Chapter 137: Staff Strike
Elias’s eyes shut, the pod’s green sheets rustling, his shard’s faint thump fading into the hum of recycled air. The clock’s red glow—23:00—blurred, the metal cube in his hand slipping, rolling across the laminate floor. Sleep swallowed him, heavy and unyielding, the arena’s shadow—94 users, seven gone—sinking into darkness.
Roachaline Vaslix jolted awake, her cot’s springs creaking in the dim sleeping quarters, the air thick with oil and stale sweat. Dawn’s gray light seeped through a cracked window, glinting off her scarred arms, Vardency’s dusty winds rattling the rusted shutters. Her pale gray eyes snapped open, sharp cheekbones catching the glow, dark tangled hair spilling over her shoulders. A comm buzzed on a scavenged crate, screen flashing: "93 shard users remain, arena active."
She exhaled sharply, shards pulsing—red sparking, violet humming—strapped to her patched fatigues. Her Ikona, a jagged insect with glinting claws, skittered from the cot’s edge, clicking on the concrete floor. "Another one bites it," she muttered, voice a low growl, snatching a cigarette from a crumpled pack. The match flared, smoke curling as she stood, boots scuffing, her attractiveness stark in her restless stride.
The quarters sprawled chaotic, mismatched cots crammed against graffiti-scrawled walls, Epics symbols slashed in red paint—"Power Rules" glaring bold. Fodder soldiers snored, rifles propped, red flags draped over crates, their zeal etched in the dirt-streaked fabric. Roachaline’s red shard sparked, fingers twitching over the knife at her hip, her power complex radiating as she grabbed a stale ration bar from a crate, its wrapper crackling.
She tore into it, the dry grain sticking to her tongue, muttering, "Elara’s got blood on her ice now." Her violet shard hummed, Ikona’s claws scraping, as she paced, cigarette glowing. A looted Federation rifle leaned against a cot, its barrel scratched, and she lifted it, checking the clip with a flick, her scars flexing under the dim light. The comm buzzed again, "Arena update: 93," the words stinging, Ravel’s charred face flashing in her mind.
Vexen slipped in, lean and sharp-eyed, her green shard pulsing at her neck, hawk Ikona perched on her shoulder, talons glinting. "Depot signal, twenty klicks east," she said, voice clipped, brushing her cropped hair. "Federation’s stocking rations, maybe shards." Her hawk screeched softly, amber eyes scanning invisible signals, wings twitching.
Roachaline’s knife glinted, twirling in her hand, cigarette smoke curling. "Patrols?" she snapped, setting the rifle down, her Ikona hissing, claws clicking. Vexen’s hawk flapped, circling the cramped space. "Ten, heavy gear," she said, boots scuffing. "Shard hum’s faint but there." Roachaline’s lips twitched, red shard sparking, her fierce beauty commanding as she kicked the door open, heading for the courtyard.
The courtyard’s rubble crunched under Roachaline’s boots, Vardency’s dusty winds sweeping through weeds, the air sharp with ash and rust. Ravel’s grave sat stark—a pile of concrete chunks, a rusted rebar marker stabbed into the earth, his charred body exposed, skin cracked black from shard loss, Elara’s kill one of seven. Wilted red roses, scavenged from a ruined garden, lay scattered on his chest, their petals curling in the dawn’s gray light.