Location: Scrapper's Cove — Disposal Yard — Night
The beach stretched away from the parking lot in both directions—dark sand, white foam, the endless sigh of waves. Elijah walked toward the water, then turned left, following the curve of the shore.
They're still behind me, he thought.
He could feel them. Nico's unstable aetherflux, lagging and hungry. Lenz's thin, sketched frame radiating something that felt like envy. Silver-tongue's controlled heat, coiled and waiting. Emberdown's solid, heavy presence. DJ Blowhard's erratic pulse, spiking with every breath.
Pretend you don't know, he told himself. Pretend you're just a foreign bloke enjoying the sea breeze.
A group of people had gathered near the water's edge. A volleyball net sagged between two poles. Bodies moved in the half-darkness—diving, spiking, laughing. The ball arced over the net, traced a parabola against the bruised sky, and smacked into the sand.
One of the players, a woman with dreadlocks and powerful shoulders, turned toward Elijah.
"Hey! You! Tall guy with the punchable face! Want to play?"
Elijah's mask—Nathan Drayke's smug expression—tilted toward her.
"Why not, mate?"
The Australian accent was thick. Obnoxious. Perfect.
He stepped onto the sand. The woman tossed him the ball. He caught it, bounced it once, twice, then served—a clumsy lob that barely cleared the net. The other team laughed. The woman groaned.
"I said play, not embarrass yourself."
"I'm warming up."
The game continued. Elijah moved through it like a ghost—not good enough to stand out, not bad enough to be noticed. His eyes, behind the mask, tracked the shoreline. The figures in bright jackets and sunglasses had stopped near the edge of the parking lot. They were watching.
Let them watch, he thought.
After a few minutes, he excused himself.
"Need a break. Too much exertion for an old bloke like me."
The woman with dreadlocks laughed. "You're not old. You're just lazy."
"Same thing."
He walked toward a vendor cart near the lot. A man in a stained apron was selling ice cream from a freezer with a cracked lid. Elijah bought a cone—vanilla, cheap, the kind that melted faster than you could eat it.
He licked it as he walked.
Past the parking lot. Past the teens who had stopped recording. Past the edge of the beach, where the sand gave way to gravel and the gravel gave way to something else.
The disposal yard.
Broken boats lay scattered across the ground like the skeletons of whales. Fishing nets, tangled and abandoned, formed dark webs between rusted barrels. Buoys—orange and white—had been stacked into a pyramid that leaned dangerously to one side. Pieces of dock, splintered and weathered, jutted from the gravel like fingers reaching for the sky.
Elijah stopped.
He turned.
Behind him, the five figures had followed.
They had taken off their sunglasses now. Their faces were visible in the yellow light of the yard's single lamp—harsh, shadowed, unforgiving.
"My, my," Elijah said.
The Australian accent drew out the words, made them lazy, made them dangerous.
"Fine gentleman. What do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
---
Nico stepped forward.
His hand reached into his jacket. When it emerged, it was holding something that caught the light—a blade, curved, serrated, the kind of weapon that wasn't meant for show.
He pointed it at Elijah.
"You foreign bloke bastard."
His voice was low. Shaking. Not from fear—from rage.
"I'm sick and tired of you running your mouth everywhere. Talking trash about me. About my crew. About—"
"Your what?" Elijah interrupted. "Crew? Is that what you call yourselves? I thought you were a pack of lost pups looking for a mummy."
The others stepped forward.
Lenz emerged from behind Nico. His sketched frame seemed to unfold—tall, thin, his face all sharp angles and hollow cheeks. His eyes were dark. His lips were pressed into a line that wasn't quite a smile.
Silver-tongue followed. The woman with silver streaks in her hair moved like a dancer—fluid, controlled, her hands empty but her posture suggesting they wouldn't stay that way.
Emberdown came next. Broad shoulders, granite face, his jacket straining across his chest. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was enough.
DJ Blowhard brought up the rear. His ridiculous sunglasses were gone, replaced by a scowl that made his round face look even rounder. His hands were fists at his sides.
"Oh look," Elijah said. "It's your entourage. Your... what's the word... sycophants. Yes. That's it. Sycophants."
He spread his arms wide.
"What's wrong? All looking for a rematch? Or are you all too scared to do it before an audience?"
He gestured toward the beach behind him.
"Why here? Why now? Why not at the parking lot, where those nice kids with their Vidflash streams could have recorded everything?"
He let his arms drop.
"Oh, I know. Because you don't want to be seen. You don't want witnesses. You want to do something... unpleasant... and you want to make sure no one finds out."
His head tilted.
"Soiling yourselves, are we?"
---
Nico's face twisted.
The dark metal necklace around his throat pulsed—faster, brighter, more uneven. The aetherflux around his body surged, spiked, then settled into a jagged rhythm that made Elijah's perception flicker.
Not his power, Elijah realized. The necklace. The artifact. It's feeding him. But it's not stable. It's like a drug—gives him strength, but costs him control.
He looked at the others.
Lenz wore a similar band around his neck—thinner, darker, barely visible against his skin. Silver-tongue's was hidden beneath her collar, but Elijah could see the faint glow reflecting off her throat. Emberdown's was thick, almost a collar, carved with symbols that seemed to absorb the light. DJ Blowhard's was buried in the folds of his neck, pulsing in time with his labored breathing.
They're all wearing them, Elijah thought. They're all drawing power from something outside themselves. Something that's not meant to be used that way.
The aetherflux coming off them isn't theirs. It's borrowed. And it's unstable. Lagging. Hungry.
Like a parasite.
Like the seeds.
Nico was staring at him.
His expression shifted—from rage to something that looked almost like triumph.
"What's this, bloke?" he said. "Scared? You look scared. Your eyes are wide. Your hands are shaking."
Elijah's hands were not shaking.
But he made them shake.
He made his eyes widen behind the mask. He made his posture shrink—just slightly, just enough to be noticeable.
"Scared?" Nico repeated. "Well, you better be. Because no amount of begging and pleading is going to stop me from reaping you to shreds."
Elijah's expression shifted.
Fear. Then something else. Something that looked like... calculation.
"Hey now," he said, his voice pitching higher. "I'm fine with... you know... if she tells me that."
He pointed at Silver-tongue.
"But you saying it? I don't know, mate. I've seen how you swing with your two partners there."
His finger moved to DJ Blowhard and Lenz.
They flinched.
Elijah's hand trembled—on purpose, theatrical, just enough to sell the performance.
"If you're going to threaten me, at least have someone credible do it. Not... whatever you three have going on."
---
DJ Blowhard's face turned red.
Not pink. Red. The color of rage, of humiliation, of something that had been building for a long time.
"You—"
He stepped forward. His fists clenched. His whole body seemed to vibrate.
"Because of you, I lost everything. My clients. My reputation. My—"
He sputtered.
"I've been blacklisted from every major party, every faction, every event in Crestwood! All because of that stunt you pulled at the Freakshow! All because you made me look like a fool!"
Lenz nodded. His sharp face twisted into something that was almost a snarl.
"We all lost," he said. His voice was quiet. Sharp. Like a blade being drawn from a sheath. "You cost us. Everything."
Emberdown didn't speak. But his jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. His hands—massive, scarred—curled into fists.
Silver-tongue's eyes were cold.
"You made us a joke," she said. "The entire Portside is laughing at us. And we don't forget. We don't forgive."
Elijah's expression shifted.
The fear dropped away.
The trembling stopped.
His posture straightened. His hands—still, steady—hung at his sides.
"My," he said.
The Australian accent was still there, but it had changed. It was slower now. More deliberate. Each word carried weight.
"I didn't know I had such influence over the masses. All those people laughing at you? That's my doing?"
He shook his head.
"Can't be. Can't possibly be. Because if people are laughing at you, it's not because of me. It's because you're losers."
He smiled behind the mask.
"I did you a favor, really. Saved you from eventual losses. From the slow, painful realization that you were never going to amount to anything."
His eyes moved to Lenz. To DJ Blowhard. To Nico.
His expression shifted—the smile fading, replaced by something colder. Something that looked almost like disgust.
"At least you three found a new career path. Video broadcasting. Showcasing your... unusual tastes for the world to see."
He let the words hang.
"I've seen the Vidflash clips. The ones where you three are... close. Very close. In ways that most people don't want to see."
His lip curled.
"Whatever you're into, keep it private. The rest of us don't need to know."
---
Nico's face went white.
Then red.
Then something in between—a mottled, blotchy color that looked like sickness.
The necklace around his throat roared.
Not audibly. Elijah could feel it—the aetherflux spiking, surging, destabilizing. The frequency shifted from jagged to frantic. The pulses came faster, harder, less controlled. It was like watching a machine tear itself apart from the inside.
Lenz's expression crumpled.
His sharp features seemed to collapse. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
DJ Blowhard made a noise—something between a growl and a whimper. His hands trembled. His whole body shook.
"You—" Nico's voice cracked. "You—"
He couldn't finish.
The blade in his hand wavered. His grip slipped. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"You bastard."
He lunged.
The blade arced toward Elijah's chest.
Lenz moved.
Silver-tongue moved.
Emberdown moved.
DJ Blowhard stumbled after them, his face still red, his eyes still wild.
Elijah didn't move.
He stood there, his arms at his sides, his mask catching the yellow light, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he thought. Now we're getting somewhere.
---