Chapter 11: Test
The needle-point fingers closed around his throat.
The cold was absolute. It wasn't the chill of ice, but the absence of heat, a void that leeched the warmth from his skin, his blood, his breath. It flashed through him, blinding and paralyzing. The creature lifted him. Ren’s boots left the floor, kicking weakly against the empty air. His fingers, gone numb and clumsy, scrabbled at the sleek, dark appendage. It was like trying to grasp polished stone.
Pressure built. A dull, crushing throb behind his eyes. The world began to tunnel, the edges of his vision fizzing into static. The faceless plane of its head filled his narrowing sight. A low, hungry thrum vibrated from it, resonating in the bones of his jaw. This was it. Not in a glorious exosuit on a battlefield, but in a forgotten maintenance vault, choked out by a thing that wasn’t supposed to exist. The shame of it was almost as sharp as the suffocation. His uncle’s face, stern and expectant, flashed behind his eyes.
A sound punched through the hum.
Not an echo. A defined, concussive crack. It was followed instantly by a wet, ceramic shatter. The smooth obsidian plane of the creature’s head erupted in a spray of black, viscous gel that smoked where it hit the floor.
The thrumming stopped.
The vice around his throat vanished. Ren dropped, a heap of stunned flesh, hitting the cold tiles hard. He rolled onto his side, gulping air that burned like fire. Each cough racked his body, his lungs frantic for what had been denied. The pain in his neck was a hot, brutal necklace.
Through watering eyes, he saw the creature. It wobbled, its elongated limbs flailing in a silent, uncoordinated dance. The stump of its neck bled darkness, a pouring smoke that dissipated before it touched the ground. Then, like a marionette with its strings cut, it collapsed into itself, the substance of its body unraveling into wisps of shadow that were swallowed by the dusty air.
Boots approached. Steady, unhurried clicks on the stone.
He looked up, squinting against the gloom. The silhouette was tall, backlit by the failing emergency strips of the hallway. It resolved into a cadet uniform, but worn with a looser, almost negligent grace. A long, dirty-blonde braid fell over one shoulder. The cadet held a weapon—a compact, boxy pistol with a heavy barrel that still wisped metallic smoke. It was city-security issue. Not standard academy fare.
She crouched. Her face came into view. Sharp features, eyes the color of a winter sky assessing him with a calm that seemed utterly disconnected from the smoking anomaly residue on the floor. She was, unmistakably, the transfer student. The one from the mess hall whispers. Luna.
“Can you breathe?” Her voice was lower than he expected, calm, with a faint, unplaceable accent rounding the edges of her Japanese.
Ren managed a jerky nod, one hand still pressed to his throbbing throat. “What… was that?” he rasped, the words scraping raw.
“A Fragment. A strong one.” Her eyes weren’t on him anymore. They were scanning the vault entrance, the darkness beyond. “Can you stand? This isn’t a secure bubble. The gunshot was a beacon.”
She said it like stating the weather. She stood and offered her hand. Not a delicate gesture. A practical one, fingers long, palm calloused.
He took it. Her grip was ferociously strong, hauling him upright with an ease that surprised him. A fresh wave of dizziness swamped him; he staggered, and her other hand shot out, steadying him by the shoulder. Her expression didn’t change. “Your name is Ren. Ikawi, right?” Pointing at his name tag on his uniform.
He nodded, stunned she knew it.
“Luna. Owari.” A faint, almost imperceptible twist at the corner of her mouth. “The stories are mostly exaggerations. Come on.”
She moved toward the exit, her gait fluid, the pistol held low but ready. Ren snatched up the durasteel leg, his only weapon, its familiar weight a small anchor in the spinning room. He followed, his body protesting every step, his mind a riot of questions.
They slipped back into the narrow accessway. The silence felt heavier now, poisoned.
“Where did you get a city-sec slugthrower?” he whispered, the words hurting.
“Took it off a panicked officer in the foyer,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He wasn’t using it effectively.” She paused at the T-junction, listening. A distant sound echoed, like something heavy being dragged over grating. “Stay close. And quiet.”
They took the left fork. The corridor began to widen, joining a secondary gallery lined with broken display cases of mineral samples. The weak light from ahead was the muted gray of twilight filtering through a high, grimy window.
They were almost to the gallery’s entrance when Luna froze, throwing an arm back to halt him.
She didn’t need to. He saw them.
The grand hallway ahead was a cathedral of shadows. And in the middle of it, standing in a loose, silent congregation, were more of them.
Not one. Not two. At least seven of the faceless, elongated figures. They weren’t moving. They were simply… positioned. Across the hall, in doorways, at the base of a grand staircase. Standing sentry. Waiting.
One, near the center, slowly turned its blank head toward the gallery entrance. A soft, collective static buzz began to hum in the air, raising the hair on Ren’s arms.
Luna took a single, slow step back. “Okay,” she breathed, the word barely audible. “New plan.”
She glanced at him, then at the durasteel leg in his white-knuckled grip. Her winter-sky eyes held no panic, only a swift, calculating intensity. “Ikawi. How badly do you want to be a cleaner?”