The wind howled as the tram picked up speed along the straight stretch of the tunnel. Jagged edges flickered in and out of sight in the darkness. With no roof and barely any railing, the tram was little more than a metal shell hurtling through the dark. This tram, of course, was never designed to transport humans. The air grew colder as they pulled away from Blaine’s warehouse. Vern and Finn crouched in the empty container, their hands pressed together, trying to restore the feeling in their fingers.
Finn coughed into his hand. “Rust and ruin, it’s bloody freezin''!”
"That it is," Vern muttered, his teeth chattering. "Can’t see my chronometer, but we should be close to where the ore got stolen last time." He reached into his coat, pulled out a pistol, and chambered a round with a sharp click. Finn followed suit.
The ancient comm system crackled in their ears, and both of them flinched. “R..eme..ber Blaine’s ord..s... take t.. ..live.”
Finn located the volume control and turned it down, muttering under his breath that they couldn’t make sense of the crackling transmission anyway. “You heard that rustsucker Blaine,” he said, glancing at his pistol with a scowl. “Every bullet his lads'' fire comes straight out of their pay.” After rechecking the chamber with a nod of satisfaction, he holstered his pistol and reached for his favorite metal striking gauntlets. He donned them, fastening the straps with a meticulous ease born of experience.
Vern couldn’t help but smile at Finn’s compulsive habit. Unlike Finn, he kept his pistol ready, he wasn’t as confident when it came to brawling. “I think that’s for keeping them from going ballistic, as quiet as possible, remember?”
“I still say it’s greed.”
A sharp bout of pain made Vern wince and rub his eyes. Both of his frames are back at his habitat, he did not want to risk losing them here.
“Again?”
“It’s fine. It’s already passing.”
Finn sneezed, and wiped his face, “You think there’s really a mechhead prowlin’ the tunnels?”
“Who knows,” Vern pulled his coat collar closer. “If it’s not a mechhead then someone else is hijacking shipments, we simply stop them and we’re done with Blaine.”
Finn grunted in agreement. “It’s strange that he jumped straight to that conclusion from the information he told us, he knew it was a mechhead.”
Vern nodded, “He knows much more than he’s saying. I fully believe we’ll see that abomination in the flesh. And I–”
The brakes screeched, slamming them into the container wall cutting Vern off mid-sentence. Finn grunted as he pushed off the metal side as the tram slowed down. “We’ll find out for sure ourselves, little brotta.”
The whine of the brakes faded, and the tram shuddered to a halt, leaving a heavy silence that pressed in around them. The sound of heavy boots broke it, pounding against the tram deck. Followed by voices that echoed off the tunnel walls, drifting past as they moved deeper into the cart, where the majority of the ‘bait’ crates with ore were stacked. Vern mentally reviewed the plan: isolate the mechhead from the others. Blaine had insisted he would avoid combat and support from the rear. Rusts take that man—how could he have all the details? Yet, despite their many assumptions, Vern couldn’t shake the confidence Blaine exuded. The weight of request pressed heavily upon him as those ember eyes locked onto his: Bring it back alive.
The sharp crack of a gunshot snapped Vern out of his introspection, the echo quickly swallowed by frantic shouts. The commotion would keep the others busy, just as planned. Finn raised a hand, silently counting down before slowly opening the side hatch.
Three figures stood nearby, their backs turned as they watched the chaos unfold on the far side of the cart. One of them stood out immediately—a massive figure in loose, dark clothes, unnaturally tall and muscular. His hands were encased in massive metal gauntlets. Antennas jutted from the back of his neck and shoulders straight from the flesh, the most noticeable feature was the wide, rectangular metal helm, designed for remote interfacing with machines, according to Blaine. The two figures flanking looked tiny even though they were average height, dressed in simple close-fit dark clothes. Each gripping a baton and standing protectively close to their assumed leader.
Finn nodded to Vern and left their hiding place. When they were both out, Finn gestured with his hand and both of them started to run. Slowly at first but quickly building up to a sprint.
The footsteps finally alerted the man on the left,who turned startled. He yelped and raised his hands, but too slowly. Finn’s gauntleted fist connected cleanly with his jaw, the sound of impact sharp and brutal—He fell.
The second man spun to check his back, spotted Vern and charged. Vern slid to a stop and took a step back, he steadied his aim, pistol raised. Sights aligned on the target.
“Stop!” Vern demanded. The man ignored him, closing the distance.
“I’ll shoot! Stop now!” Vern’s voice faltered, his grip trembling. He’d never shot anything living before. He fired a shot above the man''s head.
The man didn’t flinch or slow, he pulled the baton back as he got close. Vern froze, and readjusted the sights on the man, finger gently squeezing the trigger—but he couldn’t. Defensively he pivoted and raised his arms to block. The baton slammed against him—it was metal.
Pain shot through him as he stumbled and hit the ground. The man was atop of him, hitting him wildly, his ribs screaming from glancing blows. He lost the pistol when the first blow hit. The attacker didn’t let up, raining down strikes. Vern twisted, shielding his head and torso as best he could, but several hits landed hard.
Finn appeared suddenly, delivering a blow to the ribs knocking the man off his feet. The baton clattered to the tram floor as the attacker collapsed in pain.
Finn extended his arm. “Are you hur—”
The crane, part of the cargo cart, suddenly lurched to life with a grinding screech. Its massive arm swung wildly. Finn realized late what was happening, and did not fully brace for the impact. Finn was sent flying across the platform, his body flipping through the air like a ragdoll ending with a slam.
Vern rolled to his feet, pain lanced through him, but he shoved it aside and scanned the platform. He looked at his friend. Finn grunted, and curled on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the face twisted in pain. He’s alive.
Vern’s pulse quickened as he faced the mechhead. The whir of the coolant systems in the man’s helmet rose to an eerie pitch. Parts of the helm glowed with faint blue light and the heat bled from the vents at the edges of the helm, distorting the air in a shimmering haze. The light on the helm increased as the crane sprung to life again, smashing in a couple of Blaine''s men on the far side of the cart. Vern held his attention now though, others were an afterthought.
Mechhead snapped his arm to the side, a thick wire shooting out, crackling with electricity as it struck the floor. The crane moved again, its massive arm shifting toward Finn. He’s baiting me. Panic flared in Vern’s chest as he watched the crane arm climb higher, most likely to crush Finn. He exhaled, and the panic solidified into something sharper—resolve. He grabbed a baton that was used on him, and sprinted, his pulse hammering in his ears. I had to dodge that wire.
Pain flared behind his eyes, his vision fracturing as minuscule prismatic triangles swarmed into view. Not now! Their kaleidoscopic shimmer blurred the distance, the colors bending and shifting erratically. Some of the shapes drifted close, spinning around him as he ran. He pushed the distractions aside as best as possible. He glanced at Finn, who took off his pouch and held it in his hand, giving a pained smile and a nod, unaware of the crane’s new movement. Vern exhaled, Finn will not die—not if I can stop it.
As he told himself that, The air shifted. A chill ran down his spine, his skin tightening as goosebumps erupted across his neck and arms. The pain and shimmer vanished, he could see through them. Triangles stopped moving around him, instead, they were drawn to him. Each one sent a cold jolt through his skin on contact, passing through his clothes, felt like icy needles threading into his skin. The cold wasn’t just on his skin—it sank deeper, curling into his bones like a forgotten memory. With every breath, more of them came, and with each step, his speed surged. The strangeness of it all should have unnerved him, but instead, it steadied him. His pulse slowed to a calm, deliberate rhythm.
The mechhead flinched at Vern’s sudden burst of speed, swinging the crackling wire earlier than intended. Vern dropped low, sliding beneath it in a controlled rush. The baton snapped forward, enhanced by strange cold power flowing through his veins. It connected with the mechhead’s knee with a sickening crack. He stumbled, his weight shifting as he dropped to other knee, a pained howl ripping through the metallic confines of his helmet.
Vern didn’t stop. Momentum carried him into a spinning strike, the baton connecting with the base of the mechhead’s neck, just beneath the helmet. He yelled as he swung, his breath frosting against the brass helm. The mechhead toppled forward, the weight of his helm clanging against the floor with a resounding crash, the sound reverberating through the tram like a death knell. Crane''s arm came to a halt as he collapsed, whatever he was doing required concentration.
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A wave of exhaustion hit him as the cold power left, leaving his muscles heavy and his mind clouded, he fell to his knees and panted. The triangles were gone from his sight. He felt like he was going to overheat, the steam pouring from him in that cold air. With great effort he stood up, his body felt as if it was made of lead. He turned to check his friend, Finn’s eyes wide open—complete shock on his face, which changed into a wide grin.
“Catch!” Finn’s voice was lined with pain as he threw the little pouch he held.
Failing to catch it mid-air, Vern fumbled with the pouch, he was too lethargic. The pouch contained two spherical devices Blaine provided. Snapping them into place on either side of the mechhead’s bulky helmet and moving back. The devices activated, discharging a jarring electrical shock. The mechhead jolted violently, its helm fried, sputtering, and failing as thick black smoke billowed from its vents.
***
A cacophony of voices rose and fell, indistinct yet urgent, overlapping in a maddening chorus he couldn’t decipher. The darkness around him was impenetrable, a suffocating void that pressed heavily on his senses. Exhaustion clung to him like chains— so profound it felt like it would crush his soul.
Slowly he drifted toward the voices, they sharpened, growing clearer and louder. Someone needed medical attention, and more people yelled over one another for different things. Before he fully joined them, a presence rushed toward him. It seized him with a violent pull, wrenching him away, dragging him somewhere deeper.
Time dissolved into meaninglessness as the pull continued, relentless and unending. He felt others—other presences—drawing closer, trailing him until, at last, he was released. Helpless in the void, he could just wait.
“Whose is this one, hmmmm?” a voice asked, melodic yet unsettling, echoing with the resonance of many speaking as one.
A heavy silence followed until a low grinding growl broke it. “It does not possess a writ, interesting.” The voice was rough, like stone grinding against stone.
“Nor did it ignite his echo, hmmmm. Why have we felt this one?” the first voice asked again, its tone uncertain but calm. “Do we kill it?”
“We are hurting,” whispered a third voice, venomous and serpentine. “We can’t kill it. We don’t know who its Benefactor is.” The voice hissed, “Get it away.”
The deep voice growled again, “If it has a Benefactor it does not care, it left him writless.”
“Why did we sense it, hmmmm.” Melodic voice pondered, “Aether! It smells of it. It commanded Aether, hmmmm.”
“Get it away,” the serpentine voice thin with an edge of panic threading through its tone. “Noone can control Aether without a deep understanding of it. We don’t know what’s happening, we can’t risk discovery! It’s drawing attention to us, we are vulnerable! Away with it!”
“Away,” a new voice joined in “Away,” another one until there was a chorus.
He gasped, staring at the white ceiling. Vern blinked a few times, cold sweat dripping from his forehead and soaking his shirt. The chest heaved as he tried to catch breath. Blinking away the haze, he glanced around, taking in the busy medical room. Rows of two dozen beds stretched out before him, half of them occupied. Medical staff moved with practiced efficiency, tending to the injured.
An IV line tugged at his left arm as he groaned, forcing himself upright against the stiff pillows. His eyes darted to the far wall, where two black body bags lay side by side. His stomach tightened. Finn. The memory of his friend being struck surged through him, and panic clawed at his chest.
“Finn’s fine,” came a smooth, even voice from his right.
Vern flinched, twisting toward the sound. Blaine sat in a chair beside the bed, his posture relaxed but his expression somber, distant. A shiny silver coin danced across his knuckles, the soft glint catching Vern’s eye.
“Where is he?” Vern rasped, his throat dry.
Blaine pointed across the room. “Multiple crushed ribs. He’s sedated while my surgeons patch him up. They’ve assured me he’ll make it.” Blaine rubbed his face, a brief flicker of weariness breaking through his usual composure. Finally, he locked eyes with Vern. “I reviewed the footage my people brought back. At first glance, it seemed ordinary—unless you know what to look for. There was a faint shimmer in the air around you when you charged the target. Was that the first time?”
Vern stared down at his hands, his fingers twitching involuntarily. “I… I don’t know what I did. But, yeah, that was the first time.” He raised his gaze to Blaine. “Do you know what it means?”
Blaine stood abruptly, his coat shifting around him as he pocketed the coin. “We’ll talk,” he said, his tone clipped. “But not here.” With a brief wave, he gestured for Vern to follow.
Vern yanked the IV line out of his arm, wincing at the sting. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his boots waiting neatly below. Tugging them on, he straightened and glanced around. Blaine had already started walking, his pace measured as his eyes roamed over the occupied beds.
Vern hurried, half-running to catch up, his boots thudding against the floor tile. His limbs still felt like lead. By the time he reached Blaine, the man was surrounded by his lieutenants. They hovered close, delivering rapid reports on various situations while Blaine issued new orders with brisk efficiency. Only his right-hand, Zarri, stayed firmly at his side.
Zarri cast Vern a sidelong glance, her dark eyes sharp with disapproval. She was close to his age, maybe a couple of years older, but their shared history only bred animosity. Growing up near each other hadn’t fostered any kinship—if anything, it had deepened their differences. She said nothing now, but her expression was enough; a pointed glare that carried all the complaints she didn’t dare voice in front of the others.
At the far end of the row, two armed guards flanked a bed. Vern’s eyes were drawn to the figure strapped down—easily the largest man he’d ever seen. The metal bindings secured his arms and legs. Nearby, a doctor and a mechanic worked in tense silence, their attention split between the man and the scattered equipment on a table beside the bed.
The table bore a grim display–chunks of tech removed from the man’s flesh. Bloodied antennae lay in a pile, their jagged roots glistening under the overhead lights. The centerpiece of the collection was a massive helm, its surface scorched, wires trailing from its base like veins, bloody.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder as Blaine approached, then quickly returned to his work. “He’s heavily sedated, boss,” the doctor reported, his voice steady but low. “We finally managed to remove the main interface unit.” He nodded toward the helm. “No permanent damage that we can see, but I won’t know for sure until he wakes up. The shock that fried his gear may have caused brain trauma. Keeping him under for a couple of days is the safest call.”
Blaine’s gaze lingered on the table for a moment before shifting back to the man strapped to the bed. His expression remained unreadable, thoughts hidden behind a practiced mask. “Good work. Keep doing what you think is best,” he said, his tone curt but steady. With that, Blaine turned and moved on.
Vern hesitated, his eyes drawn to the man’s face. It was grotesque—pale, marred by gear sockets embedded in scarred, stretched skin. The remnants of tech seemed to cling to him like a parasite, warping his features until they barely resembled anything human. Vern swallowed hard, suppressing a gag, and followed Blaine.
Blaine’s steady stride brought them to another bed, this one surrounded by a stark contrast of polished white and gleaming gold. Finn lay there, a mask covering his face, his chest encased in a smooth white contraption marked with the golden star of the Concord. Beside him, a graying woman monitored the screen affixed to the side of the device, her fingers dancing over the controls. She glanced up as Blaine approached.
“Boss,” she greeted him with a respectful nod before returning to the screen. “The bone reknit rate is well within parameters. He was lucky—no fragments pierced his lungs or heart.” Her voice carried a mix of relief and clinical detachment.
He nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” Without another glance, Blaine exited the room.
Zarri and Vern followed close behind as Blaine navigated the complex. Vern soon realized they were still within the main building where the audience chamber was located—but this was the second floor, a place he had never visited before. The trio ascended the main stairwell to the top floor. The sudden shift in decor took Vern by surprise. Opulent carpet lined the hallway, its intricate patterns showing under soft, recessed lighting. Massive vases towered along the walls, framed paintings lined the walls. One, in particular, caught Vern’s attention. It wasn’t a printed replica—he could tell from the texture of the brushstrokes on the canvas. The scene depicted a figure in a crisp blue uniform, gazing out from the bridge of a colossal astrocraft. Beyond the viewport, a white astro station hovered against the brilliance of a nearby sun. The warm light bathed the station, casting sharp, elegant shadows.
Vern halted. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said softly, almost to himself. “It’s... beautiful.” Realizing they both stopped and looked at him, he straightened abruptly. “Sorry about that.”
Blaine dismissed the apology with a wave. “Don’t be. This is what reminds us we’re human. And if you forget that, they’ve won. You’re much easier to control when they take that away.”
He turned to Zarri, his tone firm. “You need rest. Go.”
Zarri stiffened, her gaze darting to Vern. “I’m fine, sir. I can—”
Blaine silenced her with a single look. Reluctantly, she relented. “Yes, Boss.” She retreated down the corridor, her displeasure evident in her stiff movements as she entered one of the rooms.
Blaine resumed walking, Vern trailing him. They reached a small lounge, where Blaine sank heavily onto a sofa and gestured toward a sleek cabinet. “Pour us a drink.”
Vern grabbed a bottle and two glasses, setting them on a low table. He filled both glasses, sliding one toward Blaine. Blaine drained his in a single gulp and tapped his empty glass against the table. Wordlessly, Vern refilled it.
Blaine stared into the liquid for a moment. “Something felt off the moment you showed up in those frames.” He sipped from his glass, his expression shadowed. “Then I watched the recording. And when you were out cold, I checked your eyes.” He exhaled, dragging a hand across his face. “What the fuck is he planning?”
“Who?” Vern asked, lost.
“The Highmarshal of The Last Vigil.”
Vern blinked. “Huh?”
The intense glow in Blaine’s eyes from the audience chamber was gone, replaced by a faint orange one that flickered softly in the dim light. He exhaled heavily and tipped back his drink, emptying it in one go. “I need sleep,” he said, his tone sharp with fatigue. “And so do you. We’ll talk more when Finn’s awake. This…” He pointed at Vern, “You.. change everything. I need time to think.” He stood, gesturing toward the corridor they’d come through. “Second door on the right. That’s yours while we’re working together.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hall.
Vern raised the cup to his nose and sniffed cautiously. The sharp, acrid scent made his stomach churn, but he drank it anyway. His face twisted into a grimace as the liquid burned its way down his throat. Whatever it was, it was the strongest thing he’d ever tasted—and by far the worst. He hated it.
Fatigue still pulled at him, making everything feel like a chore. There was no way he could make it back home in this state. With a reluctant sigh, he accepted Blaine’s offer and shuffled toward the second door on the right, his legs dragging him forward.