk!”

Trunks pushed her aside, and continued forward. “I'd rather try than let the guilt of not trying haunt me.”

“Let'em go, Orihime,” Sasuke said. He clapped his hand against her shoulder, and eased her away from Trunks. “He's a strong guy, I can tell, and I have no doubt we'll see him again.”

* * *

Trunks made haste as best he could, lumbering through the forest like a drunken senior citizen en route to the next bar still open. He stumbled more than a handful of times, but managed to return to persevere, albeit with his mangled ribs jabbing into his lungs each time. His emotions kept him driving forward, recounting each turn and bypass the group had taken in their withdrawal from the fight.

Stupid wolf, stupid wolf he told himself as he pushed every step forward. I told you to run. I told you to get the FUCK OUTTA DODGE! But no, you wanted to play the hero! You wanted to make sure I lived, or that we'd die together!

His eyes caught the stains of blood on the grass leaves. They were imprinted with the stamp of Amretsu's paws. Trunks was getting closer, but as he did his heart thumped harder and harder. It felt as if a drugged-up drummer pounded his drumsticks against his heart, and kicked the bass drum right into his mind. He felt the same way the day his best friend, Gohan, died.

Then he saw her. She lay nestled behind a line of bushes, curled up in a puddle of blood.

Trunks rushed over, tossing his rifle to the side as he fell to his knees in front of her. “No, no, no, no!” he yelped. His eyes stung as tears boiled up inside them, and spilled over in trails down his cheeks. He pulled up upper-body out of the blood and cradled her. “Wake up, wake up,” he muttered, then yelled: “Please!”

Ammy gave out a dry cough, and her eyes cracked open. “I'm still here,” she replied, in her usual pleasant tone.

Trunks smiled. “I knew you'd still be alive.”

“I went to go fight the Warlock. Get this over with, because the carnage . . . its too much.” She blew a wad blood-filled mucus from her nostrils. “Not sure if I can make it though. I feel so weak.” With a dry groan, she gestured over to her back, at the disc. It was still, and without a flame. “There's a scroll back there with instructions to help Teucer.”

Trunks never had any intentions of helping Teucer, or his mysterious objectives. The Spirit had nabbed him from the fountain, and forced him to sign his body over to an island of slaughter. If anything, the swordsman had intentions of confronting Tuecer, after all was said and done. But Amaretsu believed in the Spirit, and believed that fighting his opposition was the righteous thing to do.

For Amaretsu, Trunks would help the Spirit.

He picked her up from the ground and held her tightly. “This ain't over yet,” he assured. “Keep your scroll, cuz I'm gonna take you to fight this warlock.”

Warlock Challenge

The end neared, and Trunks could smell it; ahead stood the last resistance to Teucer, and the final conflict for those precious relics he yearned for. Trunks' failed to keep track of how many relics were already claimed, but the smoldering rock in the sky barreling towards the island all but confirmed this as the final confrontation—it was either defeat the warlock, or die in a blaze of molten remains.

All around, other 'heroes' had entered the fray—the Kai looking man, and his demonic sidekick; a one-eyed guy, accompanied by a confident blond dude; a woman with an octopus on her back jumped forward, along with a brown-haired individual; and the swordsman was sure to take note of the foursome that had made his life miserable this entire venture, as well. They all stood united, shoving their differences aside for the common goal.

“See, Ammy,” Trunks said, looking down at his partner; she sprawled in his arms, “everyone's come together for this.” He set her on the ground and brought his focus towards the threat. “Let me do the work this time.”

The warlock cackled as he spoke. His attire—a long, dark purple, robe—glinted with gold at every seam. He looked much like the Spirit (eerily identical), but the warlock's skin was pale, like death, and his eyes held torches within them.

The more he spoke, the more his right hand glowed. It lashed out like an aura, and encased his entire forearm. Instantly, he slammed his fist into the ground.

Decaying hands jutted up from the earth, clawing and grabbing at the air as they excavated themselves. There were plenty of them—the number mimicked the amount opposing the warlock.

Trunks readied his firearm, flicking the safety off, and pressing the butt of it into his armpit. The rest of the 'heroes' charged forward (some did so with battlecries, while other merely snarled), and jumped into the masses of undead. Limbs flailed around in the midst of the brawl—the little mouse beat a zombie, over the with his crowbar, until everything upward from its jaw no longer existed.

Trunks brought the iron point of his M16 to eye-level, and honed in on a cluster of untamed undead closing in on the group's flank. He flicked the attachment to his gun and arched a couple of grenades.

THOOOOOMP, THOOOOMP

The grenades exploded as soon as they kissed the ground, blowing up into a cloud of fire. The zombies caught in its radius ignited into piles of ash, and the ones in the perimeter were thrown into the air like rag-dolls. Dismembered arms and legs rocketed out of the spectacle, flopping across the battleground.

Trunks sent a grin over to Ammy. “Hopefully, I'll see you on the other side of all of this!”

He hurried over to the rest of the 'heroes' and began to help anyway possible. A zombie went for his bicep, but he used the butt of his rifle as a club, bludgeoning the creature again and again; six strikes in, the zombie's skull spewed black ooze from its crown, and collapsed forward. Trunks ripped his arm from the undead's grasp and turned to see the robot, from the mouse's group, becoming overwhelmed. The swordsman set their feud aside, swinging his rifle like a sword, knocking most of of the undead down.


“I got ya,” Trunks muttered as he helped his rival to full posture. The pains from their prior battles still ached him.

The robot smirked, and did a stabbing motion towards the swordsman, but his blade found home in the face of a lurking zombie, who had snuck up on the swordsman from behind.

“As do I yours.”

Trunks returned the smile; though they had spent most of the time on the island killing each other, the swordsman found solace in this temporary truce. Teucer have not have been the most purest of souls, but he had brought common minds—righteous minds, if the swordsman could dare utter—together.

Every individual who had shown face to fight the warlock was, indeed, a Hero.