Reality can be such a drag with all its stupid expectations. It makes total sense that people want to escape into a realm of fantasy. Who wouldn't want a break from a world that seems to have forgotten how to be kind?
Ratelsi's realm was the sky; an infinite blue, always wide open with nothing but freedom waiting on its breezes.
From an early age, she'd been aware of her place in the world as an anomaly who didn't belong socially or biologically. Normies could get pretty suspicious, and most of them practically recoiled at the thought of her kind existing at all.
But Ratelsi had wings, and that changed everything. Flap!
Just like that, she soared high above all that judgment and negativity. Honestly, if you had to ask, she'd argue that being stuck on the ground was fine for everyone else. But for her, once she felt the exhilarating rush of flight, the boring, solid ground lost all its charm.
Especially with all those cold, ugly glances around - Normies acting like they have the right to glare just because someone's got scaly skin or can move things with their mind.
Like they weren't into that kind of stuff in the movies.
If Ratelsi got an Aure every time Normies made her feel like curdled milk, she'd be rich enough to buy the entire city two times over and still have Aures left to stroke the Primarch's ego.
But Ratelsi didn't lose sleep over shit like that.
They could scowl all they wanted.
The opinions of others were the least of her concerns. Leaning into that awareness was what she preferred to softening herself to make others comfortable. She owned the sky, and there was no way anyone could take it away.
Flap! Flap flap!
Ah, wings… Huge, stunning obsidian feathers. They weren't matte like a crow's, but vitreous, with a glassy sheen, their material defined by its relationship to light.
Instead of soft, frayed barbs, running a hand over the flat of her feathers felt as smooth as polished marble. They resembled conchoidal fractures found in knapped glass. However, moving against the grain would be lethal - the edges were capable of slicing skin like a surgical scalpel.
Permanently cold to touch…. an odd feeling really, obedient too, as if they were meant to be extensions of her own body.
It was wild how, simply by focusing her thoughts, Ratelsi could command them to levitate or multiply before her very eyes. Her peculiarity allowed her to soar anywhere she desired. But because of the limitations, most of her flights took place within the safe boundaries of Argona's force field.
More often than not, she flew above the most beautiful place in Argona, which was the capital, Balun. Then there was the Sector Belt - Elvio, Sayge, Kakkis... But they came with a shit ton of ridiculous rules and tiresome responsibilities enforced by the Cura and their enforcers - the Paladins.
Paladins were recognized by their navy blue and black uniforms featuring long, flared sleeves, a high collar, and black trousers over boots. Their most distinctive feature was a long, gold V-shaped visor that completely covered their eyes.
Holding large detonators - long-range rifles with blue glowing accents near the chamber - Paladins strutted around like peacocks basking in the fear they created.
Sometimes they patrolled the skies on Strider Mk. Vs - an aerodynamic machine with a fin-like rear - flaunting their badges and detonators as talismans of authority with the arrogance of those who knew they'd never be held accountable for their actions.
Almost every street was a checkpoint, and every Peculiar was a suspect.
Hilarious, really…
As she pondered this with a smirk, a sudden buzz broke her train of thought.
Vrrr.. Vrrr…
Ratelsi glanced at her HoloSmart, a metallic cylindrical smartwatch. The outer edges glowed faintly with a soft cyan-blue light, syncing with the neural net embedded in her spine. Small, illuminated icons circled the rim.
Every Argonian had one, and hers was now vibrating to signal an incoming call.
A gritty outfit accentuated her toned physique nicely: olive-green tank top with dark, micro shorts strapped with a leg harness. A studded belt cinched her waist, and helix earrings traced the curve of her pointed ears.
Defined shoulders gave her upper body a graceful yet powerful silhouette.
With another flap, Ratelsi landed on a shabby rooftop, crunching dusty, loose shingles beneath her chunky, weathered boots. The narrow streets formed arteries of steel, brightened with neon lights above colourful walls.
At the street's end, a holographic light glared in a red slash across the outline of a pair of wings. It was a signage warning: NO-FLY ZONE. With a heavy sigh, Ratelsi's eyes glowed brighter as she recited:
Alas Recondere..
Once the spell was cast, the broad span of her wing fractured along pre-existing magical fault lines. The obsidian plates slid over one another with a sound like shuffling glass as the feathers nested.
Smaller plates slid beneath larger ones until an entire wing had compressed into a single spine of stone.
And then the other...
As the wings fully retracted, her skin along the spine ripped open like a surgical incision with a wet tear to receive the structure.
First came a gasp, then a choked snarl.. but it sounded more like a stifled laugh.
Clenching her trembling fists, Ratelsi let out a breath, nails biting into her palms as she braced herself for what was to come.
Then her posture broke!
Her spine arched violently in a reflexive spasm to create space for the incoming mass. Her knees buckled under the sudden density of the stone moving inward.
Malachite pupils dilated until their irises were a thin, golden ring in a black void. While her nerves drank in the sensory overload, a tear ran down her cheek, but she didn't blink it away.
"Mmmmffghhh.." Moaning softly, Ratelsi listened to the sickening sound of her muscles shifting and bones sliding as the wings tucked into the muscular sheaths behind her ribs.
It hurt a lot. It hurt a whole fucking lot! It felt like a row of cold knives being driven home simultaneously. But she was used to the pain.
In fact, she... enjoyed it.
A slow, languid smirk pulled at the corners of her lips, eventually parting them to reveal her canines gritted in a death mask grin. She tasted the copper of her own tongue where she'd bitten it, swallowing the blood as if it were nectar.
Flushed across her cheekbones and throat, her fingers clawed the dirt as the last of her feathers found home in the hollows of her back. She remained there for a short moment, trembling, enduring the aching aftermath of her skin healing shut.
Ratelsi let out a long, shuddering sigh of disappointment that the torment was over before her expression fell back to its deadpan stare.
Vrrr... Vrrr..
Another persistent buzz pulled her attention to the HoloSmart on her wrist. The screen's glow revealed a digital readout of the time. She rose to her feet, scoffing amusedly when she realised only ten minutes had slipped by during the haze of the spell.
By all accounts, it was a personal record; it wasn't long ago that a full wing retraction would leave her in agonising, leaden exhaustion for half a day or more.
Now, Ratelsi simply shook out the lingering tension in her shoulders, impressed that her body had finally learned to snap back so quickly.
"I guess all that Praesidium training paid off, huh?"
Then she swiped to accept the call.
The holographic interface projected above her wrist as radial patterns morphed into a phone icon.
"Yooooo, Rat!! Are you draggin' your wings or what? You're not takin' a detour, are you?"
This loudmouth through the speaker belonged to her best friend, Timoth Kornt, a cheerful personality who had a knack for making the mundane feel bearable. He was maybe also her only friend, but that's beside the point. Timoth's boisterous shout sliced through the air, making Ratelsi tilt her head back to crack one eye open.
Malachite-green with slitted pupils fixed on the screen with a deadpan look.
"Honestly, I'm really impressed you got me thinking about ripping out your tongue," she drawled in a smoky voice.
"Never have I fantasized mutilation so quickly."
"Wow, that's delightfully barbaric. Shall I offer my vocal cords next? Or throw in a lung while I'm at it."
"Don't tease me, Timoth. I might just take you up on that."
Timoth's projected laugh filled the space. Calm and soothing, a sound she held dear.
"Yeah, yeah…you say that, but with your tendency to get easily distracted when flyin' ten seconds could stretch into ten days before you make it to Oakeman."
Ratelsi waved a dismissive hand and let out a light-hearted "Pfft."
But she couldn't help the grin that crept across her full, pouty lips as memories of how they met at the Praesidium flooded her mind.
Back then, before she mastered the spell to make them vanish, her wings had felt like a curse rather than a gift. They were massive, always catching the sun, and seemed too sharp to carry around other students, always bumping into desks or bruising shoulders in the crowded halls.
To the clique of girls who had cornered her on the rooftop every afternoon, that extra space she occupied was an unpardonable offense.
She remembered the weight of them pinning her down, the stinging insults about her "clumsy, oversized sails," and the sharp ache as their heels ground into the sensitive primary feathers of her left wing, cracking them.
Then, the heavy steel door had creaked open to reveal her saviour...
Eight years together in that segregated academy for branded Peculiars, with its bleak, monastic environment, was where they trained to harness their inhumane abilities through spellcasting for the "common good" and the "safety of society."
Cura Noemie and her Acolytes had taught them that Peculiarity was less a gift than a biological trauma. It was a condition born of the Storm, one that only Liyuen possessed the power to soothe.
Many times, it made Ratelsi wonder if the Goddess of Arcana truly saw Peculiarities as an aberration that required divine oversight. Did she really have the time to dwell on such petty things?
At Praesidium, her friendship with Timoth blossomed as a stroke of luck in her otherwise exhausting life, and they've been kindred spirits ever since. Two years had passed since they graduated.
"Yunno, it's almost four, and we've got deliveries rollin' in, right?" his smooth tenor pulled Ratelsi out of her thoughts, reminding her that time wouldn't be on their side for long.
There was that signature playful urgency in his tone. She rolled her eyes, quipping. "Yeah, I got the memo already."
Another chuckle from Timoth softened her annoyance; its soothing sound always had a way of lightening her mood. Plus, he basically had a radar for detecting her half-baked plans and fibs, so there was no way to lie her way out of work.
She decided to say, "If that glorified trash heap offered anything remotely resembling a good time, I might actually pretend to be excited. As it is, I'd rather watch paint dry than pretend that place is worth my time."
"Aw, c'mon, don't get all snippy with me, Rat." He grinned.
"You know Broco's gonna throw a tantrum again if we don't get these deliveries out before midnight." Then his voice dropped into a tease.
"He hasn't stopped watchin' you since that whole Mhode thing, yunno. I swear, it's like he's salivatin' for a slip-up." Another chuckle, and she could almost picture the mischief in the vivid sky-blue of his eyes.
Ratelsi hummed, unwilling to torture her thoughts with the consequences of what happened last week.
It was unnecessary to dwell on that drama; she felt no ounce of regret. Her lips curled into a thin line, in what resembled a smug smirk as she relived the sensation of her talons digging into his cheek, tearing the skin open.
For the next few days, the sound of Mhode's heavy breathing and pained groans became her new ringtone.
Man, it was easily one of the most gratifying things she'd done in ages!
A little reminder it was to that dimwit who thought he could be all touchy-feely with her whenever he felt like it. And it sent a clear message to Styx and Vesir, that if you mess with the raven, you'd better be ready to get clawed.
Still, she had to admit, racking up more enemies wasn't exactly the smartest plan right now.
"Hey, just to be clear, our deal with Broco ends tonight," she said.
"I'm not sticking around one second longer if I have to deal with his crap. He disrespects us, so he shouldn't expect us to keep running his errands for peanuts and kiss his damn feet."
Ping!
"Uh, Ratel…" Timoth's voice interjected, sounding a little strained. "Actually, it's three deliveries now. Broco just couldn't resist paddin' the list."
Her malachite eyes darkened and took on a phosphorescent glow, like sunlight filtering through a heavy canopy of moss.
"What!? Why?" she blurted out, a little high-pitched.
Nearby, a flurry of startled birds took flight as Timoth inhaled sharply through the line.
"I know, I know." His voice crackled through the speaker, rushed and uneven. "Sorry, really."
The faint scuff of boots in the background suggested he was pacing. "But…Broco's swearin' these clients are whales, and he's danglin' double our pay in front of us."
A nervous chuckle bled into the static. "Double, Rat! That's hard to ignore! You know how long we've been talking about movin' to Sayge. This gig could actually be-"
He cut off abruptly as Ratelsi hung up the call with a frown creasing her face.
Tch.
Just how naive could he be?
Obviously, Broco was lying through his teeth. Again.
Like they were too dumb to catch on. How dare he treat them so disrespectfully?
Eyes narrowed, she scoffed, "Double our pay. You could at least try to be more original, wanker."
She kicked a few gravel stones off the rooftop.
Their satisfying tumbles didn't really help with her annoyance, though, so Ratelsi turned her attention to the scenery before her. Golden rays scorched down on a thousand corrugated tin rooftops, turning the vast urban sprawl into an aluminium mirage.
The air itself felt thick and viscous, like a convection oven baking the maze of buildings below.
Yet, even under this brutal, natural illumination, the Underdistrict fought back with its own gaudy, electric heartbeat.
Streetlights, prematurely lit with dying power cells, struggled to make their presence known against the sun's glare. Bright neon signs - blood reds, electric greens, and hostile magenta - sputtered and glared down the grimy alleyways.
Towering above it all, flashy digital ads on monolithic screens cycled through impossibly bright, smiling faces and unattainable luxuries. Their ultra-white glare momentarily blinded Ratelsi as she dared look up at the skybridges crisscrossing cylindrical structures at various heights.
Even in daylight, Altown kept its glow.
Right then, a distinct, joyous cacophony abruptly overrode the ambient noise of the block: the sounds of kids having a blast on their patched-up hover and skateboards.
Ratelsi's brain immediately processed the audio feed like a volumetric, 3D topographical map.
Each shriek of laughter, the abrasive grind of plastic wheels on pitted asphalt, and the frantic, echoing shouts of "Watch out!" were coordinates in space. So loudly that she didn't need to see them.
Pointed ears twitched to the vivid, chaotic burst three blocks east, exploding in her auditory cortex, painting a perfect mental picture of the actions:
The high-frequency whine of a loose grav-plate stabiliser.
The resonant thud of a board hitting a cracked street seam.
The raucous, unfiltered laughter of kids who knew they were pushing their luck.
Tilting her head back, Ratelsi soaked in the wild, chaotic soundtrack as it prickled her brown skin.
What a bummer.
She really didn't want to deal with helping Timoth with Broco's gifts today. But they didn't have many options. Delivery running was, in many ways, as honest as it got in a place like Altown.
Especially when finding regular jobs was a hassle because of their "unpredictable" nature.
For a Peculiar, stable job came from the Cura through an evaluation system called MAP tests.
The Mental, Arcane, and Physical tests were used to filter out the unstable, the volatile, and the inhumane, determining a Peculiar's stability for integration into society, access to employment, and overall freedom.
Passing the tests was the easiest way for Peculiars to find good employment and better living opportunities, which were heavily restricted for unbranded Peculiars. Almost every legitimate work in Argona required evidence of certification that you've passed.
Those who failed were denied better living conditions and job opportunities or were confined to Turris to improve their state of mind. Most times, they never returned, becoming permanent residents of the rehabilitation tower.
But Ratelsi had long stopped taking those tests. She loathed the idea that, as a Peculiar, she was inherently risky until proven otherwise. Or that she must demonstrate stability and utility to earn basic rights that Normies possessed by default.
She also stopped listening to the Primarch's scripted daily speeches about how every Peculiar could save a life today by using their abilities "for the good of mankind." All that talk felt like empty theatrics meant to dress up how they monetised their powers.
However, this choice made her unemployable in the formal sector, reliant on underground work, and living under constant suspicion.
So, no judgment here, right? Cool.
Perhaps, this time, Broco would actually follow through on his promise. And if he ended up pulling a stunt, well then, she'd happily teach him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. Her long black nails unconsciously flexed in and out as she thought of how she'd handle things if it came to that.
Just hearing his stupid name was enough to bubble her frustration back to the surface!
Ratelsi defiantly approached the eight-storey building's roof precipice. Her chin lifted sharply in rejection of the dizzying drop below as she stood on the crumbling edge...
Then, without a breath held or a backward glance, she simply pushed off.
The world instantly dissolved into a deafening, rushing wind. Ratelsi plummeted. The current seized her long, dark hair, streaked with white at the temples and bangs, whipping the voluminous waves into a wild cloud around her round, exhilarated face.
As the descent intensified, evolving to a true freefall, a delighted smile stretched across her lips.
She couldn't wait to unfurl her wings! It was way easier to let them out than to cage them in - a spell wasn't needed for that, only the will of thought.
Flap!
Like ink spilling across the sky, the black sweep of her wings unfurled with the silken crack of a banner in the wind. She tilted her shoulder a bit to the right to transition into a controlled glide.
Ratelsi banked with the precision of a raven, gathering the air beneath her like a cloak, and watched the ground blur as her speed surged.
Carefree. Effortlessly.
Up, up into the afternoon clouds where there was no filth underfoot, no burden in the soul.
A world in the sky.
Ratelsi let out a relieved sigh; she felt unabashedly alive! Adrenaline surged through her veins, making her heart race, lifting her mood, as she stretched her magnificent eleven-foot wings wide. Soaring eastward, the buildings below faded into a blur of shadows and colours.
******
[Oakeman Auto]
Oakeman, 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, which was 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 on makeshift stands to make scarecrows with orange cones sitting 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 jagged, 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."
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 big spenders, 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, 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, cutting laugh followed. "Imagine the look on his face when I make him swallow his own teeth! A little compensation for all those panicked, 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 fear-based logic he typically did.
Her snarky expression seemed to soften into a more reserved and measured one. Ratelsi skillfully hid 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.
Most of the time, when Ratelsi was her usual irritated, easily annoyed self, he 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.
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.
She hadn't even spoken, and yet...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.
Every clever retort he'd prepared dissolved into static under the sight of her features, 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.
The pressure mounted in the charged silence 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.
Ratelsi's deliberate 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 spell sent a vibration through the sand, causing the grains to vibrate so fast that they lost contact with each other. As it hit the machine, the sand beneath it began to churn.
It looked more like a liquid treadmill with small, rhythmic waves of sand cresting and recycling back 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 fifth 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 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 as 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 surfaces 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 most vital detail. It was subtle: a minute, insistent red light blinking steadily on the container's side.
As he flipped it again, 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 chuckle died in her throat. Her 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.