The air hung thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket of decay. It wasn't just the expected industrial grime; it was a cocktail of rust, stale oil, and something indescribably worse, a sickly sweet rot that clawed at Izari's throat, a phantom taste of spoiled flesh and forgotten hopes. The damp, claustrophobic tunnels snaked beneath Machine City like a metal serpent's entrails, a graveyard where the city discarded its unwanted. Shadows clung to the corrugated metal walls, long and unbroken, punctuated only by the sporadic, anemic pulse of neon lights that fought a losing battle against the all-consuming darkness. Each flicker seemed to accent the grim reality, the despair etched into the very metal around them.
Rona had navigated the city's grimy arteries for years, knew their twists and turns, the whispers of danger that clung to certain corners like cobwebs. He could practically taste the difference between a tunnel frequented by scavengers and one claimed by the cannibal gangs infamous in the underlevels. As for Izari, he had never ventured this deep, into the city's festering underbelly. He had never wanted to. The air down here felt heavier, burdened by the weight of untold tragedies.
But here he was, his boots crunching on a mixture of grime and something unidentifiable-something that squelched unpleasantly underfoot-dragging his aching body forward. His jacket was ripped, dusted with a layer of grit that clung to him like a second skin, seeping into every pore. Behind him, he felt Cassia's ragged breathing, a rasping counterpoint to the incessant dripping water and the insistent hum of the city's decaying infrastructure. This mechanical pulse echoed in his bones as he carried on. Cassia, who was still weak, struggled beside Rona as she struggled to keep standing; her whole body was trembling. She was holding the back of Rona's jacket. Izari didn't need more evidence to show that she needed help, but literally ten minutes ago, when he offered to help a tired Rona with carrying her, she would suddenly stir to life, shocking both of them before struggling to get on her feet and mouthing something, seemingly objecting to his offer. This hurt his feelings. Didn't she trust him? But here he was putting his life on the line to save her. I mean, he was also doing this for the money, but still…
"Hey, kid… we need to stop," Rona muttered, his voice hoarse, each word a struggle. He gestured to Cassia, her pale skin ghostlike against the backdrop of filth and metal. The girl was barely conscious, swaying with each step, her closed eyes winced in pain. A thin trickle of blood snaked from the corner of her mouth.
"She needs to rest… or she won't last much longer." Rona's voice was a near-whisper, laced with concern.
Izari exhaled sharply, a plume of condensation momentarily clouding the fetid air. "We don't have time for rest, Rona. You know that." The words scraped against his throat, betraying the doubt in his heart.
But the words rang hollow, even to his ears. He knew Rona was right. Pushing Cassia any further in this condition was a death sentence. He could feel the weight of her failing body, the tremor in her limbs.
"Alright," he conceded, scanning the labyrinth of tunnels. "Not here, though. This place… It's wrong. Even for down here." He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if unseen eyes were watching them from the darkness.
"Everything's wrong down here," Rona muttered, his eyes flicking to the shadows, a lifetime of paranoia etched into his gaze. "But I know a place. If we make it a bit further. A place where she might have a chance."
As they pressed on, silence settled between them like ash, a heavy, unspoken acknowledgment of the grim reality they faced. After a time, Izari broke it, his voice low, almost hesitant.
"You seem to know an awful lot about this place." He'd always wondered about the older man. Rona moved with a certain confidence, a familiarity, but he didn't carry the desperation of the truly destitute.
Rona snorted softly, a tired sound. "No, well, I was stationed here some time ago. Before the air poisoned my lungs and the rent poisoned my wallet." He coughed, a rattling sound that echoed in the tunnel. "I just have experience with this part of town."
Izari managed a faint smile. "So are we going to one of your former outposts or…" The "Silver Echo" tag, faded but recognizable as a symbol of the rebellion, caught his attention, making him quickly change the question. "And how did you even become a rebel?"
Rona was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the damp metal floor. Then: "I… I was a courier for a labor union in Sector 9. It didn't take much time for me to see how much the workers, the vat-born and wretches suffered working under those who didn't care about them at all." He then looked up with a stern expression as guilt and regret began to overwhelm him. Izari and Cassia stared at him both wide-eyed. "I just hated my job. And by joining the Silver Echo, I thought I could change things. I thought I could build a better world." He paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Naive, I know."
"Did anything change?" Izari had only heard whispers of the Silver Echo, stories of idealists and rebels crushed beneath the heel of the Enforcers. He didn't know how many members were put through the purges.
Rona sighed, the sound heavy with regret. "The Purge. The authority wasn't interested in debate. They were only interested in absolute control. They sent their dogs, who came down on us like a hammer, arrested, and brainwashed most of us. They crushed us, stripped us of everything. Before the purges started, I was a part of the Echo tech support. I know my way around any machinery. I was never the front lines type, so I ran like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, I had a place in mind."
"The Purged." Izari's voice caught with quiet recognition. "You were one of them." He thought he'd seen a flicker of something in Rona's eyes, a haunted look that betrayed a past he couldn't quite place.
Rona nodded, his eyes distant. "Did things I regret. Saw things I'll never forget. Now I fix what I can. Try to balance the scales." He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to erase the memories.
Izari walked in silence for a stretch. "And just how much have you fixed?"
This question caught Rona off guard. He stopped abruptly, causing Cassia to bump into him. She then began to look at both men, confused by whatever was transpiring between them. "Why are you asking me that?" Rona fixed his gaze on Izari. "Well nothing's changed, nothing I can tell, people are still getting stepped on by traffickers and authorities, workers are still indentured and slave off in the forges, hell, the machines to do the work are there but they still forced to work there because of, I don't know, we are fodder for the city!" He took a deep breath, all while glaring at Rona. "Do you know how many bodies I've been paid to take to incinerators and waste disposal units?" Rona, who was now enraged, cut in, "You think I don't know about that!".
"I..We do our best, we save as many lives as we can!"
"And what have you done to save them?" Rona redirected the question to Izari. Izari scoffed at the question "Im not a freaking rebel, I am not entitled to save them, that is your job, you chose that path and I chose mine." "And do my job pretty well." Izari walked up to Rona, looking up at him. He'd always been driven by survival, by the need to scrape together enough to keep himself alive. Morality was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Rona looked at him then, not with judgment, but something close to understanding. Izari was one among many who brought out this bitter fact. It hurt him, it always did, but he couldn't show this to Izari. Not because it would mean that Izari was right, but because he had a resolve to bring freedom to the city, "You're right, you know." Izari stopped his advance."All that matters is the results, the lives I save, and the people I inspire." He looked at Cassia before continuing, "Like you, Izari. Maybe you just haven't realized it yet. Helping Cassia... that seems like a pretty good start." He clapped Izari on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. "Everyone has a part to play, even if they don't know it yet." Izari only looked at him, a serious expression etched on his face, before he turned away and began walking while quickly changing the subject. "How long till we get to this Solomon guy?
Rona sighed, tightened his hold on Cassia's hand pointed further into the tunnel. "We're almost there."
The tunnel began to widen, the air growing thicker, the stench more potent. It was a symphony of decay, amplified by the echoing dampness. Then, they emerged into what looked like a wide-open street, though the sky was nothing but a ceiling of corroded metal.
The Forgotten Sector, buried beneath Machine City's foundations. A festering wound where the truly damned survived. The contrast to the gleaming towers above was obscene, a testament to the city's callous indifference to its forgotten children.
The streets were cracked and uneven, slick with runoff from the levels above. Puddles of oil shimmered under the sickly glow of flickering neon signs, their messages half-erased by time and grime. Some signs were broken, their fractured light casting grotesque shadows, while others advertised the last remnants of humanity for sale: memories, spare parts, fleeting moments of oblivion. A sign blinked erratically above a grimy doorway: "Dream Weaver - Your Past, Rewritten!"
Shambling figures lined the alleyways, their faces sunken, their eyes hollow. They were the forgotten, the discarded, the failures of Machine City. Some glanced at Izari and Rona, their gazes vacant, disinterested. In this place, survival was a solitary pursuit. Empathy was a weakness.
A hunched figure, its back permanently bent at an unnatural angle, muttered something unintelligible as they passed, spitting a glob of phlegm into the grime at their feet. Izari tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the worn-out shiv hidden beneath his jacket. But the figure merely shuffled away, lost in its private hell.
"We shouldn't be here long," Izari muttered. "Who exactly is this Solomon guy we're headed to?" He kept his eyes scanning the crowds, searching for any sign of their pursuers.
"Solomon," Rona said. "Been patching people up down here for years. Keeps to himself, charges a hefty fee if you don't have the coin, but if it's something big, he helps anyway, but he's good. The best."
"Sounds like he's a part of your little club?" Izari retorted. Rona averted his gaze as he shook his head. He tightened his grip on Cassia's hand as he pushed through the crowd.
They moved quickly, pushing past the stagnant masses. Cassia groaned softly, her weight a leaden burden on Izari's conscience. he shot her a concerted look but immediately looked away as soon as her gaze met his. They ascended a set of stairs, the rusted metal groaning underfoot, threatening to collapse with every step. Finally, they reached a steel door, reinforced with layers of welded plates and scavenged metal. A flickering light buzzed above it, illuminating the words, scrawled in fading paint: 'Cybernetic Restoration and Medical Solutions-No Questions Asked.'
Izari exhaled, steeling himself. He knocked twice, a deliberate, rhythmic pattern, a signal known only to a select few.
Silence. The buzzing of the light seemed to amplify, filling the void with a nervous energy.
He looked at Rona, a question in his eyes. "Nothing."
Rona's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He pushed past Izari and banged on the door, his knuckles rapping against the cold metal. "Solomon! It's Rona!"
A pause. Then, the sound of shifting locks, grinding metal, and the faint whir of complex machinery. The door groaned open just enough for a set of eyes to peer through the crack, one glowing with a cold, calculating light.
" Rona, I thought you were dead." The voice was raspy, synthesized, betraying the age of the speaker and the extent of his cybernetic augmentation.
"Not yet," Rona rasped. "I need help."
The door opened wider, revealing Doctor Solomon, a towering figure more machine than man. One arm was a rusted cybernetic limb, the joints grinding with each motion. His face was a roadmap of scars, etched deep into his flesh. A metallic ocular implant whirred as it scanned Izari and Cassia, assessing their condition with clinical detachment.
"Shit," Solomon muttered, eyes lingering on Cassia, taking in her pallor and the bloodstain on her lip. "Bring her in. And be quick about it." He stepped back, revealing a dimly lit operating theatre filled with gleaming instruments and the acrid smell of antiseptic.
His eyes burned with pity, and an utter lack of surprise. In this place, tragedy was just another Tuesday. The gears began to whir, and he was ready to work.