The wind howled through the scrapyard canyon—
dry, electric, full of teeth.
It dragged rust across rust, stirred coils of sand and ash, whispered secrets between the bones of broken ships.
Doran stood at the threshold of the bunker.
The umbrella now folded in his hand.
Not like a gift.
Not like a tool. Like a promise.
Kellon leaned against the wall beside the door, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scorched horizon.
Dusty stood behind them, attempting to whistle and producing only bursts of garbled static.
"So…" Kellon said, voice dry as the wind. "Now what?"
Doran didn't answer right away.
He raised the umbrella—pointed it toward the smog-wrapped north.
There, the sky churned.
Bruise-colored clouds rolled in slow, boiling waves.
Stormlight pulsed behind them in flickers of violet, like veins lit from within.
"Now," Doran said, "we go to the Family."
Then—he started walking.
Kellon pushed off the wall with a quiet grunt, boots crunching as he fell into step behind.
"You just know where they are?"
"There are two cities on this planet," Doran said.
His tone didn't rise. Didn't falter.
"One at the north pole. One at the south. The only places the storms don't touch."
Dusty clanked along after them, metal feet echoing against twisted steel and shattered plating.
"So which one are we going to?"
Doran didn't glance back.
"We go north. And make noise."
Kellon frowned. "Noise?"
"They don't like messes in their city," Doran replied.
"Makes the wrong people ask questions."
A pause.
"And the Family hates questions."
They reached the ship.
No words.
Just movement.
All three leapt over the side—boots striking the wooden deck with soft, purposeful thuds.
The hull groaned beneath them, ancient timber and grafted steel adjusting to the shift in weight.
But the sails remained still.
Waiting.
Doran dropped into the helm's seat.
His fingers were already moving—dancing across the control panel like he was tracing an old memory.
Metal hummed beneath his touch.
Numbers blinked to life.
Systems aligned.
The sails responded first—unfurling with a low, metallic breath.
A ripple of wind curled across the deck.
Then—
A pulse.
The ship's barrier shimmered into existence, a translucent blue shell locking over the hull like armor woven from light.
And the moment it sealed—
FWOOM.
They launched.
The ship tore across the sky like a blade through smoke—
its sails catching stormlight and bending it into streaks of gold and violet.
The clouds twisted behind them, parted in their wake.
Kellon gripped the railing, body braced, eyes narrowed as the storm's edge approached.
Dusty stood near the prow, arms outstretched like wings.
"WHEEEEE!" he shouted, optics glowing with chaotic joy. "We're gonna cause chaos! This is the best field trip ever!"
Doran didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
His eyes stayed fixed on the dark horizon ahead—where lightning licked the belly of the clouds, and the sky split open in flashes of bruised light.
He leaned back in the chair.
His voice came low.
Almost a whisper.
"I'm coming, Leyla."
The city emerged from the clouds like a machine dreaming of silence.
Smoke curled from a thousand brass chimneys—each carved with faded runes that pulsed faintly in the stormlight.
Airships drifted above the skyline like tired ghosts, their hulls slim and steel-plated, tethered to docking towers by chains thicker than men.
Their sails were mechanical now—folded iron panels that groaned as they turned.
Below, the streets shimmered with rain and refinery soot.
Electric-blue lamps hissed above wide cobblestone boulevards.
Copper railcars rumbled overhead on elevated tracks, trailing sparks as they passed—like fleeting comets.
At the city's edge, the ship touched down in a runoff canal—half-dried, half-slagged.
Its hull clanked against the edge of a rusted maintenance dock, echoing through the bones of forgotten machines.
Doran stood at the gangplank before it had even finished lowering.
His eyes scanned the skyline—calculating.
Searching.
Kellon stepped up beside him, gaze sharp beneath the brim of his hood.
"Looks clean," he muttered.
Doran didn't answer.
Behind them, Dusty leaned over the railing, arms flared wide like wings.
"Smells like burnt oil and tea parties!" he declared with glee.
He turned to the others, optics flickering excitedly.
"I love it here."
They moved into the city.
And the city moved around them.
Not like crowds shifting.
Not like chaos or traffic.
But like a machine adjusting its gears to accommodate an unexpected cog.
The streets welcomed them with silence.
Not emptiness.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Obedience.
Men in long brown coats walked past with precise, quiet steps—eyes low, collars high.
Women in rust-red trench dresses whispered near glowing streetlamps, their conversations clipped and perfectly spaced.
Everywhere, the hum of technology pulsed—rune-engines, gearcarts, steam-fed lifts.
But the rhythm was too perfect.
No stumbles.
No shouting.
No accidents.
As they passed an alley, Kellon slowed.
Two children played there—tossing a copper hoop back and forth across the cracked stones.
No laughter.
Their movements were slow. Deliberate.
Eyes down.
Smiles tight.
Their mother stood nearby.
Rigid.
Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, like someone expecting to be watched.
Doran stopped beside Kellon.
"They're pretending," he said softly.
Kellon frowned. "Pretending?"
Doran didn't answer.
Because just then—one of the children stumbled.
The hoop bounced into the street, clattering against the curb.
In an instant, the mother lunged—grabbed her daughter's wrist and yanked her back so sharply the child nearly fell.
No words.
No warning.
Just reflex—sharp, panicked, burned too deep to unlearn.
She pulled the child inside.
The door shut behind them.
Not loud.
Not slamming.
But with finality.
Across the street, a patrolman in a rust-brown coat paused.
He didn't look at them.
Not directly.
But his head turned—just slightly.
As if checking the time on a watch that wasn't there.
Doran didn't blink.
Dusty hummed a jaunty tune behind them—off-key. Cheerful. Oblivious.
The patrolman's eyes rested on him a moment too long.
Then—he smiled.
And walked on.
Doran turned again, heading deeper into the city.
"They saw us," Kellon muttered.
Doran's voice was quiet. Even.
"That was them letting us know they saw us."
They passed a narrow alley lit by rune-laced lanterns, their soft glow pulsing like heartbeats trapped in glass.
A food stall hissed with faint steam.
But no one stood behind the counter.
Just neatly stacked bowls.
No customers.
No mess.
The scent of spice lingered in the air—warm, nostalgic.
But stale.
Like a memory left out too long.
Dusty slowed, optics flicking toward a storefront window.
A mannequin stood behind the glass. Dressed in a pressed merchant's suit. Expressionless. Watching.
"Hey," he whispered. "That guy's not real, right?"
"No," Kellon said.
Dusty leaned in closer. "Oh thank the stars. Thought it was just me."
A chime rang through the plaza ahead.
Soft. Metallic.
Like a distant clock tower tolling the hour—except the hands on the iron face weren't moving.
Then—
A whisper.
Behind them.
"Hey."
They turned.
A boy stood at the alley's edge.
No older than twelve.
Wearing a dirty jacket, shoes too big, sleeves torn at the cuffs.
But it was his eyes that broke the scene.
Too still.
Too focused.
Too old.
He held out a coin.
Small.
Flat.
Blackened.
Etched on its surface: a crescent moon cradling three diamonds.
He stepped forward.
And without a word—
He dropped it at Doran's feet.
Then turned.
Not in panic.
Not in haste.
Just a clean turn—and disappeared into the drifting crowd.
Doran crouched.
Picked up the coin.
Ran his thumb across the surface.
Smooth. Cold.
Worn at the edges.
Kellon stepped closer, voice low.
"Is that an invitation?"
Doran didn't answer right away.
But the look in his eyes did.
"No," he murmured.
"It's a test."
His voice was quieter now. Heavy.
"They figured out why I'm here."
Dusty leaned in, optics narrowing.
His voice—unusually soft.
"Should we be worried?"
"We should be careful," Doran said.
He slipped the coin into his pocket, eyes scanning the rooftops.
"This is them watching how I move.
If I panic.
If I run.
Or if I bite."
Kellon's hand lingered near his belt.
His eyes swept the square again—faces too still, postures too neat.
"So what's the play?"
"We make it look like we're not here for them," Doran said.
"We wander. We wait. We let them think they're still in control."
He stepped forward.
Boot scraping against the rain-slick stones.
"But they're not."
They drifted deeper into the city.
The streets curved inward—subtle, gradual—like a funnel disguised as a welcome mat.
Bright neon signs advertised silent shops.
Gear-locked trains hissed past without passengers.
Even the lighting felt… staged.
Warm, but dim at the edges.
Too perfect.
Too polite.
Wrong.
Eventually, they turned a corner—
And there it was.
A café.
Quiet.
Empty.
Tucked beneath the shadow of a leaning tower—its windows soot-stained, its bricks weeping rust.
At the center of the building, a single black door waited.
Worn, but clean.
No signage.
No lights.
Only a faint engraving above the frame, carved in curling serif letters:
"Welcome in."
Doran stopped.
Tilted his head slightly.
"…Here," he said softly.
Kellon squinted at the door. "You sure?"
"No."
Doran stepped forward once—but didn't touch the handle.
"The city moves," he murmured. "And this is the only thing that stayed in front of us."
Kellon blinked. "What do you mean, the city moves—?"
Doran didn't answer.
He pushed the door open.
It creaked—not loud. Not dramatic.
Just enough to suggest it had been waiting.
Dusty shuffled in behind, optics flickering.
"Okay. What's the theme here?" he whispered. "It's all over the place. Pick one—HaHa."
"Shut it," Doran murmured. "No noise."
Inside, the café was—
Not dark.
Not warm.
Just dim.
Lamplight glowed behind tinted glass, casting soft amber shadows across the checkerboard tile floor.
The tables gleamed.
The counters were clean.
The air smelled faintly of burnt cinnamon—and static.
But there were no customers.
No staff.
No sound.
Kellon's eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. "No one's here."
Doran didn't pause.
He walked straight across the café and sat at the long wooden counter.
Calm.
Composed.
Like he'd done it before.
Kellon stayed standing.
Elbow against the counter. Eyes on the corners.
"What are we doing?" he muttered.
Doran didn't look at him.
"Getting food," he said.
"What's it look like?"
Kellon frowned. "I thought you wanted to—"
But Doran turned his head. Just slightly.
A glance.
Sharp.
Slow.
Burning.
It landed behind Kellon's eyes like heat on bone.
He stopped talking.
Dusty, oblivious, scrambled onto the stool beside Doran.
His legs kicked once—twice—then clunked into place with a mechanical thunk.
"Why do they make these things so high?" he grumbled. "I've got hydraulics, not stilts."
Doran said nothing.
Didn't look at Dusty.
Didn't look at Kellon.
He just stared ahead.
At the shelf lined with spotless glassware.
At the faded menu board above the bar, its letters bleached pale by time.
Saffron Crust Toast
Spiced Cream Root Stew
Tea — Any Kind You Can Name
Black Coffee — No Creamer Available
The silence that followed didn't feel peaceful.
Didn't feel heavy.
It just felt… wrong.
Kellon exhaled slowly through his nose, arms crossed on the counter.
"You really expect someone to serve us?"
Click.
The kitchen doors swung open.
Out stepped a man.
Older. Thin.
Wearing an apron that hung too loose over his wiry frame.
His eyes didn't land anywhere.
They flitted—side to side.
Never resting.
Never blinking.
As if seeing things none of them could.
His skin wasn't sickly.
Wasn't pale with fear or illness.
It was just… emptied.
Like something had drained the warmth from beneath it and left only the shape behind.
He walked to the counter.
Mechanical.
Measured.
Not slow. Not hurried.
Just programmed.
Reaching into the folds of his apron, he pulled out a small notepad and pen.
The pen trembled slightly in his grip.
Not from age.
From something else.
Then—
In a voice soft enough to be mistaken for wind through copper pipe, he asked:
"…What will it be?"
The tone was flat.
Monotone.
Not impolite—just… unfinished.
Like a sentence that didn't care if it was answered.
Dusty leaned toward Doran.
His voice dropped into a whisper.
Conspiratorial.
"Okay, real talk—" his optics flickered, dimming and sharpening like a lens adjusting to darkness, "—is that guy dead or something?"
Doran didn't respond.
Didn't glance over.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even twitch.
It was as if Dusty hadn't said anything at all.
Then—
Doran's voice broke the stillness.
Measured.
Quiet.
Final.
"…Whatever's hot."
The pale man didn't nod.
Didn't write it down.
He simply turned.
And walked back through the swinging kitchen doors with the same hollow rhythm—
As if he'd never stopped moving at all.
Kellon watched the doors creak shut behind the pale man.
His jaw tightened.
Then he turned to Doran.
"…Are you going to explain anything?"
"No," Doran said flatly.
Kellon's brow twitched.
Frustration coiled just beneath the surface.
His voice sharpened. "Why are you leaving me in the dark?"
He jabbed a thumb toward Dusty, who was now spinning gently in his stool, humming a garbled, glitchy tune to himself.
"I get him, but why me?"
Doran turned.
Slowly.
Their eyes met.
And the weight behind Doran's gaze landed like a blade laid flat against stone—
not cutting.
Not yet.
But dangerous.
Controlled.
Hot at the edges.
"Have you not been listening?" Doran said, voice low—quiet enough to vanish in the wrong ear.
"Nothing here is real. It's all pretend."
He let the words hang.
Let the silence stretch taut around them.
"But we need to act like it is. Until we get our opportunity. Got it?"
Kellon didn't reply right away.
But something in his posture shifted.
Not relaxed. Not trusting.
Just—aware.
The tension in his shoulders eased. Slightly.
Doran turned back to the empty bar.
Exhaled.
The sigh wasn't heavy.
It was measured.
Controlled.
But tired.
Dusty, still spinning in his stool like a child with nowhere to be, piped up in a chirpy, unbothered voice.
"Nothing's real and the food's late. What a place! Ten outta ten!"
No one laughed.
But he kept spinning anyway.
Chair squeaking in uneven circles.
Then—
Click.
The kitchen doors creaked open again.
The pale man stepped through.
No tray.
No flourish.
No expression.
Just two items in his hands:
A steaming bowl of creamy stew.
And a plain black cup.
He moved with the same eerie rhythm—measured, muted, hollow.
His steps made no sound.
He reached the counter.
Placed both items in front of Doran.
Then turned.
And walked back through the doors.
No words.
No glances.
No footsteps.
Just—absence.
Doran didn't hesitate.
He reached for the bowl.
Paused—just a second.
A breath before a plunge.
Then lifted it to his lips and drank.
Steam curled around his face, veiling his eyes in a brief, ghostly shimmer.
His expression didn't change.
Calm.
Collected.
Certain.
Kellon stared in disbelief.
"…You're seriously eating that?"
Doran set the bowl down.
Empty.
Clean.
He didn't respond.
Just reached for the tea.
Took a slow sip.
Let the silence fill in everything he chose not to say.
Then—
"Sit," he said.
Even.
Quiet.
Absolute.
Kellon blinked.
Doran didn't repeat himself.
Eventually, Kellon sat—slowly, warily—like the chair might break beneath him.
Or bite.
Doran placed the cup back on the counter.
But his gaze didn't move.
Didn't shift.
Didn't rise.
His eyes stayed fixed on the row of spotless glasses behind the bar—each one caught in the warm blur of amber lamplight, half-shadowed, like memories in hiding.
"Dusty," he said.
The chair beside him squeaked to a stop.
"Huh?" Dusty blinked, mid-spin.
"You're a Flipad, right?"
Dusty's optics flickered.
Doran didn't change tone.
"Tell your buddy Kellon a bit about your history."
A pause.
Then—
Brightening.
"Oh! That's a great idea!" Dusty chirped.
He popped upright on his stool with a faint whirr, brushed off his chest, adjusted an imaginary tie, and cleared his throat with a dramatic glitch-riddled:
"Ahem—HEMM—HACKHHH."
In a booming, mock-lecturer's voice:
"The Flipads were born after the Sixth Galaxy Power fell to the Azule Sovereign! Because of the toxic conditions of our homeworld, no one lived!"
He beamed.
Paused.
His voice dropped back to normal—more boyish. Unsure.
"Uhhh… then I think we became robots to survive?"
Another pause.
A twitch.
His optics blinked unevenly.
He frowned.
Tapped the side of his head.
Tap. Tap.
Like a bad memory stuck between signals.
"But I don't remember too much after getting shot in the head."
The words landed.
Clumsy.
Offbeat.
But heavy.
A glitch disguised as a joke.
And yet—
For the first time in the room's curated silence,
it felt like something had told the truth.
One of Dusty's optics dimmed.
The other flickered.
His voice faded to static.
He looked down at his hands—slowly.
Carefully.
Flexed his fingers.
Watched them move.
Felt nothing.
Then looked up at Doran.
Quiet now.
Uncertain.
"Wait…" he asked, voice small again—
like a child waking from a dream.
"Where's the old guy? I wanna order too."
Doran didn't turn.
His voice came low.
Firm.
"You're a robot, Dusty. You don't need food."
Dusty paused.
Then laughed.
Soft.
Static-sparked.
Just off enough to land wrong.
And he spun.
Once.
Twice.
His chair squeaked across the tile like a clock winding down.
Like nothing had happened at all.
Kellon didn't laugh.
Didn't even look at him.
His eyes roamed the café instead.
The too-clean floor.
The fake chalkboard menu.
The light that hung in the air like it had been told to.
He couldn't see anyone watching.
But he felt it.
Like breath on the back of his neck.
A thousand invisible eyes pressed into every wall, every reflection.
Every polished corner of this perfectly silent room.
The soldier in him split like a coin.
One side: rigid. Trained. Watching for the strike.
The other: exhausted. Aching. Done.
He turned to Doran.
"…Is that what this planet is?"
Doran didn't answer right away.
His eyes stayed on the tea.
Still. Distant.
But behind them—
Something stirred.
"No," he said finally.
Then—after a beat:
"But an inspiration of it."
He looked toward the kitchen.
Toward the silence behind the doors.
Toward the old man who didn't blink.
"Much worse."
Click.
The kitchen doors creaked open again.
The old man returned.
Same hollow steps.
Same vacant stare.
But this time—
He didn't vanish.
He stopped directly in front of Doran at the counter.
Still.
Expectant.
His voice came soft.
Barely louder than the hum of the ceiling lights.
"…Is there anything else you would like?"
Kellon leaned forward, voice uncertain.
"I'll have the—"
CLATTER.
Dusty's chair jolted sideways.
He threw up both hands in exaggerated frustration.
"This is boring!" he announced—
bright and sharp all at once.
"Can we go now?!"
The chair screeched against the tile—
Then slipped out from under him.
CLANK.
The impact was brutal.
His head struck the floor with a metallic thud.
And for a breath—
Nothing.
No movement.
No twitch.
No flicker.
Just a lifeless frame sprawled across the café floor.
Kellon pushed half out of his seat, startled. "Dusty—?"
Then—
A flicker.
His optics lit again.
But the bright red glow—
—was gone.
In its place:
A slow-burning crimson.
Deeper.
Colder.
His fingers twitched.
Limbs adjusted.
Precise. Clean.
He sat up.
And when he spoke—
It wasn't Dusty's voice.
It was smoother.
Lower.
Sharp as polished steel.
"Now you're kidnapping bounty hunters?"
Ray.
A grin stretched across his face.
Too wide.
Too exact.
And just a little too wrong.
"Oh boy," he said, rising to his feet with mechanical grace.
"Am I going to enjoy bringing you in."