"What are you doing?!" One of the collectors shouted, his voice shrill with terror, eyes wide and bloodshot as he thrashed against ropes of steel. The raw panic in his voice fractured the air. Vilrux's hand moved swiftly, pressing a piece of cloth into the man's open mouth. He tapped it lightly, and the cloth transformed, hardening into a metallic sheen that forced the collector's mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes darted wildly, tears streaming down his cheeks, but his muffled cries dissolved into hollow gasps. Beside him, two other collectors lay bound and gagged in a similar fashion, their bodies writhing with futile resistance as they choked on the same steel cloths.
Rozeree looked away, her stomach twisting, and fixed her gaze on the capital looming in the distance. Colossal monoliths of metal and glass pierced a smog-choked horizon, their surfaces shimmering with distant rivers of neon light. The megastructures formed a jagged crown against the dying sun, their highest points disappearing into low-hanging clouds that pulsed with the glow of the city beneath. Even from miles away, ghostly, shifting colors crawled up the sides of the tallest towers, turning the perpetual smog into a kaleidoscope of muted blues and reds. Each new glimpse of the approaching metropolis, a hint at the vastness of the city she was fast approaching.
"Rozeree!" Vilrux's sharp voice snapped her attention back, slicing through her daze. She flinched, her gaze reluctantly returning to the scene before her.
"Don't look away," Vilrux commanded, his voice cold and unyielding. "This is your life now. You'll hide who you are—where you came from. Never let anyone discover the truth about you, your parents, or Graybarrow."
Rozeree blinked, taken aback by his sudden focus on her origins. Her brows knitted in confusion, a shiver racing down her spine. "B-but… why?"
"Because I said so," Vilrux replied, his tone brooking no argument. "From now on, you're nobody but an orphan from Bolgue. Parents unknown. Your past—unknown."
He pointed at the struggling men on the ground, their eyes pleading as they fought against the unforgiving metal that silenced them. "These men know who you are, Rozeree," Vilrux said softly, his gaze locked on hers. "And you know what that means."
Rozeree's pulse hammered in her ears as her eyes fell to the cold, heavy gun in her hand, feeling far weightier than before. Uncertainty clawed at her mind, and her thoughts spiraled—Is he asking me to… kill them? Just to keep my past hidden?
"What's it going to be, Rozeree?" Vilrux's voice dropped, laced with a dangerous edge. "You didn't come all this way to quit, did you? Maybe I should take you back to Graybarrow if—"
"No!" Rozeree cut in, the word escaping her lips before she could even think. Her grip on the gun tightened, her voice firming. "I can do it. I will do it."
Rozeree stepped forward, her legs shaky, each footfall feeling heavier than the last, like she was sinking with each step. The muffled whimpers of the collectors barely reached her over the hammering of her heartbeat, a hollow thud pounding away in her ears. This is freedom, she told herself, yet the words tasted strange, hollow, as if they didn't quite fit. She closed her eyes, swallowing down the bitterness, willing herself to feel… less. This is what it means to be a Fixer, she tried to convince herself, but each attempt felt weaker, slipping from her grip even as she spoke it within.
The gun was foreign in her grip, a cold extension of someone she was no longer sure she recognized. Sweat dampened her palms, slipping over the metal, and she gripped harder, willing herself not to falter. As she raised the weapon, the collector's eyes locked onto hers—blue, human eyes that seemed so out of place in this wasteland, eyes that might have once softened at children's laughter or grown misty at a final sunset. No, she thought, fighting against the pull of his pleading stare, her own humanity screaming back at her. But her fingers tensed around the trigger, her pulse racing with a twisted urgency, drowning out the echo of that scream. This is freedom, she reminded herself—freedom, at any cost.
Do it. Do it. The words came in a relentless, thrumming beat, synchronized with her racing pulse. She forced herself to take a breath, to steady her shaking hands, even as her body seemed to resist. Her finger hovered over the trigger, and it felt alive, like a snake coiled, waiting to strike. Just one pull, she thought, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. One pull to leave everything behind. The mantra pounded louder, drowning out reason, and in that moment, the trigger became her escape, her passageway into someone she was still learning to be.
Vilrux's hands settled on her shoulders, unyielding, steady as mountain stone. His touch felt both grounding and coldly directive, as if guiding her toward a path she couldn't return from.
"It's okay, breathe," he said, his voice a strangely soothing contrast to the brutality of his command. The words slid into her mind like warm honey, wrapping around her pulse, coaxing her toward surrender. "Relax your body. This moment is yours. Breathe deep…" The words dripped with promise, with something final and freeing, and Rozeree felt the last of her hesitation begin to erode, replaced by a quiet, hollow certainty.
The gunshot split the air like a jagged tear, raw and deafening. A flash of fire and fury burst from the barrel, and the violent recoil jolted through Rozeree's arms, vibrating down to her bones. She stumbled backward, breath seizing as Vilrux's steady hands caught her. The sharp tang of gunpowder filled her lungs, stinging and acrid.
In front of her, the collector's face was no longer whole—where his eyes had been, a hollow cavity gaped, dark and wet, smeared with bone fragments and the gleaming tissue of shattered brains. Blood spattered across the ground, sticky and hot, and Rozeree's legs felt rooted as she stared into the terrible emptiness left behind. I… I killed him. I really did it.
"One down," Vilrux murmured, his voice low and controlled. "Two more. Steady yourself."
Her hands still trembled as she lifted the gun, though less so now, the shaking turning almost into something electric, something that hummed with a strange, fierce energy. The second collector's eyes met hers, wet and terrified, a mirror of the panic she'd felt only moments ago. But now, with the memory of the first shot vibrating in her grip, she felt a hollow calm settle in, like the calm that comes only after giving in to the dark. The gun's weight pressed into her hand, anchoring her, and she held it steady, knowing that this was who she was becoming. No more weakness, no more looking back. In the silence before the shot, a part of her felt weightless, like she'd finally cut free of something that had always held her down.
"Don't hesitate," Vilrux said, his voice steady and firm. "This is your choice. Take control."
"Okay," she nodded, drawing a shaky breath to steady herself. This is my choice, I will become the strongest. No matter what. She raised the gun, locking her aim on the man's forehead. Her pulse steadied, the doubt in her chest hardening into something cold, something resolute. No more weakness, she told herself, her finger tightening on the trigger. No more looking back. She exhaled slowly, then fired.
The thunderous crack split the air, and the bullet tore through him, sending a spray of blood and fragments across the dirt. His body dropped limply, his head lolling to the side, and Rozeree's pulse thudded in her ears as she stared at the dark pool growing beneath him. Rozeree's breathing slowed as she exhaled, shoulders relaxing just slightly. A strange calm settled over her, her grip steadying as a grim certainty took root.
"Good," Vilrux said, nodding in approval. "See? Power comes from conviction. Now—finish what you started."
Rozeree turned toward the final collector. This time, she felt no hesitation. She stepped forward, her stance strong as she lifted the gun with newfound confidence. She could feel Vilrux's presence at her back, not as a reassurance, but as a reminder of what she was here to prove. No going back now, she thought, her gaze sharpening. This is who I have to be.
The man's terrified gaze met hers for a final moment. Her finger squeezed the trigger, and the gun roared to life. The bullet struck, burrowing deep, and his head snapped back as blood erupted into the sky. The silence that followed was stark, final.
Rozeree lowered her arm, the weight of the weapon now familiar in her grip. Her chest rose and fell, but her heartbeat was steady, her breathing calm. She turned toward Vilrux, her gaze unflinching.
"Good," he said, his eyes meeting hers with something close to approval. "Hold onto this feeling—the strength, the certainty. Weakness has no place in the path you've chosen."
Rozeree nodded, her jaw set. "I will never be weak."
She glanced down at the fallen bodies, the spreading pools of blood, but felt only a sense of clarity, a dark satisfaction that took root in her. Weak like them, like Silvas, like father.
"Come on, we need to get rid of any signs that could tie them to us," Vilrux said, his tone steady and measured. "Strip them of their identification and dispose of the bodies. Out here in the wastes, nobody cares about corpses; it's the metics that scream 'collectors.' And that carriage overflowing with fresh food? It might seem harmless now, but it's a liability we can't afford."
He gestured toward the horizon, where the sun dipped below the jagged rooftops, casting long shadows that danced in the twilight. "Besides, it's a perfect opportunity for you to meet some of my friends in the city."
After a few phone calls, Vilrux leaned back against a weathered rock, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Some men from Nacrila will be here shortly to pick up the bodies. More will come for the food."
As they settled into the gritty earth, the air thick with the scent of decay and dust, Rozeree's thoughts drifted like wisps of smoke rising from a distant fire. She could almost hear Daglan's laughter echoing in her mind, the way he lit up the shadows of her past.
"How do you think you'll become an Ascendant?" Daglan had asked her one lazy afternoon, his eyes bright with ambition. He puffed out his chest, trying to look older, stronger. "I want to be known as one of the toughest fighters in the world! The kind nobody dares challenge."
Rozeree had stared up at the bright blue sky, her expression softened, thoughtful. A gentle breeze stirred her hair as she considered his question, words coming slowly, as if she was tasting each one.
"I don't really know," she had said, her voice quiet, almost wistful. "I've never thought about it that way. I just want the world to know my name… to remember me." She paused, a hint of a smile touching her lips. "As long as I'm remembered, I think… I think that's enough."
The two had fallen silent, each lost in their own vision of the future, the weight of their dreams pressing upon them like the vast sky overhead. The sky that was now a dark grey, occasionally lit up by the distant capital. I guess I want to be someone nobody dares challenge as well…
As Rozeree peered into the distance, the desert stretching out before her under a fading twilight. The ground was cracked and dry, with patches of scorched earth and the distant silhouette of the city rising against the sky like jagged teeth. As she and Vilrux waited, a faint rumble broke the silence, barely audible at first but growing louder, punctuated by the crunch of wheels grinding against gravel.
"What is that?" she asked, glancing at Vilrux, a chill crawling up her spine.
"Company," he replied simply, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Moments later, a convoy of black, armored vehicles crested a nearby dune, their angular shapes cutting harsh silhouettes against the sky. Dust trailed behind them in thick clouds, settling into the arid air as the vehicles came to a halt nearby. Large floodlights attached to their roofs blazed on, illuminating the area in stark, white light.
As the doors of the lead vehicle opened, figures clad in dark, reinforced armor emerged, each movement smooth and coordinated. Their heavy plating was etched with markings that shimmered faintly—a mixture of metics and high-grade alloys, giving the impression they were more than mere humans, something tougher, something dangerous.
"Who are they?" Rozeree whispered, gripping the edge of her cloak, an uneasy feeling tugging at her.
"Ironsides," Vilrux said. "They rule the Outskirts, control most of the tech smuggling through the city. Think of them as… guardians of the Wastes, if guardians had heavy armor and very few qualms about cutting down competition."
Rozeree swallowed, her eyes widening as she watched them. "So they're smugglers?"
"Efficient smugglers," he replied, a shadow of a smile in his voice. "They have a code, which is more than you can say for most in the city. They're disciplined, calculated. They won't cross the line if they don't have to." He paused, his gaze shifting back to the Ironsides. "But they don't hesitate when the time comes."
The Ironsides' representative strode forward, his expression hidden behind a tinted visor, but Rozeree could feel the weight of his attention even from a distance. He nodded to Vilrux in acknowledgment, then gestured to his men. Without a word, the Ironsides moved to the bodies strewn across the desert floor, their armored forms casting long shadows under the floodlights.
Rozeree watched as they worked with cold efficiency, extracting metics from limbs and torsos, their tools clicking and whirring in the otherwise silent night. Each piece was swiftly cataloged and stored, each extraction as seamless as if they were performing routine maintenance. She couldn't look away, both horrified and transfixed.
"Why would they want metics from dead bodies?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"It's their lifeblood," Vilrux replied, his tone quiet but direct. "They need these parts to reinforce their own armor, fuel their tech, stay a step ahead of their rivals. To the Ironsides, these bodies are just… assets."
Rozeree's gaze lingered on the representative, watching as he observed his men without a hint of hesitation or remorse. The starkness of it all—the bodies, the extractions, the dust swirling around them—felt like a world away from the life she'd known.
As the Ironsides worked, another sound interrupted the quiet, low and rumbling, accompanied by the unmistakable roar of engines. Rozeree looked up, her heart pounding as another set of vehicles approached, these sleeker and rougher around the edges, kicking up trails of dust as they drew near.
She glanced at Vilrux, an unspoken question in her eyes.
As the Ironsides continued their cold, efficient work, another sound rose above the desert's stillness—a rumbling chorus of engines, low and guttural, growing louder with every second. Rozeree turned, eyes widening as a line of roaring motorbikes crested a nearby dune, their headlights cutting through the dusk and illuminating plumes of dust in their wake.
"The Dreadnoughts," Vilrux muttered.
The bikers rolled to a halt, engines grumbling as they parked in a loose, intimidating circle around the scene. Unlike the Ironsides' gleaming armor and clinical efficiency, the Dreadnoughts exuded a raw, untamed energy. They wore leather patched with mismatched metal, gear caked in sand and grime, and their presence filled the air with the scent of burning fuel and hot metal.
Rozeree watched as the Dreadnoughts dismounted, their representative—a tall, broad-shouldered man with tattoos snaking up his neck and scars crisscrossing his face—cast a sly, assessing glance over the Ironsides' work. His gaze flickered to the crates of fresh produce in the collector's wagon, a greedy glint flashing in his eyes.
"They want the fresh food. Fruits, vegetables, anything grown outside the capital—it's gold in Nacrila. To the Dreadnoughts, contraband like this is as good as currency."
Rozeree's brow furrowed as she noticed the hunger in the Dreadnoughts' eyes, not for violence or vengeance, but for the crates and bags that held the city's most forbidden bounty. "Why is food so valuable here?"
"It's controlled, rationed, taxed," Vilrux explained. "Only licensed vendors can sell it, and the prices are higher than most people can afford. But the Dreadnoughts? They thrive on illegal trade. They'll take anything fresh and sell it on the black market—at a premium."
One of the Dreadnoughts sauntered forward, eyeing the crates filled with leafy greens and vibrant fruit. He cast a look at the Ironsides' representative, a smirk curling over his scarred face. "Leaving us a taste of the good stuff, huh?" His voice was taunting, but there was an underlying eagerness, like he'd already imagined the hefty profits from the sale.
The Ironsides' representative turned slowly to meet his gaze, his expression unreadable beneath the visor. "Just stay out of our way." He replied coldly.
The Dreadnought representative's voice lowered to a dangerous rumble, a growl just under his breath as his hand drifted to the worn handle of a modified pistol. "You oughta' show a little more gratitude to the ones who keep your smuggling routes nice and clear of the knights." His fingers tightened over the pistol's grip as he spoke, as if the words themselves were bullets waiting to be fired, his eyes fixed on the Ironside with a simmering fury.
Rozeree could feel the threat thickening in the air, her own hand drifting instinctively to her weapon as if drawn by the rising tension. The shift in atmosphere was like watching storm clouds gather before lightning strikes. Her hand instinctively tightened around the same weapon that had taken three lives just moments ago. The weight of it felt different now, more like a lifeline than a burden.
Two Ironsides immediately stopped their extraction work, their armored forms rising with fluid menace. The lead Ironside's hand tightened on his large carving blade, its edge still dripping with fluid from the corpses. "You suggesting we owe you something?"
She studied their movements, noticing how each gang positioned themselves. It reminded her of the wild dogs she had once seen outside Graybarrow, circling each other before a fight—all teeth and tension, waiting for the first wrong move. The blood from her earlier kills wasn't even dry, and already she might witness more death. The thought didn't disturb her as much as she expected it would.
"Maybe I am." The Dreadnought representative took another step forward, his gang members spreading out behind him, hands hovering over weapons. "Maybe I'm tired of you chrome-plated bastards looking down on us from behind those fancy visors."
The air crackled with tension as more Ironsides turned from their work, the whir of charging weapons filling the night. The Dreadnoughts responded by drawing their own arms, the click of safeties echoing across the wasteland. Rozeree found herself analyzing their weapons, their stances—just as her father and Silvas had taught her.
"Enough!" Vilrux's voice slashed through the charged air, sharp as a blade, making both gangs freeze mid-motion. He stepped forward, his presence filling the space between them like an immovable wall, a force they instinctively feared to challenge. "We're here for business, not a bloodbath," he said, his voice calm yet deadly, every word dripping with the unspoken promise of consequences. His eyes, cold and precise, swept over them. "Or have you all forgotten who called you here?"
Rozeree held her breath, watching the Ironsides and Dreadnoughts as they squared off, each side itching to draw blood. Her grip tightened, fingers tense and ready, though she could feel her pulse hammering beneath the surface. She barely knew this world, yet here she was, standing between two forces that could tear her apart in a heartbeat. And yet, Vilrux's mere presence seemed to bend them to his will, as if he alone were holding back the storm. In that moment, she felt the intoxicating pull of that power, and a spark of awe mixed with fear burned within her.
"The Ironsides get their metics, the Dreadnoughts get their food. And I get paid. Anyone who has a problem with that arrangement can take it up with me personally." His hand rested on his pistol, fingers idly drumming along the grip. "I'm sure we can have a fascinating discussion about it."
Rozeree's heart lurched in her chest at Vilrux's words, the implicit threat sending a shiver down her spine. It was as if a wolf had suddenly strode between the snarling, circling dogs– forcing them into submission with a mere glance. The air crackled with tension, and Rozeree found herself holding her breath, unsure of what devastating force Vilrux might unleash if pushed. In that moment, he radiated a power that transcended the petty squabbles of the gangs, a reminder that there were darker, more primal forces behind Vilrux's cool, calm exterior.
The Dreadnought representative held Vilrux's gaze for a long moment before spitting in the dust. "Just business then," he growled, gesturing to his people to stand down.
Rozeree could practically feel the reluctance in the Dreadnoughts' movements, as if they were being forced to swallow their pride. The Ironsides' representative nodded curtly, his team resuming their work with renewed focus, their earlier aggression tempered by Vilrux's commanding presence.
"And make it quick," Vilrux added, his voice carrying a lethal edge. "I don't like waiting for my money, and I like cleaning up gang warfare even less."
Rozeree watched in fascination as both groups returned to their tasks, the tension still thick but contained. The Dreadnoughts began loading food with barely contained aggression while the Ironsides continued their methodical harvesting, each group keeping a wary distance from the other.
Rozeree exhaled, only now aware of how tightly she'd been holding her breath. Her heartbeat began to slow, but a strange feeling lingered—a sense of finality, as if some invisible line had been crossed. She looked at Vilrux, who stood impassive, his face unreadable, as though this entire exchange had meant nothing.
"This is the city you're walking into," Vilrux stated, his voice edged with warning. "Everything that can be controlled, hoarded, or taxed—will be. And everyone's always one wrong word away from violence."
She realized then that this wasn't just a glimpse of her future. It was a trial, a way for him to show her the depths of this life. And as the night settled in, wrapping the barren landscape in a veil of shadow, Rozeree knew she'd stepped too far to turn back.
She looked back to the city lights in the distance, pulsing faintly through the thickening night. Somewhere out there lay the next step in her path, a path as unforgiving as the men beside her. Yet, as she tightened her grip on her weapon, a calm certainty washed over her. No more looking back. This is who I am now.
The thought was both freeing and terrifying.