The night in Skälvik did not concern itself with comfort. Beds creaked, shutters rattled in the wind, and the inn seemed to breathe in its sleep, expanding and settling like an old creature dreaming of better days. Torun and the dog, however, slept as if both had been dropped from a great height and landed on soft moss—he curled on his side, he draped across his legs in the serene confidence of a creature who had never once considered being unwelcome.

Hugo and Anders had lingered over the local spirits long after sensible hours had ended. By the time the candles guttered low, Hugo found himself comfortably warm and philosophising about the precise moral value of a well‑made hymn tune, while Anders offered contributions that grew less coherent with each refill. By morning, Hugo was clear‑eyed; Anders was upright only through stubbornness and the lingering pride of a man who refused to lose an argument with his own hangover.

Before dawn, the sounds of industry seeped through the thin walls: boots thudding onto floorboards, groans about the cold, the first clatter of pans below. The workers stirred with the rhythm of habit, rising because rising was what life required of them.

Hugo washed briskly at the basin and let a splash of holy water shock the last weight of sleep from his face. Anders, still cocooned in misery, watched the process with the dull resignation of someone witnessing another man’s questionable life choices.

Downstairs, the common room glowed with stove heat, carrying a faint briny smell—salt, woodsmoke, and morning damp all braided together. The workers were already eating, faces lined with fatigue and resignation, their breakfasts disappearing at a speed that suggested the food was better than their expressions implied. The innkeeper moved with quiet efficiency behind the counter, while a woman—apron neatly tied, hair bound back—wove between tables with practiced certainty.

The party settled at a table near the wall, coffee and tea arriving soon after. The first mouthful of coffee elicited a near‑silent recognition from the entire group: whatever its flavour, it had the force of a medical intervention.

Plates followed—eggs, crisp bacon, potatoes fried to the edge of burnt, cured meats whose origins were best left unexamined. It was food for work and cold mornings, not conversation.

Over the scrape of cutlery, as the warmth of breakfast settled into them, the group began to piece their morning’s intentions together. Frederick, sharpening purpose along with his appetite, leaned toward matters of the dead: the drowned butler, the crypt, the possibility of examining the body before burial. Hugo, more measured, weighed whether it was wiser to begin with the living instead—the farmhand, the priest, the village itself. Vilhelm, as ever, listened to the room before declaring any preference, noting the advantage of letting the locals’ conversations drift naturally toward useful truth.

It didn’t take long. A worker, nudged by Vilhelm’s mild enquiry, mentioned the manor across the river and the Count’s impatience with its progress. Another spoke of the fog that came in heavy at night, thick enough to make the river crossing perilous. The ferry, they said, was the only safe route; the bridge would come later.

The missing girl came up next—Eva Stark of Stegeborg—gone a week now, with no body recovered. The hard, bright edge of hope still clung to the village talk for that reason alone. The drowned butler was treated with less mystery: found in the river, declared an accident, with burial set for tomorrow. The body, the serving woman confirmed, rested in the church crypt.

The outline of a plan took shape between spoonfuls of potatoes and the slow disappearance of bacon. The vicar first—condolences, questions, perhaps permission to see the crypt. Then the riverbank where the butler was found. Later, Stegeborg, to speak with the missing girl’s father.

It was only when the serving woman lingered a moment longer than necessary at their table that the conversation shifted. There was curiosity in her eyes—the quiet, measuring kind. They were strangers who asked too many questions, who watched too closely, who had the look of people accustomed to walking directly toward trouble.

When Frederick, with typical flourish, introduced them as members of the Society, the woman’s expression changed at once. Shock first, then something like relief breaking through fear. She named herself Erika and, in a voice meant only for them, admitted she had been the one to send the letter to Linnea.

Her explanation came slowly, each detail carrying a quiet dread that made the table still. Years ago, she said, she had wandered along the creek and walked farther than she realised—farther than was natural. She had found herself in a clearing she had never seen before, surrounded by trees that felt older than anything growing in the valley. There, she met something that called itself the Fairy Queen: small, woman‑shaped, hair like black silk trailing behind it, fingers too long, ears too sharp, movement too light to belong to anything bound to earth. It had made her dance, compelled her legs to move until reason blurred and time twisted. She escaped only when another woman—Annika—intervened, bargaining for Erika’s release. The next moment, Erika had stood by the creek again, as though nothing had happened at all.

Now, she said, the workers dug across the river, close to where that clearing had been. Stones were being taken from the old castle ruin on the island. Fog rolled heavier than it used to. She urged them to speak with Hans the boatsman if they meant to cross.

Her story left a quiet behind it. The kind of quiet in which facts and fears rearrange themselves into something more urgent.

When Erika returned to her duties, the group finished their meal in silence, each privately adjusting the day’s intentions. The vicarage was the next logical step. After that, the church. And eventually, Stegeborg.

Outside, a thin veil of mist softened the road in front of the inn, turning the village into a landscape of smudged outlines and damp air. Workers tramped toward the river with their collars up, disappearing one by one into the greying light.

The Society—if they could yet call themselves that without irony—rose from the table and followed the path toward the vicarage at the edge of Skälvik, the dog trotting at Torun’s side, the cold sharpening the edges of the day ahead.

The road to the vicarage slipped quietly away from the centre of Skälvik like a thread tugged loose from a fraying sleeve. Houses thinned, the air cooled, and the neat yellow rectangle of the building came into view—three storeys high, recently painted, and far too proud for the modest parish it claimed to serve.

A carriage stood outside, glossy black, its wheels still faintly damp as though it had only just arrived. Its presence unsettled the group long before the front door did. There was nothing inherently ominous about a well-kept carriage, yet in a village this size it felt like a stranger intruding on a small room.

They paused beneath the short overhang of the porch. The dog sat neatly at Torun’s heel. The group held a brief, murmured conference—Hugo to speak first, Frederick to request what he needed with tact, the others to present themselves as travelling companions rather than an encroaching committee.

Hugo knocked.

A maid answered, her expression politely blank in the way of someone under strict instruction not to volunteer information. She nodded at Hugo’s request for the vicar and slipped inside. The door shut firmly but not rudely.

Silence settled. A window above creaked faintly; footsteps crossed a floorboard. Before anyone could comment, the door opened again—not for them, but to let a man pass out.

He was dressed well, but not like a noble—more akin to a senior servant with enough authority to forget to acknowledge anyone else. He slipped by the group without a word and disappeared toward the outbuildings with the air of someone who had better places to be.

Only when he was gone did the vicar appear.

Vicar Brännström looked as though sleep had taken to avoiding him deliberately. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, his posture held the stiffness of a man bracing for a conversation he did not wish to have. His gaze fell on Hugo first, recognising clergy by bearing if not by collar.

There was a brief exchange—respectful at first, though the vicar’s stiffness made his reluctance clear long before his words did. Hugo offered condolences; the vicar acknowledged them without warmth. Frederick stepped forward, introducing himself with calm purpose, speaking of medical aid should any be needed in preparing the butler for burial. The vicar deflected each attempt gently but firmly, insisting preparations were nearly complete, that the constable had examined the body, and that no further disturbance was necessary.

The door remained mostly closed throughout, as though the building itself wished to keep its occupants hidden.

The more Hugo tried to ease the conversation toward questions, the more the vicar’s composure tightened. Mentions of accidental drowning were met with minimal elaboration. Suggestions of permission to view the crypt were waved aside. Even the simplest enquiries—where the body had been found, who had discovered it—seemed to strain his patience.

Eventually, with a polite but unmistakable dismissal, the vicar withdrew. The door shut fully this time, the latch settling with a soft, determined click.

For a moment the group simply stood on the step, the cold air flattening the last of their hopes for cooperation. A shadow passed across an upstairs window again—brisk movement, then stillness. Someone was pacing.

The vicarage itself seemed too grand for its purpose—more estate house than parish home, its polish almost daring the viewer to question it. Fresh paint, well-kept grounds, and that black carriage—each detail pushed against the image of a grieving priest simply going about unpleasant duties.

Frederick exhaled slowly. If the door would not open for diplomacy, then the church—modest, older, less guarded—would have to be their next stop.

The dog gave a soft, uncertain huff, as if in agreement.

With no welcome left to wait for, they stepped away from its polished walls and began the short walk toward the church, where answers—or at least fewer locked doors—might wait.

Vilhelm peeled away from the others with the kind of quiet certainty that suggested this was not the first time he had chosen to follow his own line of inquiry. While the rest of the group made for the church, he lingered near the fork in the road and took the track leading back into the village. A man could learn much from a settlement if he listened to it at its edges.

Skälvik at midmorning had the same muted character as at sunrise—grey light, thin mist, the faint briny tang of the river drifting between houses. People moved with early efficiency: a woman sweeping her step, a man securing a tarp over stacked firewood, two children carrying a bucket between them with grave purpose. Life here did not pause for mystery.

Vilhelm slipped into the general store, heralded only by the small iron bell above the door giving a tired jangle. The interior smelled of dry goods and dust, with shelves packed too tightly for comfort—bolts of cloth, fishing hooks, tins whose labels had surrendered to time, and a curious assortment of trinkets that may once have been useful.

The shopkeeper looked up from his ledger, eyes narrowing with polite calculation. Strangers drew attention in places like this; solitary ones drew more.

Vilhelm asked after local history with the casual tone of a scholar who had made similar enquiries in dozens of villages. The phrase “old battlefield” surfaced naturally, as though merely checking a footnote. The shopkeeper, reassured by academic interest, began to talk.

Three or four centuries past, he said, the land beyond the village had been a contested ground between rival dukes. Plenty of blood spilled, plenty of dead buried, hardly any records written well enough for modern eyes. Burials and forgotten tombs lingered in the area, and stories claimed travellers sometimes lost hours wandering there—or forgot where they had been altogether. Villagers preferred to steer clear. Some histories lived too close to the surface.

The Count’s manor came up next. Most people, the shopkeeper said, approved of the construction: new work, new visitors, perhaps better fortunes ahead. Others were less pleased. Stones were being taken from the old Stegeborg ruin on the island, and some felt the land across the river should be left to itself. The shopkeeper did not say which opinion he held, but his shrug was a studied thing—too casual to be honest.

When Vilhelm inquired after Gustav Rask, the farmhand mentioned by the workers, the man had no precise direction to offer. “Try the farms,” he said, which in rural terms meant anywhere within a half-day’s walk.

Satisfied he had pressed as far as courtesy allowed, Vilhelm departed. Outside, the faint bustle of the village resumed around him. The mist hung low, turning the road toward Skälvik’s tavern and the church into a pale ribbon.

He made his way back toward the inn with the intention of rejoining the others after a brief pause, but found himself instead lingering on the square for a moment longer—taking in the shape of the place, the way its edges seemed frayed by time and fog alike.

There was history here. Not the clean, archived kind, but the sort people carried in their posture and in the warnings they never quite said aloud.

After a thoughtful breath, Vilhelm turned to follow the road toward elevenses and, eventually, back to the group—bringing with him a handful of leads and the persistent sense that the past in Skälvik was not nearly as buried as its residents preferred to believe.

The church stood only a short walk from the vicarage, though it could not have felt more different. Where the vicarage flaunted its fresh paint and orderly trim, the church seemed resigned to erosion. Its timbers sagged slightly, the stone threshold was worn hollow in the centre, and the front door bore an old scar where a hinge had once torn loose and been hammered back in place. In another village it might have been a relic worth restoring. Here, it was simply functional.

The group approached with the steady caution of people who expected resistance and were faintly surprised when none came. The door yielded under Hugo’s hand without complaint. Inside, the air was still and faintly stale—old incense, dust, and the lingering smell of damp wood that clung like a memory.

The nave was empty. Pews sat in uneven rows, some bowed with age, others marked with scratches where generations of boots had idly carved lines during sermons. Light filtered weakly through crooked windows, leaving the interior in a mottled patchwork of greys.

Axel, tied just outside, gave a curious whine. Torun murmured something reassuring and stepped over the threshold with the others.

It was clear the church had not seen a proper service in some time. The lectern leaned a little to one side. Hymnals curled at the edges from damp. A thin film of dust softened the floorboards underfoot, disturbed only by a few recent tracks—likely the vicar, moving between his duties and the crypt.

They found the interior doors near the pulpit without trouble. Heavy, wooden, reinforced with iron fittings that suggested a time when security had been more than ceremonial. One door led to what appeared to be an office or a storage room; the other, if tradition held, would descend toward the crypt.

Hugo lingered near the office, pretending interest in the clutter of records while keeping his distance from anything that might be construed as tampering. A glass-fronted display cabinet stood against the wall, filled with small curiosities—old coins, fragments of pottery, rusted nails excavated from nearby ruins. One item stood out: a dagger far too pristine for its supposed age, with a placard declaring it had been found in the bay. Hugo’s eyebrow lifted fractionally. Either Skälvik’s waters preserved metal like a miracle, or someone had grown overfond of embellishment.

Meanwhile, the others focused on the second door. It was locked, but not stubbornly so. Aleksander crouched with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had made a lifelong study of hinges and tumblers. The quiet click of success came quickly.

Behind the door, a narrow spiral staircase coiled downward. The stone steps were chilled with the kind of cold that belonged more to the ground than the air. A faint, earthen smell drifted upward—soil, stone, and something else beneath it, something that old buildings learned to keep.

Frederick went first, driven by the clinical certainty that the truth always waited at the bottom of things. Torun followed, then Anders, their footsteps muffled as the stair curved away from the light. Aleksander came last, pausing only long enough to cast a glance back at Hugo, who nodded once before returning his attention to the cabinet.

The staircase opened into a small, vaulted chamber. Candles, long extinguished, lined the walls in uneven holders. The air was colder here, dense with a stillness that clung to skin. In the centre of the room stood a stone slab draped with a burial sheet.

The shape beneath it was unmistakable.

Frederick stepped forward, the familiar ritual of his work guiding each movement. Tools laid out. Gloves pulled tight. The sheet lifted.

What lay beneath did not look peaceful.

The face was contorted—jaw strained wide in a silent, frozen scream, eyes bulging with a terror that had not eased in death. Skin blanched and waxen, marred only by the faint mottling of water exposure. The body bore the hallmarks of immersion, but not the injuries that drowning left behind. It was a man who had known fear, not water, as his final companion.

The reaction was immediate. Torun’s breath caught sharply; Anders stiffened, as though bracing against some unseen force; even Aleksander went still, fingers resting lightly against the crystal sphere he kept for focus. A chill brushed up each spine—a primal, involuntary recoil that settled in the gut and stayed there.

Frederick lowered the sheet for a moment, steadying himself before continuing. The horror of a face etched by its last moments lingered even with the cloth drawn back over it.

He resumed his examination with careful precision, describing findings in a low voice meant only for those beside him: signs of water taken in after death, not before; the absence of external wounds; no bruising consistent with a struggle; an overall picture of a man who had died of terror long before the river claimed him.

Aleksander searched the perimeter of the crypt, his eye drawn to details others might overlook. Hanging from a hook near the stair was a water-stained jacket. He checked the pockets, fingers coming away with ink residue and soggy parchment. The note inside was barely legible, its message warped and blurred—but one line clung stubbornly to the paper: Get the goods below by midnight.

In the quiet above, Hugo turned from the cabinet, a prickle of instinct catching at the back of his neck. Through the warped glass of the church’s front windows, a figure approached along the path—dark coat, slow stride, silhouette unmistakably clerical.

The Vicar was coming.

Industrialisation pressed against tradition in the Mythic North. Rails bit into peat and granite; canal water learned the taste of coal dust. The deep woods still kept their own counsel, and the shadows were not as empty as they first appeared. It was Thursday, 13 October 1859. Europe still remembered the Napoleonic wars. Under King Charles XV, the united kingdoms of Sweden and Norway laid track and wire with a convert’s fervour. Villagers came to the cities in hope and met poverty, cholera, and early graves; the promises were modern, the endings very old.

At Uppsala, old and new shared streets. Lecture halls, factory stacks, the cathedral’s spires, and the grass‑covered mounds watched one another with polite distrust. Students argued in stairwells; stokers argued in yards. Between them the river kept moving, as rivers do. On the Fyris River stood a once‑grand house, grey with disuse, lately loud again with purposeful footsteps.

Linnea Elfeklint, a former member now confined to the asylum, had given them the house. She had come to them in dreams and, when they answered, charged them to stand between people and vaesen—creatures of the old world, powerful and easily angered when ignored. Thursday’s children see what others will not. The charge was plain enough; the practicalities would be learned room by room, ledger by ledger, complaint by complaint.

Thursday, 13 October 1859

Castle Gyllencreutz had hosted them for several days. Mr. Frisk, elderly and exact, kept the worst of the mould and disorder at bay; a fine dust still settled on everything like a polite reminder. He wound clocks, opened curtains the house would have preferred closed, and shepherded heat along the corridors with the steady tyranny of fresh kindling. The place was habitable in the way of houses that remember better times and try to be courteous about it: draughts apologised; floorboards announced themselves before they complained.

Hugo occupied the library with a bottle of sherry and the practised frown of a man appraising architecture for sins. He traced a hairline crack above the cornice with one finger and judged it historical rather than urgent. Marginalia in a sermon collection distracted him long enough to correct a date under his breath. A drop rang faintly in the chimney; he decided it was the weather, not a leak, and took that as a small mercy.

Vilhelm read nearby, pipe cooling in his hand, walking stick against the table. Natural history volumes had gathered at his elbow—bird skulls in plates, mosses in Latin that refused to translate themselves without supervision. He underlined sparingly, as though the books might object. When he paused, it was to listen to the room rather than the prose, measuring what the house remembered by how it breathed between the walls.

In the kitchen, Anders drank from a whisky bottle with a sailor’s efficiency, his uniform having lost the battle for neatness while the insignia refused to surrender. At the same table, Frederick cut and stitched steak with surgical precision—practice of a sort. Anders’s boots left a dark map from door to hearth and back; he wiped them once and decided the floor could win today. He checked his pistol out of habit and set it by, where it could be reached without saying so.

Frederick worked with the lazily perfect movements of routine. Needle through meat, neat knot, a tug to test the line. He rinsed his hands, dried them on a cloth that had seen better linens, and inventoried his bag by touch—forceps, scalpel, cotton, the particular bandage that fixed pride as well as flesh. A horseshoe leaned against the skirting like a silent assistant. He turned it over with his thumb as if inspecting a pulse, decided iron was iron, and kept it close.

Upstairs, Aleksander kept to the séance room, tattered books and guttering candles for company. He had coaxed a circle of clean floorboards out of the dust and a chalk line around that; whether superstition or housekeeping depended on one’s view of chalk. The air smelled of tallow and old paper. He read slowly, the way one listens for something that does not use words, and made notes in a hand that left room for doubt.

Outside, Torun sat in the garden and whittled with a large knife. His clothes were the kind earned by walking further than was sensible. Breath showed in the cold. Curls of pale rowan fell to the stones in commas and question marks; the thing being made remained undecided about its final noun. A robin tried the hedge, thought better of it, and left the opinion unrecorded.

By late morning the house had warmed to a civil compromise with the weather. The library windows clouded faintly and cleared again; the fire learned to behave. Dust motes argued in the slant of light and then agreed to settle.

A knock sounded at the front door—polite, experimental. Frisk opened, found no one, and closed again with a remark about local children and their timing. He stood a moment, listening for the quick patter of feet on the step, heard only leaves, and returned to his rounds.

A second knock followed, louder and definite—the difference between a suggestion and a statement. Frisk opened. A small figure slipped between his legs into the hall with practised certainty and the economy of someone who did not intend to be caught. The door stayed open long enough to let a chill breathe past the lintel.

They looked at the visitor: a vaesen, small and quick. A faint draught brought in the smell of damp leaves; the house seemed to listen. The creature doffed a cap with theatrical precision, kicked Frisk smartly in the shin as if paying postage, and produced a sealed letter from a battered bag. Its eyes moved like a habit. Vilhelm took the envelope with the care one gives a specimen slide; Frisk, entirely dignified apart from the injury, stepped back and rearranged his expression into neutrality. Hugo, unsteady, muttered an apology that belonged more to the past night than the present disturbance.

The courier bowed deeply from the waist, executed a small turn that had been practised elsewhere, and departed by the same route. The door admitted a last ribbon of cold and shut on it.

They gathered in the library without being told. Chairs shifted. The dust accepted new patterns. Anders leaned one shoulder to the jamb and watched the hall as if the house might try again. Frederick produced a clean cloth from nowhere and made a space on the table with two economical gestures. Torun came in from the garden, colder air following him like a quiet dog; he left a line of pale shavings on the threshold and did not apologise for them.

Vilhelm considered the seal—the wax smudged by an imprecise hand, a faint impression that could have been deliberate or merely affordable. He weighed the paper once, then set it down and slid a thumbnail under the lip. The wax gave a dry crack as he broke the seal.

Dear Linnea,

I know you have left this life behind, but I don’t know where else to turn. As you may know, our village has been beset by misfortune. If you haven’t read the papers or have missed it, the vicar’s butler recently died, and now a young girl has gone missing.
I believe our troubles stem from the new manor construction — they’ve dug up the creek! Surely this has angered her, and now she’s exacting her revenge on us! I’m scared and have no one else to confide in. My husband gets angry whenever I bring up the old tales. Please help us before more people go missing. I don’t want anyone else to experience what I did.

Erika Mofjäll
Skällvik Inn
11th of October 1859

Fairy Queen took her. We got her back.
 Society annals — April 1839

The library exhaled after the crack of the seal. Paper rasped under Vilhelm’s fingers; ink sat heavy where fear had pressed too hard. The hand was domestic and hurried, the kind that keeps house and hope at once. In the margin, a different script cut across the page at an angle—quick, confident, almost annoyed with the paper. Twenty years earlier, the note said. April 1839.

They read twice. The room adjusted its weight around the words. The phrase she’s exacting her revenge settled like grit between teeth; “she” might have meant river, creek, or something older wearing water as a dress. The dug channel was the hinge. People had moved a line; something had taken notice.

Aleksander, who liked patterns the way a hunter likes tracks, observed that events have a habit of repeating when given the same conditions. If a vaesen had been offered a path once, it would remember where it ran. He did not push it further; the letter had said enough.

Torun called it folly to disturb a vaesen and expect courtesy in return. He was not angry, only tired of preventable messes. Outside the windows a gust pressed a paler light into the glass and left again; dust shifted to new places and pretended not to listen.

Hugo had heard “graves” instead of “creek” and condemned sacrilege in general terms until Vilhelm corrected him, finger on the line. He blinked, conceded the point, and owned the error with dry economy. He replaced the stopper on the sherry as a token gesture to accuracy.

Frederick proposed a course that did not rely on anyone’s memory: the dead tell truths the living will not. If they were granted permission, he would examine the butler. He spoke without relish. Practicality did not preclude respect; it simply arrived earlier.

Anders, who counted next steps like a quartermaster, acknowledged the plan with a brief nod. He checked his service pistol out of habit; if words failed later, other measures would follow, but not before.

Vilhelm marked the date in his head and on the ledger: April 1839. The annals would have it, if anything did. The phrasing in the margin—We got her back—implied method and precedent. If there was a note on holy water, on paths, on what had been traded or broken, it would live in those pages. He closed the letter carefully, as though returning a nervous bird to its box, and set it beside the inkwell.

Frederick, who distrusted any plan that began and ended with reading, suggested Vilhelm might try leaving the library to find the answer. The corners of his mouth considered a smile and rejected it. Vilhelm replied, not unkindly, that study and observation were the same work performed at different distances; one learns to recognise a wound whether it is on paper or skin.

They drew the day’s first circle on the table between them: letter, margin, annals, body. Nothing more yet. Mr Frisk appeared long enough to clear an unnecessary glass and then vanished with the soft efficiency of an apology. A log settled in the grate and held.

Silence arranged itself into tasks. Anders checked the time without consulting a clock. Torun reclaimed the pale shaving he had shed at the threshold and pocketed it, a rowan curl treated like a charm or a habit. Aleksander ran a thumb under the edge of the scribble and judged the ink newer than the letter by a decade and a hand—Linnea’s, likely. He did not say it aloud; Hugo would see it himself soon enough.

The map on the far wall offered Uppsala as an ordered set of names; none of them helped with a creek near Stegeborg. That would come later. For now there were shelves: black‑spined, numbered, patient. April 1839 waited somewhere between damp leather and dust.

No one stood yet. They let the room finish listening. Then Vilhelm reached for the ledger and, because even solemn work has its ceremonies, squared the letter to the corner of the table before he moved toward the annals.

They agreed on the obvious beginning: the library. Dust held its breath on the top shelves and then settled again as they crossed the room.

Vilhelm found the black‑spined volume without hunting and opened to April 1839. The leather gave a small sigh; a thin cloud rose and folded back into the light. He read; the room accepted the facts in order:

Annals of the Society — April 1839

A child, Erika, disappeared while playing near a creek north of Stegeborg. A being styling itself the Fairy Queen was observed at the site. Member Annika followed the vaesen paths into the woods in pursuit. Minutes later, the child returned unharmed; Annika did not return. The notes indicate that holy water can destroy such paths, though it was not used in this instance.

They took in the shape of it and let the particulars find their places: a child gone; a title that did not quite belong; a return measured in minutes; a loss that had not been returned at all. Torun called it the usual mistake—to anger a vaesen and expect a tidy outcome. Vilhelm, turning the phrasing in his head, allowed that Annika might have traded herself for the child. No one contradicted him. A clock somewhere in the corridor made a single, unhelpful tick.

They read further entries for echoes—incidents near water, odd bargains, paths that appeared where no road should be. Nothing new on queens; nothing helpful on that creek. The margins were quiet where one hoped for impatience. Vilhelm underlined the single practical line—holy water can destroy such paths—and copied the page number to a scrap for his pocket.

Frederick, practical by instinct, listed what still worked as if reciting from a field manual: vaesen dislike iron; they yield to Christian symbols more often than not; thresholds matter; courtesy matters more. Hugo asked if he should bless water. They agreed without ceremony.

Frederick went through the manor like a careful thief and returned with what the house could spare—two horseshoes, a handful of bent nails, a short length of chain, and a few iron rings whose usefulness came from their lack of elegance. He cleaned the worst of the rust with a rag and a thumbnail, tested their weight, and pocketed one shoe for the horse. The other he set on the table as if placing a paperweight on future trouble.

Hugo rinsed an old sherry decanter, set it on a cleared space, and spoke the blessing low and plain. Bread, salt, light; nothing theatrical. The words were workmanlike and did the work. When he stoppered it, the room seemed to gain a clean edge. He marked the glass with a small chalk cross and put the chalk back in his sleeve where he could find it by habit.

They spoke of encounters. Torun reminded them that vaesen were natural spirits, not demons; they must be handled as one handles something wild—respect first, space always, never corner it with certainty. Anders checked his pistol, oiled the hinge with a miser’s drop, and, almost under his breath, promised that if talk failed he would send them back to the hells from which they came. Torun said only that he hoped words would prove cheaper than bullets and left it there. The contrast was old and workable.

Vilhelm searched for further mention of a Fairy Queen and found none. The annals agreed on a point of manners: vaesen do not keep titles or courts; names like that are disguises, or jokes, or both—costumes worn for human benefit. Queens belonged to ballads and newspapers; the thing at the creek likely had its own word for itself and no use for crowns.

Frederick tied iron to leather thongs with the tidy knots of habit and distributed them without ceremony: one for Anders’s pocket, one for Aleksander’s wrist, one left on the library table in case the house felt superstitious. He weighed the remaining nails in his palm, chose two, and pushed them into the lip of his satchel where they could be found by touch.

Hugo lifted the decanter—work finished—and felt the cool weight settle against his ribs as he slipped it into a padded sleeve. He did not bless the room; the room would decide later how it felt about them.

They had water and charms and a date in a ledger. The fire dropped, caught again. Vilhelm closed the volume with a palm pressed flat, slid the scrap with the page number into his waistcoat, and reached for the city map. Anders struck a match to test a lantern. The flame hesitated, thought better of going out, and held.

They weighed where to begin. The map lay open. The ledger’s date pointed like a compass, while the river lines said little about a creek near Stegeborg. Frederick observed that a twenty‑year‑old case is still present if any of the missing were never found. Vilhelm confirmed Annika’s entry in the personnel ledger—mid‑thirties, gifted with the Sight, last recorded in 1839—and allowed that, if time ran differently beyond the paths, survival was not impossible. He noted that halting the new manor’s works and restoring the creek would be the simplest apology to offer, a gesture the land might understand. Frederick agreed they would first need the manor’s exact location before any talk of repairs could matter.

They read the letter again for anything they had missed. Aleksander checked the hand for hesitation and counted where the ink had pooled; Torun traced, with a forefinger, the indentation where the quill had pressed hardest; Hugo compared the marginal note to older scraps in his memory. He recognised Linnea’s script in the last lines and said so, quietly pleased to have something certain in a room of uncertainties.

Frederick proposed asking Linnea directly. Mr Frisk, conjured by the sound of his name and the movement of chairs, confirmed the obvious: she lived at the Uppsala Asylum, a respectable elders’ home. Vilhelm suggested they go at once. Torun and Hugo agreed without ornament. The map remained open on the table like a question that could wait.

They left the house with the manner of people moving from talk to errands. The asylum sat in old stone that remembered too much winter. Dust and age met them at the door with the faint smell of boiled linen. At the desk, a nurse informed them visiting hours began in fifteen minutes. Torun disliked the delay aloud; Vilhelm volunteered to read while they waited and had already selected a thin volume with unthreatening type. Hugo leaned in with a priest’s gravity and, with concise dishonesty, said they had come to give final blessings before Linnea “moved on”. Sympathy did what clocks would not; the latch clicked and they were taken up to Room 247.

The room was spare: bed, dresser, chest. A rug tried and failed to warm the boards. Linnea sat on the bed and greeted them with the easy warmth of habit.

“Oh my dears—so lovely to see you all.”

Torun apologised for the asylum; Linnea corrected the premise without offence—she had admitted herself, they looked after her well, and better company was welcome. Frederick offered a medical exam; she declined with a small smile that suggested she knew her own borders. Hugo set his hat on the dresser and kept his hands politely still.

Vilhelm presented the letter. Interest brightened her; she was pleased it had arrived. When asked how a vaesen had carried it, she tapped the skirting with her cane. A hidden panel popped open with a tired click. The little messenger stepped out, bowed, and listened to their report of Mr Frisk’s shin with a studied lack of remorse. Linnea reprimanded it gently; it bowed again—crisper, chastened—and vanished back into the wall, which closed as if it had never offered an opinion.

Torun noted the creature’s respect. Linnea supplied the principle: respect a vaesen and it will often return the favour. She added nothing ornamental to the rule; it did not need it.

They asked about 1839. Linnea confirmed what the annals already said and had little to add beyond the tone of an old story retold. Hugo asked whether one might make or reverse a fairy path to reach the vaesen. Linnea said the paths were the vaesen’s own weave; one could mimic routes, but a human‑made path was unlikely to lead to the same place and might go somewhere worse—as the old notes imply. The certainty sat between them without argument.

Vilhelm asked whether this was truly a fairy queen. Linnea said only that it was a vaesen wearing a grand name, and that no other monarchs of that kind had troubled the records in twenty years. She reminded them that another girl was missing now and allowed the urgency to speak for itself.

On remedies, Vilhelm suggested halting construction and restoring the creek to calm whatever had been angered. Linnea judged it possible; bargains and reasoning fit some vaesen better than threats. Torun observed that repairing nature was never wasted effort. Vilhelm agreed, and the agreement felt like a stake driven into something loose.

Linnea warned that industrialisation would proceed regardless, and wished them luck. Vilhelm criticised the wealthy for carving estates into places that had their own uses before surveyors arrived. Torun joked that, when his time came, he would walk into the woods and not return. Hugo offered a prayer for that eventuality with a seriousness that made the joke gentler. Frederick answered with a dark aside about organ donation that he did not trouble to soften.

They set a first step for Stegeborg—begin at the creek to look for traces. Vilhelm reminded them to check newspapers; Linnea agreed that the archives might help. The order of operations arranged itself neatly enough to carry out of the room without dropping.

They wished Linnea well. The nurse held the door. The corridor smelled of soap and old air, and the stairwell magnified footsteps into something official. Vilhelm checked the time and turned toward the archives; Torun tightened his coat and headed for the steps. Hugo reclaimed his hat. The building, satisfied they had work to do, let them go without comment.

—

They split their errands. Torun and Hugo returned to the manor for supplies with Anders, while Aleksander, after a pause, chose to go with Torun. Frederick and Vilhelm set out for the archives. The decision felt practical rather than dramatic—work divided, time made useful.

At the house, Torun took charge of food and travel goods with the practised efficiency of someone who disliked surprises on the road. He moved through pantry and scullery with a hunter’s economy: flour, salt, dried meat, hard cheese, a tin of tea, lamp oil, spare wicks, twine, needle and thread, a roll of clean bandage in case Frederick’s bag failed to be everywhere at once. Frederick, pausing at the door, asked him to keep an eye on his horse—frail, by his own admission. Torun agreed and added feed, blankets, and the kind of patience that matters more than rope to the list. Outside, he checked the shoes, lifted each hoof, and judged what could be mended now and what would have to be endured. Provisions and transport were arranged in the quiet language of tasks done in order; crates appeared by the hall, labels found their places, and the house seemed to approve of the return to routine.

—

The archives occupied a brick block that kept its own weather. Inside: high windows, long aisles, and the paper‑smell of organised years—paste, dust, and a hint of old glue that said the binding room had been busy once. A short man at the front desk greeted them without curiosity, as if greeting were his job and curiosity were not. Vilhelm explained their purpose—recent reports touching a vicar’s butler who had died at Skällvik Inn—and the archivist pointed them to the relevant files with the mild satisfaction of a signpost. Frederick clarified they wanted current articles, not those from twenty years prior. They divided the work without discussion: Vilhelm skimmed older volumes for echoes and margins; Frederick turned recent pages for names that mattered now.

Drawers rasped. Card indexes gave up numbers. Paper whispered in stacks as they were lifted and returned. Findings were thin until Frederick laid three clippings from recent editions side by side. They read them in order. Each carried a different corner of the same shape.

MISTS HINDER SEARCH FOR STEGEBORG GIRL

A young woman from the village of Stegeborg has gone missing. The community, still reeling from the recent death of a local workman, now faces another tragedy with the disappearance of Eva Stark, who was last seen walking through town the previous night. According to Vicar Carolus Brännström, searches have been conducted but have been hampered by severe and unseasonable mists.

COUNT VON HOLSTEIN PLANS TO RETURN TO ANCESTRAL HOME!

Count Otto von Holstein has announced his intention to return to the ancestral home of his family and has begun preparations for the building of a new manor house in Stegeborg, Östergötland. The Holstein family was given the land by King Johan III in 1570 after the disappearance of the last member of the previous ruling family. However, the Holsteins have primarily focused on industrial pursuits in Stockholm, and this marks the first time a count has resided in Stegeborg in nearly 250 years.

The innkeeper in the nearby town of Skällvik commented on the news saying “It will be nice to see some more people in the village”. In contrast, local farmer Efraim Stark expressed a less positive view: “I don’t see why some bigwig should come here and mess up our fields and fishing waters.”

QUESTIONS LINGER AS MISSING BUTLER FOUND DROWNED!

The personal servant of Vicar Brännström in Stegeborg, reported missing yesterday, has been found drowned. Länsman Andersson, who led the investigation, stated that the death has been ruled an accident—likely a case of a drunken man falling into the water. No further inquiries will be made.

However, Gustav Rask, the farmhand who discovered the body, provided a different perspective. “If that man drowned just from drunkenness, then what a horrible way to go it must have been,” Rask said. He further suggested the man’s death may have been caused by fright, citing the fearful expression on his face.

When presented with Rask’s comments, Länsman Andersson responded, “Local superstition has no place in modern society, nor should it be given space in what used to be a reputable newspaper.” This reporter believes the true events surrounding the man’s death may remain unsolved. When approached for comment, Vicar Brännström remarked, “A tragic accident, to be sure. He had no close relatives, so I will donate his possessions to the Skällvik poorhouse.”

There were no surviving reports from 1839; the cabinets held only the present. They copied what they needed with the neat theft of information that archives permit—dates, names, the phrasing that mattered more than the ink itself—and talked as they worked. Frederick judged the mists unnatural: wrong season, wrong persistence, the kind of weather that behaved like intention. Vilhelm agreed it warranted a vaesen question—many creatures touched sky and water, but fairies were not known for it. He offered a provisional thought: a restless spirit from the old ruling line might prefer fog for a language. They let the idea sit without promoting it to certainty.

They folded their copies and headed back. Boots clicked on tile; the door gave them back to the afternoon without ceremony. Outside, the light had thinned to a pewter that promised rain later whether it arrived or not.

—

At the manor, Torun had stacked supplies by the hall and seen to Frederick’s horse with the grim kindness reserved for fragile things. The animal accepted a nosebag and a hand on the neck in the same silence. Anders checked the harness, adjusted a buckle, and made approving noises that did not ask for answers. The others returned to the library table as if the room had been keeping their places warm. Frederick and Vilhelm set the clippings down, one after another, and gave the summary without decoration. Frederick asked whether weather narrowed their options. The annals agreed that many vaesen could trouble sky and water; fairies, notably, did not feature among them. Vilhelm allowed that an unquiet family dead fit the pattern as well as any guess they had.

Ink dried. The fire shifted and remembered its job. They left the papers in a neat row, found their coats, and checked the hour. The map waited for a finger to choose the next line; a lantern wick trimmed itself straight under Anders’s thumb.

—

They reassembled at Castle Gyllencreutz, night air slipping in with them; a lantern wick still smoked, and the dust settled when the door closed. Torun napped in a chair; Hugo kept company with a glass. Frederick woke Torun with a steady nudge and an inventory of what still needed doing. Hugo greeted them and asked for news.

Frederick reported a vicar by name—Brännström—who might speak to the drowned butler. Hugo mistook the suggestion for communion with the dead; Frederick clarified the man remained inconveniently alive. Hugo proposed a letter or, failing patience, a direct visit. The decision could be made after they had eaten and finished packing.

Vilhelm summarised the three articles and the people worth speaking to among them—farmer, noble, and anyone who disliked the sudden mists on principle. He set the clippings in a neat row and tapped the margins once, as if to underline that each pointed to the same place by a different route.

Frederick asked Torun about mist. Torun said the cure was stubborn walking and a good memory of where home sits. Frederick added that fairy paths had a way of helping one misremember, and that the trick—if there was one—was to keep a purpose in mind. Vilhelm, over‑practical, suggested string to mark the way. Torun allowed that diplomacy might work better—some vaesen would oppose any self‑appointed queen simply on grounds of taste—and left it there.

Vilhelm tried Mr Frisk for memories of 1839. Frisk explained he had never left the manor and, lacking the Sight, could not have added much even if he had. He apologised for the uselessness of a faithful servant where vaesen were concerned; Vilhelm apologised in turn and thanked him for his service. Dinner, Frisk said, would be in twenty minutes. Torun offered venison jerky; Frisk advised saving it for the road and departed with the same efficient silence he brought to all errands.

—

They returned to preparations. Supplies were counted, straps repaired, buckles tested, wicks trimmed, and coin pooled in a tidy pile. Frederick reminded Torun not to overfeed his frail horse; Torun fed and tended it anyway with the kind persistence that sometimes passes for optimism. He checked the legs and the shoes and spoke to the animal in the practical tone of someone who expects to be obeyed by weather and beasts alike. Vilhelm and Frederick argued briefly over notes and packing, the way people do when they are both correct and the bag is finite. The argument concluded in the usual manner—two methods arriving at the same list.

They tallied costs. It was easier to spend coin on what could be carried than on what might be regretted later.

— Vilhelm purchased a sturdier walking stick and set aside funds for a field reference the whole group could use.
— Frederick confirmed his doctor’s bag—scalpel, forceps, bandage—and the bottle of fine wine that made bad news easier to phrase; purchased a revolver.
— Hugo purchased a hurricane lamp and a bottle of liquor, “for morale.”
— Torun purchased a hunting dog for the group’s safety.
— Anders contributed his compass and offered his sidearm if required.
— Aleksander kept his crystal ball and conserved his funds.

Vilhelm proposed pooling what remained for shared items, beginning with the field manual; Hugo agreed it would serve them all. Frederick observed, dryly, that his “many, many surgeries” would appreciate the new bandages regardless. No one argued with the value of a clean edge and a steady hand.

Torun introduced the dog. He named it Dustin. The group approved without ceremony. Hugo assured the animal it would definitely survive this horror; the room allowed itself a small laugh and, for a moment, felt like an ordinary room.

—

Evening drew its lines. They were stocked, armed, and set to depart at dawn. The question left was route. The choice ran by land or by sea. Hugo preferred the water; Vilhelm preferred the rails. The rails promised fewer variables. They settled on the train.

Frisk confirmed livestock could travel. Frederick nodded, satisfied, and made the arrangements for his horse to be loaded. He wrote the necessary names where names were required and counted halters and straps twice. Tickets were stamped; crates roped; the dawn train noted on the board. The bags waited by the door, and the house held its breath the way houses do on the last quiet night before a journey.

Friday, 14 October 1859 — Rail & Road

They boarded the morning train at Uppsala bound for Söderköping. Tickets were stamped at dawn; the wheels kept steady; fields slid past; silence held. Frost silvered ditch water where the line ran low, and hedges kept their own counsel. Inside the carriage coats made small weather of their own: wool warmed, leather cooled, breath faded from windows and returned as the glass decided. No one felt the need to improve the view with talk.

At stations the platform clocks agreed with themselves and nobody else. A porter swung a flag with the air of a man who had learned not to argue with machinery. Between towns, the landscape practised being November early. After dark at Söderköping, they transferred to a coach for the last miles. Harness jingled; the team leaned into the traces; the road accepted their weight as if out of habit.

Torun spent the travel teaching the new hound the shapes of patience: heel, sit, wait. The dog learned his voice quickly. It watched his hands the way dogs do when they have already decided. Frederick remarked that Torun had paid well for it; the group agreed it was money well spent. Aleksander—who preferred patterns to animals—allowed that a good nose outran a good theory in fog.

Saturday, 15 October 1859 — Skällvik, 3:00 a.m.

It was three in the morning when the coach set them down at Skällvik. The sign over the rustic inn read Skällvik Inn. Mist lay ankle‑deep and held close to the ground as if the fields had chosen a blanket and were unwilling to share. The driver touched the brim of his cap to no one in particular and turned the team toward sleep.

Frederick stayed with his horse and found it a stall for the night. He admitted the animal had yet to earn a name; someone suggested “Weak Horse” as a temporary solution. It would do until a better one arrived. He checked the water, shook down a little straw, and listened for the small noises that say a stable will mind its business till morning.

The others stretched their legs and watched the fog thicken as they unloaded their cases. Breath showed briefly and went out like small lamps. Torun, unsentimental, said there were no ghosts. Aleksander, who kept longer lists, disagreed enough to be heard. Anders made a practical sound that meant both opinions could be true at once if one kept walking.

The inn’s front doors stood open. A single lamp burned in the lobby. Floorboards answered the cold with slow clicks. Aleksander called out. No answer. Hugo looked for an attendant; only the lamp hissed. Torun noticed the counter bell; Frederick rang it several times; its ring carried down the corridor and came back thinner for the distance.

A large man appeared from the back in the manner of someone who sleeps because he has to. “Do you have any idea what time it is?!” he demanded, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his voice carrying under the lamp’s hiss; then, catching himself, he apologised before they could answer, stepped aside, and greeted them properly. Vilhelm explained their arrival; Frederick asked for rooms.

Four were offered, with mention of a shared room usually taken by labourers. Frederick asked for four separate if possible. Torun requested the dog remain with him; the innkeeper agreed without debate. A register appeared; names went down in the steady hands of people who preferred legible consequences.

They followed him upstairs and divided the rooms. Torun kept the dog. Frederick chose one near the stair for checks on the horse. Hugo took a room that faced the yard and left the curtain drawn; Vilhelm accepted the first key that fit; Aleksander set his case on a chair that did not wobble. The hall smelt faintly of lye and old tea. Somewhere a door forgot and remembered how to close.

As latches clicked and boots found corners, Hugo observed that the work still felt vague. Vilhelm said they had leads and names to start with. The consensus was that the fog covered what it could; the morning would be clearer. For now, the map could sleep folded. Torun set a hand on the dog’s ribs and felt the simple answer of breath. Frederick counted steps to the yard and back so that later, in fog, his feet would remember.

They turned down the lamps; somewhere a clock marked the quarter to four. The building settled around them with the small negotiations of pipes and timber. Outside, the mist kept its own watch.

Same front steps with the heel-bite on the second one. Same door that sticks unless you lean in with your shoulder, like you mean it. Same dry furnace breath pushing through the vents when you crack it awake. I dropped my bag by the coat tree and listened to the quiet take a step closer. Snow does that to Silent Falls—packs the sound down until all that’s left is the soft tick of the thermostat and the little noises you only hear when you’re by yourself.

I hadn’t come down Main. The back road snakes in behind the mill like a habit you can’t shake, and I took it on autopilot. No reason to linger, no reason to see the places that make you do math about how long you’ve been gone. The sooner I got under a roof, the better. It was full dark by the time I turned the last corner—streetlamps fuzzed with falling flakes, the kind of cold that climbs the back of your neck and sits there.

Winter always made this house feel smaller. Maybe it was just me. I’d left, the others hadn’t. The group thread on my phone was proof of that: their lives were still stacked like Friday-night pizza boxes, while mine was split between two towns and long stretches of not-replying. I told myself that was just school, just distance, just the way things shake out. It never felt that simple when I was standing in my dad’s hallway with the whole place listening.

The couch had that old-thrift store groan when I sat. I clicked on the living room lamp, then clicked it off again. Too yellow. The phone’s light was cleaner—thin and blue and honest. I flipped it open and watched the screen bloom, that tired little backlight doing its best. The battery icon blinked like it was nervous for me.

I didn’t have a plan beyond say something. There’s a ritual to coming back for break that I’d let slip: text Alice first, then Julia and Evan by osmosis. Sometimes all three at once. Sometimes just Alice and let it filter. Last time I was home I’d told myself I was busy, that we’d catch up next time, and then next time turned into this time.

I scrolled the group thread out of muscle memory. Old jokes, old plans that didn’t happen. A run of nothing, then a burst, then nothing again. Threads look different when you’re the one who went quiet first. The little gaps feel like you left doors open in a storm and now the snow’s drifted in and you’re trying to sweep it up with your hands.

I thumbed to Alice’s contact and hovered there, like maybe the right words would pick themselves.

Charlie Barnes: hey, just got back in town—at my dad's. you around?

The little “sending…” icon spun. One bar of signal. No delivery chime. I watched it for a full minute, hit retry, got the same spin. Alice hated calls; texts were our thing. If she saw it, she’d reply fast. If she didn’t, the group would know where she’d gone. If I called she’d tease me for it—she always said calling was for grandparents and emergencies. Text or nothing. It was never nothing with her, not really, just the space between messages stretching until you forgot what you were in the middle of saying.

The house popped as the heat kicked on. The window glass held a film of breath on the inside where I’d leaned too close, watching the snow. Street outside, empty. My reflection in the glass looked like an older version of me trying to remember if I’d locked the car.

I went back to the thread. I didn’t want to make it weird or heavy or like I was asking anything of anyone. Just a simple hey, I’m in town. Keep it breezy, pretend I hadn’t done the disappearing act for months at a time. Don’t make it about the moving-away part. Don’t make it about the you-left part either.

I opened a new message to the group and stared at the blank screen. The cursor blinked like a seismograph. The keypad felt smaller than it used to. T9 tried to guess me and got it wrong, like a friend who hasn’t seen you in a while and uses the nickname you don’t use anymore. I backspaced more than I typed. Hey looked too short. Heyyy looked like I’d stolen someone’s phone. What’s up was a lie. I settled on something that sounded like me if I’d slept and drank water and wasn’t thinking about how the town presses in when the snow piles up against the curbs.

I thought about Alice’s last real reply to me—weeks old and still pinned in my head like a ticket stub. We’d talked about practice schedules and finals and nothing. The last thing I’d sent had been a picture out the window of the bus: a smear of trees, a smear of me. She’d replied with a thumbs-up and a “:)” and then the thread got quiet in that way that tells you the other person fell back into their life.

Hesitation built itself into a wall one brick at a time. What if this was dumb? What if it was too late for casual? What if I was the guy who shows up only at holidays and expects confetti for remembering everyone’s names? My thumb hovered. The heat cut out again. The house settled. The street stayed empty. The screen lit my hands like a campfire.

I breathed out. It fogged the window again. The trick is you don’t think about send. You think about the next part, the feeling after. The phone makes its little noise, the message leaves like a bottle into a dark river, and you get to pretend the three dots that come back are a heartbeat instead of just typing.

I typed. I kept it simple. I didn’t overthink the commas or the apology. My thumb shook once, small as a whisper, and then I pressed the button.

Charlie Barnes: Hey! Sorry for the big group text, but I just got into town for winter break at my dad's and haven't been able to get ahold of Alice. Just wondering if any of you have spoken to her?

The reply came faster than the heat in the vents.

Three dots. A pause. Then the screen filled like it had been waiting for me to look up.

Evan Holwell: Hi Charlie. No havent heard from her in 3 days
Charlie Barnes: 3 days? Did she go somewhere?
Julia North: She's missing Charlie. I'm really sorry nobody told you when it was first declared.
Julia North: There are posters
Julia North: That kind of missing

The room tightened. The lamplight had nothing to say about it. I felt stupid for believing this would be a normal break check‑in, like the town had kept a seat warm for me. I stared at my own message—the way I’d worded it like I’d just missed her at the store—and felt the floor tilt.

Charlie Barnes: oh jeez, so no-ones heard anything?
Evan Holwell: Something has to have happened to her, some creepy fuck taken her away or some shit!!
Charlie Barnes: Like Alice would let someone just take her, she could kick the ass of anyone in this town
Julia North: I don't know...some of these people have weapons.

Silent Falls always sounded like it was holding its breath in winter. Now the phone added its own hush—the beat between messages, the soft knot in my chest when the dots started and stopped. I didn’t have anything useful to add. I had distance and a late entrance and a phone battery that looked as tired as I felt.

I flipped to Julia’s DM. If I couldn’t do anything smart, I could at least check in like a person.

Charlie Barnes: Hey Julia, how are you holding up?
Julia North: I'm so scared.....where is she??? I can't believe this is happening. I think the school knows more than they are telling us.
Charlie Barnes: She'll be OK Julia, its probably just a sport event she got pulled to last min, she's strong regardless
Julia North: She is. She shouldn't have to be though. But I know you really understand her. Thanks for reaching out.
Charlie Barnes: Anytime Julia, I know this has to be hard on you

I sat with that DM open, knowing it wasn’t enough and not knowing what would be. The house creaked as the heat cycled. I flipped back to the group.

Evan Holwell: Everyone has guns these days, all these nuts who wanna carry them everywhere
Charlie Barnes: How is Jack doing?
Julia North: I messaged him to reach out but he didn't reply. I can understand that tbh No extra brain for anything else right now.

Somewhere under the panic and noise, the town I grew up in was still the same: cops who shrugged, rumours that moved faster than snowmelt, and kids who knew better than to wait for adults to fix it.

Evan Holwell: So the police just called. I reported all the harrasement that Bria Brown was doing. They just blew me off
Evan Holwell: Useless pigs!!
Julia North: Oh for fucks sake!!! I know she is involved. Have you seen how she keeps looking at me?
Charlie Barnes: She's always had it out for Alice, what has she been doing now?
Charlie Barnes: Cops in this town have always been useless
Evan Holwell: Load of abuse about Alice and Julia being together

The screen brightened as if it could argue with that. Snow stacked itself along the window ledge like it had time to kill. I rubbed a thumbprint off the glass and watched it fog where my breath hit.

A new notification nosed in from the corner. A stray text I should have seen days ago finally wriggled through my phone’s bad signal and landed like a stone in my stomach.

Charlie Barnes: Stupid phone signal, I just got a text from ALice that she sent a few days ago, I though she had just ended our chats abruptly like usual, but there was one more, she was training at the barn again, but she said she felt she was being watched and was heading home
Evan Holwell: Oh man, that proves it right there
Julia North: OMG she was heading home??? Are you certain it was from a few days ago?
Charlie Barnes: This was from Monday, so 2 days before she went missing
Charlie Barnes: did she say anything to you about this?
Julia North: Oh ok so not right when she went missing. I didn't want to tell her secrets....but she sometimes would tell me stuff like that, that she thought she was being watched. I said not to ignore it and trust her intuition. But you can't make a police report for just a bad feeling.

It fit too neatly. A barn, a bad feeling, a walk home swallowed by winter.

The thread moved in tiny avalanches.

Julia North: It happened for a while but she was doubting herself about it. I showed her this subreddit about people who had creepy vibes that turned out to be something more sinister and asked her not to ignore the feelings and be safe.

New dots. New momentum.

Evan Holwell: wouldnt surprise me, theres that CJ creep that keeps hanging around town

The name hit the chat like a draft through a cracked window. I felt it, the shift you get when the board starts to fill with faces. I watched the dots after that and felt my own heartbeat match them, caught between wanting the next message and not wanting any more of them at all.

I didn’t have a plan yet. I had a town that kept secrets, a barn at the edge of things, and a phone I couldn’t put down.

I kept reading.

The group thread kept breathing in my hand—start, stop, start—like it couldn’t decide if it was alive. I peeled myself out of it and opened a private window with Evan. If there was something concrete under all the fear, it would be here.

Charlie Barnes: So the cops really just blew you off?
Charlie Barnes: For a missing teen girl?
Charlie Barnes: Bastards

Evan came in hot and skidding. I could hear his shoes on tile through the spelling.

Evan Holwell: I know! Not to mention shes like the star player at school, surely that would mean something more to this town
Evan Holwell: Shame you havent been here, shes been incredible
Evan Holwell: fuck, you dont think it could be a rival team that took her, do you?

He wanted a villain we could point at and go home. I wanted the same thing and didn’t trust it.

Charlie Barnes: Are there any games upcoming? Might just be a interschool 'prank'?
Evan Holwell: Or revenge
Charlie Barnes: She did say she won the last Basketball game by a landslide, had to call it early as there was no way for them to come back... what was the school again?
Evan Holwell: Cant remember, some other shitty town a few miles away
Evan Holwell: No surprise really that they got beat so bad really

I let the silence open up. The three dots came and went twice. He was working up to something.

Evan Holwell: dude im freaking out right now
Evan Holwell: i need to tell someone about something
Evan Holwell: but you CANT tell anyone

The cursor blinked like a metronome. I forced my breath to match it.

Charlie Barnes: I can only promise I wont tell anyone if its not important to finding Alice
Evan Holwell: It doesnt, im just scared i will get blamed for something
Charlie Barnes: What is it? What happened?

The next messages landed crooked and ugly.

Evan Holwell: So Alice has been asking me to provide her with some rweird drugs. Not like weed or anything. But for the past couple of weeks ive helped her spike the drinking bottles for the opposite team.
Charlie Barnes: DUDE WHAT!
Evan Holwell: Nothing bad, they just get abit dopey so dont play as well
Charlie Barnes: OK so did anyone see you do it?
Evan Holwell: I thought not, but not this shit is happening im freaking out
Evan Holwell: worse still is I still have all of these drugs that i cant get rid of

My stomach went hollow. Shock wanted the wheel; I kept my hands on it. Damage control first, ethics debate later.

Charlie Barnes: Is the Dagger still open?, just drop it in the alley behind there, all sorts of shit ends up there
Evan Holwell: Yea its still open, thats not a bad idea
Evan Holwell: i just dont wanna get caught with this shit
Charlie Barnes: Just lose it.

I hated how easy giving orders felt. Maybe it was just that my brain needed a job.

Charlie Barnes: I know its hard for anyone to say no to Alice, but thats a bit far for her to go
Evan Holwell: i know
Evan Holwell: i cant help myself
Charlie Barnes: She's... special, we all know
Evan Holwell: You arent kidding
Evan Holwell: Just wish i could have a real chance with her

I stared at that last line until the afterimage burned. We were all idiots in our own ways, but some kinds of stupid left fingerprints. I closed the DM before I said something I couldn’t unsend and flipped back to the group thread.

I waited on the DM—typing bubble, then nothing; typing bubble again, gone. He was moving.

The notification thunked across the top of my screen: Evan Holwell (Group). He’d bailed on the private lane and swerved into traffic. Fine. If he needed the crowd to keep breathing, I’d meet him there.

I minimized our DM and watched his name jump to the most recent line—same panic, new window.

Evan Holwell: Erm guys, I've just read all this weird shit about Silent Falls Train Stations
Charlie Barnes: Do tell

The screen’s glow felt colder. He was walking and doom‑scrolling; it read in the way his messages leaned.

Evan Holwell: Its some conspiracy theory shit talking about human traffickers taking people from the restrooms at night
Evan Holwell: Why am i reading this stuff
Charlie Barnes: You're just going to worry yourself by reading that stuff
Evan Holwell: you cant blame me, its not like i can sleep
Evan Holwell: cops wont do anything!

I toggled back to our DM and typed a short line—Text me when it’s done. I didn’t hit send. The instruction was already there in the chat and in his head. If he got stopped with the stash, my message would be one more brick on his chest.

The house was too quiet. The town felt like it had stopped a block away and was listening in. I watched the three dots bloom and fall across both windows. Evan was in motion; you could feel it in the gaps. I tried to picture the alley behind the Dagger, the old drain that ate everything, and forced myself not to think past that.

He’d said he had the drugs. He’d said he was going to ditch them.

Then he went quiet.

Evan’s three dots came and went like a signal dying in a storm. I stared at the empty DM until the glow of the group thread bled through my peripheral vision and made my pulse feel loud. If he was out there moving with the stash, I needed to keep the other line open.

Julia pinged me first.

Julia North: David just messaged me about "Alice's little drug problem." He's making it up, right? Alice isn't into drugs?
Charlie Barnes: ... I might know something about that.
Julia North: Telll. Me.

I stared at the cursor. Ten minutes ago he’d sworn me to secrecy; now Julia was asking for the one thing I wasn’t supposed to say. Betray Evan and maybe help Alice, or keep it and lose time. Trust is a kind of currency in Silent Falls, and I was about to spend his without asking.

Charlie Barnes: I heard from someone that Alice may have been drugging her opponents before matches
Charlie Barnes: So maybe David heard something himself and got his wires crossed
Julia North: ????? Wtf she would never do that?  Who said it???

Last chance to stop. If I said his name, I’d burn one trust to buy another. Evan’s or Julia’s—either way I was the match. Fuck it. For Alice.

Charlie Barnes: Evan
Charlie Barnes: Literally told me just a few min ago
Charlie Barnes: Asked me not to tell anyone tho, if you confront him, its gotta be David that told you
Julia North: OK.  He can't have seen anything right? Alice would never do that!
Charlie Barnes: Evan says that Alice asked him to help spike their drinks, and he's currently got the drugs
Julia North: .........Ok I'm gonna message him this must be some sort of mistake.
Julia North: But I won't say you said it
Julia North: I'll say it was David.
Charlie Barnes: Thanks 

She left to do what I’d asked—take it to Evan and keep my name out of it. In the moment, all I had was the screen and the feeling that the room had tilted a degree to the left.

I tabbed out and opened Alice’s Facebook. Her privacy settings were loose enough to let a stranger get lost. Albums stacked back to middle school—team photos, trophies, birthday cakes. The comments were a crowd of familiar names I missed being part of. And then there was him.

CJ Wallace. Same profile picture I’d seen float around town groups. He’d been leaving comments everywhere—on recent shots, on old ones, even on pictures where Alice looked twelve. Little jokes, too‑friendly emojis, a “still got that smile” under a championship post that made my skin try to leave. It didn’t read like a stranger; it read like someone who’d decided he belonged.

I took a breath, flipped back to the group, and put it in the open.

Charlie Barnes: ...Did anyone else know that CJ had Facebook? Creeps been leaving messages on all Alice's pictures
Julia North: It's on her pics on fb . Even the ones where she is like 12.
Julia North: I called him a sick pedo flasher, who cares if I get a fb ban again.
Charlie Barnes: Why is she even friends with him in the first place?
Julia North: Was she?? Omg let me check

His typing bubble hiccuped in our DM, then died. A heartbeat later, his name jumped to the group—anger switching lanes.

Evan Holwell: YOU TOLD JULIA!!!!?
Julia North: No David told me!!! Evan what are you talking about??
Evan Holwell: What the fuck Charlie!?

I let him swing. He had the right. The typing bubble flared, vanished, flared again—anger pacing the length of his screen. I counted to three and didn’t type. He wanted a fight; we had a missing girl.

When it peaked, I cut it off before it turned into another fire. We could fight later.

Charlie Barnes: Evan, we can deal with this later.
Evan Holwell: No, you don't get to say that.
Evan Holwell: You promised.
Evan Holwell: Two minutes later and Julia's in my DMs?

I kept my thumbs still and let the typing bubble burn itself out.

Evan Holwell: CJ's messaging you? how does he even have your number?
Charlie Barnes: CJs been leaving messages on Alice's pictures
Julia North: I thought she didn't update her privacy stuff
Charlie Barnes: She has to have been for him to see her pics

The chat held its breath.

I scrolled back over CJ’s trail, hoping it would look smaller on a second pass. It didn’t. Comments stacked like footprints, all the way into the years she should’ve been invisible. If Alice had felt watched, this was the shape of it—too familiar, too casual, nowhere to push back.

My thumbs hovered over the keys. Ask Julia to lock things down? Tell Evan to screenshot? None of that got us closer. The screen felt bright and useless.

Then Evan hit the thread like a brick.

Evan Holwell: FUCK!!
Evan Holwell: Guys help!1
Julia North: Evan what is it?????
Charlie Barnes: What happened?
Evan Holwell: I was walking by the park on my way home, i found Alice's car!1
Evan Holwell: Its been totalled and stripped
Julia North: Oh my god
Evan Holwell: but its filled with pill bottles
Julia North: Whatfffff
Charlie Barnes: Shit, no sign of Alice there?
Evan Holwell: No, shes gone
Julia North: She doesn't use drugs, I would know!!!!
Evan Holwell: Oh man im fucking dead

I made myself read the last three lines twice—car, stripped, pill bottles—until the words stopped jittering. For a long breath nobody typed. The house ticked. The snow pressed its face to the glass. We needed to think before we made anything worse. And then the world decided to do that for us…

Julia North: .....Fuck did you just see the local news? The Dagger is on fire!

The group went white-hot fast.

Evan Holwell: HOLY SHIT
Charlie Barnes: Saturday night—place will be packed
Julia North: They can't get the engines through. Roads are like ice. Hydrants are buried.

The snow made the sirens sound far away even when they weren’t. I pulled out of the thread and opened Evan’s DM.

Charlie Barnes: I said ditch the stash, not torch the place.
Evan Holwell: I DIDNT!! swear on my life
Evan Holwell: im not anywhere near there
Charlie Barnes: Did you dump it?
Evan Holwell: yes yes yes down the alley drain
Evan Holwell: please dont say anything
Charlie Barnes: Stay away from the club. No photos. Text me when you’re somewhere safe.
Evan Holwell: ok

Back to the group—words sparking and dying in the blizzard of it.

Julia North: Fire engines just got stuck by the mill road. Snowplow is late
Charlie Barnes: Ladders in a storm like this…
Evan Holwell: this is insane

The thread lurched, changed direction like a flock.

Julia North: Bria is boasting that she called Alice to the Dagger tonight
Evan Holwell: what???
Charlie Barnes: Screenshots?
Julia North: Hang on

I could feel the board rerouting itself—away from shadows and toward someone with a name. It was easier to be angry at a person than a pattern in the snow.

Julia North: I saw it on her story before it deleted. "told her to meet me at the dagger ;)" fuck her
Charlie Barnes: Send anything you’ve got to the cops
Evan Holwell: yeah do it

A new message slid into my notifications—different vibration, like it knew it was heavier. Alice’s name. For a second I just held the phone and let my heartbeat climb it, then break into a run. I said her name out loud like a prayer.

Alice: basement. dagger. it’s hot. can’t breathe. please.

Relief hit so hard it hurt. I fumbled the unlock, opened our thread, and started typing back before my brain caught up. Then I made myself look for the trap—waiting for the phone to cough up a little “Delayed” tag like before. Nothing. Timestamp said now. She was here, inside this moment.

Only then did I copy it into the group like I was throwing a flare.

Charlie Barnes: It's okay. We're here. Stay low if you can. Can you see stairs? Are you hurt? Keep texting me.

No dots. Then one. Then gone. I couldn’t wait.

Charlie Barnes: ALICE IS ALIVE
Charlie Barnes: She just texted me. She’s in the Dagger’s basement. Says it’s hot—can’t breathe
Julia North: IM GOING
Charlie Barnes: Julia wait—fire crews will—
Julia North: no time
Charlie Barnes: Evan you're close, go help Julia there
Evan Holwell: im on it

I opened Julia’s DM on instinct and chased her with words I knew wouldn’t hold.

Charlie Barnes: Julia, don’t go in. Stay outside, find a firefighter, show them the text
Julia North: No. If she’s in the basement I’m going down there
Charlie Barnes: At least cover your face. Stay low. Text me every step
Julia North: ok

Back in the group, everything ran on the same thin wire.

Julia North: im at the alley
Julia North: smoke everywhere. doors blocked by people watching
Charlie Barnes: Push through. Yell you have info for the fire crew
Julia North: i see a side door
Charlie Barnes: Don’t go alone
Julia North: Too late

The snow smothered the streetlight outside my window until the whole town looked underwater. I watched the typing dots and told myself they were a pulse.

Julia North: going into the basement now

The snow turned every siren into something underwater. The screen lit my hands; the rest of the house stayed dark. Three dots, a stall, three dots again.

I typed and deleted twice. The only thing worse than saying the wrong thing was saying anything at all while she moved.

Julia North: i dont think the firefighters know theres a basement
Charlie Barnes: Keep one hand on the wall. If you see a door that sticks, don’t force it. Breathe slow.

The dots went quiet long enough for the furnace to kick on. I realised I was holding my breath to match her pace.

Julia North: light blown. crawling
Julia North: hear water somewhere
Julia North: turning right at the bottom
Julia North: shit—stepped on a switchblade
Julia North: cut my foot. keeping it
Charlie Barnes: Pocket it if you can. Watch your hands
Julia North: i got in
Julia North: i found her
Julia North: shes breathing but wont wake up

I swallowed the relief and turned it into instructions.

Charlie Barnes: Good. Keep her off the floor if you can. Stay as low as possible. If you can mark the door with anything, do it. Text landmarks.
Julia North: bottom of stairs. pipes along the left wall. heavy door by the boiler room

The dots hiccupped, stopped. New line.

Julia North: someone else is down here
Julia North: hiding
Julia North: hes on the phone
Charlie Barnes: Hide. Don’t engage. Keep eyes on exits. Text what you hear.

Her next messages came thin, clipped, like she was mouthing them.

Julia North: its david
Julia North: hes saying the car and pills will pin it on her

My thumbs went cold. I typed without letting myself think past the next instruction.

Charlie Barnes: Stay out of sight. If you can get to stairs with Alice, do it. If not, wait for crews. I’m flagging this up.

I pinged Evan again.

Charlie Barnes: Get the police. Now.
Evan Holwell: ive been trying

Back in the group, the fire sounded closer even though the words were the same size.

Charlie Barnes: Julia—can you move?
Julia North: hes still talking. footsteps.
Julia North: moving toward the stairs
Julia North: wait—hes at the stairs. blocking the way. hasnt seen us
Julia North: He said on the phone that he should slit Alice's throat and film it????!!!!!
Julia North: No....I will murder him!!!!!
Evan Holwell: I'm nearly there, hold on
Charlie Barnes: Did you grab that blade you stepped on? Keep it ready
Evan Holwell: Julia dont be stupid!!
Julia North: I'm gonna fucking stab him
Evan Holwell: JULIA
Charlie Barnes: Julia no, dont be reckless

For a stretch there was nothing—no dots, no buzz, just snow at the window and the heat cutting out again. I stared at Alice’s name at the top of the DM like I could keep the thread open with concentration.

Charlie Barnes: Fire crews are in the alley—bang on anything metal. Make noise.

Dots. Nothing. Dots again. Then nothing at all.

Charlie Barnes: Julia?
Charlie Barnes: Julia, text anything—one word

The thread stayed blank like the town had swallowed the signal.

Evan Holwell: im at the perimeter
Evan Holwell: told an officer everything
Evan Holwell: im sorry

I held the phone where the light could find my face. The snow pressed its ear to the glass. Somewhere under the sirens, metal met metal, and I told myself that was the sound of a door finally opening.

Debrief
This is where the 90‑minute Alice Is Missing timer ended. We step out of the world here. The true ending is yours to choose—who made it out, what the fire revealed, what the cops heard, and how Silent Falls carries it. Let the three dots resolve however you want.

H34Lr bolts into the workshop. From the shadows behind, a colossal lava worm barrels forward, its monstrous length radiating waves of blistering heat. It surges with terrifying speed, but just before reaching him, Otto hits the controls, slamming the reinforced door shut with a metallic clang that echoes through the stone corridors. The cyborg dog turns toward the far side of the cavern and spots Cordelia, Ordo, and Layla, locked in combat with a figure clad in black armour—Beckett, their long-hunted quarry. The cavern sprawls wide, doubling as both workshop and gathering hall, littered with half-built machines, piles of scavenged parts, and humming experimental rigs. Mr Rabbit stands beside H34Lr, visor glinting in the dim light.

On the platform above, Layla slams her palm onto a control panel. A graviton surge erupts, shimmering in a tight 5×5 zone. The very air grows heavy, dragging at Beckett’s limbs. “I want my workshop back, you fool!” she snarls. Beckett drops to one knee under the crushing force, armour creaking, but with visible strain forces himself upright.

Otto recalls automated turrets outside the workshop, he franticly punches into his terminal to activate them. They swivel and open fire, hammering the worm before it can reach the door. Forced to veer off, it dives into the floor, boring a smoking shaft deep into the rock. Otto’s fingers fly over the screen, pulling up the door’s specifications: reinforced steel, plasma-resistant, ballistics-proof—yet nothing confirms survival against a tunnelling monster. “The worm’s slowed,” he warns, “but if it comes back, this door might not hold.” Even in its brief appearance, the worm’s sheer size is staggering—easily hundreds of feet long.

Mr Rabbit tilts his head. “That sounds like a problem for future Mr Rabbit.” Louder, to the group: “Are we talking to this man, or killing him? I’ve only got one choice.” Layla’s reply is sharp: kill him. Otto confirms Beckett is the target. Rabbit calls out, offering to talk, explaining they were sent to kill him by people who also want them dead. Beckett ignores him entirely, focus locked on those closer.

A sudden flare of heat blossoms beneath Rabbit and H34Lr—five metres of stone glowing red-hot. Rabbit sidesteps, never taking his eyes off Beckett.

Beckett taps his wrist panel, releasing three spherical drones from recessed wall tubes. One darts for Layla but misses, another slams into Otto, and the third speeds toward Ordo.

Otto staggers under the hit, losing both stamina and resolve, but stays on his feet.

From below the platform, Ordo calls up, “Beckett, surrender to me now and I will offer you a chance at absolution. Continue this fool’s game and these mercenaries will flay you alive. Choose to be cleansed, or be consumed.”

Beckett halts for a moment, glaring down. “I know the kind of absolution the temple provides… I want freedom. They promise everything, but give nothing.”

“You are not dealing with them now,” Ordo says coldly. “You are dealing with me.”

Layla presses for them to finish him. Ordo steps toward Otto, murmuring, “Fear not the devil in the cell, but the angel who smiles with empty eyes.” Spotting the drone closing on Otto, his whip cracks through the air, tearing away its weapon arm in a shower of sparks.

Cordelia charges another drone, fist smashing into its shell. A second blow punches through, scattering components across the floor. She leaves key parts intact for salvage before pulling into a guarded stance.

The molten hotspot by the door swells, the heat rippling outward. H34Lr leaps for safety but misjudges the distance. Layla releases her gravitational hold on Beckett just long enough to boost H mid-air, launching him to safety. He crashes down hard, armour scorched, suffering burns before scrambling to more solid ground.

H34Lr glanced at the small knife clutched in his paw, its modest blade absurdly inadequate against the chaos consuming the cavern. His optics swept the battlefield — Beckett in his sleek stealth suit, katana gleaming like a shard of midnight; Mr Rabbit braced behind his roaring machine gun; and the colossal lava worm tearing through stone as if it were paper. The air rippled with blistering heat, carrying the roar of destruction and the acrid tang of molten rock. He needed something far more potent. His gaze first locked on the glint of a disabled drone’s stun gun lying amid debris, but a wall-mounted rack of heavy rifles pulled his attention. Without hesitation, he sprinted, claws skittering across the heated floor, and wrenched a laser sniper rifle free from its magnetic cradle. The weapon thrummed in his grip, humming with deadly promise — a far more reassuring companion than the knife he discarded.

A deafening eruption split the chamber as the sealed door’s base shattered. The lava worm surged upward, spewing molten rock in a murderous spray. The air shimmered with heat so intense it threatened to strip flesh from bone. Fragments of burning stone ricocheted off armour and machinery. Otto took the brunt, his armour blistering as his stamina drained to nothing. The worm’s immense body pressed down, cracking the cavern floor and leaving molten seams glowing beneath the stone.

Beckett halted his assault at Ordo’s approach, his voice tight but unwavering. “Where would you go? You’re failing their mission. They will never stop hunting you. This was the safest place I could find… and yet here you are.”

Layla’s voice cut through the roar, sharp as a blade. “He’s destroying my work. My people will die. I’ll take his life for theirs.” Her shock whip lashed out, striking Beckett’s armour. The blow was light but enough to stun him. “If you want off this rock,” she told the others, “I have a way. But he dies first.”

Otto scrambled up a ladder, plasma pistol flashing as he destroyed the last armed drone. His eyes fixed on coolant tanks feeding into the reactor. “Rabbit, those could hurt the worm!”

The beast lunged toward the platform, jaws wide enough to engulf a man whole. Otto yanked Beckett out of harm’s way as stone shattered under the worm’s bite. It vanished back into the depths, leaving scorched rubble in its wake.

From higher ground, Mr Rabbit unleashed a volley at the coolant tanks. Metal shrieked as they ruptured, jets of supercooled liquid blasting into the worm’s path. Steam exploded into the air as coolant met molten flesh, and the creature bellowed in pain. A deep, ugly scar marred its hide as mist began curling across the chamber.

Ordo advanced, voice low but resonant. “The web of deceit has entangled us both. A holy reckoning is at hand, and we are its blade.” He shed his cloak in a single motion, stripping Layla’s graviton device from her wrist. His summoned robot hound moved into position, blocking her approach to Beckett.

Cordelia scanned the glowing floor — only the zone near the ruptured coolant was remotely safe. Sprinting to the tanks, she unleashed her nanites to reroute the nitrogen flow. “When I say run, you run. Air’s about to turn deadly.” The molten spread slowed, buying them precious seconds.

Beckett, still reeling, grabbed Otto’s collar, murmured something only he could hear, then shoved him back.

Rabbit shouted over the cacophony, “Can we decide if we’re killing him, skinning him, or talking to him when we’re not about to die?”

“Squabbling later. Moving now,” H34Lr barked, bolting toward the rear exit, rifle poised.

The worm erupted beneath Rabbit’s feet. He rolled clear, eyes locking on the creature’s exposed weak point. Beckett tried to rise, but Otto slammed him back down, dragging him away from a nearby container.

Layla retrieved her graviton device with calm precision, speaking as she reattached it. She told of resisting corruption, of being cast into exile, of building a revolution only to be painted as a villain — branded Ratatosk. Her coded message went out: Cool. Move. Replies came back, fewer than hoped but enough. She advanced toward the containers, Ordo’s hound still barring her path.

Otto hauled Beckett toward the exit. “He’s got a ship and the code.” Plugging into the man’s armour, Otto forced a shutdown. The suit sagged lifelessly, Beckett’s glare burning with fury.

The worm exhaled a wave of superheated air at Rabbit. The first blast missed; the second slammed into his shield, melting nearby walls and igniting volatile fuel canisters.

The weak point still yawned open. Rabbit’s laughter rose over the chaos as he overclocked his weapon, pouring a storm of plasma into the wound. The cavern became a furnace of molten spray and roaring flame, his silhouette cut stark against the inferno.

The lava worm convulsed in violent desperation, its massive side rupturing with a sickening crack as molten gore and an unidentifiable blackened substance poured from the gaping wound. The corrosive fluid hissed and spat on contact with the stone, burning straight through the floor and sending up great clouds of acrid steam that rolled and swirled across the cavern. Its scream was an ear-splitting, primal roar — part rage, part agony — a sound that rattled the bones and shook the air. Even on the brink of death, its thrashing sent tremors through the chamber walls, showering the battlefield with dust and shards of stone.

Ordo didn’t pause for even a heartbeat. Surging forward with relentless purpose, his electro-whip cracked to life, its arcs of blue-white energy casting ghostly light across his scarred features. He lashed the weapon into the gash left by Mr Rabbit’s punishing barrage, widening the injury with precise, brutal efficiency. The worm’s colossal form shuddered, its movements faltering, teetering on the edge of collapse. With a sharp, commanding whistle that cut through the din, Ordo summoned Astro.

The robot hound’s rocket-limbs ignited in a burst of fire and smoke, propelling it forward like a living missile. It slammed into the worm’s wound with unstoppable force, tearing straight through its torso and bursting from the opposite side in a spray of molten ichor and steaming gore. The worm gave one last, rattling convulsion before its immense bulk toppled forward, crushing Astro beneath its weight. Both began to sink as the fractured floor gave way, melting under the combined heat of the beast’s lifeblood and the volcanic stone.

Then came the first explosion.

A thunderous detonation erupted behind Mr Rabbit, hurling him across the cavern like a ragdoll. His overclocked weapon, already pushed beyond its limits, spun away and clattered to the floor in twisted ruin. He slammed into the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs, but he still crawled toward the weapon, refusing to abandon it despite its destroyed state.

Cordellia was at his side in seconds, grasping for his suit to pull him clear. Her hands caught the edge of his helmet instead, and in the frantic yank it came free. The sight beneath made her hesitate — his face was a map of old scars, one eye lost to violence long past, the other burning with stubborn defiance. He drew a sharp, ragged breath, but without the helmet, the nitrogen-heavy air clawed at his lungs.

The worm might have been dead, but the cavern itself was still intent on killing them. Fires raged unchecked. Molten stone bubbled and hissed underfoot. The suffocating gas grew thicker by the second. Without his helmet, Rabbit was no longer protected.

At the far end of the chamber, Beckett slammed his palm against a container keypad, punching in a sequence with rapid precision. Otto never let go of him, dragging the man into the shadow of the container. H34Lr closed in, pulling out his field medic kit and working fast to give Rabbit a second wind. The treatment was crude but effective, restoring just enough stamina and clarity for Rabbit to keep moving.

Layla was already at the entrance, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel. Beckett had the first door open when she snapped, “These people are not to be hurt.” She turned to the others, her tone an order: “Everybody in!”

They piled inside, stumbling as the workshop door burst wide to reveal five more figures — the last of Layla’s crew. The doctor and another familiar face froze at the carnage before rushing forward, explosions rumbling closer with each passing heartbeat.

Beckett pushed them into a narrow airlock, Layla staying on his heels. The doctor’s voice cut through the chaos, demanding to know what had happened. Layla’s reply was cold and sharp as a blade: “Beckett happened.” The airlock sealed, the hiss of equalising pressure filling the cramped space, before opening onto the interior of a heavily retrofitted spaceship.

Beckett made for the pilot’s chair, but Layla intercepted him with deliberate force. “This is not your ship,” she said, each word a warning. Otto stepped in to block him, his grip firm. Beckett relented with a theatrical shrug, muttering only that they shouldn’t set course for anywhere “civilised.”

The Dreadheart roared through the final seal at the top of the lava-worm tunnel, hull plating shuddering as she burst into the open sky. Beneath them, Inferno’s scorched expanse stretched endlessly, the penal colony’s distant lights flickering like cold embers against the darkness.

Otto shot a glance at Cordellia across the cockpit. “You ready?”

She smirked, her eyes glinting. “Light it up.”

A sudden flash ripped across the horizon, followed by a bone-rattling shockwave. The abandoned ship in the colony hangar erupted in a violent fireball, jagged shards spiraling into the air before vanishing into the searing inferno. The dome above the colony warped and groaned under the strain, its supports shrieking in protest. The cockpit panels rattled as the shockwave reached them, a deep, vibrating hum coursing through the ship.

Ten tense heartbeats later, Layla’s finger stabbed her own failsafe. Deep below, the penal colony’s overworked atomic reactor let out a tortured groan, then detonated in a blinding surge of light. The deck lurched violently beneath their feet; alarms wailed, and an ear-splitting roar drowned out every other sound. For a moment, the world outside was nothing but blinding white. Then, the horizon erupted upward, a colossal mushroom cloud clawing its way into the sky, trailing molten debris like sparks from a forge. Heat shimmered across their viewports as a rolling thunder chased them upward into the thin air.

“Rest in peace, Timmy,” H34Lr murmured, voice almost lost in the hum of the ship.

Mr Rabbit smirked faintly. “Yeah… he’d have loved that.”

The Dreadheart climbed higher, the colony below reduced to a smear of flame and shadow. Otto was already at the comms console, fingers moving in a blur. “As soon as we’ve got signal, I’m forging new IDs. Fresh names, clean records. Whoever you want to be, I’ll make it happen.”

Mr Rabbit leaned back with a weary sigh. “We’ve still got the Church breathing down our necks… and now we’re wanted.”

“They think we’re dead,” Otto said, not looking up. “Ship’s gone. Colony’s gone. No survivors — except us.”

Layla glanced over her shoulder. “Once Beckett’s far from civilisation, anyone sticking around is crew. The Dreadheart has room for people who know how to survive.”

“I’m in,” Cordellia said immediately. “She’s rough, but I can make her sing.” She was already heading for the engine room, muttering about rerouting power lines and overhauling life support systems.

Otto crossed to Beckett, pistol steady in his hand. “Armour. Off. Now.”

Layla’s voice was cold as steel. “Or we save time and use the airlock.”

Mr Rabbit caught Ordo’s eye and motioned him over. “Alright, mate — what’s your plan for him?”

“I’ll take his confession,” Ordo replied, voice low but unwavering. “And I’ll find which Cardinal is to blame.”

Rabbit nodded slowly. “Good. I’m in.” They clasped hands, Ordo sealing the pact with a small circular gesture. Rabbit tried to imitate it, failing miserably but grinning nonetheless.

Beckett said nothing, his swords now strapped across Rabbit’s back — the marksman-turned-melee fighter adapting without complaint.

H34Lr padded through the cramped cabin, checking burns, stitching wounds, and applying quick patches where needed. “I’m staying. Easier to watch your backs here.”

Talk turned to potential crew names — Mother’s Mercies, Rabbit Milk, The Yum-Yuckers. Ridiculous suggestions all, but laughter eased the lingering tension.

Outside, the Dreadheart rattled and groaned as she left Inferno’s pull, battered yet defiant. The crew — scorched, bruised, but bound together by survival — sailed into the vast, dangerous dark. Ahead lay profit, revenge, and the truth… and the galaxy waited.

Starburst is a new TTRPG System by Axel Runnholm https://www.tabletopastronomer.com/
This game was run using a beta version with members of the Dice Company Podcast Community Discord https://discord.gg/DgjtZjKJqF

Without hesitation, Otto and Rabbit activated their shields, bracing against the fiery assault. The rest of the party huddled tightly behind them, protected by the overlapping energy barriers. The intense heat washed over them, buffeting their bodies but causing minimal damage. As the flames receded, the basket swung violently, revealing one of the support cables had begun fraying.

Reacting swiftly, Rabbit grasped the failing cable, wrapping it around his arm and holding the basket firmly. Despite his efforts, the platform shuddered and began a rapid descent, its braking mechanisms unresponsive without someone at the controls.

Ordo swiftly unfurled his whip, snapping it towards an alcove in the shaft’s rocky wall. With a precise, practiced movement, he anchored himself securely, gripping Astro, his robotic dog, firmly in his free hand. Suspended above, Ordo watched as the basket plummeted further into the darkness.

Far below, small glimmers of residual flames flickered, remnants of Tim’s final explosive farewell. Suddenly, a shadowy figure stepped into view, activating an anti-gravity field that gently slowed the basket’s chaotic descent. The party reached the ground softly, stumbling shakily from their precarious ride.

Rabbit immediately stomped onto Tim’s smoldering remains, expressing clear disdain, while Otto dropped gratefully to his knees, kissing the solid ground. Moments later, Ordo joined them, gracefully swinging from ledge to ledge before landing lightly on his feet beside the group.

A calm voice drew their attention. “Well, you’re welcome.”

The party turned, noticing the figure fully for the first time. Cordelia stepped forward cautiously, initiating conversation. The figure introduced herself with quiet confidence as Layla.

As the team offered their own introductions, H’s visor flickered briefly with a blue screen before stabilizing enough for him to speak. Cordelia, impressed by Layla’s tech, asked about the anti-gravity device.

“Just something I tinker with,” Layla responded modestly. “But it’s not powerful enough to get us out of here as it is.”

Cordelia immediately volunteered to assist with upgrading the device.

Rabbit interjected urgently, inquiring about Beckett. Layla nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging familiarity but noted, “Haven’t seen him recently, and I’ve never heard of Ratatosk. But I can lead you to a workshop where we might get more answers.”

Navigating the mines proved challenging—the labyrinthine tunnels twisted unpredictably. Otto attempted to map their route, diligently recording each turn Layla made.

Breaking the silence, Rabbit asked Layla, “Do you know what’s above us?”

Layla replied lightly, “The ceiling?”

“No,” Rabbit clarified, voice serious. “The prison complex.”

“Oh, that,” Layla said casually. “Guards have come down here before—they never went back.”

H couldn’t help himself, blurting out, “What did you do to get sent here?”

Layla hesitated briefly. “That’s a bit personal. Maybe once we know each other better.”

Otto glanced at H, shaking his head. “You can’t just ask something like that.”

H shrugged apologetically. “Honestly, I expected a denial of guilt.”

Ordo’s solemn voice resonated softly through the tunnel. “One day, the Mother will crack open the sky like a ribcage and reclaim her wayward children.” He carefully studied Layla’s reaction.

Before anyone could respond, another tremor shook the tunnel violently, dislodging a lighting fixture above Ordo, narrowly missing him.

Otto quickly questioned Layla, “These quakes happen often?”

Layla nodded, unfazed. “More and more frequently.”

Rabbit, deciding the group needed better visibility, activated his LED bunny ears. Layla immediately winced, startled, and hastily adjusted her night vision goggles, clearly blinded by the sudden brightness.

Layla guided the group deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels, eventually leading them into an expansive chamber dominated by a large power plant. The room hummed loudly with the thrum of electricity, a cacophony of cables sprawling chaotically from the main hub. Two individuals stood by the central console, arguing animatedly. One was clad in a thick woolly coat, the other hefting a heavy canvas bag, gesturing emphatically at an oversized switch.

Cordelia, recognizing the confusion, stepped forward confidently, her gaze fixed on the contentious control. With a mischievous grin, she pressed the button decisively. The console sprang to life with a satisfying hum. Dr. Eton stopped mid-argument, staring blankly at the now-activated display, mumbling sheepishly, “Oh… that’s what it does.”

Otto wasted no time, enthusiastically moving to the console, his fingers dancing swiftly over the archaic DOS-like interface. Cordelia turned to Layla, curiosity evident in her eyes. “Who built this reactor?”

“I designed it,” Layla answered modestly, “though the construction itself was done by others.”

Dr. Eton eagerly interjected, eager to regain some authority, explaining the existence of smoother tunnels further down, leading towards what he cryptically referred to as “the sanctuary.” He clarified with a dramatic wave of his hands, “These tunnels weren’t mined, nor are they naturally formed. Their creation remains mysterious.”

The group paused briefly to rest, tension momentarily ebbing. Rabbit broke the quiet, voicing a practical yet troubling question. “After this, are we splitting up or staying together? We’ll need new identities. Anyone ever burned off their fingerprints before?”

Otto quickly reassured him, “No need for extremes—I can sort us out new identities as soon as we find a network.”

Rabbit mused quietly, “I quite liked being Mr. Rabbit. Perhaps Mr. Otter next.”

Otto chuckled lightly, “Name’s already taken, friend.”

H added playfully, “Mr. Hare? You could even keep the decals.”

Rabbit sighed wearily, shaking his head. “That’s not really the point.”

Meanwhile, Cordelia, Ottoo, and Layla meticulously worked on the reactor, successfully pushing it to full operational capacity. In a hushed voice, Otto leaned close to Cordelia, eyes intense, “Could we rig this thing to explode, if necessary?”

Cordelia blinked in shock but replied cautiously, “Maybe… but not right now.”

Rabbit took a moment for himself, stepping aside into a quiet corner. Carefully removing his armor, he revealed a stark contrast to his imposing exterior—a tall, thin, bald man, scarred and frail-looking. He stretched out carefully, his movements precise and delicate, easing tension from aching muscles and joints.

Layla approached Cordelia thoughtfully, offering her gravatron device. “You mentioned upgrading this earlier?”

Cordelia carefully examined it, nodding thoughtfully. “Definitely doable, but we’ll need a proper workshop to get it done.”

The group continued onward, guided by Dr. Eton towards an entrance to one of the strangely smooth tunnels. Layla speculated quietly, “Some kind of creature probably formed these.”

Dr. Eton scoffed dismissively, tapping irritably with his rock hammer. “That’s unauthorized thinking. Remember who holds the PhD here!”

Layla offered diplomatically, “I’ll make sure you’re credited on any research papers I publish.”

Advancing, they arrived at a large, imposing blast door blocking direct access to the workshop. Opting for subtlety, the group detoured through a smaller, winding cave system, searching for a back entrance.

As they traversed the narrow passageways, Ordo quietly transmitted a passage titled “The Butter Churner,” from The Book of Ordo, a stark tale filled with themes of purification and divine retribution. Following this grim reflection, Ordo attempted direct contact with Beckett, tersely messaging, “Your ride is here.”

Their progress abruptly halted as the echoing sound of heavy boots filled the tunnel. Without hesitation, Rabbit aimed upward, opening fire on the ceiling. Rocks cascaded down, accelerated by Layla’s swift use of her gravatron field. Amid the confusion, Layla grabbed Cordelia’s hand, guiding her deftly through the tunnels.

Otto quickly pursued them, while Ordo stood resolutely beside Rabbit. Facing the advancing militia, Ordo’s voice echoed chillingly, “I prayed to the Mother to spare you—they laughed.”

Suddenly, another violent quake rippled through the cavern, collapsing a portion of the tunnel and separating H from the group. Rabbit, unfazed, fired a fierce volley of plasma rounds, immediately downing several militia members. One enemy soldier stumbled clumsily, accidentally triggering an explosive from their bandolier. The blast tore through their ranks, scattering the survivors.

H, alone and separated, swiftly consulted Otto’s map, expertly circling behind the enemy, striving to reconnect with his companions. Layla, Cordelia, and Otto reached the workshop’s rear entrance. Otto immediately accessed a nearby terminal, unlocking the blast doors.

Rabbit and Ordo charged forward, regrouping with H, who felt a sudden, intense heat from behind. Whirling around, he confronted the terrifying sight of an enormous lava worm rapidly approaching.

Inside the workshop, a figure clad in sleek black armor and wielding a sword advanced menacingly towards Cordelia and Layla. Cordelia cautiously raised her pistol. “Do you intend to harm us?”

“You did break into my throne room,” the figure responded coolly.

Without hesitation, Cordelia fired, but the figure effortlessly dodged and vanished into the shadows.

Rabbit aimed carefully, firing past H at the approaching lava worm. From the workshop’s CCTV feed, Otto monitored anxiously. “There’s Rabbit and Ordo—oh, and H34lr—wait, is that a giant worm?”

H dashed desperately past Rabbit, urgently shouting back, “Okay, now YOU get behind the door!”

The captain stepped into view.

Her towering frame was clad in reinforced armour, the weight of her authority and firepower impossible to ignore. She hefted a minigun slung to her shoulder, the hum of its power pack growing into a whine that promised destruction. Without a word, she opened fire.

Bullets screamed down the corridor in a thunderous storm. Rabbit, instinctively raising his arm, activated his personal shield. The translucent barrier shimmered as the rounds struck, each impact glowing like molten sparks before vanishing. The shield held. Rabbit’s lips curled in a low growl as he braced and spun up his own minigun, the weapon roaring to life with mechanical fury.

Otto’s gaze darted frantically along the corridor’s edges, scanning for options. A slim doorway, nearly flush with the wall, caught his eye. He bolted toward it, swiping his clearance card in one fluid motion. The door hissed open, and Otto ducked inside, motioning desperately for the others.

“Get behind the door—now!” Rabbit barked, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. He laid down covering fire, each burst forcing the captain to take cover. Her armour sparked under the onslaught, but she held her ground with grim determination.

In response, she raised her left hand and tapped a series of commands into a sleek controller integrated into her glove. With a chorus of hydraulic whines, two doors snapped open on either side of the corridor. Heavily armed guards burst through, weapons drawn and aimed. Above, ceiling panels slid open with a hiss, and automated defence turrets descended, whirring to life.

H-34lr reacted in an instant. He aimed his stun gun directly at the captain’s glove and fired. The bolt hit home, shorting out her controller with a cascade of blue sparks. The system’s targeting uplink failed—but it was too late. The turrets, now autonomous, began their attack.

Red tracer rounds lit the corridor. The team scrambled for cover. Otto ducked low behind a support beam, Cordelia twisted to avoid a barrage, but too late. A round clipped her shoulder. H’s stun gun was struck directly—exploding in a burst of electricity that knocked him to the ground.

Cordelia, now bleeding and disoriented, staggered to her feet and locked eyes with one of the advancing guards. She lunged forward, aiming a precise strike at his neck while triggering the aggression booster she’d prepped. But something in the servo failed—there was a sharp pop, and instead of injecting the guard, the injector misfired directly into her own system. A hiss followed, then a rush of burning energy as the serum flooded her veins. Her pupils dilated instantly. Breathing ragged, she trembled with the onset of chemical rage and spun, eyes blazing.

Her eyes locked on Ordo.

Ordo stood perfectly still, then moved with practiced precision. He reached up and pulled down the hood of his robe, revealing alabaster-white skin and a stark black sun tattoo burned into the centre of his forehead. Without hesitation, he grasped the belt at his waist and gave it a smooth magnetic yank—yoink—and the entire outer robe dropped in a whisper, pooling at his feet.

Underneath, his body was lean and wiry, scarred and sinewy, his torso marked by discipline and violence alike. Scarred muscle rippled as he moved, revealing a hardened, ascetic strength honed by suffering. The belt—already in motion—snapped in his grip, transforming with a subtle flick into a crackling electro-whip that hissed with energy.

Cordelia, behind him in her haze of fury, was forgotten in that moment. Ordo’s attention was fixed solely on the captain and her minions. He stepped into a smooth pivot, raising the whip high, and brought it down with a fluid, deadly arc. The lash coiled with unerring precision around the glowing core of the captain’s weapon.

One pull. One spark. The power cell was ripped free and clattered to the floor.

Ordo’s voice rang out, calm and cold. “You mock the Inquisition with every breath. Surrender or be turned to ash.”

The captain stumbled back, her expression unreadable. She barked an order to the guards. “Open fire!”

The guards hesitated—then obeyed. Bullets screamed again, but Ordo moved like smoke through fire, each shot missing by inches.

“The night flare will consume your hearts,” Ordo declared, voice rising into something darker, almost otherworldly.

The words struck something primal. The guards faltered. Fear overtook loyalty. One by one, they dropped their weapons and fled down the side halls, their footsteps fading fast.

“Cowards!” the captain shouted, furious. But the corridor was no longer hers to command. She took one last glance at the burning wreckage around her, then turned and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Otto’s fingers flew across his compad in a blur, each keystroke accompanied by a sharp breath and a rising sense of urgency. The overhead turrets, menacing and alert, had already begun to rotate in perfect sync, their targeting systems locking onto him with an eerie precision. His first hack triggered a cascade of red warnings across his interface. The moment his code failed, all four turrets swivelled in unison and aimed directly at him, barrels whirring to full power.

“Not good, not good,” Otto muttered under his breath, sweat beading along his brow. He dove into a second attempt, fingers trembling slightly as he bypassed subroutines and threaded through firewall loops, barely avoiding an auto-wipe that would have rendered his tools useless.

Just as the hum of the turrets reached a terrifying crescendo, the screen blinked green. The turret lights dimmed. One by one, their barrels drooped and returned to standby. Otto exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping with relief.

Meanwhile, Cordelia was still caught in the grip of the aggression serum coursing through her veins, muscles twitching, eyes unfocused with rage. H-34lr rushed to her, cutting through the tension like a scalpel. He grabbed her shoulder with practiced force and activated the subcutaneous taser embedded in his wrist.

Electricity surged through Cordelia’s system. Her back arched involuntarily, a strangled cry escaping her lips before her body stiffened, then slackened. The fury in her eyes dimmed, clarity slowly seeping back as her system rebooted.

Rabbit’s voice, low and steady, cut through the moment. “Get behind the door.”

H glanced at him with dry sarcasm. “You don’t have to tell us four times, Rabbit” He slung Cordelia’s arm over his shoulder and helped her toward the open maintenance hatch Otto had revealed moments before.

Without a word, Rabbit stepped forward and gently took Cordelia into his arms. She barely stirred, her expression dulled by exhaustion and the fading chemical haze. Cradling her carefully, Rabbit moved toward the safe zone.

As they regrouped in the tight corridor behind the reinforced door, Ordo stepped forward, eyes cool and unreadable.

“To Otto,” he said, “You do well for someone without divine purpose. Perhaps the stars guide your fingers.”

Then to Rabbit, his tone almost reverent, “You fight like Geryon’s fury. Brutal. Inelegant. Effective. The Mother approves.”

They pressed onward, reaching the elevator doors at the far end of the maintenance hall. Otto scanned the pad with their clearance cards—access granted—but the control panel buzzed lifelessly. The lift refused to move.

Cordelia, stirring weakly in Rabbit’s arms, pulled a bent security card from her coat. “Try this.”

Rabbit swiped the card. The lift rumbled uncertainly, then shuddered into motion. The doors sealed behind them, and the elevator began its long descent into the lower levels.

The interior was dim and claustrophobic, the silence thick with tension. The only sounds were the groaning of the lift’s cables and the distant echo of systems struggling to keep power.

Eventually, Rabbit broke the silence.

“This isn’t a recovery mission,” he said, voice low and certain. “This is an assassination.”

He glanced at Cordelia. “Tell them about the bomb on the ship. The pay-out, the crappy shuttle—it all stinks.”

Cordelia nodded faintly, her voice low but steady. “When I found the self-destruct module, I thought it might’ve been a leftover system or some kind of fail-safe. I didn’t want to believe it was deliberate. But the more I look at the patterns… the design, the transmitter frequency, the route they chose for us—none of it’s accidental.”

Otto folded his arms. “They sent us in blind, on a relic craft that could be remotely vaporized. They planned for us to disappear if it went sideways.”

Rabbit growled. “The Church isn’t just watching. They’re managing this from behind the curtain.”

Everyone slowly turned to Ordo.

Ordo’s brow furrowed as he processed the growing doubt and suspicion. “You believe the Temple is using you?”

Otto shot him a look. “They’re using all of us.”

Ordo shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. “I… I cannot believe the Cardinal would allow such a thing. She gave me my eyes when mine were burned away. She restored me. That was a kindness. Not a leash.”

Ordo’s eyes narrowed. “The Cardinal gave me my eyes,” he repeated with a strange conviction. “They are holy.”

Rabbit studied him. “You didn’t know about the bomb?”

Ordo paused. “I did not.”

The others stared at him.

“It would be foolishness,” he continued, more to himself than the others. “Why would Cardinal Ancona spend decades honing me, feeding me, rebuilding me—just to blow me apart? That is not her way. I suspect another.”

“Who?” Rabbit asked.

“A Cardinal by the name of Theofilus. A puffed-up fool with ambition and no restraint. If sabotage exists within the clergy… it reeks of his hand.”

Cordelia, still pale but alert, narrowed her eyes. “May I?” she asked Ordo quietly. “I’d like to verify something.”

Ordo met her gaze for a moment, then gave a solemn nod. “You may.”

Cordelia leaned in, releasing a cloud of investigative nanites from her palm. The swarm surrounded Ordo’s face, scanning with gentle pulses of blue light. One nanite slipped into his ocular node, prompting a sharp flicker in his left eye.

“Remote access detected,” she said flatly. “They’re not broadcasting, but they could be. And it’s the same transmitter signature as the bomb.”

Ordo didn’t hesitate. “Break the link. I do not fear death—but I fear being blind to the Mother’s light.”

Cordelia severed the transmitter with a single mental command. A whisper of light drifted from Ordo’s skin like smoke. He swayed slightly.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “When your soul returns to the void, I will carry its echo.”

The elevator slowed and stopped at another security checkpoint. This one was older, corrupted by dust and time. Otto and Cordelia worked in tandem—he rerouting power, she rewiring controls. Sparks danced. A groan, then the lift resumed its descent.

The further down they travelled, the more unstable the shaft became. Lights flickered out completely. The only illumination came from Rabbit’s glowing ear-tips and Otto’s compad. The shaft creaked. Metal strained. Then—

A deep, distant rumble.

“Explosion,” Otto said tightly.

The lift swayed as a shockwave rippled upward. Still it descended, slower now, groaning with strain.

When the doors finally opened, the hallway beyond was crumbling. Dust hung in the air. The floor was uneven, and makeshift metal braces jutted from every wall, holding up what remained of the ceiling. Pipes leaked steam in rhythmic hisses. The air stank of burning plastic and ozone.

As they stepped out cautiously, another blast rocked the earth. The platform groaned—and then the cable above them snapped with a violent metallic shriek. The elevator plummeted into the dark.

It hit bottom with a deafening, echoing crash, far below. The sound lingered in their ears long after silence returned.

They had arrived. And now there was no way back.

Rabbit flicked his ears, the tips glowing softly like ghostly beacons, illuminating the oppressive darkness of the corridor. The group pressed forward, nerves frayed from the chaos behind them, when suddenly a burst of manic laughter shattered the tense silence ahead.

Another tremor rumbled through the ground, shaking loose a few small rocks from the tunnel ceiling. Just as the vibrations faded, an elderly man rounded the corner ahead. His eyes were wide and gleaming with unhinged delight, and he wore a tattered brown coat bristling with explosives strapped haphazardly across his chest.

Flanking him were two other figures—both bandaged, bruised, and clearly worse for wear. They moved with a strange, loose-limbed sway, as if they’d stood too close to one blast too many and never quite found their balance again. Still, they walked alongside him with an eerie casualness, unbothered by their condition. The old man paused, beaming at the group with unsettling glee.

“Ooh, new visitors,” he cooed, stepping closer.

Rabbit tensed immediately, weapon humming in readiness, but Ordo raised a calming hand and stepped forward.

“I have fasted three days,” Ordo began serenely. “My bones burn from within. Would you hear the light of the Mothers?”

The old man’s eyes sparkled dangerously as he drew a knife from his coat, approaching eagerly. “Burning bones? Can I see?”

Cordelia intervened hastily, stepping forward and lifting her arm to reveal a series of intricate glowing circuits beneath her skin. “Wanna see my cool circuitry?” she asked with a smirk, her tone playful but calculated.

The old man’s eyes widened with fascination, his knife lowering slightly as he stared. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and gently took hold of Cordelia’s arm, turning it this way and that to examine the circuitry with childlike awe. He ran a finger along one of the glowing veins, muttering to himself with fascination. The group tensed, but he made no move to harm her—only to admire.

“Marvellous,” he breathed.

Otto cleared his throat, drawing the old man’s attention. “Okay… and who exactly are you supposed to be?”

The old man straightened proudly, releasing Cordelia’s arm and spreading his arms theatrically. “I am The Emblastor!” he declared with gusto, as though expecting applause. “But there are those who call me Tim.”

Otto blinked. “Right. Tim. We’re actually looking for, uh… whoever’s in charge down here. Your boss, maybe?”

Tim giggled enthusiastically. “Brutus? Follow me, follow me!”

He led them at a brisk and erratic pace through winding tunnels, occasionally stumbling dangerously. At one heart-stopping moment, Tim tripped; everyone froze, but thankfully no explosions followed.

Eventually, they emerged onto a cliff edge overlooking an immense, dark shaft, the heavy stench of decay assaulting their senses. Undeterred, Tim led them onwards into a cavern filled with fifteen hardened men, their armor cobbled together from scavenged materials. Silence fell as a towering figure emerged from the shadows—Brutus, massive and imposing.

“Who are you?” Brutus demanded, voice echoing through the chamber.

Rabbit hesitated, glancing uncertainly at his companions. “We are the…” He turned to the others mid-sentence, eyes wide with the realization they still hadn’t picked one. “…What’s our group name again?”

Otto sighed. “Still on the to-do list.”

Ordo stepped forward confidently. “Mother’s Mercies.”

Rabbit quickly explained their mission: they had been sent to recover a man named Beckett.

Brutus’s face darkened at the name.

“Beckett betrayed me,” Brutus growled, his deep voice carrying bitter anger. “Joined the faction controlling the lower warrens. Tim has obliterated all known paths below.”

“We must reach those lower levels,” Rabbit insisted. “Our mission’s to retrieve Beckett, but things aren’t adding up. We also believe our employer might want him dead, so… we could take care of that for you?”

Brutus considered them carefully, then nodded decisively. “I let you get down into the warrens, you can take Beckett—but I want their leader’s head.”

The group exchanged tense glances, silently weighing their options. Cordelia discreetly scavenged materials, fashioning a makeshift runner to ensure at least her own potential escape.

“We’ll help you,” Rabbit finally agreed, glancing around the chamber. “But we need to know how we’re getting back out. This place isn’t exactly welcoming.”

Otto added cautiously, “And if there’s a way up for us… why are you still down here?”

Brutus laughed, crossing his formidable arms. “You think I’m trapped down here?”

“How do we get down there?” Otto questioned carefully.

Brutus gestured toward the gaping shaft. “A crane lift is rigged at the edge. It will hold—probably.”

Uneasily, they approached the jury-rigged contraption. Rabbit climbed aboard first, his weight making it creak ominously. The others followed cautiously, gripping tightly as the lift began its shaky descent.

Halfway down, a sudden quake jolted the shaft. Tim, who had been standing precariously close to the edge with his arms outstretched like a performer awaiting applause, lost his footing. He wobbled once, then toppled forward into the abyss. As he fell, his manic laughter echoed up the shaft—”Wheeee!”—cutting sharply through the rising panic.

The group collectively froze in horror, watching his descent in stunned silence. H and Rabbit, driven by instinct or disbelief, both activated the capture functions on their visors, snapping visual records of the moment. Tim spiralled downward, the glint of his explosive-laden coat catching in the scattered lights like a comet in freefall.

Then, with a flash and an echoing roar, he hit the bottom. The resulting explosion lit up the cavern in a surge of red and orange, and a churning wall of flame erupted, rising like a vengeful spirit up the shaft toward the party.

Welcome to the Thousand Suns Cluster. Here the stars are not merely far distant twinkling things, but instead cover the sky, many visible even during the day. Close neighbours who are hurtling through space propelled by the monstrous gravity of the cluster itself. The night sky is never quite the same, always subtly changing, stars approaching, receding, and shifting.

In this mass of chaos, largely disregarded, is the star Primus, an unremarkable red dwarf. The outer of the twin planets is known by its own population as Endovar. The nightside of the planet glows with light from the megacity that covers most of the surface. The equator is ringed with shipyards, sharp lights piercing the night as they launch new ships into orbit. But night is never very dark here – the glow of the stars is cold and white but bright enough to cast shadows. In the centre of the city stands a massive, towering complex – the grand Cathedral of the temple of a Thousand mothers. Around it is a great circle of darkness – no lights are allowed here at night, the sky must not be masked, the light of the thousand mothers must be undisturbed.

Few people ever see the inside of that place and definitely no one of your ilk. And yet, you are gathered in a dark, damp room, around a dingy table, on which lies four crisp white envelopes marked with the circle of stars of the Temple. In each a letter with the seal of one Cardinal Ancona, neatly addressed to one of you: Cordelia, Otto, H-34lr, Mr Rabbit. The instructions are simple – you are to be taken to the Ringward wing of the grand cathedral for an audience. There is no mention of when or how to decline. You cannot decline.

There is a sharp decisive knock on the door. A petulant voice rings out. “Your transport sirs, and madam.”

The hum of the hovering limo wasn’t exactly comforting. In fact, it sounded distinctly like effort — the kind that made the chassis groan with the weight of Mr. Rabbit, a towering slab of brute force crammed into one end of the plush interior. Otto sat next to him, unbothered by the way the limo dipped slightly in their direction.

Across from them, H-34lr tilted their head, lenses adjusting. “Rabbit, does your gun really need its own seat?”

Rabbit grunted. That was apparently sufficient.

“Fair enough.”

The vehicle glided through the night city, weaving between spires and arcs of glowing data signs, past stacked megablocks and orbital elevators trailing like silver vines up to the dark canopy of stars. The sky in Endovar never truly darkened — too many stars, too many lights. But still, somehow, too much shadow.

Their destination loomed before them soon enough: the Grand Cathedral of the Temple of a Thousand Mothers. The hoverlimo slid into a private hangar bay lit by surgical whites and sterile blues.

Waiting for them was a man dressed in a suit so pure white it might as well have been an accusation. He offered no name, just a tight smile and a wave. “This way, sirs and madam.”

He led them down a corridor of polished stone and metallic accents, eventually stopping before a massive, archaic wooden door. A relic, practically heretical in this chrome-spined world.

“Wait here,” the man said. Then, without a sound, he vanished. Likely through one of the hidden seams Rabbit had already clocked in the walls.

Otto wandered. Rabbit prowled. There was chanting beyond the door, low and rhythmic. Rabbit tilted his head toward it, eyes narrowing. Otto, meanwhile, tapped fruitlessly at his interface.

“No open networks,” he muttered. “Just a handful of locked ones. Nothing we can leech.”

The clock ticked. Loudly. Not that anyone acknowledged it. But it ticked, and it tocked, and it dragged the minutes like a tired priest pulling a censer.

Eventually, mercifully, the door creaked open.

A man in a yellow hooded cloak emerged. His voice rose like incense:

“The stars are divine. They are birth and creation. They are pain and purification. Without pain, there is no truth. Without fire, there is no forgiveness. In the end, we are either smoke and ash or lost to the silence of the cold Dark.”

Before anyone could ask if that was meant to be a greeting, an elder woman entered behind him.

“You may sit,” she said warmly, motioning to the long bench-like seats. She gestured to the hooded man as well. “Novice Ordo, join us.”

She wasted no time with pleasantries. A man named Beckett had been sent to a penal colony — Inferno. It was a mistake, one not easily admitted to, and certainly not one meant for public record. She wanted them to retrieve him. Quietly.

The colony, colloquially known as the Hell Hole, wasn’t exactly the kind of place you strolled into and back out of. Ordo would accompany them, his status within the Temple giving them just enough legitimacy to pass scrutiny.

Cordelia raised a brow. “Are there… others who might’ve ended up there ‘by accident’?”

The elder’s smile thinned. “Do you question our judgement?”

Cordelia wisely offered no follow-up.

“You will be compensated,” the elder continued, tone smoothing back into diplomacy. “Fifteen hundred Angels each.”

H-34lr’s face screen flickered momentarily, the soft glow of his eyes transforming into spinning Angel symbols before settling back to neutral.

Each of them received a sleek Temple-issued com-pad, already keyed to clearance protocols and route authorisation codes. The weight of obligation fit comfortably in their palms.

Their escort led them down a polished causeway toward a sleek, gleaming starship resting proudly under the spotlights.

“Oh,” Otto grinned, impressed. “Nice.”

The guide, without breaking stride, pointed past it. “No, yours is behind it.”

And there it was. Less a ship, more a statement. A bulky, groaning, half-repainted clunker that looked like it had seen better decades. Probably used to smuggle better ships inside it.

The guide tapped his comm and turned to leave. “If you have any issues, don’t call us.”

Otto sighed but climbed aboard with the others, diving immediately into the ship’s systems. Nothing interesting. Just dusty logs, basic nav-data, and a backlog of outdated media files — mostly old temple-licensed cartoons and local news footage. As the diagnostics ran, he quietly opened his own compad and began a deep trawl through fringe forums and encrypted threads, searching for anything off-the-books about Inferno or the Hell Hole.

Meanwhile, Mr. Rabbit lumbered toward the cockpit, clearly intending to take the helm. Otto, half-turned in his seat, called out casually:

“What’s up, Honey Buns?”

There was a pause. Then Rabbit turned slowly, grabbed Otto’s chair with both hands, and gave it a pointed, rattling shake. He said nothing. Just turned again and stalked off, boots echoing down the corridor.

He ended up sulking in the hangar bay.

Otto shrugged. “Guess I’m flying, then. It’s just like the sim games I play, right?”

Cordelia took the opportunity to explore the ship’s more overlooked systems. Tucked behind a rusted panel, she found something unexpected: a remote-triggered self-destruct module. With a smirk, she reconfigured the access protocols. Now, only she could arm it. Insurance.

H-34lr joined Otto in the cockpit, feeding him a cocktail of mild stimulants to keep his reaction time sharp. Pong played silently across H’s visor, a personal distraction that didn’t seem to affect his awareness in the slightest.

Back in the bay, Rabbit found Cordelia, his posture stiff and scowl carved deep into his face.

“Don’t like this job,” he muttered. “Something stinks.”

Cordelia didn’t bother arguing. Instead, she glanced around to ensure they were alone, then leaned in slightly. “There’s a remote self-destruct wired into the ship. Hidden. I found it.”

Rabbit stared at her, blinking once. Then again. His mouth worked like he might say something, but nothing came out.

“They put us on a ship rigged to blow,” he said eventually, voice low and stunned. “Y’know… that much money? Shoulda known something was off. Sounded too good to be true.”

Cordelia nodded. “They did. But I changed the trigger. It only answers to me now. No one else.”

Rabbit was quiet for a long moment, the weight of that revelation sinking in like a punch to the gut. Then his shoulders squared, jaw clenched tight.

“Bastards.”

The ship exited Surf not far from Inferno. The planet dominated the viewport, alarmingly close to its host star. One side boiled with molten oceans, forever scorched. The other side lay buried in eternal night. Tidal locking. A planet split by extremes.

They skimmed low over the burning surface, turbulence kicking up from glowing fissures and geysers of steam, until they reached the edge: the terminus, where heat gave way to black rock and long shadows. Mining scars marred the land, miles-deep cuts into the planet’s crust.

Nestled within one such crater, a reinforced dome rose from the darkness. As they approached, a crisp voice cracked over the comms.

“Identify and transmit clearance.”

Otto tapped the Temple-issued pad. A moment passed. Then the voice returned.

“Verified. You may proceed.”

As the ship descended toward the landing bay, Otto leaned toward Ordo. “What’s our cover story again?”

The novice’s tone was patient. Practiced.

“You are my flock. We are here to shine the light of repentance.”

A beat.

“Warmth is the Second Mercy.”

While descending, Otto pulled up his earlier dark web queries. One hit stood out: whisperings that the deeper levels of Inferno weren’t truly under Temple control. Rumours of criminal gangs and black-market economies. The threads disappeared fast. Scrubbed. Controlled.

Otto silently pinged the others. No alerts for Ordo.

The craft landed with a hiss. A ramp descended. Blinding white light greeted them once again.

Two guards approached the ramp with all the charm of a system update. Clad in heavy armour designed more for suppression than front-line warfare, they looked like they’d walked straight out of a riot control manual and into a bad mood. Each was fitted with stun batons, magnetic restraints, sidearms, and one carried a shoulder-mounted drone launcher. Not built for combat against trained soldiers, but devastatingly effective against anyone else. Mr. Rabbit studied their equipment with a predator’s calm, filing away every weapon, every weak spot, every potential opening.

Before anyone else could speak, Ordo stepped forward. His yellow-hooded robe caught the hangar’s overhead glow, and with the solemnity of a preacher at dawn, he raised his voice.

“We are here to visit the lower levels,” he said, voice smooth and unshaken. “To shine a light to the repentant.”

The taller guard furrowed his brow, unimpressed. “You’ll need permission from the captain for that.”

“Then take us to them,” Ordo replied. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a request. It simply was.

With reluctant nods, the guards gestured for the group to follow. Behind them, Otto sealed the ship, locking down all systems. The party stepped from the sanctity of their clunker into the blinding sterility of Inferno’s hangar, flanked by armoured escorts.

As they moved through the stark corridors, Cordelia kept to the shadows along the walls, eyes flicking from door to vent to security camera. Her mental map grew with each step. If this went south, she’d know the exits. She always did. Otto, meanwhile, used the distraction of their march to quietly infiltrate the hangar’s network. His compad flashed as he dropped a trojan onto the local systems — silent, passive, and waiting.

The route wound through barrack-lined corridors with peeling paint and old, sun-faded propaganda posters. At last, the guards halted outside a solid steel office door.

“Wait here. Do not leave,” said one, disappearing through the door.

The remaining guard stayed put, watching them with the practiced blankness of someone who knew how to stand still for hours.

Ordo leaned slightly toward Otto. “I have a contact in system administration. Samuel. Send him an encrypted message requesting elevated access.”

Otto nodded and got to work, his fingers gliding across his device. The message was wrapped in three layers of encryption and bounced through seven relays. A few tense seconds passed.

“Done. Never contact me again.”

The door opened. A stern-faced woman in tight-pressed military garb emerged. Her eyes swept over the group, calculating.

“You’re not scheduled,” she said, her tone clipped and suspicious. “This is highly irregular protocol. The system says you’re cleared, but I’ve seen too many clearance codes faked in my time to take it at face value. I want biometric confirmation from each of you, starting now.”

Otto stepped forward, trying to keep his face unreadable. The biometric scanner flared to life, casting a pale light across his features. A low hum started, growing louder as the machine worked, flickering uncertainty in its rhythm. Seconds dragged. The pause became noticeable. The guards exchanged glances. Even Ordo tilted his head slightly, calculating. Otto clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to tap his foot.

Then, finally, with a synthetic chime far too cheerful for the tension in the room, the screen flashed green.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, as the room relaxed by degrees around him.

“Full access? Very strange,” she murmured. “I haven’t seen that level granted in years.” She turned to Ordo, narrowing her gaze. “I assume this is Inquisition work?”

Each member of the team stepped forward. Each scan gave the same result.

The captain frowned. “This stinks. I need to speak with the station commander.”

“The Suns know what you did,” Ordo said, his voice almost gentle.

That broke her rhythm. Her face paled a touch, then hardened.

She hit a command on her compad. Red lights pulsed from overhead. A klaxon warbled.

“Red Alert. No one leaves this room.”

Without further explanation, she slipped through the door and vanished down the hall, leaving them in a sealed room with five heavily armed guards.

Rabbit stepped forward, shifting his stance. The air around him changed. He was no longer part of the group; he was a bulwark. Otto ducked behind him.

“Cover me,” he said.

Ordo pulled a slim, silver tube from a fold in his robe and raised it to his lips.

Otto’s fingers flew. Lines of code flickered across his screen. He rewrote the system’s alert headers. In less than ten seconds, the red alert changed from “5 suspects held for infiltration” to “Prisoner Riot in Progress — All Units Mobilise.”

Two guards instinctively checked their comms. One turned.

“We’ve got to move,” he said. The door opened—

And a blur of metal and synthetic growls slammed into the room. A robotic dog, plated in gunmetal and chrome, took one of the guards off his feet, slamming him to the ground.

“Good boy, Astro,” Ordo said without turning.

Rabbit lowered his minigun from his back, the barrels beginning to spin with an ominous whine. Then came the thunder. He swept the room in a tight arc, tearing three of the remaining guards apart in a brutal storm of plasma and blood.

H-34lr stepped forward from the rear. Calm and cold, he plunged a knife into the last standing guard with practiced precision.

Astro let out a synthetic snarl and crushed the neck of the downed guard beneath a titanium paw. Ordo pointed toward the corridor.

“Sinner. Fetch.”

Astro turned and sprinted after the captain, mechanical limbs churning silently.

With the room cleared, the group regrouped. Rabbit moved to the front, gun still humming.

H joined Otto at his side, casting a quick glance over at the trail of carnage Rabbit had left behind.

“Glad he’s on our side,” H muttered, voice low.

Otto, still watching the last wisps of smoke curl from Rabbit’s gun barrels, gave a crooked grin. “For now at least. He’s still deciding whether or not to redecorate with our organs.”

H snorted. “Then maybe stop calling him Bunny. You’re pushing your luck.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “But it’s endearing. Shows respect.”

“It shows you want your teeth handed to you,” H replied, deadpan.

Cordelia lingered behind just long enough to do a quick sweep. She stripped IDs, clearance badges, and anything else of value from the bodies. Seven Angels, five Saints, and a reinforced keycard for sealed wings. Her eyes glittered as she flipped one between her fingers.

She slipped back into formation beside Ordo.

They pushed deeper into the facility. The halls hummed with distant activity. Lights flickered. Somewhere, alarms still echoed. As they turned toward the route back to the hangar, a voice rang out from the shadows ahead.

“I told you to stay in that room.”

Something whirled to life in the dark. The sound was mechanical, heavy, rising in pitch like a storm breaking just beneath the surface. It wasn’t clear what it was — the shrill whine of rotating parts, the low grind of armoured movement, the thrum of energy spooling to dangerous levels.

Whatever it was, it was big. It was close. And it wasn’t friendly.

Starburst is a new system by The Tabletop Astronomer, currently in development, the above game was a playtest carried out with members of the Dice Company Podcast Community

“Got it,” she murmured, eyes narrowing as an aged yet functional blueprint materialized in ghostly blue luminescence. It highlighted two potential ingress points: a subterranean sewer tunnel and a back entrance leading into the compound’s service corridor.

Dollar scoffed, flipping his hair dramatically. “A sewer? Do you know how much I just spent on this? 500 Monies.” He adjusted the collar of his impeccably tailored Space-Armani boilersuit and smirked. “We take the front.”

Pippa sighed but deferred, watching as Dollar confidently strode toward the guards stationed at the main entrance. He exuded an effortless bravado, the neon lights catching on his outfit just enough to make him seem important.

“Can we help you?” one of them asked, standing straighter.

“Yes,” Dollar said smoothly, flashing an insincere grin. “We have a scheduled meeting with Dave.”

The guards exchanged uncertain glances. “I’ll need to check with him.”

Dollar sighed, shaking his head with exaggerated impatience. “Look, we’re here for business, not bureaucracy. If you want to delay us, fine—but when Dave asks why he just lost a lucrative deal, make sure he knows it was because you wanted to waste time.”

The guards hesitated, then one finally relented. “Fine. Follow me.”

The interior was a maze of cluttered corridors, tangled wiring running along the walls and ceilings like veins feeding the complex. An unconscious figure lay slumped in a hallway, their breathing slow and shallow, evidence of some narcotic haze. Pippa’s sharp gaze scanned the space, quickly locking onto a particular door—one reinforced with thick metal plating and boasting an excessive number of cables feeding into it. Additional air conditioning tubes snaked into the room, clearly designed to keep something inside at a controlled temperature. The unusual reinforcement, heavy wiring, and cooling system suggested it housed something critical, perhaps a secure server or a high-priority control hub. Her instincts told her this was the place they needed to breach.

CB-5, the team’s cybernetic operative, moved like a shadow, maneuvering behind the escort with practiced precision. Without hesitation, they activated their internal taser, delivering a precise jolt to the guard’s nervous system. The man crumpled soundlessly, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Pippa stepped up to the door, rapping her fist against the metal. “Something’s wrong! Help!”

A mechanical viewport slid open, revealing wary eyes. “What’s the problem?”

Dollar smoothly lifted his plasma scatter gun, aiming directly through the slot. “Unlock the door. Now.”

A tense pause. Then, with evident reluctance, the locks disengaged. The door slid open, revealing a chaotic workspace—a cluster of holographic monitors flickering with erratic data streams, wires coiling around tables and chairs like artificial vines. A lone teenager stood frozen in the doorway, his hands raised, eyes darting between the intruders and the massive combat droid standing inert in the center of the room.

Pippa’s gaze quickly found their objective: a high-powered processor unit embedded in the droid’s core. On one of the monitors, a notification pulsed ominously: UPLOAD COMPLETE.

The droid’s eyes flickered to life. HOSTILE PRESENCE DETECTED.

“Shut it down!” Dollar barked, eyes locked on the teen.

The boy shook his head frantically. “I can’t! It’s already active!”

Dollar, recalling an old Holovision show where a hero disabled a rogue AI by shooting the main console, figured it was worth a shot. With unwavering confidence, he fired at the nearest bank of monitors, fully expecting the droid to shut down instantly. Sparks erupted, screens shattered, and acrid smoke filled the air—but the droid remained standing. The teenager winced, but his expression quickly turned to exasperation. “That’s not how it works!”

The droid took its first deliberate step, servos whirring. Pippa lunged at a power conduit, tearing it free. Electricity arced through the room, sending her reeling backward in a violent convulsion. She hit the ground hard, unconscious—but not before severing one of the droid’s arms in the process.

CB-5 raised their weapon and fired, but the droid was unfazed. The pounding bass of distant music, likely coming from a club or party elsewhere in the building, provided an unintended benefit, drowning out the escalating commotion. Then, the remaining arm flickered ominously—a pilot light igniting.

“Flamethrower!” Dollar shouted as the chamber erupted in an inferno. His personal shield activated just in time to deflect the worst of the flames, but Pippa and CB-5 weren’t as lucky.

Thinking quickly, Dollar recalibrated his aim and fired at the droid’s remaining limb. The resulting explosion triggered the facility’s fire suppression system, unleashing a torrential downpour. Steam billowed in thick clouds as the blaze was extinguished, leaving the room in soaked disarray.

CB-5, now drenched, lunged at the droid’s core, gripping the exposed processor. The moment their fingers made contact, a powerful surge of electricity coursed through their frame, causing their servos to seize up momentarily. The droid, sensing resistance, swung its flamethrower-equipped arm, striking CB-5 and sending them skidding across the floor. Smoke rose from the scorched plating on their chassis.

Gritting their artificial teeth, CB-5 forced themselves up and, without hesitation, activated their internal taser. They lunged forward once more, jamming their electrified fingers against the droid’s central system. A violent jolt coursed through the droid’s circuits, its mechanical body spasming uncontrollably before collapsing in a heap of inert metal and flickering lights.

The processor’s clasps disengaged. Dollar wasted no time securing the unit while CB-5 staggered toward Pippa, initiating emergency medical protocols. A faint groan escaped her lips as the nanites in the medkit began their work.

The mission was complete. But as Dollar surveyed the ruined room, drenched in a mixture of water and smoke, he knew this night wasn’t over yet.