Chapter 138: Finding the Path
Graffiti screamed "No Rules" across rusted walls, a torn Federation banner dangling, air thick with cigarette smoke and Ikona hum. Sylira hunched over a console, her wire-like Ikona coiling around her wrist, sparking as it patched into the system, her blue shard flickering.
Roachaline slammed her knife into a table, shards sparking, her insect Ikona skittering beside her. "Talk," she said, voice sharp, leaning forward, her attractiveness fierce, scars glinting. Sylira’s fingers danced, console beeping, map sharpening. "Depot’s got rations, ammo, three shard signatures," she said, voice low, wire Ikona twitching. "Patrols cycle hourly."
Torqa lumbered in, stone Ikona grinding, ochre shard pulsing. "We hit now," he growled, cracking his knuckles, sand dusting his boots. Vexen’s hawk screeched, landing, as she leaned against a crate. "Not yet," she said, eyes narrowing at Torqa. "Need the shard count locked." Her green shard glowed, hawk’s amber eyes scanning.
Roachaline’s red shard sparked, violet hummed, her knife twirling faster. "We bait," she said, voice biting, cigarette hissing out on the table. "Draw their shard users, strip ’em." Her Ikona’s claws snapped, power complex radiating, as Torqa’s stone Ikona rumbled. "Ravel’s ash now," he said, voice low, challenging. "You slowing?"
Her eyes burned, shards flaring, stepping close, knife glinting. "Test me," she snapped, her Ikona hissing, attractiveness stark in her fierce stance. Torqa’s Ikona shifted, but he backed off, muttering, his shard dimming. Sylira’s console beeped, wire Ikona sparking, breaking the standoff. "Got patrol routes," she said, screen flashing a grid, depot gates marked red.
Roachaline exhaled smoke, pacing, her shards pulsing. "Vexen, scout tonight," she said, voice sharp. "Sylira, sync the drones. Torqa, leash your temper." Her Ikona skittered, claws clicking, as fodder soldiers watched, their awe clear, red flags clutched tight. The monitors flickered, "93 shard users" glowing, Ravel’s loss a raw wound, the raid’s need pressing, Vardency’s dust settling on the tables.
The training pit’s sand crunched under Roachaline’s boots, bloodstains dark under flickering lights, rusted railings creaking in Vardency’s winds. Torqa sparred a fodder soldier, stone Ikona smashing the ground, sand flying, his ochre shard pulsing with each roar. Sylira crouched nearby, tweaking a shard-powered comm, her wire Ikona sparking, coiling tighter, blue shard glowing. Vexen patrolled the edge, hawk Ikona circling, amber eyes scanning signals through the ash-heavy air.
Roachaline lit a cigarette, smoke curling, her red shard sparking as she paced, knife flipping in her hand. "Seven," she muttered, voice low, Elara’s kill burning—Ravel’s charred body, one of seven, 93 left. A monitor crackled, Federation chatter spilling: "93 shard users, arena carving ’em up." Her knife spun faster, violet shard humming, scars glinting on her arms, her attractiveness fierce in her scowl.