Clapping Cheeks Amidst Danger

Music: NDA by Billie Eillish

Claps echoed in the distance—slow, steady pulses that weren't loud enough to draw the wax moths' attention, yet insistent enough to pique curiosity. The black-armored soldiers moved in formation along the vine-choked walls of a derelict building, rifles raised. At a silent command from their leader, they halted at the structure's corner, preparing for whatever lay beyond.

Just as they readied themselves to rush in, the echo of shotgun shells being loaded made their hearts jolt. Instantly on alert, they realized they were surrounded by a different band of survivors—far less welcoming than the last group. Some perched on rooftops, others crouched in nearby alleys, all hidden behind wax-coated masks and training weapons on the soldiers. A dozen pairs of eyes glinted in the murk. Remarkably, that rhythmic clapping persisted, but no one spared it a glance.

Time passed in a tense stalemate before they finally understood the source of the sound. Beneath the stifling hush of the apocalypse, two figures coupled in a corner—coated in sticky wax, stifling any moans to avoid the moths' keen hearing. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances as the thrusts and wet slaps continued without pause.

Nearly everyone in this group of survivors wore a thick layer of hardened wax from head to toe, as though it were armor of their own.

"We don't want trouble," one soldier said calmly, lowering his gun just a fraction. "We're searching for someone."

"This can be easy," replied a woman whose voice was surprisingly sweet. "Hand over your weapons and armor, then leave." Her face was obscured by a wax-caked mask shaped like a pink bunny's head—complete with protruding ears. Though the mask looked playful, the rifle in her grip told another story, as did the crowd of tense, battle-worn people flanking her.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," the soldier admitted, fingers tightening on the stock of his weapon. Another soldier quietly gestured toward a sewer entrance partly hidden by debris.

The pink-bunny woman spotted the gesture and blocked their path. "You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"You might have guns, but we have the advantage," she continued. "If either side fires, the moths will come. They leave us alone when we're covered in wax—but you? You're sitting targets." She raised her voice just enough to add emphasis. "Put the guns on the ground, strip off your armor, and back off."

"Quiet," hissed one soldier. "You'll attract them." Despite their protests, they set their weapons down to defuse the tense standoff.

"And for the love of everything, would you two stop it?!" the woman suddenly barked at the couple still mid-act on the other side of the building. Naked but encrusted in a waxy sheen, the man held the woman's waist, each thrust creating a rhythmic clap and trembling waves across her hips.

The next few moments felt like a single drawn breath of eerie silence.

"Move!" the soldier leader shouted. He and his squad grabbed their guns and sprinted for the sewer entrance without warning. Gunfire erupted behind them—bullets pinged and glanced off their core-infused suits, each impact denting the metal plating. The sudden onslaught roused the moths. Gathering in a black cloud overhead, the insects released streams of corrosive wax that burned through walls and pavement alike.

Lines on the soldiers' armor glowed a hot orange, enabling them to burst forward at uncanny speed. They aimed for the masked woman, desperation clear in their charge. Before she could fully react, the leader swung his rifle butt at her head, the blow precise and disorienting. Her mask shattered free for the briefest moment, revealing startled eyes. Another soldier's gloved fist followed, knocking her unconscious as they barreled past the other survivors who continued firing in vain.

They skidded to the sewer's entrance, frantically prying at the heavy cover that sealed it. One by one, the first three soldiers dropped inside—but four remained above ground, struggling against the hail of bullets and diving moths.

"Private! Jump!" the leader bellowed from below, voice echoing off the damp walls. But the moths swarmed, drowning out his cry in a cacophony of clicking wings and the ragged screams of his fellow squad members. Panicked gunshots reverberated, muffled almost instantly by the shrieking insects.

Inside the sewer, those who made it fell silent in grief for the lives lost above. Their leader urged them onward.

"The water, sir!" a female soldier yelled, gesturing to the filthy sewage flowing around their boots. "If they follow us here, they'll drown or get stuck—"

"No!" The leader barked, eyes blazing with urgency. "We keep running. Our cores will keep us moving faster than they can track."

They sprinted through the narrow passage, steps made unsteady by the sludge. One soldier's legs buckled, sending a ripple of panic through the group as they scrambled to lift her back up.

In that frozen instant, the leader felt certain they'd be overtaken. Every beat of his heart hammered with dread.

"It was a pleasure—" another soldier began, turning his rifle under his chin in a grim resolution.

Bang!

The gunshot ricocheted, missing the soldier's head entirely. A scarred, wax-covered hand had intervened, knocking the barrel off target. The figure behind it was imposing, muscles tense with the bearing of authority—a Baron. Others flanked him, igniting a flamethrower that roared to life with infernal light. A sheet of flame erupted, forming a searing barricade that incinerated the moths attempting to follow. The roaring blaze illuminated the Baron's features: it was Gazier.

"Let's move!" Gazier commanded, extending his hand to help the startled soldier up. "We don't have much time—the flamethrower's fuel won't last."

They hurried down the opposite tunnel, guided by torches and the flicker of scorching flames behind them.

Tense silence prevailed until Gazier spoke into the darkness, his voice echoing off glistening walls. "Why didn't you take the shot?"

"What?" The squad leader barely heard the question over the roar in his own mind—guilt, sorrow, and fury colliding.

"Pink bunny," Gazier clarified. "You had a clean shot at her. Why didn't you take it?"

"She's doing what she has to do to survive," the soldier replied brusquely. "It's nothing personal. I didn't see a need for a kill shot." His eyes flickered away, haunted by the memory of that moment. "Besides… she looked familiar."

Gazier snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Another way of saying you're soft-hearted."

"Compassionate," the soldier corrected with cold composure. "Forgiving. And I swear, she reminded me of someone."

"Of course she looked familiar." Gazier let out a sardonic laugh. "Anyone who runs with 'Pink Bunny' leaves chaos in her wake. I'd be shocked if you didn't know her. She's trouble wherever she goes."

The soldier frowned. "So why not end her yourself?"

They came to a brief halt before another corridor. Gazier shrugged as if acknowledging the weight of it. "She's under protection… Emily's protection. They're friends, or at least they used to be. Though I heard Emily tried to burn her alive once—" He gave a twisted chuckle. "Wouldn't shock me if Emily finally got sick of her nonsense."

With that grim explanation hanging in the air, Gazier gestured for them to press on. The wavering firelight receded behind them, leaving only darkness and the unsettling knowledge that neither traitors nor monsters were in short supply—and that alliances could shift as swiftly as the moths moved above