[Oakeman Auto]
The big, open garage was a chaotic sight with cracked concrete and exposed metal beams everywhere. You could practically feel the neglect in the air, heavy with the scent of oil, oxidised iron, and something that was just… well, off.
Scrapped hovercycles with gutted engines lay on their sides, stripped down to frames. Others were propped up like scarecrows with orange cones on their dilapidated heads. A Strider Mk II had its outer shell peeled back like a weird fruit, revealing a tangled nest of fried wiring inside, while mangled cars sat at odd angles with cracked holographic screens.
The sheer amount of broken machinery here was a bit mind-boggling. But it didn't bother the sun-kissed Peculiar perched on a rusty dumpster; he was busy thumbing through delivery info on his HoloSmart. When Ratelsi strolled in, malachite eyes immediately found Timoth, blue-eyed with honey-coloured curls, wearing a red T-shirt with a metallic silver coffin on it over a tee that said: Maybe I'm just stubborn. Wussit 2 ya?, pairing it with brown cargo pants. Seeing him nestled among the clutter, she realized it was his natural habitat. He was as raw and full of potential as the scrap surrounding him.
An enthusiastic expression welcomed Ratelsi when Timoth noticed and waved her over, slowly burning a Vapocan[1] between his index and middle fingers. Reciprocating the wave, Ratelsi closed the distance and leaned in for a deep drag.
"Hey, birdie," Timoth said, a little too eagerly. "Ready to work?"
Ratelsi's glossy lips caught the afternoon sun as she drew deep on the tapered black mouthpiece, watching the hexagonal metallic shaft hum. She tilted her head back and blew a wispy vapour into the gray air. "Psyching myself up for something this mundane is exhausting," she replied, bored. "I'm never ready to work, Timoth."
Timoth sighed with a knowing look, pointing a finger at her. "Translation: You're lazy. Again. Must I deliver a soul-stirrin' monologue to inspire your mighty arms into action?"
"Heh. Save the theatrics. Inspiration is for the weak," she scoffed. "I work because I choose to."
After taking in the jumble of parts next to him, Ratelsi looked ahead into the street. Silence was the loudest thing here. Every street scanner in the block was dead, leaving the air thick and unnervingly still. The gutted skeletons of the tall streetlights offered no illumination, only elongated shadows in the fading noon. The wooden buildings, shabbier than they were stable, seemed to hunch and lean over the cracked asphalt of the road. Broco, of course, had selected this bleak, abandoned stretch as the ideal spot for a discreet pickup. Not bad.
"Sooo, where's our cargo?" she probed, trying to get this over with as soon as possible.
Timoth nonchalantly gestured to the right. "See that dusty Strider Mk III? That's ours."
Ratelsi turned to the rusty, yellow machine. Grimy and held together with thick chains, it stood stuck in a heap of discarded metal, waiting to be claimed. Intent on his HoloSmart, Timoth continued, "Broco says we need to drop it off at The Basin, though. He even gave us specific entry points to use."
Intrigued, Ratelsi placed her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. "He wants us to deliver his contra to the black market?"
"Yup," Timoth replied.
"Huh. Looks like our last-minute clients are a pretty big deal after all."
Timoth nodded, indicating he'd thought the same thing too. Well, that explains why he seemed eager. For every contra delivered, they claimed a ten per cent share, split evenly, and given their clientele was notorious for spending, the potential earnings were astronomical. Ratelsi's mind sputtered, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the profits. The sudden prospect of that much wealth sent a thrilling jolt through her, coaxing a slow, hungry smile.
"Any idea who it is?"
"Not a clue. Didn't ask."
"Right. And I guess Broco doesn't want us snooping around either, huh?"
"Yeah, or else we'd probably be…" He trailed off, tongue out, dramatically running his thumb across his throat.
Ratelsi's smile widened, flashing canines rimmed with obsidian. "Ah, threats. Music to my ears," she purred, her eyes alight. "I was hoping he'd bring the fight to us. Now I'm practically begging for the chance to join in. Imagine the look on his face when I make him swallow his own teeth! Consider it compensation for all those late-night jobs he sticks us with."
"Wow… that's so…vivid," said Timoth, blinking. He took another drag of the poisonous smoke, exhaled, turned the safety latch off, then stashed it in his pants pocket. Dimples deepened the corners of his mouth as he studied the woman with an almost impressed smile. She was unfazed by Broco's absurd threats. That grit of hers both alarmed, comforted, and terrified him more than anything. Still, it was reassuring the way she didn't give in to the same fearful logic he typically did.
Her snarky expression seemed to soften into something more reserved and measured, the way Ratelsi hid her emotions behind a mask when they weren't necessary. But even such a prickly person needed someone to open up to, share her feelings with, and receive support from. Timoth longed to be that someone so badly. Whenever Ratelsi was her usual irritated, easily annoyed self, he sometimes caught rare glimpses of the person she really was when she involuntarily softened, and even occasionally showed compassion. She'd allow him to get close to who she really was, but as soon as she felt he was closer than she'd like, she'd pull away.
A giant yawn stretched Timoth's jaw wide. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, cracking his neck side to side. "Anyway, let's just wrap this up. I'm so ready to put this whole night behind us."
Ratelsi shot him a playful look. "We're definitely gonna peek inside that thing, right?"
"Obviously," he replied, hopping down from the dumpster to amble over to the Strider. He grabbed its handles with a grunt, making a half-hearted attempt to push it, then gave up. Ruffling his hair, he turned to his companion, "Gimme a hand, will ya?"
Ratelsi ran her tongue along her lip, thinking it over. Unhurried, she walked around Timoth instead, stopping in front of him and leaning in so he could catch a whiff of her resinous scent. "Now, why on earth," she purred, forcing him to look right at her, "are you making me do all the heavy lifting, Timoth?"
Timoth blinked, suddenly feeling a lot drier in his throat than he had a moment ago. "Uh.."
"Hm?"
"Because... you're stronger than you look? It's...it's just a Strider. For you, it's practically weightless, so.."
"Mm, is it?" She let out a soft, delighted laugh. "Because it sounds to me like you're just looking for an excuse to stand back and watch me work."
At five feet eleven, Ratelsi stood nearly as tall as Timoth, who measured six feet, making her sudden proximity feel so intense that he could make out every detail as if the world had narrowed down to just her. The fluttering in his stomach shot up at the way she looked at him like that - through the flecks of gold in those half-lidded irises. The curve of her lips pulled into an infuriating smirk sent his brain into a frenzy. Timoth swallowed, glancing down at her lips for a split second before scrambling back to her eyes, trying oh so hard to maintain his casual persona, but his chest kept tightening.
"Funny, I don't remember signing up to be our manual labour for tonight," she probed.
"Ah, c'mon Rat..."
That was all he could force himself to say. Every clever retort he'd prepared dissolved into static, leaving only awe and unfinished thoughts. Timoth felt his heart skip a beat, surprised by the rush of emotions when warm fingers slipped into his pocket. "W-what are you…," he stuttered, feeling a pleasant shiver of warmth radiating through the touch.
Ratelsi impaled Timoth with her gaze until a rosy blush broke over his freckled cheeks. Only when his eyes finally darted away, suddenly interested in the pebbles on the ground, did she allow herself to revel in a smug victory.
Heh. How's that for a distraction?
Timoth fought to bury how smitten he was with Ratelsi beneath a veneer of platonic irritation. Still, Ratelsi cunningly used it as a go-to move whenever he tried to delegate the dirty, unpleasant parts of their work. Damn it, why does she do this every time? He thought, feeling the heat on his face now radiate down his neck. Her allure, he could never resist it. It was intoxicating, leaving him breathless and infuriated each time he tried to make sense of it. But his soul swore it felt an undeniable, magnetic lurch to bridge the space between them, just to…
Soon, Ratelsi's hand produced the Vapocan. The metallic snap of the safety latch that followed was unnaturally loud in the quiet air. Orange flare illuminated her mouth, highlighting the glossy, dangerous curve of her lips.
Losing it. I am absolutely losing it, he groaned, clenching his hands at his sides, fighting the overwhelming impulse to reach out, to catch her hands before she put the lighter away. To tangle his fingers with hers and just hold on for a reprieve from the way she spun his world.
Ratelsi released a thin stream of smoke, returning her mirthful gaze to him. "Did you really think I'd let you ruin my outfit? You know you can handle that junk on your own."
Timoth pretended to be annoyed, then he let out a short, bemused laugh. "Oh, you little…Fine, whatever," he replied, trying to play it cool even though he felt anything but. Sighing, he crouched on the dirty concrete and pressed his palms on the ground, fingers splayed. Then quietly said:Surgite grana mea aresona.[2]
The ground bellowed a deeply low frequency in response.
Timoth's blue eyes glowed softly, shining brighter as he straightened to his full height. The surrounding debris began to swirl, liquefying into a seething river of sand before rushing toward the summit of the junk pile, forming a makeshift ramp. Changing the position of his hands, Timoth folded his fingers, reciting"Harenae volventes, ad me machinam ducite!" [3] and pulled them to himself.
The sandy grains vibrated, lost contact with each other and began churning, more like a liquid treadmill with waves of sand going back and forth in a continuous loop that then pulled the Strider's weight forward without the machine having to turn its own wheels. Because the machine was heavy, Timoth was almost breaking into a sweat, but soon, the relic model touched the ground with a soundless thud and the sandy treadmill dissipated into dust.
Now fully visible, the Strider definitely showed its age. It was the third model of the aerodynamic machine, its entire frame scratched up, dented, and covered in dirt. The seat, in particular, was wrapped in thick plastic and held together with duct tape at the edges.
Timoth whistled as he ran his fingers over the heavy machine. "Man, this thing looks pretty solid," he said, tugging the rusted chains holding it down, unaware that his sleeve had rolled up a bit, revealing a mole above the Sigil of Liyuen on his wrist - a circular emblem enclosing two intersecting lightbolts at its centre where it held a vertical, crystalline pupil. Also called the Arcane Eye, the Sigil was a ubiquitous icon of faith, authority, and surveillance, instantly recognisable across the city, adorning banners, architecture, Paladin armour, Cura robes, official documents, and most insidiously, the branded skin of every Peculiar who registered for the MAP tests or passed through the Praesidium.
A permanent reminder of their status as second-rate citizens.
Looking at Ratelsi with a playful grin, Timoth said, "These chains are way too thick, wanna give it a go?"
She shrugged, pulled a feather from her leg harness, and one schwing was all it took for Ratelsi to slice through the chains. The loud clank when it hit the ground echoed down the empty street while she stowed her blade. Timoth quickly checked the surroundings to make sure they were still alone, then tore apart the duct tape holding a compartment beneath the seat.
"Huh," he mumbled, peeking in, "Just the usual stuff - some cheap guns, a couple of scrapped drones for parts, and a few power cells. Looks like enough for two deliveries." But then, his hands found a hollow section beneath the contraband. "Oh, wait, there's a loose panel here."
Still burning a cigarette, Ratelsi watched him dig around. Before long, she heard a click and saw Timoth had pulled out a small package wrapped in plain cloth. They half-hoped for something flashy, but what he held looked remarkably unassuming.
"Looks like we found our third delivery," Timoth said to Ratelsi. "So, are we gonna open it or just keep staring?"
A playful sparkle lit her green eyes when they met his. "Do you even have to ask? My sudden curiosity demands satisfaction!"
"Hell yeah, ditto."
The rough, woven cloth fell away, and Timoth winced at the sudden flash of light, holding the cylindrical object as if it were polished quartz. It caught the weak afternoon sun, scattering tiny rainbows across his palm. "What is this? A fancy capsule?" he murmured, turning it over and over. Its surface had no seams, no markings, certainly no thumbleaf seal to indicate any form of authentication.
Ratelsi's lips twitched. He was so focused on the material that he missed the insistent red light blinking steadily on the container's side. "Looks like Broco placed a tracking chip," she noted.
Timoth flipped it again, and she leaned closer, suddenly attracted to the capsule's base. There, etched in microscopic script, were four bold letters: E.X.O.N. Ratelsi's brow furrowed as a sudden premonition settled over her curiosity about what those initials meant. But before they could linger on their thoughts, a thick cloud of vapour poured into the space between them as the lid popped open with a soft hiss.
Timoth and Ratelsi froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks that screamed, "I swear it wasn't me!"
The funky, laboratory smell that filled the air wasn't what they expected. Yet, genuine interest lit up Ratelsi's features, fuelled by Timoth's soft gasp as he stared at what was now visible inside the container.
"Bruhh…you've gotta get a load of this," he breathed, awestruck.
Inside the capsule lay five jagged shards of luminous blue energy stones, each about the length of a pinkie. They pulsed with an internal light so intense it cast an otherworldly glow on their astonished faces.
Silence enveloped Oakeman, broken only by the wind gently caressing the landscape, as if trying not to disturb the monumental delivery they had stumbled upon. A thrill of excitement mixed with dread as a chilling realisation dawned on them. The woman, always drawn to what lay beneath the surface, smirked as this object spoke directly to that hunger.
"Oh fuck…. these are Venerites," Ratelsi muttered.
[1] Vapocans are self-contained electronic cigars.
[2] Translates to "Arise, my sandy grains"
[3] Translates to "Swirling sands, bring the strider to me!"