The door slammed shut, the sound echoing a death knell in the close confines of the undercity street. A symphony of groaning metal and grinding gears filled the air as Solomon, a guardian carved from shadow and steel, secured the clinic. The flickering hallway light, a paltry beacon against the oppressive darkness, danced across the bronze alloy plates grafted onto his arm. Cybernetic fingers, a strange blend of the organic and the mechanical, pirouetted over the antiquated locking mechanism. Three heavy locks thudded home, their finality a stark reminder of the precarious existence they all led. Outside, broken signs illuminated, their fractured light casting grotesque shadows in the neon street. Inside, within the sanctuary of the clinic, shadows stretched like grasping claws, distorting the sterile, clinical intent of the space into something more menacing.
"Lorian! Patient incoming. Hurry the set-up!" Solomon's voice, rough and guttural, cut through the silence like a rusty blade. He didn't turn, his gaze fixed on the secured door, his presence a bulwark against the dangers lurking beyond.
From the back room, a muffled cacophony erupted – a crash, followed by a string of curses that hinted at youthful frustration and a distinct lack of coordination. Then, Lorian emerged, a whirlwind of nervous energy and vibrant, defiant color. He was nineteen, rail-thin, and his bright yellow hair exploded from his head like a warning flare, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. He skidded to a halt, his initial annoyance dissolving into a hesitant grin as his eyes landed on Rona, burdened with the limp form of Cassia.
His grin faltered slightly as he took in the severity of Cassia's condition.
Rona grunted in response, his muscles screaming under the weight of his burden. His shoulders were rigid with tension, a silent testament to the urgency of the situation. Cassia's pale face was ashen, her lips cracked and dry. Her eyes fluttered weakly, struggling to maintain consciousness, lost somewhere between awareness and oblivion. Solomon moved with surprising grace and speed, clearing the examination slab - a makeshift affair constructed from a repurposed hydraulic table and rusted metal braces. It looked more like a torture device than a medical bed. Next to it was an old sarcophagus which hummed softly.
"Put her down. Carefully," Solomon instructed, his voice low and unreadable, devoid of any comforting warmth. He didn't need to explicitly state the obvious, but his eyes, those deep-set pools of weary experience, spoke volumes: she might not survive the hour.
Rona, his usual gruff exterior momentarily softened, laid Cassia down with a tenderness that surprised even himself. Sweat beaded on his brow, a testament to the exertion and the gnawing fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Solomon immediately began his assessment, his metal fingers unfolding into an array of delicate surgical instruments, a terrifyingly efficient transformation. Lorian, his movements now a blur of practiced efficiency, rushed to adjust the harsh overhead lighting and sort through a jumbled tray of tools, his youthful exuberance replaced with a focused intensity. His hands moved quickly- he'd witnessed this dance between life and death countless times before.
"Back to the counter, Lorian," Solomon said without looking up, his attention solely focused on his patient. "I'll call you when I need a hand."
Lorian gave a quick nod, his usual flippancy momentarily subdued. He wiped his hands on his stained apron, a garment that had seen countless emergencies, and jogged to the front of the clinic. The reception area was a pitiful testament to their limited resources - a cracked glass desk, the victim of countless impacts, and an ancient chair with half its stuffing spilling out like entrails. Yet, despite its dilapidated state, it possessed a strange, melancholic charm – the kind born from necessity, from making do with the scraps they were given.
Izari was seated there, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze lost in the swirling dust motes dancing in the dim light. He looked like a statue carved from granite, unyielding and stoic. His head snapped around when Lorian approached, startled by the unexpected presence.
"Hey," Lorian said, stopping abruptly in his tracks. "Hey," Izari replied. Lorian's eyes widened as he registered the gaping bullet hole in Izari's jacket. The fabric was torn across the chest, revealing a faint bruise beneath the skin. "You sure you don't need to get that checked?" he asked, his tone a mixture of concern and poorly masked amusement.
Izari said nothing at first, his silence heavy and oppressive. He just stared at Lorian with a sort of puzzled look on his face before finally replying, "I'm okay, there's nothing to worry about."
Lorian raised a questioning brow. He approached a surprised Izari to take a closer look at the injury. He suddenly stopped, making Izari sit up. "You stink." He told Izari as his face wrinkled in disgust, much to Izari's profound surprise.
"I... I do?" Izari replied, finally realizing that he had waded through the sewers earlier. "Yuh," Lorian said with a crooked grin, attempting to salvage the interaction. " Now, do you mind getting off the chair? I just c
leaned it up."
Izari remained seated. "Well, it's too late, it's dirty now."His gaze then travelled, slow and deliberate, over Lorian's attire. A playful smirk danced on his lips. Judging by his slender figure, there was a possibility that they could fit him. "Name's Izari, and you are?" he smiled coyly at Lorian. The abrupt change in tone unsettled Lorian, though he masked his reaction without a flicker.
"Lorian."
"Lorian, nice name…mind if I borrow some of your clothes?"
Lorian raised an eyebrow. That wasn't what he was expecting Izari to ask him. "Sure." He slowly nodded as a look of relief spread over Izari's face. He turned and started heading towards a door near the back room. Izari quickly followed suit. The room was small but meticulously organized, everything in its place. A modest cabinet stood against one wall, and on the opposite wall was a holographic glass display fixed to the wall. The bed was neatly made with a narrow shoe rack at the foot. A low table sat next to the bed, on it was a remote and a glass of water. Lorian walked up to the cabinet and opened it, looking for the right clothes to give to Izari. "Make yourself at home." He told Izari, who was now entering the room. Izari grabbed the glass, sniffed it, then looked up. "What's in this?"
Lorian turned to look at him, his face quickly drooping after noticing the glass. "It's water." He returned to continue digging through the cabinet. Satisfied, Izari took a sip, paused to assess the taste, then downed the rest in one go. He slammed the glass on the table, making Lorian flinch at the sharp sound.. He paused momentarily, slightly turning to look at Izari out of the side of his eye.
Finally, Lorian's hand landed on a large orange shirt, far too big for him, but probably a decent fit for Izari.
"Here."
He tossed it without ceremony. Izari snatched it midair, murmuring a barely audible, "Thanks."
Lorian dug deeper and found a pair of baggy brown pants. Just as he turned to throw them over, he froze.
"Wait!" His voice snapped like a command.
Izari, halfway through tugging his shirt off, stopped. The fabric bunched over his head, blinding him. "What? What is it?" he asked, flailing in confusion.
Lorian rushed over and yanked the shirt free. Izari blinked at him, startled.
"What's wrong?"
"How did you get that?" Lorian pointed at the web of black veins at his side. Izari raised an eyebrow in concern. He had forgotten about the injury. "I was attacked." He replied. "By what?" Lorian slowly moved his hand towards the darkened patch of skin. Izari caught hold of his hand. "You wouldn't believe me."
Lorian moved back and sat on his bed, his eyes fixed on Izari's face. "Try me."
Izari heaved, averting his gaze as he looked at the hologram glass. "It was some...mutant," he muttered as the events of the unfortunate night started to unfold again. "Mutant?" Lorian raised his eyebrows, "Was it human or.."
"No! I..I don't know." Izari retorted as he looked at the black veins; they didn't hurt, but being aware of them made that part feel weird, almost itchy.
" It didn't look human." He calmed down as he faced Lorian, whose gaze was fixated on the veins. "I almost died." Izari looked down as he began walking towards the bed. He sat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the ground. He didn't look up."When were you attacked?" Lorian squinted at him.
"This morning," Izari replied, rubbing his temples. "I was too focused on Rona and the girl... I completely forgot." His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted to Lorian.
Izari hesitated, then asked, "Are there mutants in the Forgotten Sector?"
Lorian nodded grimly. "Yeah. There've been several attacks around here."
He paused before adding, "They come from the Deep Warrens. Autopsies showed some had human organs... others had things I've never seen before."
Then he pointed at Izari. "You're lucky. You know that, right?"
Izari sat up, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
"A normal human would die from just a scratch or a bite within hours," Lorian said calmly. "But since you're a nean, your healing might've bought you time."
Izari blinked, startled. "Bought me time?" he echoed, eyes wide.
Lorian's expression didn't waver. "All that rapid healing did was slow the corruption. The venom spreads from the entry point, crawling through your organs, shutting them down one by one."
Izari's breath caught in his throat.
"Your enhanced immunity is the only thing keeping you alive right now," Lorian said, almost conversationally.
The words hit Izari like a physical blow. His vision swam, the urgency of survival overriding the sickness for a fleeting second. Seventy thousand crisse... freedom... all slipping away. He lurched, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt like lead.
A firm hand pressed him back against the pillow. "Alright, that being said... there's a way to get rid of it."
Izari's ears rang. He could barely focus. "Why the hell didn't you start with that?" he gasped, tilting his head to find Lorian's face.
Lorian smiled, as he scratched the back of his head. "Well there as fifty fifty chance of it either being successful or the infection actually getting worse so uhh still wanna go through with it?"
"What are we waiting for?" Izari choked out, eyes widening.
"I do enjoy a good challenge," Lorian admitted, a glint in his eyes. "And with your life on the line, I suppose I have something valuable at stake."
Izari tried again to rise, fueled by adrenaline, but was too weak. Lorian turned away, heading to a cabinet he unlocked quickly. The metallic clink of latches echoed as Lorian hauled a large case onto the bed beside him.
"Let's begin," Lorian said, too brightly, snapping open the case. The interior revealed a terrifying array of surgical instruments and vials. "First things first." He held up a gas mask. "Remind me, what was your name again?"
"I... Izari," he managed, each syllable a struggle.
Lorian ignored the effort. "So, Izari. Awake? Or unconscious?" He asked it like offering a choice of flavors.
"Awake," Izari spat, glaring.
"As you wish." Lorian connected a small vial to the mask. A sickly sweet scent filled the air as he offered it to Izari. "This will numb you. You'll still feel something, but you won't be able to move much." As Izari inhaled, Lorian rummaged in the case, pulling out sterile swabs and a sleek device with a humming power cord. He plugged it in. A faint blue light pulsed from the tip. It was a laser scalpel.
"So, this enhanced healing... how fast is 'fast enough'?" He switched on the laser scalpel. A thin line of light ignited.
"Fast enough," Izari mumbled, his tongue already feeling thick and unresponsive.
Lorian's smile widened. "We'll just have to test that, won't we?"
He stood over Izari, a gleam of manic excitement in his eyes. "You're the second nean I've seen with this kind of infection. Solomon usually handles cases like this... but I've learned a thing or two."
He leaned in, their faces inches apart. "Wish me luck."
Izari shivered. In Lorian's brown eyes, he saw it, raw, unwavering determination. His limbs were nearly numb, his tongue heavy like lead. With effort, he forced a weak nod.
Lorian exhaled, practically gleeful. He uncorked a bottle, soaked cotton swabs in the liquid, and began dabbing it along the wound. A sharp, medicinal mist filled the room as he sprayed disinfectant around them.
Then, without hesitation, he picked up the blade and began to cut.
Izari's heartbeat quickened with every incision. He felt the faint, alien sensation of Lorian probing deep inside him, veins tugged gently by cold, precise tweezers. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, eyes wide as he watched the procedure unfold with growing dread.
Suddenly, Lorian paused.
His expression shifted-just slightly-from excitement to concern. Without a word, he reached for another bottle, attached it to the gas mask, and slid it over Izari's face.
Izari tried to pull away, but his body betrayed him. Weak. Fading.
The last thing he saw was Lorian's focused gaze as the world slipped into black.
Rona was a broken statue slumped in a half-collapsed chair, the synthetic leather cracking beneath his weight. His elbows rested heavily on his knees, hands clasped loosely, fingers interlaced as if trying to contain a storm. His head hung forward, casting his face in shadow, obscuring the pain etched there. Anxiety rode his shoulders like iron weights, each worry a separate, crushing burden. He looked a decade older than he was, the fire in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a dull, haunted ember.
Solomon moved with practiced efficiency, his movements economical and precise as he tended to the girl. Her body was a canvas of violence, a tapestry woven with pain. These weren't the common street scrapes or the brutal hallmarks of blunt trauma. These were deep, deliberate lacerations, etched with a disturbing artistry. They looked carved, almost reverently, by a hand that knew exactly what it was doing. Some cuts arced in spirals, mimicking ancient symbols. Others zigzagged with the sharp, unsettling geometry of sigils. Puncture wounds marred her arms and back in symmetrical patterns. Too symmetrical. Too purposeful. They whispered of ritual and dark intent.
"These cuts..." Solomon murmured, his voice a low rumble against the clinic's background hum. He adjusted the nutrient IV with a delicate touch, his brow furrowed as he checked the flickering readouts. He paused, then shot a sharp, questioning glance toward Rona. "Some of these almost went clean through to the bone. Tissue damage so precise you'd think they were vivisecting her for study, not slaughter. Any other kid would be dead ten times over." His eyes reflected a grim understanding. He had seen a lot over the years, but this… this was different.
Rona didn't look up. He just whispered, his voice hoarse and rough from disuse, the sound barely audible above the machines. "I know." The words were leaden, heavy with a knowledge he wished he didn't possess.
Solomon studied him for a beat longer, his gaze unwavering, a silent demand for the truth. Then, with a sigh that spoke of resignation and a weariness that ran deep, he reached into a side drawer. With a quiet hiss of a pneumatic latch, he pulled out two weathered cans of the local beer – the kind you find in every corner store and black market stall, its questionable ingredients its charm. He cracked both open with a sharp hiss, the smell of stale hops and metallic tang briefly cutting through the sterile air. He handed one to Rona.
"Thanks," Rona said, his voice still rough, not quite meeting Solomon's gaze. Shame and grief warred in his eyes, a silent battle for dominance.
Solomon tugged down his surgical mask, revealing a face lined with the city's harsh realities. He took a long swig of the beer, letting the alcohol dull the sharp edge of his thoughts. The familiar, bitter taste provided a small comfort, a temporary respite from the horror he was trying to process. Then he leaned against the wall beside the girl and the slab, regarding her pale, slack face. Her youth was starkly apparent in her unconscious state, a fragile beauty obscured by the brutality she had endured.
"Mind telling me what happened?" The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications. Solomon knew Rona wouldn't volunteer the information easily. He would have to pull it out of him, piece by piece, like extracting a shard of glass from a wound.
Rona was quiet for a long while, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the hum of the machines and the soft hiss of his breathing. Then, with a sigh that sounded like the slow release of pressure in his chest, like the slow deflation of his soul, he began.
"I told myself I wouldn't talk about it. Not yet. Not while the smell of Karis's blood still lingers on my hands. But silence... silence doesn't help. It never has. Silence is what they want, quiet compliance. Complicity."
He laughed bitterly, a harsh, grating sound that echoed the pain in his heart. He shook his head slowly, the movement conveying a deep and abiding disillusionment.
"We thought we were chasing ghosts. Grid fluctuations, lost freights, disappearing workers... Just glitches in the city's nerves. The usual theft. Maybe turf war clean-ups. Nothing new." He paused, the memory tasting like ash in his mouth.
"But it was worse. So much worse. It was organized. Patterns in the shadows. A rhythm of depravity. The kind you don't hear unless you're looking at it sideways. Unless you are looking for it."
He rubbed his temples, his fingers digging into his skin as if trying to force the images from his mind. His voice was low and strained, a whisper barely audible above the clinic's persistent hum.
"Karis called it first. Said something was shifting beneath the floor. We didn't listen. We thought it was paranoia... until we started noticing the city grid was rewriting itself. Files missing. Corridors and rooms that didn't exist last cycle. Workers pulled off-shift, replaced with silence." He remembered Karis, her unwavering conviction, her sharp intuition that had often saved their lives.
His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly around the beer can, the metal cold against his skin.
"Then came the disappearances. Neans by the dozens. Civilians. Even children. All gone. No trace. The Enforcers claimed ignorance, but their boots were thick in the back alleys. Too thick for denial. Too much for them not to have at least been paid to look the other way."
He took another sip of the beer, his eyes far away, lost in his memories.
"We dug deeper, and deeper still. That's how we found the threads that led to sector 4, South District. Past the old waste processing plant, and below the abandoned marketplace built after the second corporate war."
He leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper, laced with a chilling dread.
"You know what's worse than facing a cult of fanatics? Facing them without knowing what they're trying to become."
Solomon glanced sideways, his expression unreadable, his silence a tacit invitation for Rona to continue. He had dealt with fanatics before. He knew their terrifying, unwavering devotion.
"We heard the rumors. 'Final evolution.' Some transcendence trash - psionic gospel. But we never figured it out. Not until they found her- the girl. She was a Psionic nean. Daughter of Sebastian Veidt, one of the District's crime lords. Fifteen, maybe. She didn't choose this. She was born with it. Was marked."
His voice was heavy with a regret that went beyond mere sorrow.
"They'd been grooming her-pulling her in slowly. Feeding her to whatever was down there in their basement. She was the last key. The trigger."
He took a ragged breath that shook his entire frame.
"So we stormed the altar." The words were spoken with a grim finality.
Solomon leaned closer now, not quite crowding Rona's face, but drawn in, captivated by the unfolding horror.
"It wasn't a temple. It was... a birthing engine. A chamber shaped like a spinal column, pulsing with oil and chant. The floor was gridded with veins of some kind of black fluid, moving like worms under the concrete. The altar-a monolith. Tubes fed from the walls into it. There were faces on it, and they were screaming." A shudder ran through him.
"The Choir was there. Not singing-breathing. The collective breathing of the depraved."
Rona closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain.
"They perched above us like owls; twisted, depraved, and hungry. Watching. Whispering words that weren't words. Just... concepts jammed into your brain like blades. Cutting away at your senses."
"The moment we entered, they knew. Every one of us. The Choir started to hum, the room vibrated with their will, and our guns jammed. Nira was the first to fall. No wounds. Just collapsed. Her skull caved inward, like her soul imploded." He opened his eyes, haunted by the memory.
He shook his head in disbelief.
"We fought anyway. Bullets, flame, nails-everything. Karis tore through a cultist with a blade, the air filled with the smell of burnt flesh and ozone. Merek tried to unplug the girl from the altar – he burned alive the moment he touched the cable, the flesh on his bones boiled instantly, and he died screaming. One by one, they died screaming. Or worse-silently." He swallowed hard, battling the rising tide of nausea.
His voice cracked, betraying the depth of his grief.
"Karis grabbed the girl. I covered her flank. We didn't run, we fled. Like rats through arteries. The whole place pulsed behind us. It followed us, Rhae. It sang to her. To the girl."
His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"She wasn't even conscious. Just... broken. They'd hollowed her out. We reached the outer ducts when the Choir caught up. And they started reciting our pasts, our regrets, twisting them like knives. Making us relive our personal hells. Each one specifically tailored to each one of us."
"I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. It was like drowning in a pool of my deepest shame."
"Then Karis... she looked at me. Blood all down her side, and she was smiling. I knew what she was about to do. The pain. The defiance. It was the right thing to do. But still, seeing it was hard."
He closed his eyes tightly, attempting to block out the memory.
"She kissed the girl's forehead. Handed her to me. Smiled through the pain and said…" He paused, his voice breaking. "Run. Let her live. That's all that matters now."
"And then she turned. Activated her core charge. Ran toward them with her blade screaming. I didn't look back. I can still hear the explosion, though."
A long silence passed, heavy with sorrow and unspoken grief.
Rona set the empty beer can down on the floor with a hollow thud. He stood and approached the examination slab, watching the girl, his gaze both protective and wary, as soft lights blinked above her.
She stirred, her breathing shallow and irregular.
A whisper escaped her lips.
Solomon's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixated on the girl. A new tension entered his posture, a subtle shift that spoke of heightened awareness.
"That altar left something inside her." The words were a statement of fact, devoid of emotion, but carrying a weight of implication.
Rona didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his face grim but resolute.
Solomon stepped beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, the gesture a silent offer of support.
"I warned you about this kind of life, Rona. Told you that you could lose everything. And now look at you." He meant it as a gentle rebuke, a reminder of the sacrifices they both had made.
Rona gave a tired, sad smile, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise bleak expression.
"Well, not everything." He looked at the girl, his expression softening, revealing a glimmer of hope amid the despair.
Solomon rolled his eyes. "Okay, don't make this weird." A dry attempt to lighten the mood, a defense mechanism against the overwhelming darkness.
He gestured toward the door.
"Come on. Let her rest. Let her heal. I'll place her in the sarcophagus, then we'll figure out what the hell comes next."
Rona stepped out of the clinic. The air felt colder now, heavier. Behind her, the door hissed shut, cutting off the sterile light and the fragile hope within.
Inside, Solomon moved with quiet precision, sealing Cassia inside the med-sarcophagus. The hum of the machine deepened as he connected more tubes, feeding her a cocktail of drugs and nutrients. When he finished, he lingered for a moment, gazing at her peaceful face. A flicker of sympathy passed over his face.
He switched off the overhead light, cast one last glance to ensure everything was in order, and closed the door.
In the silence, alone in the blue glow of the chamber, Cassia opened her eyes.