The Faceless, Part One
By Graham S.
Galaxy from Getty Images Pro Created in Canva
Disclaimer: The following article is Part 1 of a fantasy series written by Graham S. It may contain mild fantasy darkness or violence. Reader discretion is advised.
To view other parts of this series, follow the links below:
”THE FACELESS”: WHAT IS IT, AND WHAT INSPIRED IT?
The Faceless, Part 2
The Faceless, Part 3
The wind pounded away at Otheym, sending chills down his spine and raising goosebumps on his arms. He reached up and brushed the frost off of his snow goggles, giving him a precious few more seconds of sight, before he’d need to brush them off again. Even beneath his gloves, his fingers felt numb, and he was having trouble guiding the wires of the power box to their designated spots.
His com crackled to life, barely audible over the shriek of the blizzard, and Eira’s voice filled his ears. “Almost done, slowpoke?” she said, sounding mildly annoyed and rather shivery, “Temperature is below zero here, and we can’t let the Dense Energy get unstable.”
“Yeah, nearly finished,” responded Otheym, as he clicked the last wire into place. “I’m returning to the HAB now.”
Otheym staggered through the snow, back to the HAB, then house sized dome which had been his home since the start of the expedition, where the rest of the team was waiting. As he approached, the blast doors grinded open, their gears straining against the ice and snow that was packed into them as a result of the blizzard. The interior of the HAB was warm and well lit, thanks to the rewiring he’d just finished. He was too drained from the biting cold outside to appreciate his handiwork, so he instead just sat down on his bunk and clicked off his goggles, tossing them onto the nearby table, at the far end of which sat Eira, her coat buttoned up, hood down, revealing her long, dark hair.
“Took you long enough,” she said, wryly. Otheym just nodded in acknowledgement, rather than use more energy to respond. “Here,” said Eira, her expression slightly more concerned once she realized how exhausted he was, and handed him an energy stim. Otheym injected the stim into himself, at his collar, and felt the rush of energy fill him.
He stood, no longer tired, and stretched. “Anything interesting happen during anyone else’s jobs today?” he asked, reaching for another stim that was on the table.
“Vargham was taken by the Faceless today,” Eira sighed, sounding somewhat solemn.
Otheym shook his head in frustration. “Shame. He was the best at harvesting that junk.” He gestured to the canisters of Dense Energy that lined the back wall. “Why do we even have to risk our lives getting it? The Faceless never seem to care about it, and the Leagues never tell us what they do with it. Are we really out here, on some frozen rock of a planet, risking our lives to harvest some useless material from some of the deadliest creatures in the known universe?”
“It is not useless,” interjected a raspy, mechanical voice behind him. Otheym turned to see Omentouched Dafyr standing at the doorway, having just escaped the biting winds outside.
He spoke again, his mechanical implants producing his raspy, clipped tone, “The Leagues of Omen have purposes that you are not allowed to know. Also, they are not ‘Faceless,’ their proper designation is-”
“Unusual Fauna, we know,” interjected Eira, “but you have to admit that ‘Faceless’ is more fitting.” Dafyr ignored her and walked over to the board that contained all the names of the members of Exploratory Team DE-12467 and crossed off Vargham’s name.
Numbers were getting low. When the expedition had started, there had been 100 colonists, prisoners given a chance to be pardoned if they could successfully colonize the planet. They had been divided into five equal groups, with an Omentouched to supervise each one.
Now, Otheym’s group, or DE-12467, had lost 18 of their 20 members (21, if you counted Omentouched Dafyr), to the harsh weather, mechanical mishaps, or the awful, inhuman visages of the Faceless, and had received no messages or information from or regarding the other colonies.
Dafyr turned back to the remaining members, and cleared his throat before speaking, “In light of the recent decline in personnel, I have sent a request to the League Expeditionary Fleet for reinforcements. They will arrive tomorrow evening.”
Eira raised her eyebrows. “You managed to get the communicator to work?” she asked, incredulous, before her face fell slightly, “Weren’t we prohibited from doing that unless it was an emergency?”
“I have deemed our current situation an emergency,” responded Dafyr, his voice as mechanical and monotone as always.
“And how do you expect us to deal with the Faceless? They’ll be whipped into a frenzy by the communicator.”
“The Unusual Fauna,” corrected Dafyr, “will be fought off. Seal the blast doors, ready the weaponry. The Leagues will reward our endurance.”
With a sigh, Eira got up and went about sealing the doors. Otheym went about assembling the weapons.
Otheym sat on his bunk, and clicked a plasma cartridge into his rifle. He let out a long, deep sigh, trying to calm his nerves. He remembered his first encounter with the Faceless. The faint, pale shape dragging itself through the snow, muttering to itself in its vile, terrifying language. Just looking at it from the side had wracked his body with fear. He remembered the feeling of its psychic energies rushing into his mind, screaming and tearing at his very mind, nearly driving him to insanity and the flash out its large, one color eyes, before Eira had pulled him out of its sight. Just thinking about it, he felt a chill run down his spine.
“You holding up alright?” Eira’s voice said to him as she stepped into the HAB, having finished sealing the doors. She sat beside him and gave him a concerned look. “Having flashbacks?”
“Yeah,” responded Otheym, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the images of the Faceless that danced across his mind. “Do you think the doors will hold?” he asked, trying to change the subject to something that might get his mind off the horrible memories.
“Frankly, no,” responded Eira grimly, “They’re not made to withstand anything much stronger than a strong wind, and using the communicator will make those Omen-forsaken Faceless frenzied. But hey, that’s why we’ve got plasma, right?” She nudged him gently with her shoulder, trying to cheer him up.
“I suppose,” responded Otheym, and hoped that plasma would do anything to these beasts.
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Graham S. lives in Africa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo. He has been studying at NorthStar for two years and is in tenth grade. He enjoys reading, writing, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, and Warhammer 40k. He hopes to one day be an author but currently is enjoying being a journalist for the Navigator.