Chapter 145: Red Runner
Vexen muttered, "She’s raw, but real," rifle cocking. Nexis laughed, flame Ikona blazing, "Show fire!" tossing a drone, ash swirling. Zykra nodded, silent. Roachaline’s Coercive Pulse pressed, "Prove it at the core’s heart," her knife glinting, trick hidden, believers chanting, "Blood binds!" Vardency’s crimson dust settling, tension a blade, the reactor’s glow roaring.
The core plaza of the Federation command post lay in wreckage, shattered bunkers slumped around cooling reactor conduits. Vardency’s dusk bled red across the ruins.
Roachaline Vaslix sat on a looted crate, a gash along her ribs aching with every breath. Blood crusted her fatigues, the smell of oil and scorched metal thick in the air. She lit a cigarette, the ember’s glow flickering in her pale gray eyes, and exhaled slow.
Across the plaza, the believers’ chants drifted from the skiffs — "Shards rule!" — the red flags whipping in the smoky sky. Her insect Ikona rested against the crate, claws folded, its red shard dim, violet shard thrumming low against the weight in her chest. Ravel Cyn’s absence pressed heavier than the wound.
The crate creaked as she shifted. Pain bit deeper, hollowing out the fading high still lingering in her blood. Beyond the broken walls, the plains stretched blood-soaked and empty, dotted with the shells of outposts burned during the alien attack years ago.
Roachaline muttered under her breath, voice rough. "Ravel’d carve this."
Ash tumbled from her cigarette as her scarred fingers trembled.
Around her, the believers moved in steady rhythm, hauling crates and stripped tech from the rubble. Roachaline’s gaze caught on Lyra — the rogue — crouched near a skiff, cleaning her blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Her wind Ikona stood still at her side, cyan shard pulsing soft against the gloom.
Sylira crouched near a sparking console, wire Ikona weaving through burnt circuits, blue shard flaring against the gloom. Blood crusted her thigh where a gash split the fabric, the sting sharp with each shift. She tossed a broken drone aside with a grunt, sparks hissing as it clattered across the ground.
"This junk’s older than my mentor’s ghost," she quipped, the grin on her lips sharper than it felt. Fear flickered underneath — fear of failing the woman who’d taught her shardwork, now long lost to the alien fires.
Sylira leaned back on her heels, glancing sideways at Lyra, her grin softening.