Days of work. Nights of work. Maybe even shifts that went round the clock, that was the duty of a medical professional in this country now. When the heat rose they cut all social ties in order to bring any issue to an end, that was the meaning of a true doctor. Against their will or not, their contracts held these stipulations over their heads. One of the people who suffered the same was Patrick. He walked the streets with a limp in his step and heavy bags weighing down their eyes. Inhalations of salt kept him going and the crash of seas died the more he traversed south.
The loving sounds nostalgic to him faded the further he went into the heart into that village cut out of time. His eyes wavered and his tie came undone, after an eighteen-hour shift it was a miracle he remained standing, "At least I get to sleep at home for once," the new wave of medical machines was a godsent to the human workers. Arms in pockets and whistle in his heart. Patrick took the same route he always took to get home. A thin backstreet which sat behind all other houses and their gardens, he admired the various vessels who took residence with owners nearby.
"Hmm, not home again either…?" he looked at the house that was only three away from his from the back view. Lena's window was left open with curtains swaying in the breeze. Wilson was most likely giving patronage to a bar or preparing for the oyster check-in his lakes, "Man….should have asked him to teach me farming before I went into the wrong career…" both wore the belt of a thankless job with a clear victor in terms of fun between the pair. Winds caused the ends of her windows to crack against the outer stone, smudging the ivory color over years. Patrick faced away from the storm. When he looked back something was on their roof.
A cowl wrapped in gold sparkling like tiny flames. Blink and a miss. Patrick rubbed his eyes, "Too tired for this," a mystery made by his mind or some drunkard with too much free time, it simply didn't concern him. "Home...sweet home."
Eyes landed on Patrick's house at last. His parents left him with not the biggest of hovels, but it was far from a simple shack. An abode of two floors comprising of a few rooms; most were storage for matters Patrick abstained from. The bright yellow and red building in the middle of a fenced grassy field was a sanctity to him. He reached out of his pocket with the key in hand. Slowly the ridges of the device slid into the lock. But he couldn't turn it. Sweat dripped from his spine.
"Hel…."
A broken speaker yelped, begging for anyone to aid him. That shrewd tone wrapped in pain was right behind Patrick. The figure struggled through his gate as he turned to face it. The wolf stood on their hind legs, arm torn asunder and head split cleaved through. Blots of silver agents coated their black hide; their hellish form groaned in the agony, "It won't stop….they won't let me," the silver nanomachines transmuted even him. "Please kill me,"
Patrick fell backward. The giant stammered forward with head slung towards the skies. Had this accursed port disease evolved to destroy machines as well? Patrick scuffled back every time the machine grew closer; it braced against the walls to support its weight. Reaching into his aid kit Patrick hid his hands in gloves and masked his mouth. A prayer was uttered before he walked towards it. He went into its zone. Something went wrong. Port disease clumped and fell off the unit's frame as he got closer; remnants of damage remained behind their pelt.
"Oh wow, nice place you have here, doc" there was a bang. Something scuffled behind him. Force squeezed his throat with an invisible grip. No matter how hard Patrick tried to turn around and face his attacker he would never, other than the ripples of a camouflage modification, "Don't worry about this guy, he's one of mine, see?" the clumps shattered enough to reveal the paint on the side of the unit's neck. Z. "I did that to him."
"You're one of the leads on the silverization cure, isn't that right? I can't have that, Mr. Patrick? Don't worry you won't die- I can't kill another friend of that Buakham girl anyways. I'm not stupid enough to set off that pyromaniac of a woman."
Nobody could hear his shouts. Zenith was on the move again. Not only in the little port side location no, beyond the reaches of the land and sea. But now, they targeted the realm under it. Cnoc Dubh the black mines. Black fumes always escaped the black peaks of the centralized iron buildings. Built into the sides of mountains, taller than them and ran deeper than any natural cavern. Many saw this place as a city, to the 'citizens' this was a prison with no walls.
Among the mountains was a single thin stalk of iron, a tower with a rounded head, and glass walls. At the base smaller towers sprouted at an angle like various flowers in a net of iron rods. Each head steamed the same, unlike the very top. The city was smaller in comparison to many, built over a giant basin of water. Branded on each wall were the logos of the different owners. Corporates from afar used the mines, however, most were local industries; such as the Dragnok Ironworks who owned sixty percent of the land. In terms of government, after every haul was brought Rote got his cut.
Dragnok Ironworks, the reason why one of the leads flew to the location now. Draglion took deep whiffs of soot and flew around every miniature tower before reaching the two-kilometer-tall one. His wings tucked in once he saw one of the windows open. He dove in bringing a gush of wind forward with him rightfully scaring the one within, "Fucking hell!" the foreman was ready for a fight when his work flew in every direction. "Oh….just take the elevator like a normal person for once,"
The office of the foreman was a humble one, dark carpeting and walls to match the mood. Sprigs of green about for color. Everything was the standard except for the giant elevator at the end. Draglion didn't apologize, instead, he looked out of the fogged windows at the glimmers of anything beyond the thick shrouds. The touch of soft carpets was refreshing as well, "Forgive me for my sudden appearance, foreman, but I believed your Knight was in today," Draglion lowered his head to the hardened foreman of the region. Daedra Dyson.
The prized son of the Dyson household and twin of the stone-cold warden. His skin was near the tone of the coal that surrounded him, similar was his hair. Piercing green eyes and a smile of white. Years of working on the mines left his body sculpted like the stones they shattered. On hot days like these Daedra's apparel remained a thin white vest and baggy jeans to beat the heat, "Baroque is away on council business, I don't know what that means," he was brazen with the case. "I'm guessing your appearance has something to do with the letter Wayverion sent?"
Seeing the mood, Daedra fixed his clothing, reaching into his wardrobe for something more fitting of the occasion. A jacket over his vest, a small change but respectful to the man almost twice his height, "You'd be correct," Draglion noted, "Our current output when factored with the increase in repairs, as well as the current forecast, we cannot operate at full capacity with the current raw materials coming into our factories. I come on Wayverion's behalf to negotiate an expansion in our share of the property," from a parcel strapped to his side was an envelope. Wax sealed with the dragon's sigil as per customs.
"Good timing, I'll see what I can do," Daedra placed the document in his draw. Using his pass card as well as passcode before turning heel to the elevator, "In exchange, follow me. We have much to discuss," Draglion obliged, though he despised the confines. The only way for him to fit in the elevator was to sit with knees near his crouching head, "Don't give me that look- next time wait at the bottom and just signal me like everyone else,"
The panels on the elevator were simple. Three buttons, one leading to Daedra's office, another lead to the entrance of the tower, and the third to the tower's base. The under ring. While the upper ring was always Baron Baroque's domain of dealing, the Dyson of Cnoc ruled the under ring. The elevator went down and down forever into the abyss meeting the silence with hums and hisses. Rarely did Daedra see the light of the upper grounds, his eyes long died and replaced with mechanical optics, "Say, when do you believe Baroque would return?"
The dragon quizzed, "Not soon I'm guessing," Daedra responded, "Last I heard Rote was running them around a lot with the recent attacks" the ding of the elevator stopped their awkward moment. When opened a sterile white room greeted the pair. An additional chamber before the mines. Protocol all non-machines went through before entering the facility for their own safety. The moment they entered an air drier honed in on them with moisture entering the chamber. Gas masks were provided with a compact structure as well as a thick rubbery suit. All paired with a pair of goggles.
"Hmm…" the dragon struggled with the gas masks, "I didn't think we would enter the mines, I left my suit all the way back in my Durigon chambers," he admitted, the particles in the air were no threat to Draglion in the first place.
"Just don't stray from course too much, we're not going into the heat for too long,"
On the other end of the completely void room was a door. The heated mines blasted humidity even at this distance. Draglion crawled through to the old familiar feel.
The under ring. A cavern of momentous scale and tunnels carved in every which way. A giant opening with a high enough ceiling that the dragon could loop freely. Red stones and chinks of iron breaking rock filled their ears along with the unbearable grinding of digger machines. Ultra-powerful bulbs emulated sunlight to the starved; that and the magma veins were enough to keep workers alive and well. The under ring itself was divided further into three sectors. The Tungsten mines, the gemstone mines, and the coalfields; work laborious in descending order. Since the treaty with Skylandria maximum was forced and deals with the Dragnok's empire of machines output was always maximized.
The coalfields and gemstone mines were horrid to experience. Rocky tubes that thinned the further you traversed where stray gems could slash through your gear; precautions against miner's lung existed for eons, though few cases remained. Daedra didn't care for those, however, after all, "I will never get over you people's use of prison labour for this," Draglion sighed. "They do benefit from it, but what does the Vulcan think of these things?"
"The ancestors are probably fine with this," the program was set in place for criminals who were seen as 'redeemable' in the eyes of the law. They were offered the position to work in the mines to shorten their sentence and afterwards a job opportunity in Cnoc Dubh if desired. Obviously in some of the nicer locations where they didn't crawl in caverns slightly wider than their shoulders such as the tungsten mines. Daedra and Draglion went there now.
Nobody batted an eye at their foreman, still, the dragon was a rare sight. They operated in diggers. Small three-wheeled vehicles where operators laid back in an iron frame with reinforced glass and used buttons to control drills and shovels in the front of the linear vehicle. They bore routes through the rock and hoarded any raw metals found in their cargo bed. Among those workers were worker droids, not piloting diggers but using their drill tips and jack-hammer arms to unearth raw minerals. Dragnok Ironworks branded on the back of all. "Weren't you using these in the gemstone mines?"
"Hmm? Yeah, but someone broke a magma vein the other day, and until that hardens we're not sending anyone in the depths," Draglion smelt the lie on the Dyson's breath. Something remained in the heart. Both followed down the incline of tungsten.
Draglion's mouth open for a light source. Darkness was their stalker and fear became their companion, "See it as yet?"
"Hmm…."
A blinding glow was the center of attention. "Where does it go?"