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“You are not supposed to be here.”
There’s a long pause in response. The evening’s quiet is broken only by the burble of noise from the large ether tanks tucked amid the ruined buildings, but Saint doesn’t turn around when he hears the crunch of boots landing on rubble behind him.
Any doubts about the identity of his visitor are soon quashed when the first thing out of their mouth is an argument. “Zavala only said I had to stay out of sight. I can still keep watch.”
Saint smiles when he turns to see Crow in the shadow of a crumbling wall. “Oh, this is out of sight?”
Even beneath the hood and cowl, he catches Crow’s half-hearted scowl. “You don’t count.”
Saint chuckles. “I don’t know whether that is a compliment or an insult.”
“A compliment,” Crow says with a sigh. He falls into step alongside him as Saint continues his patrol route through the new Fallen encampment. “I’ve been here all day without the snipers even looking in my direction, and then you see me on your first pass. How are you so good at this?”
The real answer, the one Saint won’t ever burden him with, is the practice gained from decades in the Infinite Forest. Every glint of distant light is the scope of a hobgoblin’s rifle, and most nights he still sees simulated Fallen marauders shimmering at the edge of his vision whenever he tries to rest.
“You hunters are less sneaky than you think,” Saint teases instead. “I think it is because of your fancy capes.”
From the way he laughs, Crow is apparently satisfied with the explanation, but he still tugs his hood further over his face as they wind their way between the bombed-out buildings. “I heard Ikora asked you to be the liaison to the Eliksni here.”
Saint nods. As indicated by him still loitering in the Botza District, it’s clear that Crow wanted the job. However, while the need to keep Crow out of sight is obvious, the choice of Saint for the role is far less so.
“It’s a good decision,” Crow says, and Saint hears the smile even beneath his cowl. “Your reputation doesn’t do you justice, especially among the Eliksni.”
“My reputation?”
“I heard stories on the Shore,” Crow admits. “Let’s just say your victories are less inspiring to those on the losing side.”
Saint gives a neutral hum in response. The flare of pride is familar — he wanted to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, to make would-be Kells think twice before attacking the City or any other human settlement again — but the answering twist of shame is a new experience.
He doesn’t know how much Crow has picked up on, but the gentle nudge of Crow’s elbow against his side is welcome. “For what it’s worth,” Crow says, “I’m glad they get to meet you. You’re—”
He’s cut off by a scrape of metal to their left. The two of them move in an instant, Saint cocking his shotgun while Crow raises his sidearm, and Saint peers into the previously-empty building as he calls, “Who’s there?”
Crow says something which Saint can only assume is a translation, but Crow’s tone is softer when he adds something else in Fallen which Saint doesn’t understand.
Another scrape, and Saint sees four glowing eyes peek out from behind a sheet of corrugated metal. Blue blood smears against the concrete wall as the Fallen inches out from his hiding place, and both Saint and Crow rush forward to catch him when he stumbles.
Crow gets there first. He takes the Fallen’s weight as he asks questions in the alien language, but the Fallen’s gaze doesn’t stray from Saint’s helmet when he says, voice rough, “The Saint?”
“It’s okay,” Crow says, switching language as he looks between Saint and the Fallen. “Saint’s here to help.”
“They took my pass,” the Fallen says, nervous. “Need authorization.”
Crow frowns, lost, but Saint’s eyes widen as realisation hits. It’s difficult to remember them all sometimes, so many new faces in a City already full of new people, but as his eyes adjust to the shadows, he recognises the eager young Fallen from the hangar who’d been so glad to talk to him and Holliday.
The Fallen shies away when he approaches, dark blood trickling down to soak into his House of Light colors. His rebreather is gone and his chest heaves with the effort to breathe as Saint reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder.
“You do not need any authorization here,” he says gently. “Your pass is not for protection; I will not hurt you.”
“What happened to you?” Crow asks. “Who did this?”
“Yellow-hair human,” the Fallen says. “Like the ship-human, but angry.” He coughs. “Escaped into floor but machine-person chased me. Had to hide.”
“An exo?” Crow asks at the same time as Saint says, “A guardian?”
“Yes-no,” the Fallen says. “Machine-person. Like the Saint but no Light. Just knife.”
His breath comes out in a wheeze as he sags more heavily against Crow, who looks up at Saint in concern. “We need to get him some help. I saw a supply crate a few blocks back; that should have enough ether to keep him stable until we can find a medic.”
Saint nods. “I will get ether.”
“No,” Crow says. “He’ll need a makeshift rebreather and the cables don’t always fit with the tanks. I know what to look for; I’ll be quick.”
Saint thinks better of arguing, not when Crow has that look in his eye, and he bends to take the Fallen’s weight as Crow ducks back out onto the street. Even through his armor, he can feel the way the Fallen shivers, thin limbs struggling to hold himself up, and after a quick glance around for any threats, Saint says, “We sit, yes? It will be easier.”
“Sit,” the Fallen agrees.
His head lolls against Saint’s shoulder, his jaw lax and teeth bloodied, and Saint pushes back the swell of fear at the memory of similar teeth tearing through flesh. The exhausted Fallen in his arms seems light-years removed from the shrieking fury of the House of Rain, and he makes a relieved little clicking noise when Saint lowers them both to a seat on a slab of concrete.
Saint’s done this before, has comforted dying and wounded humans more times than he cares to count, and despite the extra limbs, the position is painfully similar. His body moves almost of its own accord, settling the Fallen across his lap to lean against Saint’s chest for support, and he’s met with another clicking noise in gratitude.
“Thankful,” the Fallen mumbles. His breath is still too short, and Saint’s own fury rises when he looks over the mess of his injuries.
“We will find who did this,” Saint promises. “It will not happen again.”
“They were angry,” the Fallen says. “Said I stole. Said I disrespect.” He looks up at Saint, almost pleading. “Did not mean to. Words are still new but I exact-copied ship-human. She is nice — I wanted to be nice.”
It’s hard to piece it together without context but Saint winces a little at the news that he copied Holliday somehow. For all her many virtues as a shipwright, clean language isn’t among them.
“You have been nice,” Saint says. “Having the Fallen here is difficult for some, yes, but people should be more understanding than they are.”
He’s been given tokens again lately, purple ribbons pressed into his hands by anxious citizens. For all you’ve done to protect us. I know you’ll keep that filth away from our children. Here’s hoping you break that new Kell like you did the others.
He doesn’t keep any of them.
“What is your name?” Saint asks. “I am Saint-14.”
“All Eliksni know the Saint,” the Fallen says, in a tone somewhere between fear and reverence. “I am Filkris.” He smiles a little, proud. “Engine-humans call me ‘Fil’.”
Saint can’t help but return the smile. “I have heard the engineers saying many good things about ‘Phil’,” he says, patting Filkris’ shoulder. “I did not know that was you. You are doing an excellent job.”
Filkris beams. Compared to the malicious grins of the Devils, Filkris’ expression is closer to the way Crow looks when he’s praised for something, and Saint squeezes his shoulder as he says, “I’m sorry for what those people did to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Filkris nods, head lowered, and Saint holds him a little tighter when he hears the thump of footsteps outside the building. However, rather than Crow coming back into view, an exo with a yellow faceplate pokes his head inside “I knew I’d—“
Filkris freezes in terror. By the broken wall, the exo freezes too, processors whirring loud enough that Saint can hear them over Filkris’ labored breathing. There’s concrete dust staining the exo’s clothes and dried blue fluid around the joints of his wrists, and if it wasn’t for the weight of Filkris against him, Saint would already be having a very different type of conversation with the newcomer.
As it stands, there’s nothing he can do beyond watch through his helmet as the exo twists his hands together nervously. “Saint-14! I, uh- I can take that Fallen off your hands, if you like?”
“What is your name?” Saint asks.
“Uh, R-Robert?” the exo stammers. “Robert-12.”
Saint snorts. He’s made Fallen Captains flee from him in terror; even in this position, the least he can do is intimidate someone as pathetic as this. “And what is your real name?”
The lights along the exo’s jaw flicker. “Arne-4.”
“I suggest you leave, Arne-4,” Saint says. “The Last City is a beautiful place but also a very big one. I’m sure you can find somewhere that is a long way away from the Fallen.”
Arne narrows his eyes. “They got to you too? After everything you—“
“They did not get to me,” Saint cuts in. “I have killed more Fallen than you could count, and if the City were in danger, I would kill as many again. But it is not in danger.” He nods to Filkris. “Not from him.”
“You don’t know what they’re plotting! We saw him—“
“You saw him what?” Saint asks. “Did you see him attack anyone? Slaughter convoys of refugees? Wipe out entire towns of defenceless civilians?”
Arne is silent.
“No,” Saint says. “You have seen him unload crates and make conversation. If you wish to fight enemies of the City, then come and find me. I will give you a gun and send you out into Old Russia, where you can see as much combat as you wish.”
Arne’s lights flicker again, hands curling into nervous fists, and Saint continues calmly, “However, if you are just a coward who wishes to pick on those weaker than you, do not bother coming to find me.” He smiles beneath the helmet. “I will come to find you.”
It takes less than five seconds for Arne to bolt.
In his arms, Filkris exhales in relief as Saint listens to Arne’s footsteps retreat, but they both jump at the voice from the door. “Everything okay?”
Crow has a stack of supplies tucked under one arm but it’s the gun in his other hand which holds Saint’s attention.
“It is okay,” Saint says. “I do not think he will be bothering the Fallen again.”
“Are you sure?” Crow asks, not holstering the gun. “I can catch up to him.”
Saint shakes his head. “He is not a Guardian.”
There’s something dark in Crow’s eyes. “Guess that’ll make him easier to catch.”
“No,” Saint says, a little sharper than he intended. “If he or his friends cause any further trouble, I will deal with it. We should get Filkris here back to his people.”
Crow hesitates for just a moment before tucking the gun away, and Filkris shifts against Saint’s body as he tries to stand. “My brother is close. Vriiksis. I will stay with him.”
“We’ll help you get there,” Crow says. He fiddles with a length of tubing and offers out a rebreather which Filkris grabs for gladly. “Glint sent word to Misraaks; he has a medic on standby.”
“Thankful,” Filkris says around the rebreather, and Saint is pleased to see his breathing is already getting stronger. “Better now, with ether.”
“We’ll get you all the ether you need,” Crow promises. He looks hopefully to Saint. “Do you think you could..."
He gestures to Filkris, and Saint nods.
“Hold on,” Saint warns him, shifting his grip. “This will be easier than walking.”
Filkris lets out a surprised chitter as Saint gets to his feet, lifting Filkris in the air as he goes. Two of Filkris’ hands clutch at the front of Saint’s armor and he looks between Saint and Crow in confusion as he says, “I have legs.”
“You’re injured,” Crow says with a smile. “But we can just help you walk if you prefer?” He gives Filkris a wink. “Saint is very good at carrying people though.”
Filkris pauses to consider this but then nods, apparently satisfied with the comfort of Saint’s arms. “Very good carrying.”
This is familiar too, holding a body in his arms and carrying the injured to safety, but as Saint follows Crow out into the street, he finds the warmth that comes from helping someone is no less satisfying when that person is a Fallen instead of a human.