The welding torches in the shipyard finally went silent at 03:00 hours. The grinding noise that had echoed through Station Zero for three days faded, leaving behind a ringing silence and the smell of ozone.
Varian sat on the edge of the central fountain—now dried up and used as a fire pit. The fire was dying, reducing the logs of giant mushroom stalks to glowing purple embers.
He wasn't wearing his armor. He wore a simple, grease-stained undershirt and baggy cargo pants held up by a piece of rope. His left arm, the one housing Onyx, was bare. The black tattoo looked like ink spilled on skin, dormant and still.
He held a tin cup of coffee. It was sludge—re-boiled grounds from the pre-war stash, bitter enough to strip paint.
He stared at the steam rising from the cup.
"You look like a corpse that forgot to fall down," a voice drawled from the shadows.
Silas leaned against a pillar, twirling his bone cane. His bat, Nosferatu, was hanging upside down from the brim of his stolen officer's hat, sleeping.
"I'm thinking," Varian said, not looking up.
"Thinking is dangerous," Silas walked over, limping slightly. The damage Valerius had done to his legs years ago never fully healed. He sat on the bench opposite Varian. "Thinking leads to hesitation. And hesitation leads to being eaten."
"You would know," Varian shot back. It wasn't malicious; it was just tired.
"Touché." Silas poured himself a cup of the sludge coffee. He took a sip and grimaced. "Gods. This tastes like battery acid. Is this what the 'Legion' runs on?"
"We ran out of sugar two weeks ago," Varian said.
They sat in silence for a moment. It was a heavy silence, filled with years of shared trauma from the Blood Farm. They weren't friends. They were just two survivors who remembered the same screams.
"Why did you come back, Silas?" Varian asked quietly. "You could have disappeared into the tunnels. You have a Bat King. You could have lived like a king in the dark."
Silas swirled his cup.
"I tried," he admitted. His voice lost its theatrical edge. "I found a nice cave in Sector 6. Plenty of rats to eat. No guards."
He looked at the fire.
"But then I slept. And when I sleep... I see the white room. I feel the needles."
Silas looked at Varian, his red eyes dark.
"Being free isn't enough, Varian. Not while he is still breathing. I realized that if I stayed in that cave, I would eventually just become a monster. A real one. I needed... a pack. Even if the Alpha is an arrogant prick like you."
Varian managed a small, dry smile. "I'm not arrogant. I'm just busy."
"Same thing."
From the barracks area, a sound drifted over. Laughter.
It was Echo.
Varian turned his head.
Echo and Elian were sitting on a crate near the sleeping Dregs. Elian was holding a piece of scrap metal and a nail. He was tapping out a rhythm. Tink-tink-tank.
Echo was listening, her massive bat-ears twitching, a look of pure delight on her face. She tried to mimic the sound with her voice, creating a perfect, high-pitched hum.
Rix was there too, trying to teach a group of younger rat-mutants how to play a card game he barely understood himself.
"I have three Kings!" Rix shouted, holding up three aces.
"That's cheating, Captain!" a young rat squeaked.
"I am Captain! Captain makes rules!"
Varian watched them. The tension in his shoulders—a knot that had been there since the Angel fell—loosened slightly.
"They're children," Silas noted, following his gaze. "Soldiers, yes. But children."
"They're the reason we're building the ship," Varian said. "This station... it's a tomb. We buried Iron-Jaw here. If we stay, we're just waiting to be buried with him."
"Iron-Jaw," Silas mused. "The cyborg with the bad temper? I heard the stories. Blew himself up to drop a factory on an Angel. Dramatic."
"He was a good man," Varian said sharply.
"I didn't say he wasn't," Silas raised his hands. "But good men die, Varian. That's the rule. The wicked survive. Look at us."
Varian looked at his hands. He thought about the brain in the Angel's jar. Saint Celestine. She had probably been "good" too.
"I'm not good," Varian whispered. "I ate a soul today, Silas. I absorbed a woman who had been tortured for a hundred years, and I felt... stronger. I felt good."
He clenched his fist.
"I'm terrified that one day, I won't care anymore. That I'll just be the Parasite."
Silas leaned forward. He reached out and tapped Varian's forehead with his cane.
"Don't be stupid."
Varian blinked. "What?"
"Monsters don't worry about being monsters," Silas said. "Valerius doesn't lose sleep over us. The Pontiff doesn't cry over the mutants he burns. The fact that you're sitting here, drinking this poison coffee and feeling guilty... that means the human is still driving the bus."
Silas stood up, adjusting his hat. The bat on his brim woke up and hissed.
"Just don't go soft on me, Sovereign. I need you angry. Angry kills Valerius. Guilty just gets you killed."
Silas turned to leave, heading toward the shadows of the tunnel where his swarm roosted.
"Silas," Varian called out.
The pale man stopped.
"The coffee," Varian said. "It's better if you hold your nose."
Silas smirked over his shoulder. "I'll keep that in mind."
Varian stayed by the fire until the embers died.
He finally stood up and walked toward the Iron Sovereign.
The massive land-ship loomed in the dark bay like a sleeping beast. It was ugly—a patchwork of train cars, tank treads, and welded steel plates. But it was solid.
Gorgon was sleeping underneath the main treads. He didn't use a tent. He just lay on the concrete, his stone back against the metal track.
The Crimson Armor was still on him. It never fully came off anymore. It was like a second skin of dull red metal. Even in sleep, Gorgon's face was scrunching, twitching.
"No..." Gorgon mumbled in his sleep. "Don't... hurt them..."
Varian knelt beside his friend.
He placed his hand on the red chest plate. He channeled a tiny pulse of Void Energy—cool, calming darkness.
"Quiet," Varian whispered to the armor. "Let him rest."
The red light on the armor dimmed. Gorgon's breathing smoothed out. The giant sighed, his stone features relaxing.
Varian sat there for a long time, watching over his guard.
He took out the Map Data they had stolen. He looked at the vast, green emptiness of the Wilds below them.
Tomorrow, they would launch. Tomorrow, the noise would start again. The engines, the guns, the screaming.
But for tonight... there was just the hum of the ventilation fans and the snoring of a rock-man.
Varian leaned his head back against the cold steel of the tank tread and closed his eyes.
He didn't dream of eating suns tonight.
He dreamed of a farm. A real farm, on the surface, under a blue sky. There were no cages. Just fields of green grass. And sitting on a porch, Iron-Jaw was cleaning a rifle, laughing at a joke Rix told.
It was a good dream.