The adrenaline of the battle against the Aliens had faded, leaving only the biting cold of the Northern Border and the stale, metallic smell of ozone. The Rusty Nail creaked as the bitter wind of Sector 2355 buffeted its hull, a lonely sound in the frozen waste.
Lack Flameheart sat in the mess hall. He wasn't wearing the heavy Atlas Frame; Ratchet was currently cursing at the hydraulic servos in the workshop, repairing the stress fractures from the boulder toss. Lack sat in his standard uniform—tattered, stained with oil and dried blood, a visual record of a month in hell.
On the holographic table in front of him, a news broadcast from the University was playing on loop.
[BREAKING NEWS: THE TERRORIST PLOT]
The image showed the smoking crater of the Grand Arena in Sector 98. The camera panned over the destruction with cinematic voyeurism, lingering on the shattered stone.
"It has been three weeks since the tragic attack on the Grand Tournament," a reporter announced, her voice grave, pitched perfectly to elicit sympathy. "High Councilman Aamon has confirmed that the explosion was caused by a radical anti-God faction led by the disgraced student, Lack Flameheart."
The screen flashed Lack's ID photo—the one from his first year, looking scrawny, defiant, and hopelessly naive.
"Flameheart, along with several accomplices, detonated a Void Device during the finals, killing himself and the promising healer, Sarah, in a murder-suicide pact. A moment of silence was held for the victims..."
"Murder-suicide," Torin whispered, shrinking into his seat as if the hologram could see him. "We're dead. Officially."
"And we're terrorists," Volt added, leaning against the wall. He spun a coin between his electrified fingers, the sparks jumping nervously. "My father is going to kill me. Again."
"They spun it," Lack said, his voice calm, dissecting the propaganda. "Aamon erased the truth. He hid the fact that he fired the laser. He hid the fact that Sarah was the bomb. He needed a villain, so he cast a corpse."
He looked across the room.
Sarah was sitting by the porthole, wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket. She was staring out at the purple lightning of the Devil Domain crackling on the horizon. She hadn't spoken since they arrived at the Wall. The trauma of the possession sat on her shoulders like a physical weight.
Mina (Tears) sat next to her, peeling an orange silently, offering the simple, citrus scent as a tether to reality.
"We can't go back," Rian (Ice) stated coldly. "If we step foot in Sector 98, the campus security will execute us on sight. We are fugitives."
Stolen story; please report.
"We have to go back," Lack countered, his eyes hard. "We have the Data-Drive. We have the truth about Project Genesis. But we can't just walk in the front door."
"We need a back door," Ratchet grunted, walking in with a tray of engine-grease coffee that smelled suspiciously like battery acid. "A smuggling route. But the University tightened security after the 'attack'. The Slums are on lockdown."
"I know a way."
The voice came from the hallway. It was deep, raspy, and sounded like gravel grinding together.
Kuro, the Tiger Beastman, limped into the room. He looked better than before. His missing arm was bandaged, and he was walking upright, though he leaned heavily on a metal staff. The Dwarf’s medicine—potent and vile—had done its work.
"Kuro," Lack stood up. "You're awake."
"The Dwarf's medicine tastes like battery acid, but my ribs are knit," Kuro growled, eyeing Ratchet.
Kuro hobbled to the map on the table. He pointed a claw at the Shattered Seas.
"The Iron-Tooth Tribe... we were smugglers before we were soldiers. There is an old route. A Sewage Line that runs from the Neutral Zone directly into the University's waste disposal sector."
"Sewage?" Terra wrinkled her nose. "Again?"
"It is unguarded," Kuro shrugged. "Because no one is desperate enough to swim in mana-toxic waste. Except... perhaps... dead men."
"It fits," Lack nodded. "We're ghosts. We might as well haunt the sewers."
"But there is a catch," Kuro warned, his golden eyes narrowing into slits. "The entrance to the pipe is in Sector 88. The Graveyard of Ships."
Lack remained anchored to the deck, his eyes locked on the red circle on the map. The mathematics of the previous month were absolute. "Sector 88 is a crater. The Subject Zero detonation vapourised the island."
"A crater displaces mass," Kuro countered, the logic cold and mechanical. "When the factory vanished, it left a spherical void in the ocean floor three miles deep. The Shattered Seas rushed in to fill the vacuum."
The reality of the fluid dynamics settled over the bridge. The ambient temperature in the room dropped a fraction of a degree.
"A whirlpool," Lack stated. The physics were undeniable. Millions of tonnes of displaced water violently reclaiming its territory.
"A permanent gravity well," Kuro corrected. "The ocean dragged every piece of rotting timber, every dead Void Pirate galleon, and every shattered hull within a thousand miles directly into the centre of the blast zone. The crater did not remain empty. It became a strainer for the sea. It is a wall of rusted iron and dead engines now. The Graveyard of Ships."
The holographic projection shifted, simulating the crushing water pressure and the tangled mountain of wreckage spinning slowly in the dark water. The perfect, chaotic environment for a Cosmic Siren to claim her throne.
"And who controls it?" Volt asked, breaking the silence.
"Not a who," Kuro said darkly. "A what. A Siren. A Cosmic-Tier entity that hoards secrets and ships. If you want to pass, you don't fight her. You trade with her."
"Trade?" Lack asked. "What does a Cosmic Siren want?"
"Stories," Kuro said. "She eats memories. Specifically... memories of the Old World."
Lack touched the pocket where he kept the Old Earth History book—the one about the Nuclear Age he had stolen from the library. He looked at his team. They were battered, branded terrorists, and exhausted. But they were alive.
"We have a plan," Lack said. "We sail to Sector 88. We trade with a Siren. We swim through toxic waste. And then..."
He looked at Sarah.
"Then we crash Aamon's victory party."
Sarah turned from the window. Her eyes were still dull, but a flicker of gold—not the God's gold, but her own—sparked in them.
"He thinks I'm dead," Sarah whispered. "Let's keep it that way. Until I'm standing right behind him."
? ? ?
[System Record: Character Progression]
- Current Status: Fugitives / Officially Deceased.
- New Objective: Infiltrate University via Sector 88 (The Graveyard of Ships).
New Intel: The Siren (Cosmic Tier) controls the smuggling route.