The Nameless, The Mad

The person some people longed for might be happily playing with someone else right now—no, I'm not talking about the one you worked so hard for but could never have.

I was talking about Face-Ripper Gragga, whom Steve Rogers and the others had been waiting for for so long.

Thunderbolt roared, strangely like some hollow echo.

Flash cut through the gloomy clouds, making the earth tremble.

It also made Mordren's mood darken somewhat—though he had not been especially happy to begin with.

He lifted his head and glanced at the raindrops falling straight down, turned blood-red by atmospheric pollution, then quietly took two steps back to keep that filthy rain from splashing onto his Power Armor.

Of course, once close-quarters combat with that mob of Orcs began, getting his Power Armor dirty would be unavoidable. But how did that saying go again?

Stay clean while you could.

As someone with a mysophobia streak, Mordren Girardet believed he deserved a tiny bit of privilege.

Of course, that was what he thought. His company captain might not agree.

"Avoiding the rain? Rain that only looks a little frightening?"

The captain said sternly, "You truly ought to be despised by everyone, Mordren."

"Please don't say that, Captain, for Corax's sake. I simply dislike our blood."

"That is not blood!" the captain roared. "That is not our blood. It is the enemy's blood!"

Mordren reluctantly returned to where he had been standing and began carefully observing the Orcs' movements. After a while, his captain asked, "How does it look?"

"Terrible. They've already charged through the traps we set. What are our casualties, Captain?"

"For now, we're all dead, but no one is wounded. Except you, Mordren."

The captain's words did not move Mordren. He lazily yawned, and the Respirator Grille made his voice sound