"You're at the pub and there's this girl," he started. Lesson one of the class. The briefing room his school. A single Templar his student. Onlookers readying for their excursion subtly strain to hear over the bustle of their routine. "There are plenty of others around, and maybe on another day they'd be the ones on your mind. But today it's this one girl, all the thoughts going through you shared by just about every man in there. That's how the Nessies work."
The lone templar says nothing. He listens to this, his new teacher. In the corner, a chaplain watches the exchange. Hearing the introduction, a few Templars scoff and shake their heads. A few others glare at the ones who do. It is not their lesson, and the instructor pays them no mind.
"It's a pheromone. You don't notice it's there, but you feel its effect. That girl in the bar is putting them off and the Nessie in the tunnel is doing the same. Only instead of going for your prick, it gives you the fear enough to make you stupid. One of the effects of the juice is to stop you noticing it." He's not a big man, like some of them. He's not a warrior like The Old Man, or even just a skilled nut like Tom. He isn't a giant, or a mercenary. He watches.
The ones who scoffed are listening again, but they're skeptical. Pheromone or not, you felt the fear.
"That's one of the many little things that the juice kills. With all of those dead, you can focus on the big things, which is necessary to stay alive when you're first coming down here," the teacher went on. Out of the tunnels, the men talk. There are some that they don't speak about, some whose stories were tragic ones. Then there are some they speak about in awe and reverence. Men like Samson. Then there is this man, the teacher now, asked about from templar to templar in curiosity, sometimes in rumor and sometimes in fact. He wears a watch set eight hours behind, they say. It's because he's living on borrowed time, they say, cheating death not by a step ahead but by a corner behind.
"But you and I need the little things. Giving the little things their due respect is what brings us here, and in time will bring others here as well," he says. Then there are the rumors that he isn't cheating death, but chasing it. That he's been swung upon by Nessies and lived without a scratch. That he even stands and waits for their strike, hoping this will be the one that does it.
"Nessie is not as strong as is rumored. They are fast, and they can destroy us even through the metal, but that isn't from sheer strength. A Nessie strikes like a spring. Before its appendages swing, it winds itself up. In a matter of seconds, of course. Every muscle in its body tenses, lends itself to the blow. Like an expert fighter that uses his whole body to throw a punch."
The templars have stopped readying. To the last, they sit and listen. The classroom of one has become a tutorial to the lot. Seeing this, the chaplain standing by moves the group out. He knows what the man known a The Hessian is about to say. To the average templar, it's dangerous knowledge. It takes a special sort to use it effectively. It takes the sort sitting before him now.
"You can see this in the templars who have survived. The ones whose armor was merely cut, rather than their entire bodies. The strike wasn't wound up, maybe done outside the creature's instinct, maybe interrupted by a blow, a jab to a boxer rather than a right hook. Look at the page in front of you," he gestures to a single sheet given to his student.
"On that Nessie is a red dot, a sizable enough area to hit under normal circumstances, but it might as well be a pinhole when you're fighting. That spot is where the spring coils up, where all the energy that will kill you is stored. I don't know what rests there, maybe some kind of heart. But that's the little thing that you need to know better than your girlfriend's clitoris," he says. He leans in close to the student for the next part, near a whisper.
"And it's dead useless unless the spring is coiled. So you stand before a Nessie and you wait. You hold. You watch. You hold. Just when the fucker is about to unite your skull with the servo suit, you hit that spot. Only that spot," The Hessian stands back again, adopting his casual tone.
"All that stored up energy will release. The pressure of the thing's blood will push your weapon back if you've still got it in there. If not, it'll spray out not unlike a fire hose. That's what I've taken to calling The Burst. You don't need to be a genius to do it, nor a brute. You need to be able to read the things on some level. Now get yourself ready, you and I are heading out. You'll watch me for a few kills and then we come back here to train your striking."
The lone templar says nothing. He listens to this, his new teacher. In the corner, a chaplain watches the exchange. Hearing the introduction, a few Templars scoff and shake their heads. A few others glare at the ones who do. It is not their lesson, and the instructor pays them no mind.
"It's a pheromone. You don't notice it's there, but you feel its effect. That girl in the bar is putting them off and the Nessie in the tunnel is doing the same. Only instead of going for your prick, it gives you the fear enough to make you stupid. One of the effects of the juice is to stop you noticing it." He's not a big man, like some of them. He's not a warrior like The Old Man, or even just a skilled nut like Tom. He isn't a giant, or a mercenary. He watches.
The ones who scoffed are listening again, but they're skeptical. Pheromone or not, you felt the fear.
"That's one of the many little things that the juice kills. With all of those dead, you can focus on the big things, which is necessary to stay alive when you're first coming down here," the teacher went on. Out of the tunnels, the men talk. There are some that they don't speak about, some whose stories were tragic ones. Then there are some they speak about in awe and reverence. Men like Samson. Then there is this man, the teacher now, asked about from templar to templar in curiosity, sometimes in rumor and sometimes in fact. He wears a watch set eight hours behind, they say. It's because he's living on borrowed time, they say, cheating death not by a step ahead but by a corner behind.
"But you and I need the little things. Giving the little things their due respect is what brings us here, and in time will bring others here as well," he says. Then there are the rumors that he isn't cheating death, but chasing it. That he's been swung upon by Nessies and lived without a scratch. That he even stands and waits for their strike, hoping this will be the one that does it.
"Nessie is not as strong as is rumored. They are fast, and they can destroy us even through the metal, but that isn't from sheer strength. A Nessie strikes like a spring. Before its appendages swing, it winds itself up. In a matter of seconds, of course. Every muscle in its body tenses, lends itself to the blow. Like an expert fighter that uses his whole body to throw a punch."
The templars have stopped readying. To the last, they sit and listen. The classroom of one has become a tutorial to the lot. Seeing this, the chaplain standing by moves the group out. He knows what the man known a The Hessian is about to say. To the average templar, it's dangerous knowledge. It takes a special sort to use it effectively. It takes the sort sitting before him now.
"You can see this in the templars who have survived. The ones whose armor was merely cut, rather than their entire bodies. The strike wasn't wound up, maybe done outside the creature's instinct, maybe interrupted by a blow, a jab to a boxer rather than a right hook. Look at the page in front of you," he gestures to a single sheet given to his student.
"On that Nessie is a red dot, a sizable enough area to hit under normal circumstances, but it might as well be a pinhole when you're fighting. That spot is where the spring coils up, where all the energy that will kill you is stored. I don't know what rests there, maybe some kind of heart. But that's the little thing that you need to know better than your girlfriend's clitoris," he says. He leans in close to the student for the next part, near a whisper.
"And it's dead useless unless the spring is coiled. So you stand before a Nessie and you wait. You hold. You watch. You hold. Just when the fucker is about to unite your skull with the servo suit, you hit that spot. Only that spot," The Hessian stands back again, adopting his casual tone.
"All that stored up energy will release. The pressure of the thing's blood will push your weapon back if you've still got it in there. If not, it'll spray out not unlike a fire hose. That's what I've taken to calling The Burst. You don't need to be a genius to do it, nor a brute. You need to be able to read the things on some level. Now get yourself ready, you and I are heading out. You'll watch me for a few kills and then we come back here to train your striking."
