Chapter 1: Steel, Sparks, and Voltage
The air in Red Hook’s forge tasted of iron and old sweat. Condensation beaded on the rough limestone walls, catching the dull orange glow from hearths where coals smoldered like sleeping dragons. The rhythmic clang-clang-clang of a hammer from the next bay was a heartbeat, and Fred Lawrence moved in time with it.
He exhaled slowly, the smell of hot solder sharp in his nose. His left hand was rock-steady, the fine tip of the iron hovering over the innards of the blaster cradled in a vise. It wasn’t much to look at—a Frankenstein’s monster of salvaged compressor housings, a sawed-off barrel from a old Rustburner model, and a grip wrapped in sweat-darkened leather. But to Fred, it was a promise.
A soft, buzzing chirp came from his right shoulder. Voltage, a vibrant cobalt blue, shifted his weight, his bright yellow eyes fixed on the work. The Tazerling’s golden lightning-bolt markings emitted a faint, static crackle that made the fine hairs on Fred’s neck stand up.
“Almost there, buddy,” Fred murmured, not looking away. “This is the bit that counts.”
The mechanism was the thing. Every standard blaster was built for a right-handed draw, the loading port facing out. It cost you a quarter-second in a duel, fumbling a slug into the chamber from an awkward angle. A quarter-second was a lifetime.
This was different. Fred had filed and reshaped the receiver himself, creating a smooth, side-loading port that aligned perfectly with the natural curl of his left hand. He touched the solder to a final connection, a tiny silver bead flowing to bridge the contact. He pulled the iron away.
The blaster hummed, a new, deeper resonance joining the forge’s chorus. A series of tiny indicator lights along the stock flickered from red to a steady, cool green.
Fred released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He carefully pried the weapon from the vise. The weight was perfect—substantial, but balanced in his left palm like an extension of his own bones. He practiced the motion slowly, without a slug: hand dipping to his belt, fingers finding an imaginary loading port, a smooth upward arc that ended with the blaster level and ready.
It was fluid. It was fast.
A wide, genuine grin spread across his face, cutting through the smudge of grime on his cheek. This wasn’t just a tool. It was a statement. In the caverns of Slugterra, people talked about natural-born slingers, about legendary bloodlines and lucky finds. Fred believed in something else. He believed in the ache in your muscles after a thousand practice draws. He believed in the smell of hot metal and the focus it took to make a connection this small, this perfect. Legends weren’t born. They were built. Piece by piece, sweat by sweat. This blaster was his first real argument.
“Finally figured out which hand you use, kid?”
The gruff voice echoed in the bay. Red Hook stood in the archway, a mountain of a man with arms like sandstone pillars, wiping his hands on an apron that had been grey decades ago. His eyes, sharp as flint, went from Fred’s face to the blaster.
“Just improving the efficiency,” Fred said, running a thumb over the custom loading port. “Standard design’s got a built-in lag.”
“Lag.” Red Hook snorted, but he was already stepping closer, his craggy face intent. “Let’s see it.”
Fred didn’t demonstrate the draw. Instead, he turned the blaster over in his hands, showing the modified housing. “Side-loading. Aligns with the holster. Cuts the reload time down by at least twenty percent.”
Red Hook took the blaster, his heavy hands surprisingly deft. He inspected the solder work, the machining on the port. He grunted. It was the closest thing to praise he ever offered. “Clean job. Won’t win you pretty points at a guild show, but it’ll hold together.” He handed it back. “Thinking of testing it soon, or just admirin’ your own handiwork?”
“Soon,” Fred said, his gaze drifting to the darkened tunnel entrance at the far end of the forge. Beyond lay the practice caverns, and beyond those, the real deep caverns where slingers proved their worth. “Need to sync Voltage with the new firing chamber. It’s got a different kick.”
On his shoulder, Voltage buzzed, a spike of eager energy that made Fred’s jaw tingle. The slug was ready. They both were.
“The Shane Gang was through here yesterday,” Red Hook said offhandedly, turning back to his own workbench. “Needed some rush repairs on a mecha-beast axle. That Eli Shane… he’s got a nice touch. Natural.”
Fred’s hand tightened on the blaster’s grip. He admired Eli, everyone did. But the word ‘natural’ sat in his gut like a stone. He looked at the blaster in his hand, then at Voltage, whose eyes were now fixed on him with absolute loyalty. Their partnership wasn’t an accident of birth. It was choice. It was work.
“Yeah,” Fred said finally, his voice low and sure. “He’s good. We’re gonna be better.”
He slotted the cool, familiar shape of the blaster into the custom leather holster on his left hip. The fit was seamless. He gave a nod to Red Hook’s broad back, then turned, his boots scuffing on the stone floor as he headed for the door. Voltage’s static charge built in the air around them, a storm contained in eight ounces of blue flesh and fierce devotion.
Fred pushed through the heavy forge door and stepped into Quiet Lawn Cavern. The contrast was immediate, like plunging his head into a cool spring. He breathed in, long and deep. The air here was beautifully sweet, thick with the scent of crushed grass and damp, clean earth. It washed the taste of solder and coal dust from his tongue. Sun crystals embedded high in the cavern ceiling bathed the rows of neat houses and communal lawns in a soft, perpetual twilight.
He followed the worn path around the back of Red Hook’s shop, to a secluded alcove where the cavern wall curved inward. Here, he’d set up his training dummy—a battered, rusted shell of an old compressor torso bolted to a stone plinth. It was scarred with old burns, frost marks, and dents.
Fred walked about twenty meters in front of it and turned, his boots sinking slightly into the soft turf. He unclipped the new blaster from his belt. The leather creaked. His left hand curled around the grip, the custom texture familiar and secure.
He pulled a single, clear slug tube from his pocket and looked at Voltage, a question in his eyes. The Tazerling nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and chirped a high-frequency sound of pure excitement. He tensed and then hopped, a small arc of blue, sliding perfectly into the tube.
Fred slotted the tube home. It seated with a solid, magnetic click. He was acutely, ridiculously pleased watching the old, spent tube eject from the correct side, clattering to the grass instead of fumbling against his chest. A small thing. His thing.
He raised the blaster, settling into his stance. Knees slightly bent, right foot back. He exhaled, sighting down the barrel at the dummy’s center mass.
He fired.
The world exploded in a shove of sound and force. The recoil was a sledgehammer to his palm, a violent wrench that traveled up his arm and slammed into his shoulder. It wasn’t the sharp crack of a standard blaster; it was a deeper, visceral THOOM that echoed off the cavern walls. It nearly knocked him off his feet. He stumbled back a step, his boot digging a heel into the soft ground.
But his aim held true.
A blue streak tore across the twenty-meter gap, not a slug anymore, but a screaming line of pure kinetic energy. Voltage hit velocity. The transformation was instantaneous—a sudden, crackling elongation into the Velocimorph. He became a sleek, living bolt, jagged yellow crests blazing, limbs trailing arcs of raw electricity.
He struck the dummy not with an impact, but with an eruption.
A web of blue lightning engulfed the metal torso, spiderwebbing out in a blinding, sizzling circle. The air smelled of ozone and scorched paint. For a full three seconds, the dummy was the heart of a miniature storm, crackling and popping, every rivet and seam illuminated from within.
Then it ceased.
The light died. The electricity faded with a last, pathetic sizzle. Voltage, back in his small, cobalt form, dropped onto the plinth, his tiny chest heaving.
The dummy was gone. Not damaged. Not dented. Gone. Where it had stood was a blackened, smoldering stain on the stone, scattered with globs of molten, re-cooled metal and fine grey ash. A single, twisted support beam jutted up like a broken bone.
A slow whistle escaped Fred’s lips. The power… it was way beyond specs. The new chamber had magnified Voltage’s transformation energy exponentially. The recoil was the price.
Voltage hopped down and sped back across the grass, a blue blur. He leaped. Fred extended his hand on instinct, and the slug landed in his palm, warm and vibrating with post-transmission fatigue and exhilaration. Fred brought him up to eye level.
The Tazerling’s bright yellow eyes were wide, his whole body humming with a pure, joyful frequency. He chirped, a bubbly, rising sound, and did a little happy spin in Fred’s palm. The feeling wasn't just observation; it was a feedback loop of emotion through their bond. A wave of triumphant, giddy satisfaction washed from Voltage into Fred’s nerves, buzzing up his arm and spreading through his chest, lifting the corners of his mouth into an incredulous grin.
“Yeah,” Fred breathed, his voice full of awe. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?”
He moved his hand to his shoulder. Voltage hopped off, nestling into his familiar perch with a contented, staticky sigh. Fred reached up and scratched the smooth, cool skin behind the slug’s crests. Voltage leaned into the touch, chirring with pleasure, his tiny eyes sliding half-shut.
The shop’s back door banged open. Red Hook stood there, a thick rag in his hands, his eyebrows nearly in his hairline. He stared at the scorched crater where the dummy had been, then at Fred, then at the smoking blaster still held loosely in his left hand.
“Lag, huh?” Red Hook said finally, his voice dry as stone dust.
Fred just smiled, the adrenaline still singing in his veins, Voltage’s happy purr a constant vibration against his neck. He looked at the destruction, then at the tool in his hand that had wrought it. Proof, smoking and real.
“Efficiency,” Fred corrected, his thumb stroking Voltage’s head. “Just improving the efficiency.”