Lamb to the Slaughter – 6.7

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We were surrounded with the net closing around us, and I was swiftly realizing that the so-called ‘net’ was made for this.

The women were entirely capable of staying out of sight as they closed the distance to us, and they chose not to.  They revealed themselves, crossing a street, hopping down from one place to another, moving along rooftops, or stepping out of cover.  Most were wearing black dresses, some had shoes, some didn’t.

But each and every one was erratic.  They didn’t run headlong at us, but moved in diagonals or horizontally.  They only revealed themselves when they were in a position to reverse direction and take cover, or take a step to the side and be out of reach.  All of the instincts and habits and prediction that suggested where they should be were consistently, inevitably wrong.  They would step out of sight and reappear a distance away, and I could never be sure if it was the same one, or a clone.

Three times, Mary started to move to throw a knife, and each of those times, the ghosts would fade away in the same moment she started to move.  The knife never left her hand.  It would have been a wasted throw.

As psychological weapons went, it was all very effective.

Gordon and Dog had broken away from the group, and I could see some of the women moving, turned away from us, giving chase in their roundabout way.  The women were still disappearing, hiding with the same mind-bending effectiveness, even though we weren’t their focus.

Throughout it all, I could feel a peculiar tension and strain, as if my body was experiencing a unique form of stress, bone-deep.  It was as if something was stretched too tight, a terrible noise that would have been hurting my ears if I could hear it.

“Echolocation,” I said, between pants for breath.  I was running as fast as I was capable.

“Probably,” Catcher said.

They communicated through screeches, too high for the human ear to catch.  Those same screeches told them where we were, and what the surroundings were.  To be this effective at staying out of sight, they were mapping it all out in their heads, figuring out where our fields of view were, and avoiding those areas.

If I recognized their system and tried to muck with it by turning my head more, being unpredictable, I only saw glimpses.  My head and eyes could move faster than their whole bodies could, but only barely.

Not sustainable.  I was disorienting myself more than anything.

Craig had said this was Academy work.  We’d convinced ourselves otherwise.

But to create this many, to do work this good, it was beyond the capacity of the rebellion, as I understood it.  The Snake Charmer, Percy, and all of the doctors working for the rebellion thus far had been people who’d been removed from the Academy.  Less resources, less education, or less grounding.  Some had been brilliant, but they’d been working with less.

Unless there was something I was missing, these women were on the level of a superweapon.  On par with Dog and Catcher, or the Humors, or the Lambs, but modern, not years out of date.

That did mean they were less experienced.

No, I have to focus.  It was too hard to think along multiple tracks at once, these days.

“There!” I pointed.

An ajar door.

If we were being surrounded, then we had to minimize the number of avenues they had for approach.

We ran through the door, catcher first, Mary at the rear.  She slammed the door shut behind her.

It was an apartment complex under construction, two stories high, getting more apartments with length rather than height.  The essential posts and beams of the building were intact, not yet cut back from the mostly straight, treelike growths that had been generated, and only a few walls were being grown, plant matter set to grow, the rapid growth directed with boards that had been propped up and temporarily clamped into place.  The project must have moldered, because there was grass and flowers growing up here and there where the work had been left incomplete.

The door was barely shut when I heard glass breaking and things tumbling to the floor above us, and at the various parts of the building to the left, right, and front of us.

“We cornered ourselves!” Lillian said.

“No,” Catcher and I spoke at the same time.  Catcher glanced at me, and I said, “We were already cornered.”

“Oh god,” Lillian said.  “I remember-”

She paused, she was talking too fast while trying to take too much air in, and ran into a conflict of sorts.  “-when I started.  They said I wouldn’t get into danger.  I’d stay at the back and sidelines, just close enough to practice what I’d already learned.”

“They lie,” I said.

“Says our best liar.”

“Everything I am, I learn from others.  I learned from them, Lil.”

“Focus!” Catcher barked.  All business.  “Your hand signals, earlier.  You have a minute to teach me.  Command for stop?”

“We have three,” Jamie said.  “Different-”

“You have fifty-five seconds to teach me!” Catcher said.

“Stop,” Mary raised a fist, pointing it at the ceiling.


“Like this with left hand,” she said, doing the same gesture, pinky extended, then raised her other hand, thumb extended, “This with right.”

“I can guess what the sign for the other direction is.  Danger?”

Mary extended middle and index finger together, pointed in various directions.  She then pointed it straight down.  “Trap.”

He did the gesture, but pointed straight up.  “What’s this, then?”

“Heads up.  Alert,” she said.

“You sat down and worked this out?  A special language, for all of you?”

“No,” I said.  “It evolved naturally.  We bullshit it half the time and trust the others to figure out what we mean.”

“Okay,” he said.  “You think they hear us?”

“They hear everything,” I said.  “If they do have echolocation, they hear the walls.”


I looked to make sure Jamie, Helen, and Lillian were keeping up.  We’d spent enough time out and about in the last six months for them to build up stamina, but Jamie and Lillian weren’t athletic.  Not like Mary, definitely not like Gordon.

Helen was different.  She didn’t have the capacity to build stamina in that sense.  The rest of us, we were human, in varying senses, and humans had come into being as primates who excelled at marathon running.  In getting better at running, we were returning to our roots.  For her, it was learning something alien.  Something she wasn’t built for.

Catcher raised a hand, two fingers raised.


He was adjusting his grip on his weapon.

Twenty feet down the hall, a red-haired woman stepped out of a doorway, spinning to face us, rapidly walking backward.

The two fingers folded into his fist, leaving only the gesture for ‘stop’.

He’d picked it up fast enough.

We stopped in the middle of the hallway.  There were no footsteps drumming above us, but there were creaks here and there in the apartment building, as if it were caught in a strong wind, or it was busy resettling.

A full second after we stopped, the sounds did too.

“Hello!” Helen called out to the red-haired woman.

The woman was silent, staring.

“It’s okay,” Helen said.  She pushed her way through the group, slowly approaching.  “I’m not armed, see?”

Hands out to the side, fingers splayed.

I held out my hand, two fingers together, pointing at the ceiling.

Helen pushed my hand aside.

“You can search me, can’t you?  You know I don’t have any weapons,” Helen said.  “I just want to say hi, before you all jump on us all at once and cut us into itty bitty pieces.  You’re pretty.  I’m glad I get to die looking at something pretty.”

She was rambling, not really stopping one sentence before leaping into the next.  Patter, customized for her target.  She was drawing nearer, halfway between us and the woman-

Helen set her foot down on floorboards, and her foot went through, the floorboards shifting.  It was only a foot or so of distance from floorboard to the surface beneath, but it left Helen off balance, unable to pull back or pull away while she reeled, trying not to fall forward and wrench the ankle.

The red-haired woman was already moving, lunging forward from the instant the foot came down.  She also put a foot through floorboards that had been nailed in place, but for her it was a deliberate motion.

She raised the same foot, kicking straight up to bring a shorter piece of board straight up into the air to slap against her waiting palm.

She thrust her blunt spear toward Helen’s throat.

It was a series of movements that made me think of Mary.

Helen let herself collapse backward, like a rag doll, one ankle still embedded.  Her back flat against the ground, she brought her feet up.

The spear wielding red-haired woman was already pressing the attack, stepping forward again, this time onto secure ground, stabbing for Helen’s face.

Catcher’s mancatcher encircled the end of the board.  He wrestled it to one side, forcing the woman to drop it, then lunged forward, moving not in a straight line, but curving off to the right, to place his feet on the floorboards at the base of the wall.  They rattled, but they didn’t collapse or slide off to one side to let his foot fall through.

He was fast.  Almost the opposite of Helen in many respects, he was built to survive, to endure.  He didn’t tire from running, and he was built to be good at it, just as he was built to be strong.

She was quicker, all of our pursuers were, but the red-haired woman lost time by having to turn around and navigate the shaky floorboards.  While she was picking her way, skipping more than running, covering surprising ground while doing so, he extended the mancatcher for the back of her throat.  As if she had eyes in the back of her head, the woman ducked beneath it, and it snapped closed above the top of her head.

A moment later, floorboards gave way under Catcher’s foot, and he twisted as he fell, using the rotation of his body to get more velocity as he threw.  A bola.  Mary threw too, almost in unison.

The red-haired woman dodged that too, moving to the other side of the hallway.  Mary’s knife-throw had followed Catcher’s throw by no more than a second, and the red-haired woman stepped out of the way of that too.

It wasn’t all a wash; the two sudden changes of direction left her off balance, and Catcher took advantage.  His feet under him, he lunged forward, weapon in one hand, the other outstretched.  Between the reach of his already long arms and his pole-weapon, he wasn’t leaving her any room to dodge to either side.

Helen raised a hand to her ear, then made a high sound, “Eeh!”

Whatever she was trying to communicate, Catcher reacted too.  He moved, striking out, but he was blind to the exact nature of the attack.  A petite brunette woman tore out of one doorway, straight behind Catcher, knocking his legs out from under him.

A moment later, the red-haired woman was gone through a doorway, the brunette had carried on forward into another apartment, and Catcher was lying on the floor of the hallway, staring up at the ceiling.  No danger in sight.

“Hmm,” Catcher made a noise.

Noises rustled throughout the building for a moment as the ghosts found new positions.

Then we had silence.

We picked our way over the section of floor, approaching Catcher, as he helped himself to his feet, using his pole.

He touched the back of his legs, and the tips of his gloved fingers were crimson with blood.

“They hear the walls well enough to know what parts of the building are sound,” Jamie said.

“So it seems,” Catcher said.

“I really thought that might work,” Helen said.  She gestured.  That enemy.  Silent.  Quiet/rest.

No hostile action, no sound, no indicator of violence.  Just letting Helen walk into the de-facto trap.

Catcher was watching us, his eyes on Helen.

“Um, here,” Jamie said.  He pulled out a paper from his pocket, and wrote down the gist of it for Catcher.

“Hm,” Catcher observed.  He gestured, emulating Helen, and Jamie pointed to words in turn.  The man went on to say, “I’m not going to remember all of this.”

“Helen,” Mary said.  She switched to gestures once she had Helen’s attention.  Noise.  You.  The third sign was the one for morning, past, before.

Jamie was scribbling down a rough translation for Catcher.

Enemy scream.  I warn.

She’d heard the scream, at a pitch and volume none of the rest of us, Catcher excluded, had been able to hear, and with no time to spare, had tried to communicate that the enemy was communicating.  It was a very instinctual, Helen way of dealing with it.

“Next time, signal us?” I said.

Helen nodded.

“Any chance we can learn what they’re saying?” I asked.  “Predict their moves?  It would force them to either stop coordinating so damn well, or let us counterattack.”

“If you could, I would be amazed,” Catcher said.  “It’s a mess of noise, faint enough I’m not sure if I’m imagining the sounds or hearing them.  It gets louder as they close in.”

Helen nodded.  Same for her, apparently.

“Damn,” I said.

“I don’t think they’re that capable of fighting,” Mary said.  “Seeing how they moved, they’ve practiced, but they aren’t practiced, if that makes any sense.”

Catcher nodded.

“I hope Gordon’s okay,” Lillian said.

“I trust Gordon to handle himself,” I said.  “But we need to keep up with him.  Do you have the scent, or whatever?”

“No,” Catcher said.  He took the pen from Jamie, scribbling down a message.  “Dog will let us know which direction to go in, as soon as we’re out and able to communicate.”

The message read only: Yes.

He paused, then added, they’re communicating.

He did have the scent.  A small mistruth was changing how the ghosts organized.  More weight on Gordon and Dog, but it perhaps alleviated pressure on us.

Catcher led the way, the butt end of his polearm sweeping across the floor, checking for loose floorboards.  He wasn’t much slower, despite the damage to his legs.  I was expecting trouble to come from around the corner or any of the doorways we passed, but there was nothing.

As we reached the double doors at the end of the hallway, he kicked it open, picking up speed.  Mary was right beside him, passing through the door in the same moment.

He slammed his hand out, clumsy given the need for haste, and shoved Mary into the doorframe.  He brought his foot out, kicking, and stopped mid-stride, hovering over the top of a set of stairs.

Razor wire.

“Look out!” Mary shrieked, throwing herself back toward the rest of us.  I caught her in my arms.

With my face full of Mary hair and shoulder, I didn’t see all of what happened next.  A piece of furniture, a stack of bricks and a ladder slammed down onto the top of the stairs, between us and Catcher.  Brick fragments and bits of wood went flying in every direction, and the dust that came with all of it occluded our view further.

Jamie whistled, a short, sharp sound.

I turned to look, and saw figures moving across the hall, further down.

The net was closing.

“Traps,” Mary observed.  She looked angry.  “Deadfall, razor wire.  Staples.”

“Backed by a natural ability to assess environment and locate the enemy,” I said.

Catcher was isolated.  If he was hampered or injured in any way, they’d be closing in.  We needed to reach him.

There were windows to either side, absent of glass, with boards in place.  A sufficiently impact would probably get us through.  We could ram past or try using our bodies.  We couldn’t do either and devote the required attention to the ghosts behind us.

And if they’d trapped the front door, I wasn’t sure they hadn’t trapped the window.

I stared at the doorway, saw the rubble and the heap of detritus, the cloud of dust, the ladder sitting askew.

I touched my fist to Mary’s shoulder.  I was gratified that she didn’t flinch or pull away like she had when I’d tried to hold her hand.  I gestured, quick, a series of instructions.  Together.  Push.  You.  Right.  Push.  Up.”

Then I grabbed her arm, pulling her alongside me, whistling to get the others’ attention.

We charged for the stairwell that they’d just dropped everything on.  The razor wire was still potentially there, the footing was uncertain, and there was no guarantee there was even a path through, with the dust obscuring vision.  If I was wrong, then we’d lose precious time, we’d open ourselves up to being attacked.

Except, much as we’d been cornered from the start, we were already in danger of being attacked.  We had little to lose.

I threw my shoulder against the base of the ladder, to the left side of the door.  Mary stepped up onto loose bricks and pushed the top.

There was a spring to the ladder as it pushed back, pressing against the razor wire, but the wire was only at knee height or below.  By pushing my end, I kept it in place.  Mary tipped it forward, so it leaned forward, landing on top of more razor wire and rubble further down the little staircase.  The wire bit into wood and locked the ladder in place.

Before I was even standing, Helen was up, stepping onto the struts of the ladder, crossing the makeshift bridge.

They’d communicated to signal that the deadfalls and traps should be released, but their communication was simpler, limited in some of the same ways our hand signals were.  When the order had gone out to release the trap, everyone had released it.  Nothing was kept in reserve for when the rest of us poked our heads out and made a run for it.  The trap had been sprung, and our exit into known difficulties here was safer and faster than any alternative.

Lillian and Jamie crossed too, losing a little speed as they made sure they didn’t slip or fall.  Mary offered me a hand, and I gratefully accepted it.  We crossed together, me a step behind her.

Catcher stood about twenty feet ahead of us, hunched over, bleeding from a wound to the face that had cut a deep notch into his high collar.  Slices.  His attackers weren’t anywhere to be seen.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

“Physically?” Mary said.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Catcher said.  “Our enemy doesn’t seem intent on playing fair.”

His hand moved.  A signal.  Danger.  Left.  Left.  Left.  Right.

Now that I looked, I could see them.  The women stood so that only half of their faces were exposed, or the shadows embraced them.

Looking around, I identified the area as one that had burned in the fires around the time the war had started.  Effort was being made to piece it together, but it was slow going, and resources had been diverted elsewhere.  The result was that we were in an empty husk of a residential area.  No residents, no ‘home’.  Seeds and components for construction were everywhere, stacked in front of buildings and on either side of the streets, so that it was impossible to go more than three or four paces before reaching another pile of stone or wood or a crate of something.  Cloths and treated canvases had been tied over many of the piles, light rain running off them.

Too many hiding places for the enemy, here.

Very naturally we fell into a position so that we stood in a circle, our backs to each other.

In answer, more of the women around us emerged.

It was a given that we’d be surrounded.  They were fast.  They knew the terrain.  They would harass us, they’d punish recklessness by closing in on us and picking us off or making us bleed, and they’d punish us for biding our time by setting up traps in the periphery.

In execution and raw effectiveness, it was a big step up from Mary’s generation.  Percy had a hand in this, but his wasn’t the only one.  There was another, probably two or three more minds collaborating to make this work as it did.

I was starting to feel like we might not be okay, this time around.

“It’s not often that I’m stuck like this,” Catcher said, echoing my thoughts.

I did like the man.  If the Lambs were my siblings, in a roundabout way, Catcher was an extended family member.

“What are you thinking, Mary?” I asked.

“He replaced me.  With these,” she said.  There was a note of emotion to her voice, more anger and frustration than anything.  “We can’t catch them, we can’t pin them down.  They’re better than me, and they outnumber us.”

“You’re more experienced,” Jamie said.

“They have that damn echolocation trick,” Mary said.  “They can dodge thrown knives.  I’d be willing to trade my field practice for that trick.  Probably.  Maybe.”

I watched the women, knew they were listening, and I didn’t care.  They were staying still, watching from various vantage points and perches.  Seven in total, in our immediate vicinity.  Possibly one or two more in the upper floor of the building we’d just vacated, and one on the ground floor.

I’d already sussed out their attack pattern.  They were pack hunters.  They ran their prey down, always playing it safe, skirting the edges, remaining out of reach.  It was an attack pattern devoid of one critical component.

“They might know how to dodge a thrown knife,” I said, “But they don’t seem to know how to throw them.  If they did, they would have already.”

“And we’d be dead,” Jamie said.

Lillian made a small sound.

“Sorry,” Jamie said.

I watched as Mary’s posture changed.

She needed support in this.  She needed reassurance, in an odd, hard-to-define way.

But Mary wasn’t supposed to be my focus.  I cursed the way my brain was stumbling lately, and focused on the danger.

The arrangement of the women was lopsided.  Seven I could see, a number more I couldn’t.  Of the seven, four were lined up on top of or in the windows of buildings down the length of the street, almost in a row, and two were at the far end of the street.  The other was standing in the middle of the street, opposite the other two, just in case.

“Dog signaled yet?”  I asked.

“He’s not telepathic,” Catcher said.  He tightened his grip on his weapon, and his hand signal pointed the way to Dog.  The line of four women was apparently intent on blocking our way to accessing Gordon and Dog.  We’d have to pass between or under them.

“And you still don’t have a scent on our target?”

“No,” he said gruff.  His other hand indicated the end of the street.  The two individuals were in our way.

Now we knew where Percy was.

“Yeah, you’re utterly useless,” I said.  “Don’t know why we brought you along.”

“Watch it, brat,” he said.  “I don’t suppose you have any clever ideas?”

“Thinking,” I said.

Beside me, Mary was holding a throwing knife.  I imagined it wasn’t solely for throwing, but also a reminder that she wasn’t inferior to our attackers.  The knife wouldn’t be useful, when the ghosts were this very slippery.

Or was there another use?

“Mary,” I said, holding out a hand.  “Knife?”

She started to reach out.

I caught her hand before she could reverse the direction of the knife to give me the handle.  My heart was pounding.  Shot in the dark, and I was tense, certain that, the moment I gave them any opening, they’d lash out.

“Other hand,” I said, without letting go of her fingers.

She gave me a sidelong glance.  She brought her left hand my way.

Enemy.  Speak.  Around.  Question.  I signaled.  I suspected I knew the answer.

Beside me, Jamie confirmed.  Not that he could hear the enemy’s communication, but he’d relayed to Helen, who could.

They were busy communicating.  Chattering, planning.

I was holding Mary’s hand, which was holding the blade.  Moving it, I touched the sharper edges of the blades together, and moved them against each other.


I let go of Mary’s hand.

She repeated the motion.  This time she knew what she was trying to accomplish.

Blade against blade, sharpening, scraping.  It was a sound that could put hair on end.

Every single one of the ghosts in the area turned their heads, fixating on Mary.

I didn’t even need to wait to see Jamie’s relay from Helen.  I could sense the change in the air.  I could almost breathe deeper, without feeling the tension or hearing that inaudible chatter.

“What did you just do?” Catcher asked.

“Communicated on their level,” I said.  “I don’t think they liked it.”

Mary was smiling, now.

“Okay,” I said.  “We make a break for Dog and Gordon.  Group with them, then see if we can’t find our target.”

My hand signals instructed differently.

“Let’s make this as difficult for them as possible,” I said.  I glanced casually down the length of the street.  I saw a wrought-metal railing, indicated it to Mary, who passed it along to the others.

Another signal, counting down, and then we made a break for it.  Toward Dog, the four women lurking on rooftops.

Collectively, our assailants vanished.

“Now,” I said.

We changed direction, heading for a point further up the street.  Mary drew blade against blade, eliciting sounds we couldn’t necessarily hear.

I felt a sinking feeling as the women reappeared.  It wasn’t disrupting them, and it wasn’t having an effect.  Was it merely another sound to them?

“Crap!” I swore.

“No,” Jamie called out.  “They’re different!”

I had to glance over to look.  I saw the women fading away, but the synchronicity was gone.  They weren’t fading in and fading away in the same way.  Not in a way that made them hard to count or helped them play off each other.

The sounds Mary was making were undoubtedly different from the sounds they made on their own, but it was a more unfamiliar sound, one that was on similar channels to their usual mode of communication.  Anyone could hold a conversation with a guy in the corner shouting nonsense syllables, suffering only minor annoyance, but these women were young, in a sense.  They were inexperienced.  There was an opening, a vulnerability today that might not be there in a year.

“Catcher,” Mary said.  “That thing, you challenged me to find a use for it.”

“What about it?”

“Give it to Sy!”

It was a ring, sharp-edged, with a bit of a corkscrew coil on one side.  I wasn’t even sure how to hold it without cutting myself.

“What am I doing with this thing?”


Further up ahead were a set of shuttered windows, the glass so dusty they were almost opaque.

Clever Mary.

I veered to the right, closer to the window, holding out the edge of the ring as best as I could.

Metal screeched as it cut glass.  It got a reaction from Catcher.  I didn’t see Helen’s reaction, because she was toward the tail end of the group, but I imagined it was the same.  An unpleasant sound to anyone with a good sense of hearing.

We were covering ground now, and our assailants were faltering.  They were able to keep up, but the confidence was gone.  They appeared, flanking us, they taunted us, but they’d changed their pattern.  It no longer seemed like they were everywhere, uncountable and unpredictable.  They no longer were able to say, in their ultrasonic language, ‘I’m stepping out, someone else step in’.

But, at the end of the day, they were wired to take advantage of any gap in defenses.  They were scavengers, picking off the weak and, apparently, the overconfident.

With a smoothness that proved deceptive, leading the eye to take a fraction longer to register it, one stepped out of the alleyway.

Helen was the first to react, shouting in alarm.  Mary turned, raising her knives.  I swiped hard at the nearest window, and the edge of the circular blade cut into the base of my palm, making the woman flinch.

The woman nonetheless drove her attack home.  A length of pipe, sharp at one end.  Her reach was longer, she was stronger, and Mary’s attempt to fend off the attack proved futile.  She twisted around, trying to sidestep the attack, holding out the knives to keep it at a distance from herself, and the woman only took a longer stride, then thrust down and through.


Injury added to insult, for Mary to be struck down by one of her successors.

She’d always hated to lose, and to lose here, of all places?

Catcher lunged.  Off balance, senses failing her, the brown-haired woman wasn’t even aware enough to see the attack coming.  The mancatcher closed around her throat.  She stumbled as Catcher moved the stick to force her to carry forward with her movement, and folded over his shin as he kicked her in the middle.

While she reeled, he repositioned her, and then kicked again, this time for the small of her back, snapping her back in two.

I caught up to Mary, who’d ceased running, and only stumbled, each step weaker than the last.  I threw my arms around her before she could fall to the ground.

“Dumb,” I said.

“Jerk,” she said, voice already weak.

Catcher reached us.  He relieved me of my burden, grabbing Mary with one arm, pole held in the other.  As I stepped away, I felt the blood that had already welled out of the open wound.

“Refuse to die,” Mary said, quiet.  “Supposed to- have to look Percy in the eye.  End him.”

“You’re not going to die,” I said.

“Good,” she said.

Lillian had caught up to us.  She wasted no time in taking hold of the tear in Mary’s dress with both hands and hauling it open wider.

I was aware of the ghosts gathering around us.  There was a feral edge to what they were doing, now.  More disorganized, something about their body language and expressions that suggested we’d pushed them out of their comfort zone, and they were no longer content to bide their time.

Very similar to Mary in that way.  Sometimes her blood got riled.

“Catcher,” I said.

Catcher was still holding Mary with one arm under and around her armpits.  He didn’t respond.

“Tell me Dog and Gordon are close?”

“They aren’t,” he said.

There was no hand signal to go with the statement.  He was telling the truth.

Gordon was gone, Mary was down.  Helen, Lillian, Jamie and I weren’t fighters.

The ghosts were.

“Excuse me,” I told Mary, as I reached under her skirt.  I knew just where to reach to unclip two lengths of razor wire from her underwear, blades strung along the length.

“Gave you your chance,” she said.  There was a note to her voice, as if she was already delirious.

My expression was stone as I took a series of knives for myself and then handed the other to Jamie.

He gave me a look.

“I hope you’ve been watching Mary closely,” was all I said.

He gave me a curt nod.

I could see Lillian trying to tend to Mary, Catcher trying to make her job as easy as possible while being on guard for an attack, and I couldn’t pull my attention away from the scene to focus on the enemy.  I couldn’t think along multiple tracks.  I felt stupid, at a time I needed all my wits about me, and I felt even stupider because of the incoherent, violent emotion mixed into it all.

“Nobody’s dying today,” I said.  “Not like this.”

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53 thoughts on “Lamb to the Slaughter – 6.7

  1. Done and done. I’ve been waiting to finally CATCH up to one of these serials to vote on them, ever since Worm. I can now move onto the other important things in life: crushing my enemies, driving them before me, etc.

  2. The last time a Wildbow protagonist started uncoiling lengths of wire, an S-class got the Black Dahlia treatment. No stasis shenanigans, but whatcha gonna do?

    (Also, speaking of that arc, I’m reminded of Kudzu by how they’re organized and grouped up. In the Twigverse sentient self-replication is probably akin to atomic physics. Calling it now, something like that’s gonna pop up later on.

    Then Frey’s gonna be even more ambiguous by pulling that water trick but on the replicators’ sustenance and maybe saving the day from the villain that no one’s sure even exists.)

  3. I continue to think that using the Wolves as infiltrators instead of supersoldiers with a specialization in urban combat is a serious waste of their potential.

    • Well, we got Sy noting here that they’re basically departmental project level threat…maybe that’s how they’re planning on using them and this is just cutting their teeth by eliminating some Academy superweapons.

      • I think Wyvern has a feedback effect, too. You focus on something, the brain adapts to focus on it, more of your brain is devoted to focusing on something, you focus on it more. Every stimulus acts like that, so all the competing signals drown eachother out except for the ones you prioritize consciously or by necessity, but something interesting and unexpected happens – something you can’t help but think about – and that stimulus gets the advantage, gets more and more connections devoted to contextualizing and solving it.

        • So you’re saying that Sy is thinking about Mary a lot, because he was busy trying to “figure” her out?

          I guess playing hard-to-get works especially well when your target is on Wyvern.

  4. Great chapter Bow.

    I’m not sure how Sy came up with the screeching sound as just a shot in the dark. Unless I misread it, but wouldn’t being inspired by Helen’s high shriek make it flow better?

    Still, these things are terrifying. And that’s including the whole Sub-Rosa and skin-spiders we’ve seen before.

    • There’s also a stray right double quotation mark:
      I gestured, quick, a series of instructions. Together. Push. You. Right. Push. Up.”

    • More typos:

      – “They hear the walls well enough to know what parts of the building are sound” -> “are solid”, surely?

      – “As we reached the double doors at the end of the hallway, he kicked it open” -> “he kicked them open”

      – “With my face full of Mary hair and shoulder” -> “Mary’s hair and shoulder”

      – “Backed by a natural ability to assess environment” -> “the environment”

      – “A sufficiently impact” -> “A sufficient impact”, or there’s an adjective missing

      – “I wasn’t sure they hadn’t trapped the window.” -> “windows”

      – “I veered to the right, closer to the window” -> “windows”

      – “holding out the edge of the ring as best as I could.” -> “as best I could” (or “as well as I could”)

      Other stuff:

      – “treelike growths that had been generated, and only a few walls were being grown, plant matter set to grow, the rapid growth directed” -> 4 repetitions of “growth” or “grow”

      – “before you all jump on us all at once” -> maybe: “before you jump on us all at once”

  5. So, the reason Sy sucks at fighting is because he overthinks things, right? Since he hasn’t been taking his intelligence-boosting medication/poison, he’s noted that he’s been getting slower. Shouldn’t that also make him better at a fight?

    • Not necessarily. He might keep overthinking things except slower. It also seems like he’s been dropping down the number of things he thinks about simultaneously but not in a productive order.

    • Sy’s Speed of thought is something interesting to look at as it goes, his interaction with Coming up with an idea and having Giant fonts of inspiration while another person is going from the syllables “yu du nah” after an appointment.

      On another note… What if fray could fix the retention issues with Wyvern formula…

  6. This was the scariest creation to date, the only way to make them more unsettling is if the copied human’s like a… mimic, thingy. That group dynamic coupled with copy cat mimic thing would freak me the hell out.

    On a diffrent note, the panic and confusion displayed by some of the lambs seemed… forced and unnatural. Unless they where acting, i guess?

  7. Dammit Sylvester, drugs may give you easy access, but you should have the capacity to reach your usual state without them. Good thing you slashed your hand open, now burn all that adrenaline and engage turbotactics mode. Time is dead kids.

    • That’s like saying someone with a mental condition should be able to reach the same state they would be with drugs without using them. Or someone being able to reach a high without touching drugs. Or being able to pass out without taking anaesthesia. Well, I guess you can asphyxiate yourself, but you get the idea.

      • Actually, there are some interesting methods of autohypnosis. You can be suprised what the mind is able to do. The body is sometimes able to reproduce the symptoms of something if you believe you took the substance it.
        But yeah, you’re right.

  8. MAAARRRYYYY! Now who’s going to be a knife nut, and making Sy feel all strange, and bonding with Helen?

    Loved how Catcher was “Teach me you sign language in 55 seconds.”

    Next chapter, Sy murders some bitches. That’s what they get for not respecting their big sister.

  9. The Ghosts can’t beat Catcher, Dog, Gordon, Mary and possibly Helen in a straight fight(eg. in a boxing ring). They can use this to their advantage.

  10. One of the things I like about Twig is how much Wildbow’s pacing has improved. I loved Worm and eventually came to love Pact, but not once during a Twig installment have I thought ‘Jesus how much longer does this go on for.’

  11. Catcher is a serious badass. Liked him last chapter, loved him in this one.

    Dude’s kind of like Armsmaster, but more socially palatable. (At least to his fellow experiments) Hilarious, that…

    • Funny, I was just coming here to say, “call me slow, but I just figured out that Catcher is the Armsmaster echo in this universe.”

        • Weapon has multiple modes, making it versatile. Works best when partnered with a particular nonhuman being. Has very little patience for bullshit.

          To be honest though I think Catcher has a special charm and role that can’t really be compared to a specific Worn character.

        • Polearm weapon, large variety of accessories and useful tools, brutal and efficient fighting style, no-nonsense way of looking at things, task-oriented, and quite brusque when dealing with nonsense. Trusts Dog like Armsmaster trusts Dragon, as far as I can see.

          But… More of a team player, willing to let others take the lead if they’re talking sense or have a plan, learns and adapts a bit better. Probably not obsessed with his career, either, seems more of a blue-collar killer/bounty hunter.

          I’d love to see an interlude with him and Dog at some point.

          • To be fair, Armsmaster would probably have been more willing to have let Taylor take the lead if she had been a member of The Wards and had worked with him in the past already, demonstrating her skills and usefulness. Imagine if one of Percy’s clones had suddenly tried to work with Catcher and not get turned in to the academy, etc. That’s basically the position that Taylor was coming from.

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