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T he groan of stressed metal dragged me back to consciousness. My head throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the sharp ache in my shoulder where the stun baton had connected. Restraints bit into my wrists and ankles, cold salvaged steel against my skin.
I blinked, trying to focus, but the low, flickering emergency light did little to dispel the gloom. Recycled air, thick with the smell of ozone and something metallic, filled my lungs. Transport vehicle, standard salvaged model by the vibrations. Moving.
Fragments returned. The ruin perimeter. The unstable energy signature I’d tracked for weeks. Getting too close, trying that active scan... stupid mistake.
My markings still tingled unpleasantly, a low-level static beneath my skin. They’d warned me, in their own chaotic way, but I’d pushed too hard.
Three weeks surviving alone in the western mountains after the lab collapse. Hiding from Hammond’s search parties, scavenging for food, drinking from streams that tasted of minerals I couldn’t identify.
All while tracking the anomalous energy signature that kept my markings buzzing like live wires. The Eastern Settlement needed to know what Hammond was up to. If only I’d been more careful.
I tested the restraints, flexing my wrists against the metal cuffs. No give. Military-grade, probably salvaged from the Seraphyne’s security bay.
Trust Hammond to prioritize restraints over basic necessities. The transport hit a rough patch, and pain jolted through my bruised ribs. I bit back a groan. Show no weakness. Not to Hammond’s people.
The transport lurched to a halt, throwing me against the restraints. A heavy door hissed open, flooding the compartment with harsh light. Rough hands grabbed my arms, hauling me upright.
“Move it, marked trash.”
I stumbled out onto packed earth, squinting against the glare of portable floodlights. The night air was cool against my face, carrying the scent of dry stone and something acrid, like burnt circuitry.
A crude structure rose before me, built into the side of crumbling, ancient ruins—just like the energy signature suggested. Hammond’s new playground.
I scanned what I could see, an automatic security assessment. Salvaged plating haphazardly attached to stone. Exposed conduits carrying power that felt wrong to my markings.
Armed guards with mismatched equipment—a mix of Seraphyne security gear and cruder implements.
Defensive perimeter established with makeshift barriers and what looked like repurposed sensor arrays.
Six guards visible, likely more inside. Weapons primarily stun batons and salvaged pulse rifles. Limited but lethal.
Something in the ruins was interacting with the silver lines under my skin. Not just the usual static tingle of technology, but something deeper, more resonant.
“Sir, this one was carrying a translator stone.” A guard held up the small crystal I’d managed to keep hidden for months. My stomach dropped. Without it, communication with any Nyxari would be impossible.
From the shadows of the main entrance, a figure emerged. Hammond. Thinner than I remembered, more haggard, but with the same cold, calculating eyes.
The blue-white glow from a makeshift lamp cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines there. His uniform was worn but meticulously maintained, the insignia of the Seraphyne’s security chief still prominently displayed, as if clinging to a rank that no longer existed.
“Graydon.” His voice was exactly as I remembered it. Precise. Controlled. “I knew you’d survived the collapse. Always were resourceful.”
He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Looking for weakness, for information, for confirmation of whatever paranoid theory had consumed him now.
“What were you doing at the perimeter sensor? Scouting for your Nyxari friends?”
I kept my expression neutral. “Just trying to stay alive. Same as everyone.”
A thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lying doesn’t become you, Graydon. You were tracking our energy signature. The question is why.”
He gestured to the guard holding the translator stone. “Take this to analysis. And take her to holding with the other one. Full search. No rations until tomorrow.”
Other one? My stomach knotted. Another prisoner? Another marked woman?
The guards flanking me tightened their grip on my arms, propelling me forward. We passed through the main entrance, a crude arch reinforced with salvaged metal struts.
The temperature dropped as we entered the ruins, the air becoming noticeably damper. My markings prickled more intensely, the sensation spreading up my arms and across my shoulders.
The corridor was narrow, the stone walls ancient and worn smooth. Crude electric lighting cast sharp shadows on surfaces inscribed with glyphs I recognized from the Eastern Settlement ruins.
Nyxari script, older variations than what I’d seen before. The deeper we went, the more my markings responded, a persistent, uncomfortable buzz just beneath my skin.
The corridor opened into a wider chamber where makeshift living quarters had been constructed. A dozen or so humans moved about, none meeting my eyes.
When had he had a chance to regroup like this? Hammond must have spent the past months gathering scattered loyalists or desperate survivors clinging to his authority.
Salvaged console screens flickered with data I couldn’t read from this distance. Armed guards patrolled, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disgust as they watched me pass. Hammond’s propaganda at work—marked women seen as contaminated, as traitors.
In one corner, I glimpsed what looked like a medical station—or perhaps a laboratory. Instruments I recognized from the Seraphyne had been repurposed alongside cruder implements.
A cold dread settled in my stomach, remembering what Hammond had done to Claire. What was he attempting now?
We turned down another corridor, this one sloping downward. The temperature dropped noticeably, and the air grew damper. The smell of mold and stagnant water joined the sharp tang of ozone.
My boots scraped against ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries of use and then abandoned.
“Watch your step, marked trash.” One guard sneered, shoving me forward as the corridor narrowed. “Wouldn’t want you to fall and crack that pretty head. Hammond wants you intact. For now.”
The casual threat hung in the air. I focused on maintaining my balance, on observing, analyzing. The structure was older here, less modified by Hammond’s people.
The stone walls were lined with patterns that made my markings react more strongly—geometric designs that seemed to pulse with a faint energy, visible only at certain angles. Power conduits, perhaps? Or something more fundamental to the ruins themselves?
A makeshift cell block came into view. Three cells, separated by salvaged plating bolted together to form walls, with ancient stone for the back. Basic containment, but effective.
Each cell was secured with a crude electronic lock system. Hammond’s specialty—functional but unrefined.
A guard punched a code into the lock of the furthest cell—0-4-7-1, I noted automatically—and the door swung open. Another hard shove sent me sprawling onto the cold stone floor, the impact jarring through my already aching shoulder.
The restraints on my wrists were removed with rough efficiency, but not before one guard twisted my arm unnecessarily, a small vindictive gesture.
“Enjoy your new roommate,” the guard said with a smirk. “Maybe you two can swap cosmetic tips. Silver and gold, quite the fashion statement.”
As I pushed myself up, I caught sight of him through the dim light—Nyxari. Big, powerful, even slumped against the far wall.
Blue skin with faint burn scars tracing golden lines. Those lifelines looked wrong somehow, erratic in their flow, like a malfunctioning circuit. He was injured, badly from the looks of it.
He lifted his head slowly, revealing eyes the color of molten gold. No recognition, no relief at seeing another prisoner—just raw hostility.
His muscular tail lay limp against the floor, not even a twitch of acknowledgment. From what I’d observed of Eastern Settlement Nyxari, that stillness was unnatural. Their tails were usually expressive, in constant motion. Whatever Hammond had done to him had taken a severe toll.
The door slammed shut behind me with a metallic clang that echoed through the small space. The lock engaged with an electric whine.
“Just so you know,” one guard called through the small observation slot, “the blue one doesn’t talk. Not that you’d understand him anyway without your little translator toy.”
The slot closed with a sharp snap, and the sound of receding footsteps filled the corridor.
I leaned back against the cold wall, taking stock of my situation. Captured. Imprisoned. Miles from the Eastern Settlement. No way to send a warning about what Hammond was doing.
And my only potential ally looked like he’d rather kill me than help me.
I studied the Nyxari more carefully. His skin was a deeper blue than most I’d seen in the Eastern Settlement, reminiscent of the twilight sky just after the larger sun set.
His hair, though matted with what looked like dried blood, was a striking reddish-blonde, copper and gold interwoven, pulled back in intricate braids that had partly come undone.
Tribal markings were etched into the spinal plates visible above his tattered clothing—geometric patterns I didn’t recognize from the Eastern Nyxari.
Different clan? Different settlement entirely? The western mountains supposedly had other Nyxari enclaves, isolated and reclusive. Could he be from one of those?
His breathing was shallow but steady, his massive chest rising and falling in a rhythm that told me he was conscious but conserving energy. A warrior’s discipline.