Chapter Text
Three against an army of painted warriors. Captain Rory Williams had to admit he’d really done it this time.
Masses of gleaming white string obscured the sky as his men crouched behind cover, partially concealed by a misty atmosphere that reminded Rory of a Sherlock Holmes serial he once saw. He could still feel the coldness of the wall through his tactical gear as he touched his Eye Drive. He waited until he heard the drone of static before he whispered.
“Any sign of targets?”
Cornell, resting the barrel of his assault rifle on a fallen column, shook his head, keeping his eyes trained forward. Rory nodded, even though he knew Cornell wouldn’t see it. He turned his eyes to Kisgart. The man beneath the onyx tree mouthed a swift ‘no’. His eyes were wide and animated beneath his charcoal beret. Rory estimated it had been at least four minutes since last contact, but he didn’t dare relocate his squad. Those things were fast. Faster than he believed was possible. His men had never seen them coming. His fingers tightened around the grip of the pistol. Despite the chill, he could he feel the hot wetness of sweat and adrenaline beneath his undershirt. He wished he could remember how his squadron got here. A containment breach inside a pyramid was the last clear memory he could grasp at. Could this be some kind of sub-basement or sister location to Area 52? Rory shook his head, as if to dismiss the thought. If he wasn’t careful whatever this place was would become his tomb. Fitting, considering the number of spider-webs, obelisks and –
“Targets sighted!”
A howl of gunfire from Cornell’s direction shattered the silence of the street. In a split second, Captain Williams and Kisgart’s Berettas had joined the cacophony with intermittent barks of their own. The commander in Rory felt the urge to yell ‘don’t turn your back, don’t look away’, but his soldiers knew what they were doing. It wasn’t until their fifth downed comrade that they’d figured out the trick; don’t blink. Blink and you’re dead. He kept his eyes on the stone men, keeping track of his ammo on his digital Eye Drive display. They weren’t moving, but they also weren’t dying. Rory grimaced. They’d been on the back foot this entire time. It was a war of attrition and they were about to lose. Still, he kept firing.
His shoulders ached from the repeated recoil. An empty klack and his arms reflexively begun chambering a new clip. He took the momentary pause in firing to glance at his fellow combatants. Cornell was screaming wordlessly as he emptied his NAV4 into the closest of the statues. A pair of hands quivered beneath the black branches as Kisgart fumbled his own reloading cycle. The double snap of a successful restock and bullets hammered the heavenly effigies once again.
A deep, resonating crack, and his gaze shot towards a building on the other side of the street. A figure with outstretched hands. The figure wasn’t moving. Adjacent to the figure was a pillar. The pillar was moving. Rory barely had time open his mouth as he watched it tumble with that awful slowness of a heavy object. An ear-splitting crunch and his mouth was filled with sediment. His uncovered eye burned, bone-dry. He fought with every ounce of his will the urge to relax his eyelids, to wet the parched marble. The realisation struck him like a bolt of lightning. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t see them through the-
The piercing sound of granite against granite mingled with a visceral shriek, and the assault rifle fell silent.
“Man down, man-”
That sound again. That blasted sound. Like the lid of a sarcophagus sliding into place. Rory ran. Don’t blink. He hissed it to himself. Once. Twice. Again, and again. All while keeping his eyes on the dissipating dust cloud. No use. His naked eye screamed for moisture. He couldn’t fight it. Make it quick Rory. The reasoning was hollow and he knew it. But he couldn’t fight his body’s automatic impulses. Not any longer.
Three.
Two.
One.
Rory sucked in a breath. The thing’s face was suddenly less than a meter away and twisted into a portrait of inhuman rage. It stood fixed, arms extended, grey talons raking the air. His body’s survival instinct flared to life, working his legs like pistons. But inside, Captain Rory Williams had yielded. His men were gone. He was going to die. A lone centurion. Buried beneath hoary pillars and black trees in a funeral attended by stone divinities.
“Eyes forward soldier! Keep running!”
A serrated Scottish accent cut through his mental requiem. Rory eyes widened. There was someone else here. How did they get here? How did they get past the statues? His mind raced as he let loose a ragged “Okay!” Who on earth could it be?
He could see the other two now. A fair distance behind the first, but in that same vampiric stance.
“Keep going!” the voice shouted, almost jovial in its encouragement. “You’re almost there!”
Rory let loose a cry and willed every scrap of energy into his legs. He wanted to stop running. He wanted to blink. His flesh was weak, but his spirit coalesced and fought back. Die now and they died for nothing. That’s it. Nearly there. Don’t blink. Close your eyes and your –
Rory slammed into something. In a whirl of motion, he lost his footing and plunged forward. He heard a hellish shriek, a finger snap, and the creak-thud of a wooden door slamming. Then silence. His temples pounded with adrenaline. Rory massaged his forehead, waiting for the rhythm of his heaving chest to slow. He was alive. He was alive. He felt the exhaustion of relief sweep over him. He. Was. Alive. The floor felt cool beneath him, but it wasn’t the merciless coldness of rock. It was subtle. Soft. Rory looked down. It was green. Grass. Rory had only a second to admire the lawncare before a groan interrupted his thoughts. A man sat gawkily across from him, also massaging his own, quite substantial forehead. Without warning, he glanced at Rory, and almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth turned upwards from the confines of his salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes were grey and alert.
“Do you always enter a garden like that?"