Chapter 7: B Story
Telemachus cried in pain as Karl pulled the shard out, passing out from the pain.
The tiny red eye glowed unblinking from its perch among the leaking pipes and stacked notebooks. Recognition hit Karl like physical blow. Miranda. Watching. Recording. His sanctuary violated. Rage, cold and razor-sharp, flooded his veins, momentarily overriding everything – the sweat, the strain of extraction, Telemachus’s pained whimpers. "Spy drone!" Karl snarled, the words laced with static. His hand snapped away from Telemachus’s shoulder, abandoning the magnetic tug on the second shard. Ozone crackled violently as his power surged, coalescing into a focused spear of pure electromagnetic fury aimed squarely at the lens.
Telemachus cried out, a silent scream tearing from his throat as the abrupt release of Karl’s magnetic grip sent fresh agony lancing through the disturbed wound. The glowing ember-lines flared brighter under his skin. But even through the haze of pain, the word drone registered. His gold-flecked eyes, wide with terror, locked onto the red light. Instinct screamed danger to Karl. He convulsed, throwing himself sideways off the narrow bed, a desperate, clawed hand lashing out blindly towards a tangled pile of cables snaking from the humming radio. He yanked.
The drone emitted a high-pitched whine, shifting its lens fractionally towards Karl’s gathering power. Karl unleashed the magnetic spear. It wasn’t a subtle extraction; it was annihilation. The air ripped. Shelves exploded. Books erupted in showers of paper. Metal pipes shrieked as they tore free. The drone disintegrated in a shower of sparks and molten plastic shrapnel, vaporized mid-air. Deafening silence followed, broken only by the hiss of ruined wiring in the radio Telemachus had pulled over, the settling rain of paper, and Telemachus’s choked, ragged gasps as he lay half-sprawled on the dusty floorboards.
Karl stood amidst the fresh wreckage, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. The ozone stench was overpowering. He scanned the chaos – his doing. "Damn fly," he rasped, kicking a smoldering fragment. His gaze snapped down to Telemachus. The bioweapon was trembling violently, curled awkwardly on the floor, clutching his shoulder. The wound pulsed angrily, the glowing cracks visibly wider, deeper. The interrupted extraction had done more damage. Guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked Karl’s fury. He stalked over, kicking aside fallen books. "Idiot!" he barked, the anger redirected, scalding. "What was that? Trying to redecorate with your face?"
Telemachus flinched, but didn’t meet his eyes. He pushed himself weakly onto his good elbow, wincing as the movement jarred his injury. "Saw... it targeting... you," he whispered, each word a struggle. He gestured weakly towards the scorch mark where the drone had been. "Had to... disrupt... signal. Guess... overdid it." His attempt at levity died in a grimace.
Karl stared at him. The idiot had thrown himself onto the floor, worsening his own critical injury, to tug a radio cable because he thought the drone was focusing on him? The sheer, reckless stupidity of it stole Karl’s breath. He crouched down abruptly, his magnetic senses flaring out to scan the wound again. It was worse. The remaining shards felt jagged, agitated, their disruptive energy flaring unpredictably. "Disrupt the signal?" Karl’s voice was dangerously low, stripped of its usual mocking edge. "You nearly disrupted your own damn spine landing like that. And this?" He pointed a gloved finger accusingly at the pulsing wound. "Got worse. Thanks for that."
A fresh tremor shook Telemachus. He looked down at his own injury, the sickly glow reflecting in his wide eyes. His breath hitched. "I... I just..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the terror of seeing that red light fixed on Karl, the instinctive need to shield the only person who’d ever shown him even grudging tolerance. He slumped, defeated, the fight draining out of him, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion and pain. "Sorry," he breathed, the word barely audible.
"Save it," Karl snapped, but the heat was gone, replaced by a harsh practicality. He couldn't afford the rage now. The kid was unraveling. He scanned the wrecked room – the hidden tin of cookies miraculously still intact on the tipped-over bedside table. "Right. Damage control." He snatched the tin, popped it open with one hand, and shoved a cookie towards Telemachus’s lips. "Eat. Now. Every crumb. Need you conscious for round two." His tone brooked no argument, the command absolute.
Telemachus looked at the offered cookie, then up at Karl’s stern, sweat-streaked face. There was no mockery, just fierce, impatient resolve. Slowly, he opened his mouth. Karl pushed the cookie in. Telemachus chewed mechanically, the sweet vanilla taste absurd against the pain and the acrid smell of burnt electronics and corrupted flesh. He swallowed with difficulty. Karl watched him, hawk-like, then grabbed another cookie from the tin and crammed half of it into his own mouth. "Good," he mumbled through crumbs, already refocusing his magnetic sense on the treacherous landscape of the wound. "Now hold still. That deeper shard's gonna feel like I'm pulling your ribs out through your shoulder. Try not to redecorate the floor again."
Karl’s hand hovered once more, the air thickening. Telemachus braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of his torn hoodie. The magnetic field engaged, a low thrum vibrating the floorboards. The pain was immediate, blinding, a white-hot vice clamping down. He bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood, determined not to make a sound, not to move. Karl worked with brutal precision, his face a mask of concentration, sweat dripping from his jaw as he carefully isolated the jagged shard buried near bone, ignoring the bioweapon’s silent convulsions of agony. The castle groaned, a deep, mournful sound.
Suddenly, the shard gave way. It ripped free, smaller than the first but radiating intense heat, sizzling as Karl flung it away. It embedded itself in the wall with a sharp thwack. Telemachus slumped back, gasping in silent, shuddering breaths, utterly spent. The glow in the wound dimmed significantly, the ember lines retracting slightly. Karl let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, wiping his brow. "Two down." His voice was rough with exhaustion. "Just the little anchor left. And… the spreading crap." He looked down at Telemachus, pale as parchment, trembling uncontrollably. "Breathe, fox. Worst is over. Probably."
Telemachus slowly opened his eyes. The world swam. Pain still radiated from his shoulder, a deep, persistent throb, but the sharp, tearing agony of the extraction was fading. He saw Karl, framed by the wreckage of the room, looking as drained as he felt. The magnetic inventor had just risked his own strength, enduring the backlash of his power, to dig literal poison out of him. Despite the pain, despite the terror, a fragile warmth bloomed in Telemachus's chest. Slowly, with immense effort, his uninjured hand fumbled inside a small, hidden pocket of his hoodie. His clawed fingers closed around something fragile.
He pulled it out. A single, perfect, deep crimson rose. Its petals were slightly velvety, untouched by the chaos, smelling faintly of earth and sweetness. Holding Karl’s weary gaze, Telemachus offered the rose, his hand trembling but steady. No words. Just the silent gesture, an offering of profound thanks, an acknowledgment of the brutal care he’d received, a symbol of the fragile trust blooming in the wreckage.
Karl stared at the rose. Then at Telemachus’s exhausted, earnest face. The scent of vanilla cookies still lingered. The castle groaned again, a reminder of the world outside, full of Miranda and monsters and pain. A muscle twitched in Karl’s jaw. He looked from the rose to the pulsing, corrupted wound still visible on Telemachus’s shoulder. He didn't take it. "Tch. Sentimental junk," he grumbled, the sound lacking its usual bite. He turned his attention back to the wound, his magnetic field already building again, low and focused. "Put that thing down. Need to get this last bit before you start leaking glow-stick fluid." But he didn’t look away from the injury. His gloved hand hovered, ready. The rose remained, held out in Telemachus’s trembling hand, a silent, defiant bloom of color in the gray wreckage. Karl took a breath. The final shard awaited.
"Karl? Do you hear that?"
Thunder boomed from outside. Rain. Heavy rain.
The heavy rain drummed a frantic rhythm against the castle’s thick stones, a sudden downpour drowning out the groan of the living walls and the crackle of ruined wiring from the radio. Water dripped somewhere nearby, a sharp, insistent plink… plink… plink on metal. Karl’s head snapped towards the sound, then back to the trembling rose still held out in Telemachus’s bloody hand. "Hear it?" Telemachus whispered, his voice thready, eyes wide and searching the shadows near the ceiling, the gaps in the wrecked bookshelves. "Not just rain..."
"Focus, Kibtsuji," Karl growled, forcing his own attention back to the pulsing wound. The magnetic field snapped back into place around his gloved hand, a low thrum vibrating the air inches from Telemachus’s torn skin. "Last shard. Then we worry about the damn weather." The scent of ozone warred with the metallic tang of blood and the unsettling, sweet-rot smell of the corrupted fissures. The final shard felt like a burning splinter embedded deep within the muscle, radiating its disruptive energy.
Telemachus flinched as Karl’s power hooked into it, a choked gasp escaping. He squeezed his eyes shut, the rose trembling violently in his grasp. Karl worked fast, brutally precise, ignoring the bioweapon’s silent convulsions. The shard resisted, clinging with malevolent energy, sending fresh, glowing cracks spiderwebbing under the skin. Plink… plink… PLINK. The dripping sounded closer. Faster. Karl gritted his teeth, pouring power into the extraction. With a sickening pop, the tiny, twisted piece of metal tore free, sizzling and spitting orange sparks. Karl flung it away; it embedded itself with a thud in the spine of a half-burnt philosophy tome titled Enduring Suffering.
The glow in Telemachus’s shoulder dimmed further, the ember lines retreating like dying coals. He slumped, utterly boneless, breathing in shallow, ragged pants. The raw puncture remained, inflamed and weeping, but the unnatural light was gone. Karl sagged back on his heels, wiping sweat and grime from his face with the back of his glove. A wave of exhaustion hit him, the Cadou in his veins protesting the sustained, delicate work. "Done," he rasped, the word thick. "Just the hole now. You'll live. Probably." He eyed the ragged wound. "Might leave a nasty scar to match your personality."
Telemachus managed a weak, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes, still hazy with pain, flickered to his own hand. The rose. He hadn't dropped it. With monumental effort, he extended his arm again, the crimson bloom trembling towards Karl, its velvety petals stark against the grime on his claws. A silent offering, stubbornly held despite everything.
Karl stared at it. Then at Telemachus’s pale, exhausted face, streaked with blood, sweat, and dust. The absurdity of the gesture, the sheer, quiet persistence of it, cut through his weariness. "Tch. Still on that?" He reached out, not for the rose stem, but for the dented cookie tin lying on its side nearby. He popped it open. Only a few perfect golden rounds remained. He took one, shoved it roughly into Telemachus’s slack mouth. "Eat. Build back the blood you painted the floor with." Then, almost as an afterthought, his fingers, thick and calloused in their worn leather glove, brushed the rose as he pulled his hand back. He didn't take it, but his touch was deliberate. A rough, wordless acknowledgment. "Put it somewhere it won't get crushed."
A flicker of something – relief? understanding? – crossed Telemachus's features. He carefully placed the rose on the least-damaged corner of the tipped-over bedside table, beside the cookie tin. He chewed the cookie slowly, his gaze lingering on Karl, then drifted towards the heavy wooden door leading deeper into the castle. The drumming rain was louder there, accompanied now by a new sound beneath it: a faint, rhythmic thump… thump… thump, like heavy fists pounding on wet stone far below. Or boots. Many boots. Ascending.
Karl heard it too. His exhaustion vanished, replaced by cold alertness. He was on his feet in an instant, the magnetic field around him flaring briefly, making the scattered metal debris on the floor shiver. "Miranda's welcoming committee," he spat, striding towards the door, kicking aside fallen books. "Took her long enough. Sent her spy, then sends the cleaners." He pressed his ear against the cold, damp wood. The thumping was clearer now. Methodical. Getting closer. Too many for the narrow stairs. "They're breaching the lower levels. Coming up fast." He turned, his expression grim. "How mobile are you, Kibtsuji? And how defensible is this junk pile?"
Telemachus pushed himself up onto his good elbow, wincing. He looked pale, fragile, but his eyes were sharpening, the bioweapon core within overriding some of the shock. He scanned the wrecked room – the toppled bookshelves, the shattered pipes, the smoldering remains of the drone. His gaze settled on the humming, half-crushed radio. He pointed a shaky claw at it, then at the heavy cabinet Karl had levitated earlier, now lying on its side. "Signal… jam?" he rasped weakly. "Barricade… that door?" He fumbled inside his hoodie pocket again, pulling out a small, complex-looking brass key etched with tiny, glowing runes. He held it out towards Karl. "Armory… down the hall. Left. Third… arch."
Karl stared at the key, then back at Telemachus. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. "Armory? You do have hidden depths, fox." He snatched the key, its metal cool against his glove, the runes pulsing faintly. "Jamming signal. Barricade. Got it." He strode to the ruined radio, his power already reaching out. Wires twisted, torn components sparked and fused under his magnetic will. The radio's hum rose in pitch, becoming a piercing, discordant whine that vibrated the air. "That should fry any comms short-range. Annoying as hell, but effective." He turned to the massive, overturned cabinet. "Now for the door."
The rhythmic thumping on the stairs below grew louder, faster. Urgent. They’d been detected. Karl flexed his hands. The heavy wooden cabinet groaned, scraped across the floorboards with a tortured shriek, and slammed upright against the door just as the pounding turned into a forceful CRASH against the wood from the other side. The cabinet shuddered but held. For now. Karl braced his shoulder against it, the ozone scent sharp again. "Third arch left, you said?" he called over the rising whine of the jury-rigged jammer and the renewed pounding on the barricaded door. "What’s in this armory that’s worth bleeding over cookies for?"
Telemachus was struggling to his feet, leaning heavily against the bed frame, clutching his wounded shoulder. Pain etched deep lines on his face, but his gold-flecked eyes burned with a fierce, desperate light. He met Karl’s gaze. "Everything," he breathed, the word barely audible over the din. He pointed towards the room’s other exit, a smaller door half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting a coiled, mechanical dragon. "Go. I'll… hold them." He gestured weakly at the shuddering cabinet.
Karl barked a harsh laugh. "You? Hold them? With what, harsh language and a wilting flower?" He pushed off the cabinet. "Don't be stupid. You couldn’t hold a door against a stiff breeze right now." Another heavy CRASH made the cabinet jump. A crack splintered the wood near the top. "We go together. Fast." He moved towards Telemachus, his intent clear: to haul the injured bioweapon along whether he liked it or not. "That armory better have something that makes this clusterfuck worthwhile."
Before Karl could reach him, Telemachus stumbled forward, surprisingly quick despite the injury. He snatched the cookie tin from the table, shoving the remaining cookies into his hoodie pocket. He grabbed the rose too, tucking its stem carefully beside them. Then, moving with a pained determination, he lurched towards the tapestry-covered door. "Worth… more than cookies," he gasped, yanking the heavy fabric aside to reveal a dark corridor beyond. He glanced back at Karl, then at the barricaded main door, which shuddered under another massive blow. Wood splintered. A metallic claw-tipped hand punched through the gap, scrabbling blindly. "Now, Karl!"
Karl took one last look at the breaking door, at the whining jammer, then back at Telemachus poised in the dark passageway, the faint glow of the key's runes in his hand the only clear light. He grinned, a flash of teeth in the gloom. "Lead on, fox. Show me the good stuff." He turned his back on the crashing barricade and followed Telemachus into the darkness just as the main door exploded inwards in a shower of wood and twisted metal. The scent of wet fur and decay flooded the ruined room, followed by guttural snarls, drowned out only by the dying shriek of the jammer. The rose lay on the table, a single spot of defiant crimson in the chaos.
Telemachus shoved a cabinet open to reveal a ton of metal weapons and guns. "Use what you will."
The splintering roar behind them wasn't just wood breaking. It was the sound of the fragile sanctuary shattering completely. Guttural snarls, wet and hungry, flooded the ruined room, carrying the stench of swamp decay and something sharper, fouler – synthetic rot. Metal scraped violently against the jammed cabinet. Telemachus flinched, his breath catching in a silent gasp as the movement jarred his wounded shoulder. He shoved the heavy cabinet door wider with his good arm, revealing the armory’s contents not with pride, but desperate urgency. "Use what you will." The words rasped out, thin and strained.
Karl didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the cramped space, his magnetic sense singing. Shelves groaned under the weight of modified assault rifles, stacks of gleaming alloy grenades, and pistols etched with unfamiliar, faintly luminous circuitry. But his gaze snagged instantly on the non-standard stock: a shotgun with a barrel that pulsed like a captured star, a rack of jagged, humming blades that seemed grown rather than forged, and a bulky pistol whose grip glowed with the same sickly orange light Miranda’s drones emitted. He snatched the pistol, its weight cold and strangely organic in his gloved hand. "Now this is what I call a housewarming gift, Kibtsuji!" His grin was fierce, electric, as his power tested the weapon's metallic components, feeling the parasitic energy within resonate. "You kiss your arsenal with that mouth?"
A thunderous CRUNCH echoed from the barricaded entrance. The cabinet buckled inwards, cracks spiderwebbing across its face. A segmented, metallic claw, dripping viscous fluid, punched through the gap, blindly scrabbling. Telemachus shoved himself back from the armory door, pressing against cold stone, his face pale. He fumbled inside his hoodie pocket with trembling claws, pulling out not a weapon, but the slightly crushed crimson rose. He stared at it, then at the breaking barricade, his gold-flecked eyes wide with fear. His other hand pressed hard against the inflamed wound on his shoulder, the raw puncture throbbing under his stained hoodie.
"Less floral appreciation, more firepower, fox!" Karl barked, shoving the strange pistol into his coat. He grabbed the pulsing shotgun, its energy core humming eagerly against his palm. "Pick something that bites back! Unless you plan to charm them with petals?" He kicked a heavy crate loaded with grenades towards Telemachus. It slid across the dusty floor, stopping at his clawed boots.
Another shattering impact. The cabinet door ripped free, spinning wildly across the room. Framed in the doorway, illuminated by the jammer’s dying, sputtering light, stood three figures. They weren't Lycans. Hulking and vaguely humanoid, their forms were grotesque patchworks of swollen, pallid flesh fused with crude, rusted cybernetics. Wires snaked under translucent skin; one had a grinding circular saw where its hand should be. Their faces were slack masks of scar tissue, mouths slack and drooling, eyes replaced by flickering red sensors. Miranda’s "cleaners." The lead abomination inhaled wetly, its sensors fixing on Telemachus. A distorted electronic gurgle vibrated from its chest cavity.
Karl moved. The shotgun roared, not with gunpowder, but with a searing beam of condensed plasma. It struck the lead cleaner center mass, vaporizing fused flesh and metal in a flash of blinding white light and a smell like burning hair and ozone. The creature staggered back, half its torso gone, steaming. "Heads up!" Karl yelled, already swinging the shotgun towards the second intruder, its saw-hand whirring to life with a high-pitched shriek.
Telemachus dropped the rose. It landed softly on the crate of grenades. Pain forgotten in the surge of adrenaline, his clawed hand darted into the crate, fingers closing around a cylindrical grenade unlike the others – smooth, cold ceramic, marked with a single blue rune. He didn't throw it at the cleaner already lunging past Karl’s second shot towards him. Instead, he hurled it with desperate strength at the stone floor between them and the doorway. "Cover!" he rasped, the sound barely audible over the shotgun's roar and the cleaner’s grinding saw.
The ceramic grenade shattered. Instead of shrapnel, a blinding flash of pure, silent blue light erupted, followed instantly by an earsplitting CRACK that wasn't sound but pure concussive force. The air itself seemed to solidify into a crushing wall. It slammed into the two remaining cleaners just as they crossed the threshold, pulverizing fused bone and metal, hurling their mangled remains back through the shattered doorway in a spray of gore and sparking components. Dust and debris rained down. The concussion wave hit Karl and Telemachus like a physical blow, slamming them both against the back wall. Karl’s hat flew off; Telemachus cried out silently as his injured shoulder impacted the stone.
Silence descended, thick and choking, broken only by the frantic drip of water from broken pipes and the fading whine of the jammer. Dust motes danced in the weak light filtering from the corridor beyond the annihilated doorway. Their path was clear. Obliterated. Karl pushed himself off the wall, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. He stared at the carnage – a slick, steaming paste of cybernetic and organic matter painting the hallway outside. "The hell was that, Kibtsuji?" He wiped grime from his face, eyeing the shards of ceramic on the floor. "Your idea of a party popper?"
Telemachus slumped against the wall, clutching his shoulder, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps. He looked drained, the brief surge of energy gone. He pointed a trembling claw towards the dark corridor leading away from the obliterated entrance. "Temporal... concussion mine," he whispered hoarsely. "Borrowed... time." His gaze flickered to the rose lying unharmed atop the grenade crate, then back to Karl, urgency returning to his exhausted eyes. The castle groaned, a deep, ominous vibration shaking the floor under their feet. Deeper within the structure, metallic screeches answered the tremor, drawing nearer. "They know... where we are now."
Karl scooped up his hat, crushing it back onto his head. He grabbed the crate, shoving it towards Telemachus. "Then stop admiring your gardening and grab the party favors!" He snatched the glowing orange pistol again, its energy humming in sync with the castle’s groan. "Time to relocate the party. Lead the way, fox. And try not to blow us into next week." He nodded towards the dark corridor, his jaw set. Behind them, the dripping water mixed with the viscous fluids leaking from the ruined cleaners. The new screeches echoed closer, a chilling counterpoint to the pounding rain still hammering the outer walls. They moved.