[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 to look 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. Mangled cars sat dented at odd angles with cracked holographic screens.
The sheer amount of broken machinery here was a bit mind-boggling. But that didn't bother the sun-kissed Peculiar perched on a rusty dumpster, busy scrolling through delivery info on his HoloSmart.
When Ratelsi strolled in, malachite eyes immediately found Timoth, blue-eyed with honey-coloured curls. He had on 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. She meant it as the highest praise: he was as raw and full of potential as the scrap surrounding him.
An enthusiastic expression welcomed Ratelsi when Timoth waved her over. Between his index and middle finger, a cigarette slowly burned down to the filter. Closing the distance, Ratelsi reciprocated the wave and leaned in for a deep drag.
"Hey, birdie," Timoth said to his best friend, almost too eagerly. "Ready to work?"
Ratelsi sucked in her cheeks slightly as she drew on the cigarette. Then she turned her face to the afternoon sun, where it caught her lips in a glossy sheen.
"You know, the whole idea of being ready implies I have to psych myself up for something as mundane as this," she countered, exhaling a thin plume of smoke into the dingy air.
"And I'm never really ready to work, Timoth."
Timoth sighed dramatically, but with a knowing look as he pointed 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. I work because I choose to."
Taking in the jumble of parts next to him, Ratelsi then 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 yellow machine, which looked like a rusty relic from a bygone era. Grimy and held together with thick chains, it stood stuck in a heap of discarded metal waiting to be claimed. Timoth remained intent on his HoloSmart as he continued, "Broco says we need to drop it off at The Basin, though. He even gave us specific entry points to use."
Now, that was interesting.
Intrigued, Ratelsi placed her hand on her hip, raising 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 percent share, split evenly: five percent for each runner. If they were truly being paid double—a doubtful possibility—that share would jump to ten percent apiece. 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, thrilling prospect of that much wealth sent a jolt through her, and a slow, hungry smile curved the corners of her mouth.
"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 mouth widened into a chilling, anticipatory curve, revealing intimidating canines polished with obsidian rims.
"Ah, threats. Music to my ears," she purred, her eyes alight. "I was hoping he'd bring the confrontation. Now I'm practically begging for the chance to join in."
A bold laugh followed. "Imagine the look on his face when I make him swallow his own teeth! A little compensation for all those late-night jobs he sticks us with."
"Wow…. that's so…vivid," said Timoth, blinking as he took a final drag of the poisonous smoke, exhaled, then stubbed the cigarette butt on his sneakers.
His dimples deepened beside his mouth as he studied the woman with an almost impressed smile on his lips. 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 a more reserved and measured one. It was so Ratelsi to hide her emotions under 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 managed to catch rare glimpses of the person she really was when she involuntarily softened, and even occasionally showed compassion.
She allowed him to get close to who she really was, but as soon as she felt he was trying to get too deeply into her soul, she pulled away.
A giant yawn stretched Timoth's jaw wide.
His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, crinkling at the corners as he cracked his neck sideways. "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.
Ambling over to the Strider, he grabbed its handles with a grunt, making a half-hearted attempt to push it. Then he 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, stopped in front of him, then leaned in just a breath away 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 foot eleven, Ratelsi stood nearly as tall as Timoth, who measured six feet. It made 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 how she looked at him like that.
Through the flecks of gold in her irises. Half-lidded, they held a gaze that reached, pulled, and held him on the spot. The curve of those infuriatingly perfect lips pulled into a smirk sent his brain into a frenzy.
Timoth swallowed. His eyes darted down to her lips for split second before scrambling back to her gaze. He was 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."
"Ah, c'mon Rat..."
That was all he could force himself to say. Every clever retort he'd prepared dissolved into static, as if her presence had short-circuited his wit, 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 run across his body from the warmth radiating through the fabric. Had she always been that warm?
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 was hopelessly, disastrously smitten. He fought to bury it beneath a veneer of platonic irritation, but 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 always have to do this? Timoth thought, the heat on his face now radiating down his neck.
Her allure was a variable in their friendship he could never control. It was intoxicating, a beautiful, high-speed collision course that left him breathless and infuriated. He tried to rationalise it, but his soul swore it felt an undeniable, magnetic lurch to bridge the space between them, just to…
Soon, Ratelsi's hand produced a worn cigarette case. The metallic snap of the lighter was unnaturally loud in the quiet air. As she drew the smoke, the brief, orange flare illuminated her mouth, highlighting the glossy, dangerous curve of her lips.
Losing it. I am absolutely losing it, he groaned, his hands clenching at his sides.
He fought 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.
She released a thin stream of smoke to the side and returned her mirthful gaze to him.
"Did you really think I'd say okay and ruin my outfit? You know you can handle that junk on your own," she chuckled, inviting him to share in her amusement.
Instead, Timoth pretended to be annoyed before letting 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 down on the dirty concrete and pressed his palms against the ground, fingers splayed out.
Then quietly said: Granum Ascendens.
The ground bellowed a deep, 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 and liquify into a seething river of sand before rushing toward the summit of the junk pile.
It formed a makeshift ramp for lifting the battered Strider.
Changing the position of his hands, Timoth folded his fingers, reciting, "Harena fluxis, machina trahe ad me vertite" and pulled them to himself.
The sandy grains vibrated so quickly that they lost contact with each other and began churning.
It looked more like a liquid treadmill with waves of sand going back and forth to the start of the ramp. The continuous loop of motion 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.
Now that it was 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.
He tugged on the rusted chains keeping it down, unaware that his sleeve had rolled up a bit to reveal a mole right above the Sigil of Liyuen on his wrist. It was 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. The symbol was instantly recognisable across the city: it adorned 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, his eyes gleaming, Timoth said, "These chains are way too thick, wanna give it a go?"
She shrugged and pulled a feather from her leg harness. Separated from the others, it seemed almost ordinary with its glassy surface lacking any lustre.
"Acuere Plumas," she recited.
A subtle sheen ran across the feather's fractured barbs, bristling along the edges and sharpening into a blade.
Her mischievous smile effortlessly amplified the mirth that had lit up Timoth's face. He enjoyed just watching her do her thing.
Schwing!
One swing 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 pull out a small package wrapped in plain cloth. They were half-hoping for some flashy cargo, but what he had in his hand 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 as 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. He held the cylindrical object as if it were polished quartz. It caught the weak afternoon sun, scattering tiny rainbows across his palm.
"What is this?" he murmured, turning it over and over. Its surface had no seams, no markings, certainly no thumbleaf seal to indicate any form of authentication.
"A fancy capsule?"
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.
What do those initials mean?
But before they could linger on their thoughts, a thick cloud of vapour poured into 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, almost medicinal 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 it. This was not just any delivery, and if they were right, they had stumbled upon something monumental.
A thrill of excitement mixed with dread as a chilling realisation dawned on them at once. The woman who had always been drawn to what lay beneath the surface smirked as this object spoke directly to that hunger.
"Oh fuck…. these are Venerites," Ratelsi muttered.