The abandoned warehouse in Sector 0 was vibrating. It wasn't the hum of factory machinery or the grind of gears; it was the sheer, deafening roar of three hundred rebels screaming in absolute triumph.
Heavy wooden crates of contraband champagne—stolen from a Gilded Tier supply train months ago and saved for this exact, impossible moment—were cracked open with crowbars. Ash-Runners were chugging cheap ale. Giants were hugging strangers. Even the usually stoic, independent freelancers were dancing on the rusted worktables.
In the center of the massive hangar, bathed in the harsh glare of industrial work-lights, sat the Real Titan.
It was scarred, dented, and missing a few iron panels from the chaotic tunnel swap, but it was theirs. It looked like a magnificent trophy kill, a massive iron beast brought down by a pack of coordinated wolves.
Rowan sat on the brass hood of the Valkyrie, watching the celebration. His hands were still shaking violently from the adrenaline of the drive, but a massive grin was plastered across his soot-stained face.
"We did it," Jack handed him a bottle of champagne, clapping him hard on the shoulder. "We actually pulled it off, kid. The Great Train Robbery of the century."
"To the best driver in the Dregs," Luca toasted, raising a heavy iron spanner like a goblet.
"To Dorothy," Luna added, nudging Dorothy with her elbow. "The brightest flare in the city."
Dorothy smiled, taking a sip from a glass, but her golden-flecked eyes were scanning the room with unease. She looked toward the perimeter, where the Gaslight-Phantoms were gathered. They weren't drinking. They weren't celebrating. They stood in a tight, disciplined formation, their hands resting near their weapons, watching the exits.
"They're quiet tonight," Dorothy murmured, a frown creasing her brow.
"They're stealth-thieves," Jack shrugged, taking a long swig from his bottle. "They party in shadows and whispers. Let them be weird. Tonight, we eat like kings."
BZZZT. CLACK-CLACK.
Cipher's symbol—the Broken Circle—suddenly appeared on a massive canvas sheet lowered from the ceiling, projected by a powerful magic-lantern, overriding the music of the gramophones. The room went completely silent instantly.
Cipher, wearing his heavy cloak and featureless brass mask, walked onto the makeshift stage.
"Brothers and Sisters of the Iron City," Cipher's modulated, mechanical voice boomed, echoing off the rusted metal walls. "Tonight, we did not just steal a truck. We stole the future. Inside that transport lies the Book of Knowledge. The key to breaking the chains of the Syndicates. The end of the Barons' reign."
A deafening, earth-shaking cheer erupted. Fists pumped into the smokey air.
"Open it," Cipher commanded, gesturing to the Titan. "Let us finally see the truth."
Rowan, Jack, and Dorothy walked to the heavy rear doors of the Titan. The crowd parted for them, a sea of grime, rust, and desperate hope.
Rowan grabbed the heavy, manual iron release lever. It was cold and required immense strength.
"Ready?" he asked, looking at Jack.
"Any day," Jack grinned, his eyes shining.
Rowan pulled the lever with a heavy grunt.
HISSS.
The massive hydraulic bolts disengaged with a loud clack. The heavy iron ramp groaned and lowered slowly to the floor with a thud that shook the concrete. Thick, white steam billowed out from the pressurized interior, obscuring the view.
The rebels leaned forward, holding their breath in anticipation of seeing the legendary tome.
The mist slowly cleared.
The interior of the Titan was completely, utterly empty.
There was no celestial Book. No heavy containment unit. No armed guards. Just a vast, hollow metal cavern smelling of stale air.
Sitting on a small wooden stool in the exact center of the empty space was a single, intricately carved brass projector.
"What..." Rowan stepped onto the ramp, his blood running ice cold. "Where is it?"
"It's gone," Dorothy whispered, the gold light in her eyes flaring with sudden, sharp panic. "It's completely empty."
The brass projector clicked on.
A beam of sharp blue light shot up, forming a life-sized, incredibly clear phantasmagoric projection.
It was a man in a pristine, tailored gray silk suit, holding a crystal glass of deep red wine. He had perfectly coiffed silver hair and eyes that looked like chips of flint.
Victor Velox.
"Hello, rats," the projection smiled, a cold, aristocratic sneer.
The warehouse went dead silent. The champagne turned to bitter vinegar in their mouths.
"I must commend you," Victor continued, his voice calm, cultured, and magnified perfectly by the truck's internal speakers. "The tunnel swap was genuinely ingenious. Truly. My logistics team is taking notes on your methods. It was an excellent, if messy, stress test for our perimeter security protocols."
"What?" Jack choked out, his hand drifting instinctively to his revolver.
"Asset K was moved via heavily armed airship three hours ago," Victor explained, taking a casual sip of his wine. "Did you honestly believe I would move the most valuable object on Gaia through a dirty, unsecured tunnel in a ground carriage?"
He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
"But I couldn't let your enthusiasm go to waste. I needed a way to gather all of you... the concentrated filth of this city... into one convenient, sealed location."
The projection walked forward. It seemed to look directly into Rowan's eyes.
"Know your worth, boy," Victor said softly, the words hitting Rowan like a physical blow to the chest. "It is zero."
The projection flickered and died.
"It's a trap!" Axle roared, drawing his massive sledgehammer and turning to the doors. "We need to leave! Now!"
"Nobody is leaving," a synthetic, hollow voice cut through the rising panic.
The rebels turned in horror.
Zero, the leader of the Gaslight-Phantoms—or rather, his sleek, black clockwork proxy droid—stepped forward from the shadows of the loading bay.
Behind him, the Phantom agents drew their weapons. High-tech, repeating rifles and cruel, mono-filament blades that hummed in the air.
They weren't aiming at the heavy doors. They were aiming directly at the Giants and the Ash-Runners.
"Zero?" Cipher's voice sounded genuinely confused, a rare crack in his stoic facade. "What are you doing? The Phantoms are sworn to the cause. You bled for this!"
"Business," the droid stated flatly. "The Velox Syndicate offered us a permanent, highly lucrative contract. Full citizenship. Complete amnesty. A literal seat at the table in the Gilded Tier."
"You sold us out," Dorothy stepped forward, furious golden fire igniting in her palms, illuminating the dark warehouse. "We fought together. You helped plan this heist!"
"We helped sell this heist," Zero corrected, raising a flintlock pistol. "The Barons always win, Dorothy. You fight for a fairytale in a dirty book. We prefer a steady paycheck. Gold sovereigns don't burn if you have the right bank account."
Zero raised his mechanical hand.
"Execute them all."
The Phantoms opened fire point-blank into the crowd of celebrating rebels.
At the exact same moment, the massive glass skylights of the warehouse shattered. Elite Syndicate Enforcers repelled down on heavy black ropes, dropping tear-gas canisters and firing indiscriminately into the panicked crowd.
The celebration instantly turned into a massacre.
"Cover!" Rowan screamed, tackling Ivy to the ground behind the massive iron wheel of the Titan just as the spot where she had been standing was chewed to pieces by heavy rifle fire.
The trap had sprung, and the jaws were closing fast.