Hsshh... Psst... Whispers ebbed and flowed like ripples in water as onlookers gathered, their eyes fixed on the spectacle above. A young woman hurtled backward with a force that made the air crackle, her body slamming into the ceiling—or was it the roof? Call it what you wish, but its purpose was clear: to let people walk on the underside of the bridge above. For simplicity's sake, let's call it the inverted pathway.
Far from being a simple thoroughfare, the inverted pathway wasn't just a place to pass through. It was alive with activity—vendors hawking their goods, clusters of greenery sprouting from small gardens, and rows of benches scattered about for weary travelers. In districts large enough, the pathway transformed into a bustling miniature city within a city, a hallmark of ingenuity in the Common Era. But today, its usual hum of life had come to an abrupt halt.
All movement had ceased for one reason alone: the star of this story.
"Damn, she got her shit rocked. Should we help her?" one onlooker muttered, his tone wavering between concern and apprehension.
His Perro companion smacked him upside the head without hesitation. "Eres estúpido! Why the hell would you help her, dumbass? You trying to get yourself killed?" The Perro's sharp eyes darted to the source of the commotion. "You'd be a fool to get involved in whatever shitstorm she's caught up in. Even more so if it's connected to the ricos—the wealthy assholes running this city."
And he was right. In Brewster Heights, trouble with the ruling class wasn't just trouble—it was a death sentence. The kind where you didn't just die. You disappeared. No body, no traces, just whispers left behind in the dark corners of the city.
Still, the whispers grew, hushed but insistent, spreading through the gathering crowd like wildfire. A few people dared to linger near the edges of the scene, their curiosity outweighing their better judgment. Phones were pulled out, the faint clicks of cameras and recording devices punctuating the silence. This was Humanvmy in all its flawed glory: an endless hubris that only faltered when pain became personal.
The young woman coughed sharply, her body shifting slightly as she pressed her palm against the cool surface beneath her. Her other hand trembled, brushing against the dirt smudged across her cheek. Despite the force of the impact, she didn't cry out. Her breathing was shallow but controlled, her gaze flicking upward toward her opponent—or perhaps the space where they had been.
A bead of sweat slid down her temple, but her expression remained unreadable. She adjusted her posture, planting her feet firmly as she rose from her crouched position. The whispers grew louder, a crescendo of murmurs mingled with the faint hum of the inverted pathways' WC. She closed her eyes, ignoring the crowd, ignoring the ache spreading through her body.
And then, with deliberate ease, she let out a deep, measured breath—one filled not with calm but with simmering embarrassment. Ahhh! Thaat! Fucker! Her internal rant began to spiral. Maldito 'visitor' making my life difficult! I swear if I get my hands on— Her thoughts were cut short by a sharp ping in her vision. A translucent notice flickered into view courtesy of her optic transplant, displaying an icon of a person alongside an incoming communication.
"Oi! What'chu doing! You were supposed to keep it low! Not make a scene… though you did get rocked. Heh." The mocking voice on the other end belonged to none other than her boss, Marcus.
Seraniti's temple throbbed, a visible vein pulsing with irritation as her fists clenched. "Yeah? Get him yourself then, idiota! Tch." Her words dripped with venom as she glanced around the inverted pathway. "These visitors who cross the Door always have one surprise or another. Whatever. At least this isn't the Columbian State where their celebrates get involved." She spat the word "celebrates" with disdain, her annoyance clear.
Marcus's smug chuckle echoed in her ears. "Well, maybe don't get cocky next time. Eh? And since you've got time to rant, how about you actually find him, huh? See you soon. Chao."
Before Seraniti could retort, the call cut off abruptly, leaving her glaring at nothing as her hands shot up in exasperation. "WHAT!" she yelled, her voice ringing through the space. "GO STARE SOMEWHERE ELSE!"
The crowd, now thoroughly chastised, scattered quickly. People averted their eyes, pretending to find the vendors or pathways far more interesting than the scene they'd just witnessed. Seraniti let out a huff of frustration, rubbing her wrist absentmindedly as she muttered to herself.
Her eyes darted to the ground, and with a resigned sigh, she dropped down toward the spot where her equipment lay scattered. She crouched, her hand brushing against the sturdy metal casing of her prized possession. "Heh. Luckily he didn't take mi bebé." Her tone softened slightly as she ran her hand affectionately along its sleek surface. "Not like he could, anyway. It weighs 95 pounds fully loaded."
She set to work cleaning her weapon, inspecting every inch of it with meticulous care. Its polished frame gleamed under the lights, the faint hum of nearby machinery blending with the soft clicks and swipes of her maintenance routine. The weapon was no ordinary tool; it was her lifeline, her partner in the chaos of this city. Her sharp eyes scanned for the slightest imperfection, her fingers deftly checking each mechanism.
"There you are," she muttered, spotting a small scuff near the TACglass. She pulled a cloth from her pocket, her motions deliberate and efficient. Her annoyance began to fade as the familiar rhythm of her work took over. For a moment, she forgot the stares, the whispers, and even the bruises forming on her arms. All that mattered was her bebé—and the quiet resolve that came with knowing it was still hers.
She quickly grabbed the handle of her weapon, and a soft chime filled the air as holographic screens blinked into her vision. Information then cascaded across her optic, detailing the weapon's status: ammunition reserves, operational systems, energy levels—all pristine. Seraniti spent the next few minutes meticulously running checks, her sharp eyes scanning for even the smallest anomaly.
"Mmm... it's fine for now. Nothing damaged at least," she muttered, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. Her thoughts wandered back to her earlier encounter. "Though that visitor surprised me with his strength—chico felt like he had zero training. Sloppy, really. Well, not like it matters much to me."
Her weapon wasn't the usual gear you'd expect in her line of work, but Seraniti didn't care. If you could use it, it was fair game. And her weapon of choice? Standard across stronghold defender operators: the Cannon and Defense System. While the designs varied depending on the manufacturer, their core function remained the same. To provide robust protection while creating openings for teammates to retaliate.
However, Seraniti had an advantage most didn't. Unlike the average operator, she didn't need to hold the cannon physically. Thanks to her telekinetic, she could control it remotely, an advantage available only to supernatural's—those who fell under the Outer-Systemic Body. Even so, wielding such a massive weapon telekinetically wasn't an easy feat. For the majority of operators, carrying equipment of this size required a blend of engineering and magic.
Most cannons, including hers, were integrated with control chips. These chips slotted neatly into the neural ports located behind the operator's ear, allowing for seamless operation. Seraniti was no exception. Despite her advantage, she wasn't special—not in the grand scheme of things. In a world filled with greater powers and larger players, she knew her place. "I'm just another cog in the machine," she muttered under her breath, running a hand along her weapon's sleek, reinforced surface.
She sighed and shook her head, the earlier frustration creeping back. "Tch. Where could he have gone to? I can't even use my skill—he didn't use any magic at all."
Her thoughts drifted as she began walking, her weapon shifting to follow her telekinetically, its weight suspended effortlessly.
What is magic anyway? What are skills? The questions rolled through her mind, a distraction from the growing annoyance in her chest.
Both sequences and skills fell under the domain of Thaumaturgy, though that wasn't a term the average person tossed around casually. In Terra II, skills referred to the brain forming neural bridges through repeated use of sequences, creating a natural and almost instinctive mastery over specific techniques. Unlike the skills found in typical fantasy tales, these were rooted in the individual's cognitive evolution, a testament to their persistence and adaptability.
What made mastering sequences more feasible for most was the MICA. Though not prohibitively expensive in the true sense, acquiring one often required careful saving or significant investment. Prices varied wildly depending on the region. In some countries, MICAs were as accessible as standard tools, but in others—like Brewster Heights—the cost was steep, reflective of the city's inequities.
Eventually, her wandering led her to the entrance of a modest café tucked between two larger Buildings. The smell of freshly brewed TEA wafted toward her, mingling with the faint scent of rain clinging to the air. Seraniti paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the space ahead. She needed a break—both to gather her thoughts and to prepare for whatever awaited her next.
As Seraniti walked through the café doors, she was immediately greeted by the lively sounds of chatter. The room was a melting pot of races—Perros, Felines, Liberi, Culus, and others—all engaged in their own conversations. Some sipped steaming drinks, others picked at their meals, and a few leaned close to their companions, speaking in hushed tones. Yet, for Seraniti, the first thing that struck her wasn't the crowd but the comforting aroma of tea brewing. It was a familiar scent, one tied to a place she had visited countless times and to its brewer, who had become an unlikely friend over the years.
"Rome! Stop standing around and give me my tea already!" she called out, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation.
The person in question turned with a booming laugh. Rome, a tall, broad Ursus with fluffy bear ears poking out from his shaggy black hair, grinned widely as he spotted her. His apron—a pink one adorned with an oversized cartoon bear head—clashed hilariously with the rugged scar that ran across his left eye. He was an unusual sight in this region, Ursus being rare in the area, but Rome had carved out a comfortable niche here. They had first met two years ago in this very café when Seraniti was twenty-five and just a little more optimistic than she was now.
"HAH! FUCK YA WANT!? Oh…" His voice dropped slightly as his grin widened. "Just you today, little girl?"
Seraniti's brows twitched as a vein throbbed visibly on her temple. "Screw off. Just give me my tea already!" she snapped, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward in spite of herself.
A few minutes later, she sat at one of the tables near the window, cradling a steaming cup of tea. With her elbow propped on the desk and her fingers tracing the rim of the cup, she sipped slowly, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest. Rome leaned against the counter, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
"So…" he began, his voice carrying just enough mockery to irritate her. "You got pushed hard enough to land on the walkway, huh? And the person I saw on my phone—was that you? Mmm. Are you getting sloppy, Sera?"
Seraniti's tired eyes shut briefly, her small smile faltering into a frown. "I know where you live, Rome," she muttered darkly, her voice low and deliberate. "I will tell Lia about this today. I'm sure she won't be too pleased."
Rome immediately looked away, coughing into his hand. "Alright, alright, I'll shut up. No need to bring her into this."
The corner of Seraniti's mouth twitched in satisfaction as she took another sip of tea. "Good," she said curtly.
"So…" Rome began again, his tone softer this time. "Who are you chasing this time? If I can ask, that is."
Seraniti sighed, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "The visitor who decided it was a good idea to mess around with the daughter of a rico. The family wants him dead by today, and I have zero clue where to find him."
Rome's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered her words. After a moment, they glowed faintly, his neural interface activating as he sifted through local chatter and data. He tapped his temple, then gestured toward her with a small smirk.
"Here," he said, sending a file directly to her. "Try Section 27—it's one of the sclera plates. You know, those massive docks they use for transport and supply runs. This particular section houses some local gangs. If anyone knows where your visitor is, it'll be them. Just… don't say my name, yeah?"
Seraniti scanned the file he sent her. A map appeared in her vision, highlighting locations within Section 27: 49th Street, a place labeled Cleaners, and another marked as a local mob hideout. She groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Gee, thanks. You really trying to get rid of me, huh?"
Rome chuckled, reaching over to lightly chop her on the head. But his expression turned serious as he met her gaze. "Say, Sera…"
Seraniti blinked, startled by the shift in his tone. Question marks practically formed above her head—both figuratively and, thanks to her optic transplant, literally. "What's with the weird mood all of a sudden?" she asked, her brows furrowing.
"Did you ever find anything about your sister? What's her name again… Elk?" Rome's voice was gentle, but his words hit like a hammer.
Seraniti froze. Her hand instinctively went to her wrist, where the rock was on her red tinged skin. Her gaze dropped to the table as she rubbed her hands—hands that had been red for as long as she could remember. "No," she admitted quietly. "I don't know where she is. I still have the letter she left, but that's all I've got. I don't even know how Linde died all those years ago. Tch!" Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed through, her tone sharpening. "All she left was a small box with crystallized black rain."
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, her eyes glowed a she sent 12 UEC to cover her tea. "Thanks for the info, Rome. But I've got to go."
Rome opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, watching as she strode out the door as her weapon which rested on the wall outside floated to cover her rear. He sighed, his gaze lingering on the cup before shaking his head. "Take care of yourself, Sera," he muttered softly, his words lost amid the chatter of the café.