Chapter 1: Routine Maintenance
Summary:
Grace Howard goes through her normal day at Belobog Industries... But something appears that makes it all crumble before her.
Notes:
Good Evening, before we start, I would like to say something.
I would like to open up and say that I am sorry for the delays for the bus tour chapters. Due to the fact that I wanted to introduce too many things and too many characters into Panic! In the Waterfall Soup, it has spiraled into a mess of too many plot lines.
This is to say, that Panic in the Waterfall Soup will no longer be a Bus Tour Chap… but an Intervallo!
Right now, the Lukewarm is complete enough for me to release consistently while I work on Intervallo 2. So hey, it isn't as bad as it sounds. This is to say, that this will probably be the first time it happens as future chapters will be carefully planned out.
Thank you for your understanding, and now, enjoy the chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[H.I.A Cemetery | Years Ago…]
The sky wept with a steady drizzle, the kind that seeped into bones and left a chill that never quite faded. A small crowd gathered under black umbrellas, their murmured condolences swallowed by the patter of rain against the earth.
A young girl stood motionless at the edge of the memorial, gripping the handle of a flimsy umbrella that had already betrayed her once. The wind had flipped it inside out earlier, yanking it like a cruel joke, but she hadn’t reacted; she simply held it, stiff fingers wrapped around the handle as if letting go might make everything else slip away too.
She was drowning in an oversized coat, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing the muddy ground. It smelled like mothballs and unfamiliar detergent. It was like this day—this moment—none of it belonged to her.
Voices whispered behind her.
“Poor girl. She’s all alone now, isn’t she?”
“Her parents worked themselves to death. Such a shame…”
The girl’s fingers twitched, tightening around the umbrella.
An eulogist spoke, his words blending with the rain, but she didn’t hear him. Her gaze was fixed on the stone before her, etched with two distinct names.
Issac Howard and Eleanor Langford - Howard.
Diligent investigators and beloved parents.
After a while, the ceremony ended. The mourners drifted away, their footsteps soft against the wet grass, their lives untouched by the void that had swallowed hers. Soon, she was alone.
The girl stared at the memorial, fist clenched, waiting for something—anything to change.
And yet, nothing did.
Footsteps, slow and careful, began to reverberate.
The girl turned, rainwater sliding down her cheek like a tear she refused to shed. A tall man with red hair and a brown trench coat approached, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the gray sky. He carried an umbrella large enough to shield them both.
“Grace Howard, was it?” He said, voice gentle but firm.
She nodded, warily, saying nothing.
“My name is Khors.” He paused, watching her. “Your parents worked for my company. They were good people. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
She met his gaze, her expression unreadable.
Another pause, then, softer. “I know you’re feeling lost right now, but… I’d like to offer you a home. A place where you can belong.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You don’t even know me…”
A faint smile touched his lips, but there was something behind it—understanding, maybe. He crouched slightly, meeting her eye level. “Because I know what it’s like to lose everything,” he said. “No child should have to face that alone.”
The wind howled through the cemetery, rattling the bare branches from the nearby trees.
Khors straightened and extended a hand. “I won’t force you, Grace. But you don’t have to walk away from this alone...”
Grace hesitated. The rain drummed against his umbrella, the scent of damp earth invading her senses. Her fingers twitched at her side. Then, finally, she reached out.
[Hours later]
The ride was quiet, save for the occasional swish of the windshield wipers pushing away the lingering drizzle. The world outside was still a blur of gray streets and water-streaked windows, but the storm had faded into something gentler—less biting, more distant.
Grace sat in the passenger side, staring at her reflection in the rain-streaked window. Her belongings were haphazardly placed in the backseat—toys, clothes, and other trinkets stashed in boxes and suitcases.
She hadn’t spoken much since they left the cemetery. Instead choosing to draw patterns in the condensation on the glass.
The car slowed as they pulled into a narrow driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The house before them was modest, two stories, its beige exterior slightly weathered but comfortable-looking.
It wasn’t a mansion nor something cold and empty like she had expected. It was just a house. The only thing out of place was the garage, stretching wide beside it—larger than the home itself, its metal door sleek and well-maintained.
Khors turned off the engine and exhaled. “Well. Here we are.”
Grace didn’t move at first. She just stared at the house, feeling a mix of emotions that bounced from nothingness and relief.
The door creaked on its hinges, the warm scent of wood and oil spilling out like smoke from an exhaust.
The entryway was tiled, small but practical, a row of shoes neatly lined by the wall. The living room was dimly lit, a leather couch facing an old TV, a pile of books and manuals left haphazardly on the coffee table.
Khors stepped further into the house, shaking the rain from his coat as he called out, voice deep but lightened by the hint of routine. “We’re home.”
The sound echoed faintly through the hall before being met by the soft patter of slippered footsteps. A woman appeared from the far end of the corridor, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face was kind, mid thirties perhaps, with a loosely tied bun and soft creased at the corners of her eyes.
“Welcome back,” she said with a smile, eyes flicking briefly to Grace before returning to Khors. “Everything went fine here. Koleda got a bit fussy around bedtime, but I let her stay up a little longer. Figured she might want to meet…” Her voice trailed off gently.
Khors gave her a nod of gratitude. “Thanks, Emi. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble while I was gone.”
Grace stood quietly by the entryway, unsure whether to take off her shoes, her coat, or just disappear into the floor. Her suitcase still hung from one hand, the handle digging into her fingers, grounding her.
From the hallway, a shape appeared—small, round-eyed, and barely tall enough to peek around the corner. A toddler.
The girl didn’t speak. Just watched, half hidden behind the wall, her cheek pressed to the edge of the doorway like she was sizing up a wild animal. She held something tight in one hand—a stuffed bear, though it was missing one eye. The other hand gripped the edge of the wall, fingers curled like hooks.
Khors followed Grace’s gaze, then smiled softly. “There’s my little Sweet Pea.”
He strode over and scooped the toddler into his arms, hoisting her with practiced ease. The child squirmed half-heartedly, then settled against his chest, eyes fixed on the newcomer.
“Koleda,” he said, turning back toward Grace. “This is Grace. She's going to live with us.”
Koleda tilted her head slightly. Her voice was high and small, but clear. “Is she going to be my new big sis?”
Khors let out a playful laugh. “That’s up to her to decide.”
Grace looked up at Koleda—at the earnest curiosity in those eyes, the quiet absence of fear. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she didn’t know what to do with it.
Koleda, still nestled in Khor’s arms, studied Grace for a few moments longer. Then her gaze dropped, thoughtful. She looked down at the worn stuffed bear clutched in her arms—its fur matted, the fabric at its seams pulled with age and love.
Very gently, she stretched out her small hand, offering it forward.
“You can have Wojtek if you want,” she said. “He comforts me whenever I remember Mommy.”
The bear dangled between them, limp and awkward—but Grace felt her chest tighten as if it were something far heavier. Her fingers, still curled around the handle of the suitcase, flexed.
A thousand responses surfaced—yet none of them fit. But her hand, slow and uncertain, reached out and brushed against Koleda’s. The bear settled in Grace’s arms with a weight that was out of place for something so small.
Koleda smiled. Not a big, bright grin—just a soft curve of her mouth, like she’d been waiting for that moment all along.
[Belobog Industries Workshop | Present Day]
“—Work it harder, make it better. Do it faster, makes us stronger.”
The sharp synthetic rhythm of the radio jolted the quiet.
The smell of hot metal, machine oil, and faint traces of burnt solder hung thick in the wide space. The air buzzed with a faint static charge, as if the walls themselves remembered the last surge of power that pulsed through them.
On the main workbench, a cold cup of coffee sat beside a half-finished schematic, its edges curling. Soldering irons lay abandoned, their tips dulled from overuse. Coils of wiring tangled with scattered gears and stripped insulation.
Amid it all, Grace lay slumped over the table—head resting on the blueprint sketches smudged with graphite. The sun rays from the overhead windows drew shadows across her grease-streaked hair, highlighting a faint smear of metal dust on her cheek.
The radio crackled again, the song’s lyrics echoing around the walls.
Grace’s brows twitched. A shift of breath, and then her eyes blinked open. She stared at the wall for a moment, blinking away the fog of sleep.
“More than ever, hour after hour. Work is never over—”
She reached out with one arm and slapped the radio off. Silence returned—except for the low, steady hum of the morning staff beginning their shifts from outside. A familiar sound; a comforting one.
She sat up, stretching until her shoulder popped, then rolled them back with a groan. Her spine protested as her joints ached. “Another day…”
Crossing the room, she moved toward the centerpiece of the space: a towering, four-legged pile driving machine, its frame scarred with scrapes, dents, and layers of old gravel.
Grace reached up, running a gloved hand along one of its massive supports struts. The metal was cold beneath her fingers, pitted in places, beautiful in its damage. "Morning Sweetie, let's continue where we left off."
Her fingers had just found the latch on the machine’s access panel when—
SLAM!
The workshop door slammed open with a squeal of protesting hinges and the subtlety of a thunderclap.
“GOOD MORNING, SIS!”
The voice hit like a sonic boom, bouncing off the walls and steel beams.
Grace flinched—only slightly—but her fingers instinctively tightened around the panel like she was preparing for impact. She gave the newcomer a warm smile. “Good morning, Sweet Pea.”
Standing in the doorway, balancing a tray of cafeteria-grade breakfast like it was a ceremonial offering, was Koleda Belobog.
Older now, but still short. Her wild red hair had been wrangled into sharp, symmetrical twin tails—but the glint in her uncovered eye said nothing had really changed. Not where it counted.
Her posture was confident, shoulders back, one hip cocked with effortless swagger. Casual. Commanding. The stance of a woman who now ran the very company they’d grown up in.
Despite everything, she was still, undeniably, the same chaotic spirit who once offered her compassion when she needed it the most.
Grace stared at her for a second, then blinked. “You brought me breakfast?”
“Ey-yup” Koleda smirked, crossing the workshop with surprising balance for someone carrying an overloaded tray—two mismatched mugs, scrambled egg sandwiches, and small fruit salad bowls. She settled the tray into the workshop with a delicate stance.
Grace wiped her hands on a rag and walked toward her. She reached out, grabbing one of the mugs and taking a whiff of the hot and bitter coffee within.
Koleda had already claimed the nearest chair, legs crossed, back leaning against the spine of the bench like it owed her support. One of the egg sandwiches was already in hand, a bite missing.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment—just the low hum of the distant machinery and the occasional clink as Koleda set her mug down.
“I thought you had a board meeting this morning,” Grace said, eyeing her with one brow raised.
Koleda waved the question off like a fly. “I had to reschedule it for the afternoon. Figured I’d do something more productive with my time.”
Grace gave her an incredulous look. “And bringing me breakfast is your idea of being more productive?”
Koleda grinned as she gulped down a bite of her sandwich. “Considering your usual breakfast is work and maintenance? Yeah.”
Grace shook her head, but her lips tugged upward all the same.
Koleda leaned back further, her expression softening slightly—just enough for Grace to notice. “I saw your light was still on at 3 AM.” she said quietly. “You didn’t sleep again, did you?”
Grace didn’t answer right away. She looked back toward the machine that loomed in the center of the room. “...Friday’s hydraulic core was off by 0.2 percent.”
Koleda didn’t push. She just watched her for a moment longer, then picked up the fruit salad and offered it. “Eat first, you can worry about it later.”
Grace sighed and took the bowl into her hands, plopping a single cube of pineapple and chewing it carefully.
As Grace ate, Koleda fetched a clipboard stacked at the bottom of the tray, flipping through the pages of notes and schedules with a lazy thumb. She cleared her throat before beginning.
“Okay, so… Lemnian Hollow site: demolition of the old structures is ahead of schedule. Anton’s already named half the rubble piles after his favorite drill bits.” She flipped to the next page. “Ben managed to negotiate a discount on crane rentals because the guy running the company was terrified of bears.”
Grace paused mid-bite, frowning slightly. “Ben did what now?”
Koleda didn’t look up, just smirked. “Yeah. Apparently the guy nearly had a heart attack when he saw Ben walking in. Our accountant doesn’t have to say a word—he just looks at people and they panic. Saved us fifteen percent.”
Grace let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Remind me to buy him the biggest salmon in the market. He’s the real MVP of this project.”
Koleda grinned, but her mood gradually shifted as her eyes drifted back to the clipboard. She leaned further against the chair, sighing through her teeth as the air thickened with a more serious energy.
“Anyway,” she continued, tone heavier now. “Logistics are going fine. But the big issue is still Vision’s mess. Half the contracts for the site are tied up in that lawsuit.”
Grace’s chewing slowed. She lowered her bowl slightly, brows knitting. “How much of that site is still under Vision’s name?”
“Technically?” Koleda tapped her clipboard. “Less than twenty percent. But until the lawsuit clears, even stepping on that patch means we’re walking through a legal minefield.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed, thoughtfully chewing on a grape. “What’s the status of the corporation?”
Koleda grimaced. “They’re dragging out the case in court. They’ve already lost thirty percent of their market value, but it doesn’t matter; they’re stalling. They’ll throw every lawyer they have before admitting fault.”
She then flicked to the next page of her clipboard, her brow furrowing. “What do you think they were planning on doing with all those explosives?”
Grace didn’t look up immediately. She quipped her fingers on a napkin before reaching out for a schematic on her workbench. “Who knows,” she said, deadpan. “Maybe they were digging up an ancient artifact that could make all the Hollows vanish off the face of New Eridu…”
They stared in silence for a long second… then promptly laughed in unison.
“As if.” Koleda gave a short scoff. “That wouldn't match Vision’s Modus Operandi. Corpos nowadays focus on profit margins rather than the safety of their citizens.”
Grace tapped the edge of the schematic before placing it back into her workbench. “Still. They were planning something. That much ordinance doesn’t end up near a Hollow by accident. And with how deep the Lemnian site goes…”
Koleda nodded slowly. “Especially now that we know about the ‘Sacrifice.’” Her expression darkened as she placed the clipboard down, crossing her arms. “... Just what the hell did you get into, dad…”
The silence that followed settled like a layer of dust. Grace turned away, giving Koleda a moment—letting the weight of the name hang between them.
Eventually, Koleda pushed herself up from the chair, brushing a few stray crumbs off her lap and retrieving the clipboard.
“Welp, let’s not linger too long on that.” she said, her voice lightening with effort, “I’ve got to wrangle the demolition crew before Anton decides they all need a surprise workout.”
Grace smiled, already turning onto her workbench. “Just be careful out there, alright?”
Koleda rolled her eye but didn’t argue. “Who do you take me for? I’m always careful.”
She gathered the tray of leftovers and made her way toward the door. At the threshold, she paused—one hand on the frame, the other balancing the tray—and glanced back over her shoulder. “I hope to see you at lunch.”
“I’ll be there,” Grace murmured, not looking at her as a small smile ghosted across her lips. “Don’t worry about me.”
Koleda lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching her. Then she left, the door shutting softly behind her.
Grace sat in the silence that followed, surrounded by machinery, coffee and empty mugs. And slowly, she reached for her tools.
[Brant Street Construction Site | Later that day]
The sun had started its slow dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the perimeter fencing and towering heaps of debris.
A battered industrial truck rumbled across the gravel path, its flatbed piled high with broken concrete, twisted rebar, and scorched metal panels. The engine groaned as it slowed near the edge of the landfill.
Two workers hopped down from the cab, boots crunching against the dry earth.
“You think they’ll let us clock out early today?” said the first worker, stretching his back with an audible crack. Sweat streaked through the dust on his face.
“Not with Anton in charge,” the second worker grumbled, grabbing the release lever. “Swear to god, his morning exercises are gonna kill me one of these days. The man does push ups like he’s trying to crush gravity.”
The first worker laughed, but it died quickly when something shifted in the rubble—just a faint clatter of metal, like a gear slipping loose.
He froze. “Did you hear that?”
The second worker paused, listening. Another faint sound—barely there. A scrabble, or a buzz.
“...It’s probably just a vermin among the scraps,” he said, waving it off. “Or a Bangboo unit shorting out. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just dump this and get back before Anton makes us do squats in full safety gear.”
They hit the switch. The flatbed tilted, metal shrieking as the load slid off the back and tumbled into the growing landfill. Chunks of broken tech and shattered architecture crashed into the mound with a cloud of dust and dislodged wire.
Neither of the workers noticed the small, cube-shaped device that tumbled from the rubble last.
It landed with a dull hiss, half-buried among the scraps. Its screen blinked once—faint and subtle. Then again.
>“W̷̤̠͎̙͔͑̆̈́̀̐̅̌͋͘͝͝e̶̡̺̋̿̃̍̆̽̀̆͆̈́̕̚͝ḻ̴̞̗͎͉̊̊̄̐̚c̵̡̡̡̲̫̻̙̥̳̯͎̬̺̫̖̒̓̀͗̈̑̏̃̍̚͠õ̶̧̢̢̜̹̭̻̦͍͇̤͇̐͋̔̈́͗̾̄̉̏m̷̮͙̟̩̲̤͍̯̱͇̱̱̞̟͂͆̈́͆̏̓͌͆̾e̶̢͔̼̰̺͈̥̰͉̻̮̫̳̺̖͗̈̉̓̒̅͗̂͋͜,̵̧̢̨̤̥̞̜͉̗̤̠̭̱̺̞̈́̓̐̈̋̄̾̐̈́̑̐̂̕͘̕͝ ̴̨̧͎͔̭̘̟̰̰̃̄̈̚͘ͅḐ̸̲̹̥̭̭̼̘̙̗̓̑̿̔̇̈́̽͋͂̀̂̈́̀̃̕̚̚̚͜͝ē̸̡̛̙̯͍̖̹͎̽̆̅́͂͑̓͝a̴̙̟̠̪͇̓͋ͅŗ̵̛͙̙͙͉͈͍͎͍̝̣͖̪̣̥̺̪̃̇̓́̚̚͜ͅ ̶̨̘̣̮̝̝̖̦̍̽͐̊͒̽̃̌̔̏̂͐͑͛̚̕ͅG̶̛͙͈̯̥̮̘̱̎̓̀̈́̓̾͛͂̎̈́͑ư̸̪̜̩͚̞̝̮̝̤̮̓̂͗́̋̋̑̍̈́̄̔͗̂̆͂͊̀ę̶̖͈͈̼̜͖̺̼̗̇̑̀̌̋̆̃͛̔͂̅͌̈́̒͝ͅş̶̠̰̹̖̘̮͈̝̤͖̫̗͆̾͑͛̽̅̌̓̀̾̔̅̚̚͠ţ̶̡̢̢̗͓̰̫̠͚̜̠͖͖͎͐͒̋̔͒͌̋̊̓͘.̵̨̨̬͕̯̰̟̫̦͔͖̣̰̩͖̖͕̜̄̽̓͂.̵̖̻̫̪̥̓̅́͒͐̉̎̋̅͆͗̆̀̀̒̓̔̚͜ͅ.̶͕̘̞̦̖͉̮̼̤̻̩͕͈̇̊͐͒̎̏̊̒̍̊͝͝͠”
The workers climbed back into the truck, oblivious.
[Belobog Industries Workshop | Later that Evening]
The pulse of music filled the air, synth beats weaving through the walls of the building. Grace crouched beside Friday, elbow-deep in a tangle of hydraulic lines, humming quietly as the lyrics thrummed from her speaker.
“Plug it, play it, burn in, drag and drop it, zip—”
“Oi! Someone ‘ere?” A voice broke through, muffled and uncertain.
Grace frowned and set her wrench down with a metallic clink. She straightened, glancing toward the open doorway.
A man stood there—Dark skin, sharp features, and unmistakably canine traits: pointed dog-like ears perked forward, and a small fluffy tail resting motionless behind him. His mechanical arms twitched erratically, joints spasming with tiny clicking sounds as he held them out, fingers splayed awkwardly.
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, name’s Heathcliff.” He winced as one elbow bent entirely the wrong direction. “I uh, went to this old fixer named Enzo down in Sixth Street,” he said, as one arm jerked upward, nearly smacking him in the chin.
“Told me you’d do a better job than he could. Said you were… what was it… frighteningly competent?”
Grace snorted. “It must be a real mess if Enzo passed it off.” She stepped closer, wiping her hands on a nearby rag as her gaze scanned the failing mechanics with professional interest. “Come on in.”
She gestured to the nearby bench as she went to the nearby shelf to pick up her tools. “Feel free to take a seat.”
He moved toward the bench, he awkwardly—and very carefully—lowered himself onto the cushioned stool. One of his arms spasmed again.
“Easy,” Grace muttered, watching him like a hawk. “You twitch like that, you might accidentally snap my table in half.”
Heathcliff grinned sheepishly, tapping his foot on the floor casually. “Understood, uh, miss…?”
Grace didn’t look up from the tray of tools she was selecting. “Grace Howard. But just call me Grace.” She soon made her way toward the bench, taking her seat right in front of him, tools in hand. “Alright, let’s see what’s the problem…”
Grace scanned the mechanical limbs from fingertip to elbow. Her eyes narrowed, fingers lightly brushing across the frame.
The metal was pitted, scuffed, weather-worn. Fine scratches ran along the inner plating—more than just use. These arms have seen stress . Written in white lettering were the number “07” and the word “Revenge”.
She soon stood back, folding her arms. “What do you even do that requires this kind of model?”
Heathcliff gave her a strained grin, looking away. “...Paperwork.”
Grace blinked at him, then stared. “Paperwork,” she repeated flatly.
“Tons of filin’, y’know” he added with an awkward smirk. “Real grueling stuff.”
She gave him another slow, silent stare before crouching beside the bench and starting to remove the panel. “Right…”
As she leaned in, she noticed—barely. His ears flicked. Not the pointed, upright triangular shape she’d expect from a canine Thiren, but longer, softer, slightly curved at the tips. She decided to not press, beginning her work. But the disbelief lingered in her tone like smoke.
Heathcliff remained still, watching her with wary eyes as her hands moved expertly across the joints, unlatching small access panels and inspecting internal wiring.
A few seconds passed, then Grace paused. Her eyes caught something etched into one of the inner plates, almost obscured by dust and time. She leaned in, brushing it clean with the pad of her thumb.
“Property of…” she whispered—then jolted upright, eyes wide. “Earnshaw Electronics?!”
She took a sharp step back like she’d just discovered treasure in the junk bin. “No way—no way.” Her voice pitched up as she looked up to face him. “You’re walking around with an Earnshaw Mark VII hybrid-electro model?! Are you kidding me?!”
Heathcliff blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Er… I—”
Grace was already leaning back over the arm, practically vibrating. “This explains the twitching—these arms were known to be jumpy as hell. The neural threshold is ridiculous on these things!”
She shot him a look, half accusatory and half reverent. “These were never mass produced. They only issued a few dozen prototypes before the company was sold off. The sync systems were too expensive to copy, but the build quality? Chef’s kiss.” She made a dramatic kiss-pop and flicked her fingers. “These are museum pieces.”
Heathcliff tilted his head, ears flicking again.”...Uh. Yeah?” He offered her an unsure smile.
Grace didn’t hear him. “The core housing’s still intact? Look at this soldering—its hand-laid, no question. Someone babied this thing.” She laughed, giddy. “Do you know what you’re walking around with? This is like—finding a nuclear reactor in someone’s back yard.”
“Didn’t think you were the type to geek out,” he said, watching her from the side of his eye.
“You kidding? This is my passion.” She beamed. “I wrote a whole thesis on Earnshaw tech. Their sync rates were top-tier, even compared to modern stuff. Light frame, balanced load ratios, and just enough aesthetic class to make it look professional.”
Heathcliff raised a brow. “All that for some bloke who made robot arms?”
Grace looked at him. “William Earnshaw wasn’t just ‘some bloke.’ He was a proper idealist.”
Heathcliff snorted as the word ‘idealist’ escaped Grace’s lips.
“Ran the company like it was family. Pushed for integration tech that actually helped people—not just for profit margins. But…”
She paused, as if remembering something. A crease formed between her brows.
“After his passing, things went downhill. His son—Hindley, I think—took over. Had zero interest in continuing the legacy. Sold the entire company to some nameless military organization within a year.” She tapped lightly on the casing. “Most of the original tech either disappeared into classified vaults or got stripped for parts”
Heathcliff’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Only son, was he?”
Grace nodded, distracted. “Yeah. As far as anyone knows.”
Her tone carried the quiet note of something being…off. As if her brain had snagged on something, but couldn’t name it or couldn’t find the outline of what was missing. She shook it off, continuing her work.
“Shame,” Heathcliff said casually, leaning back. “Sounds like it meant something once.”
“It did,” Grace replied, pulling a cluster of micro-cabling free. “That’s what makes this so weird. This kind of model shouldn’t be out in the field. Most of them were custom-commissioned or lost during transition.”
Heathcliff’s gaze drifted somewhere else.
Grace leaned over to examine the exterior of the wrist joint, her tools moving with swift ease.
“Honestly…” she said, half to herself. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were William Earnshaw’s bastard kid or something.”
Heathcliff went still, ears dropping, as if a thread snapped and something underneath had gone taut. The soft clinks of her tools in the room seemed to stretch with the silence.
Grace noticed it immediately. Her shoulders tensed, and she glanced up the bench, tools pausing mid-motion. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Heathcliff’s voice was low and aggressive, the taping on his foot began to intensify.
Grace sat on her heels, holding her tools loosely now, uncertain. “It was just a throwaway line,” she said, quieter. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted, still not looking at her. “But not everything’s funny when it sounds like it should be.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Grace, usually quick to recover, stayed silent.
After a few seconds, Heathcliff let out a slow breath, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his ears rose.
“Look,” he began, voice softer now, almost apologetic. “I’ve had people talk like they know where I come from. Even…”
He furrowed his brows before returning his gaze toward her, cutting off whatever he was trying to say. “Nevermind, just… continue….”
She nodded, wordless. Then, quietly, she gestured back to the bench. “Extend your elbow a bit. I don't want to tear a tendon by accident.”
Heathcliff exhaled through his nose as he did as instructed. “...Thanks.”
Grace didn’t smile, didn’t joke. She just picked up her soldering tool again and resumed—quieter this time.
After a couple of minutes of silence, Grace gave the last bolt a gentle twist, sealing the access panel with a soft click. She leaned back, wiping the sweat from her brow with a nearby rag.
“Alright,” she said, placing away her screwdriver. “Try it now.”
Heathcliff flexed his fingers—slowly at first, then with increasing precision. The joints moved cleanly, smoothly, with no spasm or resistance. He rotated his wrist, then curled his hand into a fist and opened it again.
He let out a low, impressed whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Grace crossed her arms, watching him with quiet satisfaction. “That’s Earnshaw's design for you. They just needed someone who spoke their language.”
Heathcliff stood, flexing his elbows and testing the full range of motion. No stutters, no twitches. A faint grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.
“How much do I owe ye?” he asked, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.
Grace shook her head. “Consider it a favor. I owe you one, after that crack I made.”
Heathcliff frowned. “Nah. Can’t have that.” He pulled out a total of 22,500 Dennies and then handed it over.
“Take it,” he said. “Standard pay for a top-tier fix like that. The extra’s for me bein’ a twat too.”
Grace stared at the Dennies, brow lifting slightly. “You sure? This is more than most companies pay for a full diagnostic.”
He shrugged, extending the Dennies closer. “You earned it, lass.”
There was a pause—quiet, but not uncomfortable.
In the end, Grace took the money, sliding into her utility belt. “Alright,” she said. “Just please make sure to come back if anything else pops up.”
Heathcliff laughed, brushing dust off his shirt. “That’s a deal.”
He soon turned to leave, but paused at the door. His eyes flicked around the workshop—over at the cluttered tools, the low-hanging lights, the heavy silence filled with circuitry hum,
There was something about the space. Not the machines, not Grace… something else. Like a word caught on the tip of his tongue, a feeling without form.
“You ever…” he began, then trailed off.
Grace turned her attention back to him. “Hmm?”
Heathcliff looked back at her, expression unreadable for a moment. Searching for a name that didn’t exist. “Actually, never mind.” He shook his head with a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For a second, I thought I—forget it. Just somethin’ stupid.”
Grace didn’t press. She just watched him, head tilted slightly, like she was trying to read the parts of him he wasn’t saying out loud.
He shrugged, turning to go. “I’ll be going now, take care.”
Grace smiled. “You too, Heathcliff.”
As he walked out, she caught a glimpse of his W-Engine, or rather the patterns of violet flowers she couldn’t quite name.
In the silence that followed, Grace stood alone again. She looked back at the disassembled pieces of his arms still left on the bench—some old, some replaced. Her eyes lingered on them for too long.
“Earnshaw…” Her brow furrowed, just slightly. She thought about it for a moment too long, attempting to piece together the missing puzzle piece.
Ultimately, she let it go, resuming her maintenance on Friday.
[Brant Street Construction Site | 10:45 PM]
The Mirage Moon rose from the horizon, casting long shadows across the industrial zone. The sharp hiss of hydraulic lifts, the clang of shut-off machinery, and the steady murmur of workers clocking out and heading home gave the place a strange, rhythmic calm.
Anton stood near the loading bay gates, voice raised above the noise. “Good work today, everyone! Get home safe, drink water, don’t punch the vending machines on the way out!”
Scattered laughter followed. The last trucks rolled out. Power systems dropped into low-energy modes. Lights dimmed.
Across the site, Bangboos wearing bright yellow hard hats walked toward their charging stations, their long ears bobbing as they walked in tight, waddling packs.
One by one, they climbed into their docks, powered down, and fell still.
All except one: Safety.
Grace’s personal Bangboo lingered near the landfill. His digital eyes blinked slowly as he looked around, then toddled off, humming a random beat.
He wandered down the service path, his ears twitching. A faint static buzzed through the air.
Safety froze, his ears perked toward the sound. “Eh-nah-tah? (What was that?)” he chirped, following the source until he stood in front of a towering pile of debris.
The static grew louder, and soon, he found something.
Nestled among the rubble, half buried under discarded plating and broken glass, was a small cubic terminal. A monitor blinked quietly, its screen blank except for a blinking cursor. A keyboard sat in the dirt in front of it, dusted with ash and grit.
Safety tilted his head. With his tiny hands, he grabbed a nearby crate and climbed up. He hesitantly looked at the keyboard before typing.
>Hello?
The screen flickered as words began to scroll.
>Welcome, Dear Guest. Have you enjoyed the town tour? We’d like you to have a souvenir. : -)
A soft clunk sounded as a small mechanical hatch beside the terminal popped open. A thin, blackened piece dropped into the dust—a burnt pinpoint logic circuit, its edges charred and wires frayed.
Safety waddled over and picked it up carefully. “Wa-tah… eh-nah-tah. (Wait… I don’t remember taking a tour.)” He looked back at the screen and typed again:
>What is this town you’re talking about?
The response was almost immediate:
>Did you not take a tour of the town, Dear Guest?
Safety’s eyes flickered nervously. He tapped out:
>No
The cursor paused…
>Then you may not have a souvenir!
The screen glitched.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the screech of shifting metal echoed through the landfill. The terminal spasmed. The keyboard cracked in half. Panels split. Wet sounds echoed through the air—like bones snapping.
Metal unfolded like ribs. Plates shifted as sinew-like cables stretched and snapped into place. Green circuit boards lit up along twitching, muscle-like tissue, glowing faintly behind clear casing. Stray wires extended from long, skeletal arms, trailing like fingers.
Pink lights ignited behind the metallic face—no eyes, just a smooth panel with lines too asymmetrical to be natural. The thing turned toward Safety, and stared.
Safety looked up at it, ears stiff, cradling the burn logic circuit in his tiny hands.
From somewhere inside the creature—a garbled, rusted speaker—came a cheerful, glitchy voice.
<Please cooperate with confiscation! Lying is bad behavior.>
The voice grated like sandpaper over metal, warped and too human.
A hand shot forward—long, wire-thin fingers snapping outward like a whip.
Safety let out a startled chirp—”Wahhhh!”—and bolted, the circuit board clutched tight to his chest.
The amalgamation lunged, scraping against rubble on elongated limbs. A coil wiring snagged a broken pipe and ripped it from the heap with a shriek, but Safety was already weaving between broken concrete and shattered glass.
<Please cooperate, or you may be punished according to Rule #A62GBFE1>
The voice followed him, distorted and echoing through the landfill like a bad dream.
Safety didn’t stop, his feet pounded on the gravel. He tumbled over a pile of cabling, bounced off a half-buried frame, then scrambled up the hill toward the fence line—ears flapping wildly.
Behind him, the machine shrieked through an overdrive speaker with static noises.
Safety squeaked, ducking as another whip of wires lashed overhead. Sparks flew where it struck an old satellite dish.
The amalgamation dragged itself after him, mechanical limbs moving in unnatural jerks—flesh and steel wound together in horrible harmony.
“Wa-na-tah! (I need help!)” Safety cried, diving into a drain tunnel near the fence line. He vanished into the dark, the circuit still clutched in his shaky hands.
The amalgamation halted at the tunnel’s edge, unable to follow. Its head tilted at an inhuman angle. One of its arms sparked violently. Its pink lights dimmed. Then blared.
<You will comply later, Dear Guest. We are very patient.>
[Belobog Industries Workshop | Meanwhile]
The overhead lights glowed with a warm, steady glow. Grace moved slowly around Friday’s individual legs, double checking diagnostics and stability.
Behind her, footsteps echoed—light and rhythmic.
Koleda appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and wearing that faux-stern look she pulled off when she was about to say something mildly heartfelt. “Are you coming home tonight?”
Grace didn’t look back. “Maybe.”
Koleda raised an eyebrow. “You said that yesterday, and the day before…”
Grace gave a tight shrug. “I have a few more things to do.”
“You can come back in the morning, you know.” Koleda’s tone softened. “Maybe try sleeping in your actual bed for once.”
Grace paused—briefly, then sighed, placing down her tablet onto the workbench. “Alright.”
Koleda looked faintly surprised, then smiled. “I’ll head out first, then.”
Grace nodded, already closing off the hatch and walking over to her workbench. “Yeah, let me put away everything. I’ll catch you later.”
Koleda lingered for another second—watching her like she might say something else—but then turned and left, the echo of her footsteps fading into the outside.
The workshop fell into silence again.
Grace moved slowly around Friday’s frame, tugging a white plastic cover over him, sealing the day’s progress. Her motion was familiar, automatic.
She crossed to her workbench and began rolling schematic prints with practiced care, binding them neatly with a thick rubber band.
She started sorting her tools next, sliding each one into its proper slot inside the drawers. Wrench, caliper, soldering pens. The click of each drawer was crisp, clean.
After a total of forty minutes, the workshop now looked neat and organized.
Satisfied, Grace then began reaching for her toolbox when—
“Eh-nah-nah! (G-Grace!)” A small, high pitched voice cracked the quiet like glass.
Grace turned sharply just in time to see Safety barreling through the open workshop door, stumbling on his tiny feet, the blackened circuit board clutched in one hand.
“Huh? Safety?” Grace blinked, crouching instinctively. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
Safety skidded to a stop, trembling ear to foot. “Eh-eh-nah-wa! (A M-Monster!)” he cried. “Wa-tah-eh—wa-tah! (Tall and ugly—it wants to dismantle me!)”
“A monster?” Grace raised an eyebrow, placing her fists on her hips. “ Is this another one of your pranks? Did you and Koleda set this up—?”
SCREEE—KHHHRK
The sound of metal being peeled came from the doorway.
Grace’s words caught in her throat as she looked up at the source.
A long, skeletal hand with trailing wires gripped the door frame. Then the rest of it followed.
The amalgamation crouched low, twisted plates clicking into place as it peered inside. Flesh-like musculature twitching beneath circuit boards. Pink lights flickered from the faceplate like false eyes.
<Dear Guest… Return. The. Souvenir .>
Grace stood up slowly, one hand reaching out to pull Safety behind her. “W-What is that—?” she stammered, eyes wide as she began to back off.
The thing began to move inside. Metal shrieked as its arms tore through the top of the door frame further. Wires snapped, sparks showered.
The amalgamation took a full step into the workshop, its body unfolding like a collapsing scaffold, long limbs twitching with sickening sounds. The pink lights pulsed brighter as it locked onto the Bangboo clinging to Grace’s leg.
<Final warning. Return the souvenir, Dear Guest. Noncompliance will be corrected.>
Grace’s pulse thundered in her ears. She grabbed the nearest thing off the table—a heavy wrench—and hurled with all the force she had.
CLANG
The wrench struck the creature square in the chestplate… and bounced off harmlessly onto the floor with a dull clatter.
THUNK
The amalgamation didn’t even flinch, instead locking onto Grace.
Grace stared for half a second. “Figures.” Then snatched Safety into her arms and bolted.
The amalgamation let out a burst of static and glitched audio through broken speakers as it made chase.
Grace saw a narrow opening through the garage door and slid off. She scrambled to her feet with the help of Safety, her shoes hammering against the pavement.
The amalgamation simply tore through the garage door, its limbs dragging and swinging like a marionette with half its strings cut. It was fast. Too fast.
They burst into the open construction site—an unfinished sector of Brant Street. The skeletal structure of buildings-to-be loomed like ribs under floodlights.
Grace darted between scaffolding towers and stacks of hollow concrete pipe segments. Steel beams and rusted machinery turned into cover.
The amalgamation smashed through obstacles behind her, its limbs scraping and dragging as it surged forward with inhuman grace.
“Eh-nah-wah! Wa ta nah! (Grace! We can hide there!)” Safety pointed toward a storage room, its metal door slightly ajar.
“Good catch!” Grace panted, making a bee line into the building.
[Meanwhile]
Inside a cramped office, Anton leaned over a table stacked with blueprints and schedules, scribbling something onto a notebook with the intense scowl of someone knee deep into management.
As he was about to write the next set of schedules, the door creaked behind him.
“Boss?”
He looked behind him, his face softening. “Hmm? Becky? I thought you left already.”
Becky stood in the doorway, helmet in one hand, the other nervously rubbing the strap of her vest. She gave him a small, tentative smile. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”
Anton raised an eyebrow.
“I know it’s last-minute,” she said, stepping into the room, “But my kid’s got her school recital tomorrow. She’s been practicing that violin piece for weeks, and I kinda promised I’d be there. Is there a way for someone to take my shift tomorrow in the afternoon? Or just a few hours?”
Anton blinked—then let out an approving sigh. “Alright, yeah. Go ahead and submit the form. I’ll make the change.”
Becky lit up. “Wait, for real?”
“Of course,” Anton said, crossing his arms and straightening his posture. “I can’t deny a mother from experiencing a proper memory with her child.”
“Thank you so much, you really don’t know—”
CRASH
They both stopped.
Another crash, louder this time. From far off. Metal against metal.
Anton frowned. “What was that?”
Becky turned toward the window, eyes narrowing.
From across the site, near the construction zone, dust clouds began to emerge, then came another BOOM.
Anton grabbed his walkie-talkie and switched to site-wide. “Prez, Ben—sound off. Did you guys hear that?”
The comm crackled, then Ben’s voice came through: “Yeah, something big moving around the scaffolding.”
Another crash, then the sound like twisted metal screaming.
Koleda’s voice cut in: “Something’s off. Anton, quickly, meet up with us and let’s go and investigate.”
“On it,” Anton soon began motioning toward a near workbench, strapping his hand-drill into his left arm. He turned to look at Becky with a half-serious look. “You should go home, we’ll take care of it.”
“I can spare some overtime.” Becky slipped her helmet back on, grabbing her soldering torch and canister. She then turned on the gas, letting out a sharp hiss of flames.
Anton gave her a confident grin. “Alright, some fighting spirit.”
She laughed, giving him a little playful salute before heading towards the source of the noise.
[Construction Site]
Grace slammed the metal door shut behind her, the clang echoing through the wide storage space. Dust danced in the emergency light. She set Safety down and immediately dragged a crate across the floor, jamming it against the base of the door.
“Help me block it!” she barked.
Safety scrambled to obey, tiny hands shoving another box beside hers. They stacked crates, old tool bins, anything heavy enough to serve as a makeshift barricade. The door groaned under the weight of the amalgamation outside. A loud thud rattled the frame.
Grace cursed under her breath, checking the latch—bent, barely holding.
Another crash. Screws strained. The door jumped on its hinges.
<Please return the souvenir. Immediately.>
“What the hell is it talking about?” Grace yelled. “Safety, what did you do?”
Safety blinked, then shyly held something out to her—half hidden in his small hands. The thin, blackened circuit, still faintly warm.
Grace took a look at it from a distance. “Where did you get that?” she asked, voice calm but tight.
Safety’s ears dropped. “Wa…Wa-ta-nah. (It…It gave it to me.)”
Grace inhaled. “Okay. That was polite of you. But maybe we should return—”
Another crash, hard enough to shake the entire building.
“Sweetie, quick!” Grace screamed. “Toss it outside or give it to me!”
In his panic, Safety flinched—and hurled the circuit.
CRASH.
It smashed through a dusty window at the side of the room, vanishing into the darkness outside.
CRACK.
For a split second, everything went still.
Then—roaring static. The voice outside twisted into a digital screech.
<Souvenir destroyed… Guests will be corrected. Guests will be corrected. Guests will be—>
The door exploded inward with a thunderous bang, bending violently under the force of the amalgamation’s rage.
The crates rattled as more bolts tore loose.
Safety screamed, and Grace grabbed him instinctively, shielding him with her body.
“Shh, shh! It’s okay!” she whispered, lying through her teeth. “You’re safe. I’m not going to let it touch you.”
Another slam shook the door, bending the top hinges. Dust rained down from the ceiling.
Then—voices, fast and getting closer.
Outside, four figures sprinted toward the storage unit—Koleda, Andon, Ben, and Becky, their boots pounding against concrete and gravel.
They skidded to a stop as floodlights caught the figure looming in front of the door.
The amalgamation, hunched and snarling in digital static, was prying at the twisted frame with fingers too long, too wrong. Metal groaned beneath its touch.
Anton’s expression dropped from confusion into full concern. “Uh… guys? That ain’t any kind of equipment we’ve got.”
The amalgamation paused. Its head turned. Long limbs stiffened under the sudden attention. The pink lights behind its faceplate flickered, glitching once.
Upon seeing Koleda from a narrow opening, Grace didn’t hesitate. “Sweet Pea! H-Help! THIS THING IS TRYING TO KILL US!”
“Sis?” Koleda’s face snapped toward the door. Her eye went wide, then narrowed. “Hang on, we’ll get you out of there.”
The amalgamation turned from the door, its pink-lit faceplate rotating with that same curious tilt—as if it was amused by the backup squad arriving.
Koleda twirled her hammer and wrench, their weight comfortable in her hands. “Alright, scraphead,” she muttered, cracking her neck. “Let’s dance.”
She charged first, closing distance fast. The wrench struck first—a feint—followed by a brutal overhead swing of the hammer.
CLANG—the blow connected with the amalgamation’s forearm, but it didn’t stagger. Instead, it caught the hammer’s shaft mid-air with its own spindly fingers.
Koleda’s eyes widened as she was lifted effortlessly. “Oh hell.”
Ben was already moving. With a roar, he swung his concrete pillar like a giant’s club, slamming it down between Koleda and the amalgamation.
BOOM—the shockwave kicked up the dust, forcing the amalgamation back a few paces, dropping Koleda.
Anton stepped up with his hand-drill, spinning it in a tight spiral. “Don’t fail me now, bro!” he shouted, jabbing forward with precision strikes meant to pierce gaps in the armor.
CHT-CHT-CHT! Sparks flew—but the amalgamation twisted its torso unnaturally, avoiding most of the hits. It grabbed Anton’s drill mid thrust and threw him against a pile of steel rebar with bone-rattling force.
“Anton!” Koleda shouted.
“I’m good!” he wheezed, standing up and orienting himself. “Don’t worry about me!”
Becky surged forward next, soldering torch lighting with a hiss, then shifting into full flamethrower mode with a click. “Let’s get cooking!”
WHOOSH—! A wave of fire surged over the amalgamation.
It let out a pattern of static and warbled machine-noise and its surface bubbled, wires recoiling. For a second, they had it. The creature reared back, panels on its chest snapping open like iron ribs.
<Guest misbehavior detected. Processing Transfer Reg.>
From its chest, a thin metal cord burst upward like a spear—straight into the ceiling scaffolding above. It struck something hidden—an upper compartment no one had noticed. A moment later, a giant crane-like claw descended from the overhead support beams.
The metallic fingers slammed down with incredulous speed, grabbing Becky by the waist before she could even react.
“No—NO!” she screamed, flailing.
“HEY!” Koleda shouted. “Let her go!”
The claw pulled her high into the air. From the claws sides, secondary arms burst forth—thin, blade-tipped and surgical.
<Pleased to meet you, Dear Neighbor.>
Koleda’s eye widened in horror. “Becky—NO!” she screamed.
Ben, gritting his teeth, ran forward—too far, too slow.
“Hold on! We’ll get you—” Anton shouted, voice breaking.
The blades descended and began to do their grim work.
One blade cut into her side—tearing apart her flesh like paper. Another jammed into her thigh, pulling sinew like thread. One snapped her helmet clean in half.
Her scream echoed throughout the construction site.
The team could only watch in horror as the blades began to further disembowel her—violently and methodically, as if performing some grotesque surgery.
Blood sprayed in arcs against rusted beams. Limbs twisted. The sound of flesh and bone being split apart filled the air.
Then came the final stroke: a blade plunged through her sternum with violent finality.
The light in her eyes faded, and her body stopped convulsing.
Anton took a step forward—then another. “...Becky?” His voice came out cracked, small.
Koleda’s wrench trembled in her grip. Ben stood frozen, breath ragged. The air around them felt like static—sharp, charged and suffocating.
From behind the cracked storage door, Grace’s blood ran cold, yet her expression remained blank, eyes catching only the shape of the corpse.
Even Safety turned away, hiding his face in her shoulder, little hands trembling.
The claw released her lifeless body, dropping onto the concrete with a sickening squelch. Her limbs were twisted, her jumpsuit torn open down the center. Blood pooled beneath her like coolant from a ruptured machine.
<Thank you for taking the tour of the town, Dear Guest.>
Its voice glitched again—more distorted than before, as if gleeful or mocking.
Koleda stood frozen—breathing hard, gripping her hammer and wrench so tightly her knuckles turned white. “...You picked the wrong place to pull that shit.” she said, voice low and furious. She charged, slamming her hammer into the amalgamation’s knee joint, sparks flying.
Ben covered her with his pillar, deflecting a whip-arm that lashed through the air like a razor.
Anton, filled with fury, let out a war cry as he sprinted forward, drill in his arm.
Grace swiftly backed away from the door, heart pounding, the sounds of metal shrieking and bodies colliding echoing outside.
She looked around the storage room, seeing it full of electrical tools and spare parts. Her mental gears began working overtime. She turned to Safety, who was shaking so hard his little ears dropped sideways.
“Sweetie, listen to me,” she said, squatting down to his level, voice calm but urgent. “I need you to be brave.”
Safety blinked at her, still shaking.
“You’re going to do what you do best, okay? I need any mechanical components—capacitors, wiring, any power cells you can carry. You know what I mean?”
“E-Eh-nah! (Y-Yes!)” he squeaked, saluting with one trembling paw. He bolted into the shadows of the storage room, digging through tool kits and supply bins.
Grace scanned the shelves, grabbing what she needed with laser focus: a heavy rivet gun, an old battery pack, a few stripped copper wires, and a spool of filament.
She went to the nearest workbench and opened the casing of the rivet gun, muttering under her breath. “Rotary coil’s intact…ignition can be overridden…”
Safety skidded back with a small pile of wires and a dented micro-transformer. “Wa-tah!? (These?!)”
Grace snatched them, smirking as she placed them onto the wooden bench. “Perfect.”
Her fingers moved fast—looping, soldering, taping, until the weapon clicked into a new configuration. The barrel hummed faintly with charge.
She loaded the makeshift capacitor cell into the side and flipped a new switch made of scrap plastic and a broken fuse cover.
The gun whined to life—blue arcs crackling along the muzzle.
“Modified arc discharge. Should fry ungrounded circuits…” she said to herself. Then, louder. “Safety, we’re helping now. Come on!”
Koleda slammed her wrench into the amalgamation’s leg, snarling through gritted teeth. “YOU. DON’T. TOUCH. MY. PEOPLE!”
The amalgamation staggered, but its shoulder lashed out—catching her side and tossing her into a stack of scaffolding.
Ben growled low, lifting his massive pillar overhead like it weighed nothing.
Anton came in low, drill spinning. “Let’s finish this, bro!”
All three were fighting angrier, harder, no longer just trying to subdue—but to destroy. The death of their coworker had shattered restraint.
But it still wasn’t enough. The amalgamation parried with unnatural grace—its arms always just long enough, its joints bending at angles that made it impossible to predict.
Then—
BANG!
A crack of electric discharge split the air. A bolt of blue energy slammed into the amalgamation’s upper back, causing it to jolt violently. Smoke poured from an exposed panel.
The amalgamation turned—mechanical head twisting too far—just in time to see Grace stride from the wrecked doorway, Safety stood by her side, driving a mini-drill.
Grace pointed the jury-rigged electric nail gun at it, cocking her head. “Hey, junkhead,” she called. “Eat science.” She fired again.
Another blast of electricity hammered into the amalgamation, forcing it back a step. It responded instantly—swinging its massive right arm low in a brutal arc
Coming up in a single fluid motion, she vaulted over the attack, twisting mid-air to land a three-point crouch.
BAM! Another shot fired.
CRACK-Zzzt!
The arc shot struck the amalgamation’s chest. It buckled slightly—only for a second, but it was enough. “Go!” Grace barked.
Koleda surged forward, twin weapons gleaming. Her hammer led the charge, smashing into the amalgamation’s rib plating with a thunderous clang, followed by a sweeping strike from her wrench that caught its tight and ripped off part of a circuit.
Anton came in from the left, drill spinning like a banshee’s scream. “Straight through the earth’s core!” He rammed the drill straight into its side, sending shards of plastic flying.
Ben leapt over a stack of crates, swinging his massive pillar like a comet. It crashed the creature’s chest, slamming it back several feet.
Safety followed up with his miniature drill, digging into its leg.
The amalgamation let out a distorted screech, its mangled voice a crescendo of static and rage. The plates of its chest split open again.
SHHK-KRAK
That long, grotesque arm shot skyward—vanishing into the shadows above the site yet again.
<Target acquired. Processing transfer reg!>
From the ceiling, the massive claw dropped like a guillotine—sleek, bladed, twitching with scalpel-precise violence.
“SIS, WATCH OUT!” Koleda’s voice cracked the air like a whip.
Grace looked up—and saw death falling toward her.
Time seemed to slow as the whirring of gears elongated into a droning hum. Her breath caught in her throat, her muscles frozen mid-motion. Her thoughts blurred—something between instinct and denial as the claw came closer.
This is it, something in her whispered. You’re not fast enough. You can’t move. You’re going to die. I’m sorry…Mom…Dad…Khors…Koleda…
Then—a blur of motion. Someone kicked her—hard—right at the hip.
WHUMP
She slammed to the ground, breath knocked from her lungs, the pavement biting into her back.
The claw missed her by inches. Her ears rang.
Dazed, Grace turned her head—and saw Heathcliff, one leg still half-raised, his stance low and spring loaded.
Silhouetted by the pale floodlights, sweat streaked across his brow, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. He stood tall, facing death itself.
Their eyes met—his full of something fierce, sad, and familiar, like a memory that couldn’t quite survive the weight of forgetting. Her breath caught and her chest burned.
The claw caught him by the ankle, steel digits clamping tight. It yanked him upward like a prize from a rigged game, spine twisting as he tried to brace, to fight back—but it was too late.
It flung him upward, and then began its twisted surgery. Armor tore, synthetic ligaments snapped, sparks showered onto the concrete, blood hit the ground in thick, awful slaps.
Grace’s hand twitched toward him instinctively. Blood streaking her face, arms, and mouth. Her lips parting in a soundless scream.
His final breath was ragged, short. Then, it stopped.
Clink.
From his belt, something fell.
Clink.
Clink…
It rolled, bounced, and stopped against her leg. Grace looked down, eyes wide and unblinking. A bloodied and damaged W-Engine sat in the dust. Still warm and faintly pulsing.
She stared at it, neither blinking or breathing. Her fingers reached without her consent, lifting it gently, reverently.
Then—Heathcliff’s body hit the concrete with a loud slap. Limbs twisted, head bent unnaturally, blood leaking from him.
The world around Grace buzzed, unfocused. She could still hear the battle, the chaos—but it felt a thousand miles away.
All that remained in her world was this piece of him. This single, heavy truth in her hands.
Koleda stood frozen a few meters away, weapon slack in her hand. Ben braced himself on his pillar, eyes wide. Anton muttered prayers under his breath, staring at the claw retracting into the ceiling.
Grace sat on the ground, blood drying on her face, her hands trembling. A part of her that never processed loss—never let herself feel it—was finally waking up. And it was screaming.
A couple of seconds later, footsteps could be heard. Boots pounding on concrete.
Twelve figures rounded the corner, emerging from the shadows of the industrial scaffolding. Each one different—striking, dangerous, and utterly out of place.
One by one, they stepped into the light.
At their head walked a tall figure with a red coat and a clock for a head—Dante—its hour and minute hands still. The ticking they emitted was soft but urgent.
“Dammit, Heathcliff!” snapped another voice—a sharp, gritted snarl from the woman with frizzled orange hair—Ishmael—and a shield strapped to her back. “Not again…”
“A soul dispersed, yet clinging to matter still. Poorly timed elegy,” said Yi Sang, drawing a slender dagger from his sleeve.
The clock-headed individual let out a frantic series of ticks.
“Forget it, Executive manager.” said a woman with sleek, gray-brown hair, dark skin, and a piercing gaze—Outis—gunblade resting against her hip. “He’s more useful dead.”
“Fear not, dear citizens! For the Limbus Company shall vanquish thine foul beast!” A girl with blonde hair and starry eyes—Don Quixote—said as she raised her lance dramatically.
“...Who the hell are these people?” Koleda muttered, eye darting between the strangers and the twitching amalgamation.
A young man with a jade eye—Hong Lu—spun his polearm once, smiling like he was on a casual stroll. “Wow~ it looks exactly like the backstreets dwellers back in my hometown.”
The tall, somber Ryoshu didn’t move, a lit cigarette between her lips, Odachi strapped to her back. “S.S.E. A fine piece of artwork,” she said flatly.
Another woman in a high-collared coat—Faust—stepped forward, zwei-handler resting gently in front of her. “Faust foresaw this moment hours before…”
At her side, a gruff man with a large roach-like claw cracked his neck, his claw shifting with sickening ease. Gregor. “Tch, what a pain of a day.”
And at the back, Emil Sinclair, halberd in hand, glanced at Grace—for just a second. “Heathcliff…” His eyes flicked to the remains of his co-worker, then away.
“Are you…” Grace’s voice was hoarse, her face pale. “...Are you here to help?”
“Define ‘help.’” murmured Rodion, pulling an axe from her back with one hand. An oversized briefcase strapped to her back. Her eyes were tired and distant.
Meursault stepped forward, cracking his gauntlets. “Awaiting orders, Manager.”
Dante’s clock ticked once—clear, commanding. Soon, the team moved as one.
Notes:
And so, finally, it begins.
As a fun fact, the interaction between Grace and Heathcliff is actually what drove me to write the overall fic. As much as I would like to elaborate, I am afraid I'll put it in my mental vault until it is ready to be told.
For now, we shall venture onto the second person of this saga.
This chapter will also be available in SpaceBattles.
With nothing else to say. Have a good morning, afternoon, evening and night.
Chapter 2: Remains
Summary:
The Limbus Company tries their best to defeat the amalgamation, but not without some major hiccups.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Brant Street Construction Site]
The clang of metal on metal echoed across the construction zone. In the distance, the Limbus Company moved like a storm—fluid, precise, violent.
Faust’s zweihander cleaved steel like paper. Hong Lu danced between strikes like his body obeyed a different kind of gravity. Gregor, Rodion, Ryoshu—they surrounded the amalgamation, pinning it in a storm of rhythm and blood.
But Grace didn’t see any of it.
She knelt beside a ruined support beam, cradling the W-Engine in her arms. Her face was still streaked with Heathcliff’s blood.
Koleda rushed to her side, Anton and Ben close behind. The three of them skidded to a halt—relieved she was alive, but the moment they saw her expression, something shifted.
“Grace?” Koleda said, dropping to her knees and checking for wounds. “Hey. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Grace didn’t look at her, nor moved. “Heathcliff…” she said, voice hollow.
Koleda frowned, looking at the mangled remains. “What of him?”
Grace swallowed hard, her lips trembling. “He’s just…resting, right?”
Koleda froze for a moment, then narrowed her eye. “YEAH. IN PIECES!” she snapped, louder than she meant to.
Anton flinched, shielding himself with his drill.
“Prez.” Ben placed a heavy hand on Koleda’s shoulder, gently pulling her back.
Grace didn’t react at first. Then her thumb brushed to the side of the W-Engine. Something caught her eye. A faint, worn, etching in the casing, half ruined by the Amalgamation’s damage.
HC ♥️ ██
She stared at it, breath hitching as her grip tightened.
Koleda leaned in again, slower this time. “Grace…”
She didn’t answer, eyes still locked at the etching. It wasn’t a number, or a serial. Just two sets of initials—two people, probably. A bond, a memory. A chill settled in her chest. “...He knew someone,” Grace murmured. “Someone important.”
“Grace, we need to get out of here—” Koleda began, tugging Grace’s arm.
But Grace shook her head, quiet and shaken. “No. Not yet.” She looked out toward the battle—toward the thing that had taken Heathcliff. Then back at the W-Engine. Her fingers brushed the etched letters again, softer this time. “...He didn’t deserve this…”
The clash of steel and static roared across the site as the Limbus Company continued their assault.
Yi Sang drifted like smoke. Faust parried like she’d choreographed every move. Don Quixote charged with glee, shouting vows every chance she had. Sinclair’s halberd blazed with fury. Gregor lashed out with his mutated claw.
And still, the amalgamation stood.
Every wound it took re-wove itself, patching with tangled circuits and muscle like synth cables.
“It’s adapting…” Faust muttered. “Dante, it would be wise to deploy the IDs.”
Dante, standing in the shadow of a twisted crane, looked up at the amalgamation. Their clock-head ticked calmly. They pulled out their tablet—sleek, thin and complex—and tapped a series of commands.
Grace, watching from the far end of the battlefield, felt the air grow heavier—like pressure pressing from all sides. Then, she saw it.
A gold light began to envelop the members of the Limbus Company, changing their appearance in seconds.
Faust's hair became wild, streaked with blood and gold highlights. Her coat twisted into a regal, blood-soaked garment, wax seals stamped along the edges, swaying as though caught in some unseen wind. In her hand: not a blade—but an oversized, iron nail, thick and dark.
Sinclair’s coat shifted into something similar to Faust regal clothing, lined with frayed golden accents and wax seals. His gauntlets and greaves were iron-wrought, etched with cruel sigils. His hair hung in matted clumps, streaked with dried blood. His halberd shimmered with heat, intensifying as he raised it.
Meursault’s arms swelled. Tubes erupted from his neck and cheeks, pulsing with green fluid, White inquisitor armor, cracked and bleeding, surrounded him like a shell. A flowing red cape billowed with the wind. In his hands, a massive nail half the size as him.
Don Quixote laughed as her clothes became armor that was too big for her to fit in. The plating was etched with scriptures, and was also adorned with crimson wax seals. A hammer, absurdly large, dropped into her hands like a divine punishment.
Even Rodion, her eyes dulled by long-hidden obsession, raised her head. Her armor mirrored Don’s, white and etched with scriptures and emblazoned with the symbol of Nagel Und Hammer. A matching hammer and nail were clutched in her hands like relics.
Koleda’s breath caught. “No way…”
Ben stared at the wax-colored symbols, growling. “Fanatics…”
She shook her head, but not in denial. “It can’t be… N Corp. fanatics were just—rumors. Stories. You hear about them in Hollow exploration teams going rogue…but…”
Meanwhile, the other members of the company had also begun to shift.
Yi Sang and Outis donned matching uniforms—a white beret atop their heads. Blood and pigment were smeared across their aprons. Their paintbrush-lances glistened wetly against the flood lights.
Ryoshu and Gregor were dressed like chefs—butchery-aprons stiff with gore, the stench of raw meat clinging to them even when they stood still. Their expressions were cynical and obsessed just like the inquisitors.
Ishmael’s form grew broader—wrapped in the reinforced armor of the Reindeer Team’s Fourth Pack. Her quarterstaff buzzed with static just like the antlers jabbed into her head.
Hong Lu now wore a delicate floral shirt, open at the sleeves, his exposed forearms inscribed with writhing, cryptic tattoos. His smile was easy, but his knuckle knife spun with confident swagger.
Anton said what they were all thinking. “...What, or who are these people?”
Faust, now crowned in blood and gold, let out a blood curling whistle. It was high and sharp, not a note of joy, but rather, a war cry.
The other N. Corp fanatics stiffened, backs straightening, weapons raised in synchronized reverence. Their eyes burned with divine purpose. For them, this was no longer a mission, but rather a ritual.
They soon moved like knights of purpose—each strike purposeful, synchronized and filled with holy fury.
The amalgamation let out a distorted screech. It stumbled back, sparks gouting from its chest panels, wires lashing out in blind rage.
WHAM.
A swing of its arm caught Gregor mid-charge, flinging him like a ragdoll into a wall with a sickening crunch. His cleaver skittered across the floor.
Dante let out a sharp train whistle.
“Heh.” Ryoshu stepped forward, lips curved into a small smile. “This ingredient’s got bite.”
She crouched low—chef’s knife glinting with blood—and surged forward. Her blade hummed with precision and violence. She ducked low beneath a wild swing, aimed directly for the joint in its leg—ready to sever tendon and servo both.
That’s when it moved differently.
The amalgamation staggered—then snapped downward, one hand grabbing a poiece of broken pipe from the debris at its feet.
With a sudden lurch of its shoulder, it spun its torso—ramming the jagged tube backward like a harpoon.
SCHLK.
The makeshift weapon impaled Ryoshu straight through the gut—iron bursting from her back in a spray of blood.
Her feet left the ground for a split second. She didn’t scream—but her expression froze in something between shock and reverence.”Hnh… I never thought… I’d be an ingredient…”
The amalgamation twisted the pipe, and Ryoshu let out a sharp exhale, blood staining her tongue. It flung her to the side, her body tumbling into a pile of old scaffolding like a discarded doll.
<Thank you for cooperating, Dear Guest.>
Anton stepped back, his mouth half-open. “She’s dead…”
Ben’s grip on his pillar tightened. “And yet, this Limbus Company doesn’t seem to care?”
Koleda’s wrench hovered halfway. Her breathing was shallow, fingers twitching at her side.
“Do we… help them?” She quavered, eye flicking from Ryoshu and Gregor’s bodies to the rest of the Sinners still standing. “Do they even need help?”
No one answered. Not when the battlefield moved like some stage of ritual violence, not when death loomed in the distance.
Only Grace stayed entirely still—but her eyes tracked every move. Not the blood or the bodies, but the amalgamation’s.
Its posture, sequence, spams, all of it. Her finger clenched tight around Heathcliff’s W-Engine, her eyes narrowing.
There must be something… anything I can read about this child’s behavior… But the thought fizzled out. No… this isn’t a kid. It’s not a machine, either. It’s something… incomprehensible…
Dante took a look at Grace and at the rest of Belobog Industries, briefly listening to their comments before focusing back on the battlefield. Their fingers flew across the tablet before taking a look at Ishmael.
“Activating… Mind Whip…Hnh!” She instinctively blinked—eyes flashing. Her quarterstaff and antlers surged with amber energy, circuitry crackling up the length of the shaft. “... Target locked.”
Everyone turned to see the unfortunate recipient of the targeting reticle: Don Quixote.
She turned to face Ishmael with a horrified look, but she soon assumed a heroic pose. “Fear not, my noble comrades! I shall—”
ZAP
A high-pitched crack split the air. A beam of concentrated neurostatic energy surged forward, slamming into Don Quixote’s chest with the force of divine irony.
“...Fuhu, tis but a scra—”
ZAAP
“Methinks—”
ZAAAP
“Krh… There are still—deeds und—”
ZAAAAP
A faint trail of ash spiraled in the wind where Don once stood. Her giant hammer clanged to the ground, smoking slightly.
Hong Lu turned to look at their manager with a perplexed look, jade eye glinting slightly. “Was that… part of the plan, Dante?”
Dante slowly reached up and rubbed the back of their clock-head.
Sinclair threw a low scowl at them. “What do you mean ‘whoopsie daisy’?”
The battlefield briefly paused before a new sound echoed across the construction site.
CHNK-CHNK-CLANG.
Grace’s head snapped up. No… Not again—
SHHKT.
The claw launched once more, catching Yi Sang by the leg mid-dodge. It dragged him off the ground with horrifying force, suspending him in the air.
His voice was calm, but manic. “Ah. Miscalculation…”
Everyone shielded themselves from the fountain of blood and guts splashing everywhere.
Except Grace, her eyes locked on something else. Inside the chest cavicty of the amalgamation—just beneath the writhing cabled, shielded by half-torn plating—a pulse. Dim at first, then clearer: A capacitor.
She squinted, leaning closer—half in trance. It’s charging. Every time it launches that claw it begins to use the power stored in the power bank.
Her breath caught in her throat. “That’s it…” The glow from the capacitor burned behind her eyes, imprinting like an afterimage.
Her hands—smeared with blood—tightened around the W-Engine still in her grip. She stared at it for a second. Then she shoved it into her toolbelt and rose to her feet—shaky, barely upright. Her knees buckled once before she caught herself, stumbling back a step.
Koleda turned to her, concerned. “Grace?”
“W-We…” Grace’s voice quivered. “We have to help.”
Anton blinked at her, stepping back. “Are you insane? Did you not see what that ‘thing’ did to—”
“I don’t care!” Grace snapped, more frightened than angry. “Unless you want everyone to meet a similar fate, I need you guys to buy me some time.”
Ben scowled, gripping his pillar. “What are you planning on doing?”
Grace shook her head, grabbing Safety and holding him with her arms. “Just trust me on this one!” She said finally before bolting back inside of the shed.
Koleda took a deep breath and turned toward the amalgamation. She raised her wrench and hammer, twirling them while she cracked her neck. “You heard her. Let’s smash this bastard.”
Anton clicked his drill into gear. “She better be right.”
Ben gave a growl of agreement and sprinted forward.
Grace and Safety barged inside of the shed, the door slamming behind them.
No hesitation—just motion. Grace dropped to her knees behind a crate, already tearing through scorched tools and scrapped components.
The ground shook again.
Outside, the battle roared—louder, messier, more frantic.
CLANG.
CRUCH.
WHRRRR—KRAK.
Grace’s hands trembled. Sweat slipped down her cheek and onto her lip mixing with the copper tang of blood. Capacitor link… anything to regulate the surge—something—come on—
“Eh-Wa-Tah! (Grace!)” Safety’s voice cut through the panic. He scurried into view, dragging a large toolbox behind him. His little frame was covered in soot, eyes wide but determined. “Wa-tah-eh, nah-tah!? (I found this at the back, will it work!?)”
Grace didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, yanked it open.
Inside—scorched wire spools, a cracked relay node, a ruptured casing—but the fuse regulator was intact. “Perfect!”
She quickly grabbed the box and threw it beside her growing pile of makeshift components on the workbench. She quickly reached for the torch and lowered her goggles. “Okay—okay. Safety—hold that plate there. I need stable current for the pulse relay. Don’t move.”
Safety nodded fast, clutching the frame with both paws. “Eh nah! (Ready!)”
The torch sparked to life. Solder hissing.
Anton swung his drill-arm wide, the spinning bit tearing through the amalgamation’s leg-plating—but it didn’t stop moving.
Koleda leapt off a broken scaffold, slamming her wrench into the amalgamation’s neck with a crack of sparks.
Ben locked his feet and held the pillar high, intercepting a whip-like cable lashing out toward Ishmael.
The amalgamation jerked violently, then twisted its body inhumanly fast, sweeping a cluster of debris like shrapnel in a wide arc.
“WATCH IT!” Koleda shouted.
Outis rolled cleanly, her spear piercing away two chunks swiftly as she passed under.
As the dust settled briefly, there was a wet, pulsing noise.
Sinclair’s breath came ragged, his frame shaking. He clutched his pounding head with one hand, teeth gritted. “N-Not again—not now—!”
His body shimmered, then twisted, bones crackling beneath his skin.
[/////// WARNING! ///// CORROSION INMINENT! ///////]
In seconds, Sinclair’s form warped—He became something else.
A grotesque fusion of a cockatrice and a boiling nightmare: scales glinting, arms feathered with miniature dragon wings, and a metal cooking pot for a head, bubbling violently. Steam hissed from cracks along the beak.
His warped voice slurred through the gaps in the helmet. “Phew… all… churned up…”
The liquid inside his pot-head began to boil viscously and violently.
Suddenly—POP!
A massive ball of bubbling soup launched from the pot like a mortar shell—arcing perfectly toward the amalgamation… and Rodion.
“What the—?!”
SPLASH.
The hot concoction splattered across the amalgamation’s arm—and directly onto Rodion’s face.
“IT BURNS!” Rodion shrieked, flailing. “Ow—OW—GRANT ME MERCY O’ ONE WHO SHALL GRIP!”
She dropped her hammer and nail, frantically tearing at her armor as steam rose off the breastplate in curls.
Hong Lu took a good whiff of the air, and smiled. “Oh~ That smells pretty good actually.”
Dante facepalmed their clock-head hard enough for the frustration to be audible.
Grace gritted her teeth as she soldered the final wires together, the torch coughing with every use.
She wrapped the shell with a fragment of Faraday mesh, slapped the pin onto the housing, and twisted the pieces until they clicked.
It wasn’t pretty, but it would have to do.
“Safety, let’s go!” She grabbed it with both hands and ran as quickly as she could.
She stumbled out first, clutching the makeshift device tight to her chest. Safety scurried behind, smoke and ozone still clinging to their clothes.
The battlefield roared ahead—metal screaming against metal, fire licking the edges of rusted scaffolds. The air was thick with dust and static.
Grace ran, shoes pounding on broken concrete, the device cradled like something sacred. Her chest burned, but her eyes stayed locked forward. Just a little further—!
Up ahead, the amalgamation spasmed violently, chest panels twitching, wires writhing like wet tendons.
Soon, the claw launched. Cables snapped taut, the grotesque appendage exploding into the ceiling’s shadowy heights with a thunderous hiss.
It picked the closest target… Koleda.
She had just finished pulling her wrench free when the light above caught her—the glint of motion, the shriek of tension.
“SWEET PEA!” Grace screamed.
Koleda turned too late. Her eye widened—then—
SNAP.
The claw caught her midsection. She let out a grunt as it wrenched her upward, steel digits tightening around her ribs like a bear trap.
“Shhiit!” she hissed through her teeth, legs kicking as her weapons clanged onto the floor.
“Prez!” Anton shouted, stumbling forward, arm outstretched.
“Koleda!” Ben’s voice cracked, his pillar slipping in his grip.
The claw reeled back, dragging her toward the ceiling like bait on a line. High above, the surgical blades unfolded with a hiss—circling her slowly, like metal vultures.
Koleda looked up—and for a moment—she froze. Her breath caught, her pupils shrank. There was no quip, no barked orders. Just raw, quiet fear.
She was too high. Too far. And those blades—they were going to cut her apart.
Grace didn’t stop to think—she moved. Legs burning. Vision swimming. Her hands clutched the device—its housing rattling with every step. The copper wiring sparked faintly, like prayer beads grinding together. Come on—COME ON—
The claw drew higher. The blades gleamed. Koleda’s fingers curled around the claw uselessly.
Grace leapt, slamming the device into the exposed chest panel—right where the capacitor was housed.
“HYAH!” She yanked the pin and hurled herself away. “Everyone—take cover!”
FWUMMMM—!
A burst of crackling, violet-blue energy surged upward, racing along the claw's spine like lighting up a nerve. The metal shrieked, sparks bursting from the joints.
The claw twitched, halted mid-motion—then seized.
Koleda’s body dropped.
Ben dived and caught her—both of them crashing hard on the concrete. “Got you—! Got you, Prez, are you—?!”
Koleda coughed, body limp, eyes dazed.
“...I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just… let me catch my breath first…”
The amalgamation staggered further, its arms shuddering. The claw retracted, but the chest cavity remained wide open. Inside, the capacitor began to blink red.
<System Error. System Error. Rebooting…>
Without a moment’s notice, Faust moved.
With eerie calm, she lifted a single iron nail, then hurled it—fast as lightning.
THUNK!
It pierced the glowing capacitor, embedding deep with a sickly crunch of warped metal.
She appeared before it in the blink of an eye, eyes unreadbale—and drove her fist into the nail, hammering it deeper with a brutal crack of bone and iron. “From dirt…”
The amalgamation convulsed, electricity rippling through its limbs.
Meursault stepped forward, expression still and grave. He raised his own monstrous nail—half his size—and with machine-like rhythm. “You shall repent.”
THWOK. THWOK. THOWK. TWACK!
He drove it again and again, puncturing the torso, shoulders, spine, until the creature shuddered—barely standing.
Outis surged in next, an artist's precision in every movement. She spun her paintbrush-lance, twisted beneath a twitching limb, and slammed it straight into its knee-joint.
“The rough sketch is complete,” she hissed. “Now be quick and paint over it!”
Sinclair walked forward, his halberd ignited, flames licking the edges. His eyes burned with holy fire, golden and unfocused, like he was seeing not just the machine but something beneath it. “That filth…”
He advanced, armor humming with fevered conviction. “You defiled what was human…”
He sprinted, halberd raised in both hands. With a roar, he plunged the weapon straight into its faceplate, the spear-tip crushing through alloy and subdermal mesh with a sickening CRACK.
Sparks flew. A gout of synthetic blood sprayed across his face and the concrete.
“I’LL RIP IT OFF OF YOU!”
With both hands, Sinclair wrenched the halberd backwards—and tore the faceplate free in one, jagged pull.
The plate tore loose—flesh and wires trailing behind. The creature convulsed, but not for long.
Hong Lu stepped in, twirling his knuckle dagger so fast it blurred. He didn’t say a word—just smiled.
SWISH. SWISH. SWISH.
Tiny, invisible blades—a dozen clean slashes across exposed joints. Then, he winked. “Aha~ Too easy!”
BOOM.
Every joint on the amalgamation’s limbs detonated at once. Arms ripped free. Legs cracked sideways. The amalgamation collapsed onto the ground—barely alive.
Ishmael stepped forward last, her quarterstaff humming. The circuitry lining its length glowed orange. Her antlers surged. She raised the weapon slowly. “Activating… Mid Whip!”
She aimed straight into the amalgamation’s core.
ZAP
ZAAP
ZAAAP
ZAAAAP.
The blasts of neurostatic energy slammed through the open chest, rupturing the capacitor completely. The amalgamation shrieked one last time—static garbled, voice glitching.
<De… Dear Gue—... th-thank y…>
The amalgamation shuddered one last time. Its limbs, stripped of joints, spasmed in herking, broken motions. Wires flailed like severed nerves. A final burst of sparks escaped its ruined chest. Then, its body collapsed.
THUD.
The amalgamation hit the concrete in a twitching heap—a tangle of steel, sinew and burnt tech. Smoke curled from its ruined form, rising in lazy spirals.
Soon, its body began to melt into a mess of red, green and black goop, threads of circuitry twitching within it. Blue and red sinews pulsed once.. Twice…
Slowly, the entire thing began to reform. A pulsing, egg-like object emerged from the mess—smooth and grotesque, composed of tangled circuit boards, wet sinew and fractured plating. Embedded in its center like a core was a square-cut amethyst, glowing faintly with soft purple light.
The battlefield, once burning with chaos, now felt still. Even the wind itself stopped flowing.
Koleda, Ben, Anton, Grace and Safety stood silent—eyes locked on the strange object.
“...What the hell is this?” Koleda wondered, clutching her throbbing ribs.
Dante’s chest rose and fell. They soon imputed a series of commands into their tablet with a quiet rhythm.
In a blink, a cascade of light rippled through the area. Each Sinner’s form shimmered—returning to normal, their Identities dissipating like ash on the wind. Uniforms restored. Weapons stashed, yet their features worn and tired.
Koleda exhaled as she approached them.
“...You saved our asses,” she sighed, nodding once toward the manager—then glancing at the others. “So… thanks. For whatever that was.”
She and the rest of Belobog looked around the battlefield, taking stock.
Heathcliff, Rodion, Gregor, Don Quixote, Ryoshu, Yi Sang… Nearly half the company had gone down.
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “But that’s the price, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Anton said nothing—he only turned away.
His steps were slow as he approached the far side of the construction site, past the scattered pipes and twisted cables… until he stopped at the small, crumpled figure near the edge of the blood-soaked platform.
Becky.
Her body lay where the amalgamation had discarded her. Arms twisted unnaturally. Half her helmet still clung to her head. The blood had long dried. Her eyes once full of light were now cold and distant.
Anton knelt beside her, one hand slowly reaching toward her cold skin and gently closing her eyes.
“...Shit…” was all he could manage to utter.
Behind him, Ben and Safety lowered their heads.
Grace remained quiet. She just stared—at Heathcliff, at the battlefield, at the weight of it all.
Koldea crossed her arms, then looked at the remaining Limbus Company members. She narrowed her eye. Something felt… off.
“None of you… seem shaken by this,” she said quietly. “Not even when the first ones fell. Why?”
Faust stepped forward in silence, standing beside Dante with a blank stare. She soon turned to face them, taking a sharp breath and closing her eyes. “You may proceed.”
Dante’s clock ticked softly in response. They made their way to the center of the battlefield.
CLINK.
Twelve golden chains erupted from their chest in an instant—glowing links forged from light and something sinister. Something unexplainable. They moved like living things, arcing through the air with a hiss and a snap.
The chains found their marks, one by one—each sinner’s fallen form.
Rodion, her clothes warped and skin scorched from boiling soup was first. The moment the chain coiled around her chest, the burns vanished. Her hair smoothed. The pain erased. She gasped—alive again.
Ryoshu’s body, once impaled and discarded, jerked upward unnaturally. The wound through her gut sealed in reverse, iron sliding out as if time itself spit her back. Her hands flexed. Eyes blinking open, dazed.
Gregor groaned as his twisted limbs cracked backward—snapping into their rightful places. Muscle knit, blood vanished. His roach claw twitched.
Yi Sang’s mangled corpse, half torn by the claw, twisted back into place. Bones folded and unfurled. Skin stitched itself clean. His chest rose in a slow inhale, as though waking from a long, pleasant dream.
The patch of ground where Don Quixote had been reduced to ash shimmered with golden light. First, her leather boots reformed, then her clothes, then her smiling face and golden hair. Her body unraveled from particles and light, build anew in reverse order—until she stood, hands on hips, heroic as ever.
“Fear not!” she declared before immediately wobbling. “...W-what was I—?”
The others—Faust, Outis, Sinclair, Hong Lu, Ishmael, Meursault—all stood as if the battle had never graced them at all. Their coats were pristine. No wounds, blood or dirt. Their faces were neutral, as thought death and rebirth was just another Tuesday.
It was when the last chain moved that Grace’s breath caught in her throat.
The chain coiled downward—toward the shattered body of Heathcliff. His form was limp in the dust, neck at an unnatural angle, limbs strewn. His coat soaked in drying blood.
The chain latched. Slowly, horribly, beautifully—he began to move.
Flesh stitched. Synthetic veins pulsed. His broken torso arched backward, lungs gasping in air like a man pulled from drowning. Bones snapped into alignment. Blood soaked into his shirt and vanished. His face—once vacant—blinked once, then again, life returning.
“...Blimey,” he groaned, dragging himself to his knees. “That was painful.”
The entire Belobog crew stared in stunned silence.
Grace stumbled back. “W-What…?”
Anton nearly dropped his drill. “No way…”
Ben squinted. “How is this even possible…?”
Koleda just gasped. “What in the actual—”
Safety blinked, eyes wide. “Eh naaah? (Excuse me?)”
All of the chains recoiled, hissing back into Dante’s chest with a violent snap—twelve cords of light vanishing like sucked-in breath.
Dante’s body convulsed. Their clock head twitching erratically, spinning once—twice—before the ticking stopped altogether. Their limbs seized. Fingers spasmed uncontrollably. Their entire frame buckled, beginning to tilt to one side.
Meursault moved instantly, catching Dante just before they hit the ground. His arms locked like pistons beneath the clock-headed figure.
Dante’s chest heaved. Shallow, rapid breaths. The kind made through gritted teeth. Their hands trembled.
Though one half of the crew was focused on their manager’s well being, a few had moved onto other matters.
Heathcliff barely had time to catch his breath before Ishmael stormed over, already fuming.
“Seriously?” she snapped. “You just threw yourself into a deathtrap without backup?!”
Outis followed, arms crossed, voice sharp and unforgiving. “We told you to wait. If you’s actually listened for once—”
Heathcliff scowled, wobbling to his feet. “Oi! Had I not arrived, lassie here—” he jabbed a thumb toward Grace, who still looked like she’d seen a ghost—”would’ve fucking died.”
“I thought the incident at the border was enough proof that we don’t get promotions for martyrdom, mutt.” Outis didn’t flinch. “Try thinking next time.”
Heathcliff’s ears snapped back, eyes narrowing in dangerous slits. He opened his mouth to fire back—then blinked. He patted his coat, checked his belt. “Where’s my bloody W-Engine?!”
Ishmael shot him a brief glare. “Did you lose it again?”
He turned around, eyes darting wildly. “I just had it—wait—”
Grace stood motionless. She barely heard the arguing—just faint voices beneath the static and ringing ears. He died. He died… but how…how?!
Her hand trembled at her side—clutching something. She looked down at her utility belt, where the W-Engine hung. Still smeared with blood. She held it out with trembling hands before making her way toward the trio.
Outis continued to reprimand him. “The mission comes first. Sacrifice without strategy is a waste—”
“Hey!” Grace interrupted her, voice loud and clear.
The group turned. Even Heathcliff stopped momentarily, ears twitching.
Grace raised her head. Her face was pale. Eyes rimmed with red. She stood in front of Heathcliff, clutching the W-Engine.
“You dropped it,” she said quietly. “Back when you were—” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
She soon faced Ishmael and Outis, briefly giving them a glare. “He saved my life.”
The words came out loud enough for everyone in the area to hear.
Koleda and Ben briefly raised an eyebrow, with Safety stumbling back in surprise.
“He didn’t hesitate. He knew what was coming and still threw himself in the way,” her eyes locked with Outis. “Whatever your protocols say… that wasn’t foolish.”
She paused, took a deep breath. “That was heroic!”
Heathcliff blinked, actually speechless for once.
Even Outis looked mildly taken aback, with Ishmael briefly clicking her tongue.
Don Quixote vibrated in place, eyes shimmering. She looked two seconds away from declaring him a knight.
Grace walked over and pressed the W-Engine gently against Heathcliff’s chest.
“Welcome back,” she smiled, voice soft as silk.
He took it with both hands, eyes flicking between her and the device. “...Cheers.”
The stillness didn’t last.
A low rumble rolled through the shattered zone—followed by the glare of high-powered headlights as vans began to pull in, tires crunching over gravel and sand.
Grace turned her head, shielding her eyes as one van’s doors clicked open.
From within stepped a group of individuals clad in long black robes, their faces hidden, movements precise. At their feet waddled Bangboos dressed the same—robes, hoods, and all, moving like miniature priests on a sacred mission.
They didn’t speak. They just began… assessing.
One robed figure knelt beside the pulsing egg, brushing away soot with gloved fingers.
Another sprinted beside them and they both gently lifted the object, handing it off to a taller companion, who loaded it into the back of one of the vans with reverent care.
Heathcliff and the rest of Limbus Company silently moved to the side to let the robed figures do their job. The Belobog crew slowly began to group together, shoulders almost touching.
From another can emerged a Bangboo, its paws gripping a strange cubic device humming with unnatural frequencies. It waddled toward Anton, Koleda, Grace, Ben and Safety, screen flickering with a single eye.
“Please hold still,” it said politely, lifting the cube. “You’ll forget this even happened.”
The cube split open, revealing fractal circuits pulsing with light—energy between plates like a thunderstorm in a box.
Koleda narrowed her eye. “Wait, what are you—”
They all began to brace themselves for the worst, before another voice cut through.
“That won’t be necessary,” Faust said calmly.
The Bangboo turned its head—mechanically stiff. “Ma’am, protocol mandates memory dissolution for all third-party witnesses.”
Faust stepped forward, unbothered, coat billowing in the wind. “Override protocol. These people are close associates of Phaethon.”
Upon hearing the name, all of the Belobog crew stood silent.
“...Affirmative,” the Bangboo replied flatly before the cube paused mid cycle, its lights dimming. It folded the cube shut before making their way back to the group of robed figures.
Ben stepped forward, raising his voice softly. “You know the proxy?”
“Faust understands your confusion, but rest assured…” She closed her eyes, turning back and walking away. “...all of your questions will soon be answered.”
She soon gestured to a few robed individuals who rushed over—medics, their kits already humming to life with low-frequency diagnostic tones.
“See to them,” she said, before turning sharply and walking toward Dante, who was now being attended by another group of medics.
Grace stood there, silent as the medics approached, her body exhausted, her thoughts tangled.
[Minutes later]
The clang of metal boots and the whirr of Bangboo scanners echoed across the area, now half-cleared. The robed figures—or Limbus Company After Team as Faust called them—continued their sweep through the wreckage with eerie precision.
The van with the egg had long vanished into the distance, swallowed by the rising fog like it had never been there at all.
Grace sat on the edge of a makeshift med-bed, a pressure bandage wrapped snugly around her shoulder. Her hands, though cleaned of blood, still trembled faintly in her lap. Beside her, SSafety remained curled in a blanket, his head lightly leaning against her hip.
A few meters away, Koleda winced as a medic tightened the wrap around her ribs. Her construction jacket lay discarded on a crate nearby, sweat matting the stands of her hair. She didn’t complain. Just kept her jaw tight and her one good eye on her crew.
Ben sat silently against a scaffold beam, one leg stretched out, the other propped lazily. His fingers kept tapping his pillar’s edge in restless rhythm, but his expression was blank—eyes unfocused, staring past the medic who was patching up his arm.
Anton stood a few paces off. He hadn’t spoken for a while. He kept rubbing his thumb along the seam of his gloves, watching a patch of concrete stained with long-dried blood. Occasionally, his gaze would flicker toward where Becky had fallen. But he never said her name.
None of them spoke.
The air was tense—held together by the knowledge of what they’d seen… and what they had yet to understand.
In the middle of that stillness, Grace finally exhaled. Her breath fogged slightly in the air, as if the warmth was finally leaving her body after all that adrenaline.
Her gaze drifted toward the far side of the area, where Heathcliff stood alone near one of the unmarked vans, leaning against the bumper beside a dented portable cooler. Once of the medics had offered it, half-filled with water bottles and makeshift ice packs.
He held his stained W-Engine, staring at it in silence, occasionally inspecting it from side to side.
Grace hesitated briefly before she softly adjusted Safety’s sleeping form, hopping off of the med-bed and making her way toward him.
Her shoes pounded against the gravel, the faint chimes of tools at her belt. She stopped a few meters away, hands tucked behind her back.
“...Hi,” she said softly.
Heathcliff glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Evenin’”
The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of wind and the distant sound of movement.
Grace looked down. Her fingers clenched, then slowly relaxed. “I never got to say it.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you,” she said. “For… what you did back there.”
Heathcliff leaned back against the van, exhaling through his nose. He tapped the W-Engine gently against his palm. "Wasn't much. Just a boot and a bad impulse.”
Grace frowned at that. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked to hers—quiet and unreadable.
“You didn’t have to jump in,” she said, slowly walking forward and sitting beside him on the bumper. “You didn’t know me. I was just another stranger.”
Heathcliff looked away, brow furrowing. “Didn’t have time to think about it, really.”
“Exactly,” Grace clamored. “That’s what scares me.”
There was a pause—then she added, more quietly. “It has been a while since someone… did something like that for me.”
Heathcliff was quiet for a long moment. The wind tugged at his shirt. He didn’t meet her eyes. Then, he gave a soft, self-depricating chuckle. “Blimey… y’know, people don’t usually get all sentimental about me. I’m just an prick with a bad temper and snarky comments.”
Grace gave a faint smile—tired, but genuine. “You’re the prick who saved my life.”
For once, he didn’t have a witty comeback. He just sighed and turned the W-Engine over his hands again. One side was cracked straight through—like the rib of a man caved in.”
“Tch. Bloody thing’s toast,” he muttered. “Guess that’s what I get for playing martyr.”
Grace’s eyes traced the fractures, her fingers twitching faintly. “I can fix it.”
He looked at her, brow raised.
“No charge,” she added quickly. “I mean. Not that I’d—charge anyone for something like that. I just mean…” She trailed off, her cheeks briefly red.
Heathcliff tilted his head slightly. His expression softened—not amused, not teasing, just… listening.
“...Ight then,” he said, gently handing it to her. “If yer offerin’.”
Grace soon held the broken W-Engine gently in her hands. Her fingers lingered over the scorched plating, tracing the grooves, as if she could feel where his pain had been.
Heathcliff didn’t say anything. He was already staring.
Their eyes locked.
For a second, the rest of the world—floodlights, Bangboos, blood and wreckage—went quiet.
There was something in his gaze. Something soft, questioning. Not just gratitude or adrenaline. Something neither of them had the words for.
Grace felt it in her chest—tight and unfamiliar. A warmth she didn’t know how to name. Her heart kicked once, unsure what to do next.
Heathcliff’s brow furrowed slightly. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.
“THERE THOU ART!”
The silence shattered like glass.
Grace flinched, nearly dropping the W-Engine as Don Quixote came barreling around the corner—lance raised, eyes aflame with righteous admiration.
Heathcliff groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face. “Not this lass…”
Don Quixote skidded to a halt in front of them, her boots kicking up dust as she struck a pose more suited to the cover of a pulp novel than the wreckage of a battlefield.
“What valiance!” she cried, voice echoing off steel beams and broken scaffolding. “What selfless gallantry! You flung yourself into the jaws of doom to protect a fair maiden—truly, a scene ripped from the annals of Starlight Knight, Volume Seventeen!”
She spun dramatically, her coat catching wind that didn’t exist. “Though I did not expect such heroism from one so… infrequently competent in mission briefings!”
Grace blinked, eyes wide. Heathcliff looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
“Nevertheless—!” Don Quixote pivoted sharply toward Grace, one boot heel squeaking. “A round of applause is in order! Shall I summon the chorus!?”
Grace stared at her, then slowly turned to look at Heathcliff.
He gave her a flat, tired look that said I’m so sorry without a word.
Grace wasn’t sure if she was amused or mildly horrified. In the end, she let out a small, strangled laugh. “Is she always like this?”
“Worse,” Heathcliff admitted slowly taking a water bottle from the cooler and taking a sharp sip.
Don Quixote, undeterred, twisrled her lance and struck another pose, utterly unaware of the moment she’d just demolished. “Mayhaps the bards will speak of this eve! Of Heathcliff the Gallant and Grace the Undismembered! Verily, a saga for the ages!”
Grace let out another laugh despite herself.
Heathcliff looked at her from the corner of his eye, and after a second… smiled too.
Don Quixote continued to strike over-the-top poses as she recounted some embellished tales of knightly valor. But the voices began to blur again.
A few paces away—Anton stood in silence, shoulder hunched against the rising wind.
He was alone now, near the edge of the construction zone. The lights of the vans cast long, angular shadows over the tarp-covered from that lay at his feet.
The fabric clung to the contours of Becky's broken body. One arm still slightly visible beneath the edge—her glove torn, her wrist limp.
Anton continued to stare, unmoving.
A quiet voice interrupted his greif—not cruel, not harsh, just procedural. One of the L.C.A. operatives stepped beside him.
“We kindly ask that you step back from the remains,” the figure said gently. “We will handle recovery.”
“How…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, and tried again. “How do we explain this to her family?”
The robed figure paused, though their mask betrayed no expression. “We assure you, this will be kept under wraps.”
Anton finally turned toward them, his expression hollow. “Yeah. That’s the part that hurts the most, huh?”
Before the tension could rise, another figure approached.
Koleda.
She walked up beside Anton and placed a hand—firm but soft—on his shoulder. “Let them do their job. It won’t make it better. But it’ll let us remember her without staring at… this.”
Anton’s jaw clenched. His eyes were wet, but no tears fell. He took one step back. “Just make sure someone tell her kid,”
Koleda gave a solemn nod, then stayed by his side a moment longer, neither of them saying anything.
The robed operatives moved in silently, their steps too light for how heavy the moment felt.
[Somewhere…]
The wind howled louder above, sharper than below. The city stretched endlessly beyond, its neon lights flickering faintly in the mist.
A woman stood at the edge of the rooftop, coat flapping in the wind. Their silhouette was obscured, but their stance was relaxed.
She pressed a button on the comms device in her ear.
“This is the third time your little ‘employee’ has messed up…” she said smoothly—tone unbothered, almost amused. “And now they’ve attracted the attention of the Limbus Company… of all people.”
Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the rail. She looked down at the melted outline of the battlefield. “No. I won’t be pulling them out… yet.”
Far beneath her, the last of the L.C.A. vans disappeared into the haze. “Let them know they have one more chance.”
Her voice dropped, laced with a warning that cut like wire. “Fail again… and I’ll show them what it feels to be forgotten…”
The call clicked off.
The woman turned, coat trailing behind her as she walked into the dark—vanishing a rusted door as the rooftop emptied into silence.
Notes:
And that was the second chapter of this series. I do apologize for the brief delay, let's just say I ran into a major catastrophe at work and I had to suffer the consequences of other people's mis-management.
Overall, I hope this chapter is to your liking considering my awful action writing. I do appreciate any feedback and thoughts.
This chapter will also be uploaded in SpaceBattles.
Don't forget to join the Discord as well!
With nothing else to say, have a good morning, afternoon, evening and night.
Chapter 3: Aftermath
Summary:
Belobog Industries recovers from last nights calamity, but there's barely time to mourn as the Limbus Company has a proposition for them.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Brant Street | The Next Day]
Morning broke too cleanly.
The sky above Brant Street was a sterile blue, washed pale by the unforgiving sun. Light flooded across scaffolding and metal beams, casting crisp shadows on concrete that had been scrubbed too well.
Not a single trace remained, no claw-scarred pavement, no scorched metal, no charred blood in the seams of cracked tile, nor the ash and gravel in the air. The amalgamation might as well have been a dream.
But the weight it left behind was heavy as lead.
A crowd had gathered by the entrance, not far from the construction site. A temporary memorial stood beside a hastily planted patch of violet heaths—Becky’s favorite flower. Her soldering helmet sat beside a framed ID badge. A soldering iron rested next to it, untouched.
The workers of Belobog Industries—gritty, soot-covered men and women who came to pay respect—stood in orderly lines, helmets off, heads bowed.
Becky’s daughter, Cassiel, cried incessantly into her father’s coat.
“She promised…” Her voice cracked, sobs echoing reverberating through the crowd. “She promised she was going to attend…”
Safety stood quietly by with the other Bangboos, heads lowered and displays dim.
Anton stood nearby, his face ashen. The drill in his left arm clanked softly as he clenched it, gaze fixated on the dirt. He hadn’t spoken much that morning.
Neither had Ben, who leaned against a support beam. His ears were flattened, his gaze hardened. Every so often his fingers twitched—figthing the urge to do something.
Koleda’s ribs still throbbed beneath the bandages, but she stood straight, arms crossed over her uniform. She didn’t cry, or sigh. But something itched at her.
She glanced around. No quiet muttering, no snarky comments, nor tiny tinkering sounds from the back row. She scanned the edges of the assembly. “Grace isn’t here…”
She glanced over her shoulder, checked behind the cement mixer, the scaffolding, even the shadows beneath the work tent… nothing.
Koleda’s hand curled into a fist. Her voice dropped lower, less surprised than resigned. “Where is that woman…?”
[Belobog Industries Workshop | Meanwhile…]
The soft whir of fans and static crackle of soldering irons filled the wide space like a lullaby,
Half-sunken in a sea of disassembled processors, wire bundles, and cracked metal casings, Grace saw hunched over her workbench—grease-stained goggles pushed high on her head, eyes bloodshot with stubborn focus.
At the center rested Heathcliff’s W-Engine, now half-exposed. The casing had been stripped, the inner matrix polished and realigned. Wires had been re-soldered. The internal diagnostics read green.
But her attention was fixed elsewhere.
She squinted through the lens, seething. “Why… won’t this make sense?”
At the edge of the plating—just above the serial notch—was the small engraving. Mostly ground down by shrapnel and heat. A few remnants of scorched letters remained.
HC ♥ ██
Grace had tried everything: Micro scraping, spectrum shifting, intensive soldering. She even tried running a memory fragment sync through a backup drive.
But no matter how many times she rotated the model, magnified it, cross-checked with other similar models… the initials wouldn’t resolve.
She growled under breath, yanking her goggles off and letting them dangle from her neck.
“I’ve restored old machines that have been weeks, months, maybe even years inside of a Hollow,” she muttered bitterly. “So why won’t this damn thing tell me who he was thinking of?”
She stared at the exposed W-Engine, fingertips brushing its edges—not with frustration anymore, but something softer. Whether it was resignation or curiosity she couldn’t tell. However, the fact that it bothered her more than she cared to admit made her heart sink.
The slow groan of the workshop door sliding open broke Grace’s train of thought.
“I figured you wouldn’t show.”
Grace glanced up from beneath her mess of wires and magnifying lens.
Koleda stood at the thresholds, arms crossed, bandages still peeking out from under her tank top. Her face wasn’t angry—just…tired. The kind of tiredness that came from expecting too little for too long.
“You couldn’t at least be there for five minutes?” Koleda asked dryly. “Or was it too inconvenient to say goodbye to someone you worked beside for four years?”
Grace said nothing as she awkwardly looked away.
Koleda’s gaze swept the chaos around the bench—metal parts, tools, empty cans of energy drinks, one crumpled funeral notice shoved off to the corner.
“...Right,” she muttered, answering her own question.
Grace finally spoke, voice low and rough. “I was busy.”
Koleda tilted her head, stepping closer. “Busy trying to fix that piece of junk?” Her tone wasn’t cruel—just cutting enough to make the air sting.
“I’m improving it,” Grace shot back, then whispered, “And it’s not junk…”
Koleda sighed, rubbing her face. “Look, I’m not gonna fight you on this. I’m just here to tell you that the Limbus Company invited us to their headquarters to speak with us.”
Grace’s attention was caught. “Already?”
“Yep. Meeting, briefing, maybe some business discussion—who knows.” Koleda turned to leave, her footsteps carrying her toward the door. “Go and take a shower, look presentable for once.”
Before she vanished behind the threshold, she paused. “...She had a daughter, you know.”
Grace didn’t respond.
Koleda didn’t wait. The door clicked behind her, leaving Grace in silence again—just her, the W-Engine, and the quiet wine of unfinished circuits.
The silence stretched, pressing into her ribs like a vice.
Grace let out a groan and slumped back into her chair, dragging both hands down her face. “Still can’t fix the damn initials.”
The words came out half-heartedly, almost like a deflection. She sat there, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little rest.
She thought about Becky, the many short conversations she had with her during break time, the time she modified her soldering iron, or when she lent a hand when it came to fixing Greta, Hans and Friday.
Her jaw clenched. But the feeling that bloomed in her chest wasn’t guilt—not fully. More like a pinprick of discomfort. Something that should’ve hurt worse, but didn’t.
Her eyes fell back down to the exposed innards of the W-Engine. She picked it up again, twisting a screwdriver between her fingers. The ache in her heart stayed, but she boxed it neatly into a corner of her mind, shoved the lid on, and clicked it shut.
There was still work to do.
With practiced hands, she tightened the last screw, recalibrated the dampening coil, and rewired the internal regulator—each motion smoother than the last.
As she placed the last panel, Heathcliff’s W-Engine hummed faintly in her grip.
“...At least the calibrations are clean now,” she smiled, giving it a brief pat. “He’ll be happy about that.”
She sat there for a moment longer, watching the core pulse like a synthetic heartbeat. The only kind she trusted not to stop.
Eventually, she stood. She walked over to the grime-caked mirror bolted to the wall, tugged her goggles off her head and ran a cloth over her face—wiping away grease smudges and dried sweat. She slicked her bangs back and tied her hair quickly with the band she kept on her wrist.
Her reflection looked tired. Eyes sunken, jaw clenched—but presentable enough.
With a small breath, she picked up the W-Engine, tucking it beneath one arm, and promptly left the workshop.
[Later]
The interior of the L.C.C.B. was quiet, save for the low rumble beneath their feet and the occasional static flicker of the route display on the wall-mounted console.
Grace sat by the window, knees tucked slightly inward, Heathcliff’s W-Engine resting in her lap. Her fingers danced absently across the exposed panels—tightening a screw here, and making some last adjustments there.
Across from her, Koleda sat with her arms crossed tight. One bandaged hand rhythmically tapped her elbow—sharp, annoyed clicks like a ticking clock with no patience left.
She kept a brief glare toward Grace. No mention of Becky, no hesitation in her hands, not even a flinch.
Ben sat beside her, back straight, jaw tight. His eyes flicked between the two women, then back to the floor.
Anton sat at the far end, next to the rear doors. He hadn't spoken all morning. He just stared outside with an unreadable expression.
No one dared break the silence.
Grace tightened one last screw. The W-Engine gave a low, satisfied chime in response. She allowed herself a tiny smile.
Koleda’s jaw tensed, the tapping ceasing. She turned her head toward the window, murmuring just loud enough for only herself to hear. “...Unbelieveable.”
The van took a sharp turn, sending a dull sway through the cabin. The HQ gates appeared ahead, growing larger and intimidating with each passing second.
[Limbus Company HQ]
The Belobog crew stood in near-silence as the glass elevator hummed to life, its doors sealing with a pneumatic hiss. With a soft jolt, they began their descent.
The walls around them slowly gave way to a vast panoramic view.
Beneath the glass, an expansive, multilayered laboratory unfolded right before them—its floors lit by shifting arrays of light, shadows crawling across metallic catwalks and sleek, reflective surfaces.
Agents bustled across each tier—each one clad in suits that seemed torn from different ages or realities. Some shimmered with vests of ever-burning flame. Others moved stiffly, constructed entirely of whirring bronze gears. One passed by with a bark-textured shirt and a vine-draped overcoat.
Grace pressed one hand on the glass, wide-eyed despite herself. Even Koleda’s arms uncrossed as she leaned slightly forward, scanning the unusual operation below.
“This place is nuts…” Anton muttered under his breath.
The elevator slowed with a soft ding, and the glass doors slid open to reveal a sterile floor lined with metallic tiles.
Waiting at the threshold stood a Bangboo with a cow-catcher placed neatly beneath its visor like a moustache and a thin top hat. One of its ears twitched as it squinted up at them.
“Eh nah, wa ta nah (Greetings, and welcome to Limbus HQ.)”
A plastic nametag dangled crookedly from its chest: Limboo #29.
Koleda stepped out first, arms folded again. Her eye swept the facility. “We are not too early, are we?”
Limboo #29 twitched slightly, lifting its tablet with a mechanical cheer. “Wa-ta-eh, nu-eh, eh-nah— (You are, in fact, just in—)”
“You’re late.”
The interruption came like a gunshot through the air.
The Belobog crew turned as one toward the source.
Clicking heels echoed off the walls, and through the opposite door strode a woman with long gray hair.
She wore a black latex pants, smooth and gleaming like obsidian. Shocking pink stiletto heels that stabbed the floor with each step. A crisp white dress shirt, tailored with perfection, its collar drawn tight by a pale pink tie. Her arms were adorned with fingerless latex sleeve-gloves of the same vibrant pink, matching the choker and latex straps that hugged her curvy frame like a leash unclaimed.
“Two minutes and thirty seven seconds late, to be specific,” she said, eyes narrowing as she approached further.
Koleda’s brow twitched, but she didn’t fire back.
Grace, meanwhile, subtly shifted the W-Engine into her belt, her lips pressed tight—not in fear, but in calculation.
Anton and Ben remained stiff, shoulders tight.
Limboo #29 visibly stiffened, slowly lowering his tablet like it feared being seen. He soon walked away into a random hallway, leaving no trace of it being there.
The woman stopped in front of them, hands folded behind her back. Her eyes flicked from each of them. She let out a brief sight before pinching the bridge of her nose. “Normally, Trigger would be the one welcoming you. Unfortunately…”
She took out a tablet and glanced down, eyes flicking. “...she’s currently out on a mission with our more troublesome personnel.”
She gave one last sigh before putting the device away. “Which leaves you with me.”
Her eyes landed on each member one last time, taking measure. When she locked onto Grace, they lingered—just a fraction too long—before moving on.
“I am Dr. Laura Hughie,” she said, her lips curving into a cold and clinical smile. “Captain of the Safety Team.”
She gave a slight bow—only of the head, as if her body refused to lower. “Shall we?”
The corridor stretched on, silent save of Dr. Laura’s heels and the faint conversations of employees around the room.
“Please keep to the marked path,” the doctor announced, her voice light and unbothered as if she were guiding a tour through a high-end gallery than a subterranean facility riddled with biohazards.
Koleda, Anton, Ben and Grace followed, taking in the sights—thought “sights” felt like the wrong word.
Behind thick reinforced glass, sealed with multi-lock biometric doors, each chamber held something different.
One of the containment cells held a large cluster of white flowers, with a bundle of roots hanging down, with some ending in claw-like appendages.
Another held a calico cat with two tails tipped in cobalt flames, when it caught a sight of the Belobog crew, it raised its paw as if gesturing to come in.
Near almost every containment unit, more employees with colorful uniforms walked back and forth within the hallways, carrying notepads, tablets or coffee cups.
“These are Abnormalities,” Laura said casually, striding ahead without even looking at the creatures around them. “Fears, traumas and desires given form. They defy death, logic and definition, but don’t mistake them for monsters.”
She glanced over her shoulder, lips quivering with something between amusement and warning. “For they have no hearts or souls… that’s what makes them much worse.”
The Belobog crew stayed close.
Everyone but Grace. She stood alone, captivated in front of one of the containment chambers.
Inside, it stood—tall, thin, bipedal. An automaton built from dark wood and brass, its joints crowned with exposed gears that ticked and whirred like a music box from some half-forgotten ear. Its legs were digitigrate, posture held by its bulky left arm, and a single wind-up key protruded from its right shoulder alongside a gun-like hand.
Four vacuum tubes pulsed down its rectangular chest, glowing with soft amber light— 1132, 1133, 1134…
Steam puffed steadily from two exhaust ports near its spine.
Grace’s hand instinctively rose slowly, almost reverently, her fingers close enough to touch the glass.
TWHIP—
“Gah!”
A ribbon of glowing pink snapped outward like a striking serpent, latching around her wrist.
Grace’s yelp made a few employees halt in their step, some of which moved faster or ignored the commotion altogether.
“Ah-ah.” The voice was silk dipped in scalding tea. Dr. Laura stood ten paces ahead, her glove hand raised. From the center of her palm, the ribbon slithered outward, its tip coiled around Grace’s wrist tight enough to stop her circulation.
The doctor’s other hand twirled a single finger, back and forth. “No tapping the glass, missy,” she said, smile sharp and crescent-shaped.
The ribbon gently released. Grace flinched back, whispering, “Sorry…” but her eyes stayed fixed on the automaton for just a second longer.
Laura turned smoothly and continued walking. “We do have protocols, dear. And some of our guests don’t appreciate window shoppers.”
Koleda, Anton and Ben cringed slightly before resuming their footwork.
Grace briefly nursed her hand, lingering near the containment unit. She lingered, as if the mechanical figure behind the glass might shift, speak or acknowledge her gaze.
Something about its quiet rhythm, the hum of brass, and the ticking of the vacuum tubes, stayed in her mind like a memory long forgotten.
She turned at last and jogged a few steps to catch up, leaving the thought behind.
After what felt like a descent into the deepest layers of some beautifully maintained madness, the group finally arrived at a sleek black door.
“We’re here,” Laura said, turning on her pink heels with flair. She pressed a hand to the scanner mounted to the side.
The door hissed open with hydraulic grace, revealing a room lit by overhead lights, an array of white boards with equations far too complex to understand, and a few chemistry sets littered around the desks.
Faust stood with her back turned, staring at a whiteboard packed with increasingly nonsensical calculations, glyphs and formulae. Strings of numbers looped in circles. Some were scratched out while others were circled.
Her coat, pristine as ever, flowed slightly with the motion of unseen ventilation. She turned to greet them, her powder blue eyes landing on each member. “Faust has been expecting you, representatives of Belobog Industries.”
Laura faintly smirked, folding her arms. “You’re lucky I had the patience to bring them to your door, let alone walk them through the facility without a sudden breach.”
Faust’s eyes slid sideways, but her posture remained unchanged. “And Faust would like to let you know that she’s very grateful for your service, Laura.”
“That’s Dr. Laura, unlike you, Miss ‘Faust knows all outcomes’.” Laura scoffed, brow twitching.
Grace blinked at the interaction, with Koleda being stuck between mild concern or discomfort. Anton and Ben simply chose to stay silent.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Dr. Laura flipped her hair as she turned on her heel. “I have to get back to my team before they make another wrong guess…”
The door snapped shut behind her as she left.
Silence settled again, broken only by the few drips of a nearby separatory funnel.
Faust let out a brief sigh before looking at the Belobog crew once more. “Faust would like to sincerely apologize for the… inconvenience.”
She gently gestured to the semi-circle of chairs arranged around a vintage projector.
“Please. Be seated. I will summon the rest shortly.” Faust walked outside briefly, allowing the Belobog crew to adjust to their surroundings.
Koleda raised a brow at the clutter—test tubes in cracked holders, open folders on mechanical components, half-disassembled Bangboo units—but said nothing as she sat.
Ben quietly took the far corner, glancing once at a wall where various schematics were plastered.
Grace took her seat last, carefully trucking the W-Engine in a way it didn’t intervene with her positioning.
Her gaze drifted slightly to the writings of the whiteboards. As much as she tried to make sense of them, she couldn’t grasp the language they were written in. But part of her held a waking desire to encrypt them.
Before long, the door opened once again with an elegant whoosh.
The first to enter was a man in a grey coat, hair graduated at the temples, and sharp lines beneath his eyes. His irises burned like slow coals—bright, otherworldly red—and whenever he looked, silence always followed.
Vergilius.
Anton’s eyes widened a fraction. “No way…”
Ben's posture stiffened. His voice came low, almost reverent. “...The Red Gaze.”
Grace blinked upon hearing him speak. “Huh?”
Koleda’s brow furrowed. “Wait—why is a Void Hunter here?”
Vergilius said nothing about their reactions. He simply acknowledged them with a simple nod. “Greetings, I hope this rearrangement isn’t too sudden.”
He stepped inside as another figure entered behind him—tall, pale, with short dark hair, sharp features, and a vacant gaze that carried a strange gravity of its own.
Now that Grace got a good look at him, she narrowed her eyes upon seeing him proper. She blinked, her mind firing behind tired eyes. “...Is that Yi Sang?”
Koleda glanced at her, whispering. “Is he famous or something?”
Grace leaned closer to her, still watching him. “He was part of the League of Nine Littérateurs. They used to operate in the Yorkshire Quarter before TimeTrack Corp. cracked down on their unregistered tech.”
Her voice lowered with something between admiration and wonder. “I can’t believe he’s still standing after everything he went through…”
Yi Sang didn’t seem to notice the attention—or perhaps he already knew. He offered a short bow to the group. “Ah, good afternoon. We were told regarding the approval of your productivity within your company.”
As if on cue, the last figure emerged from the doorway.
Silver-gray hair, subtle undercut, casual clothes with a jacket littered with satchels. His steps were far too casual and nonchalant despite the intensity of the atmosphere. “Koleda, Anton, Ben, Grace. Thank you for coming today.”
Koleda stood upright, her face lighting up just from seeing him alone. “Proxy! Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon.”
“Yeah, bro!” Anton flexed his right arm. “It’s nice to see a friendly face after a while.”
“Time runs differently around here. Mostly.” Wise replied with a faint smile.
Ben glanced past him, scanning the space. “Is Belle not with you?”
Wise shook his head. “She’s back at Sixth Street, you know how business is with the video store and all. And with Waterfall Soup now in our watch…”
Grace jumped from her seat, eyes glinting with adoration. “Is Eous with you?!” She let out a squeal of joy. “I’ve been dying to see that little bean again.”
Wise briefly took a step back before composing himself once more. “S-Sorry, no. He’s also back home helping out.”
“Aww…” Grace’s posture soon melted back into the chair, the shine in her eyes dulling. “Bummer.”
Vergilius cleared his throat sharply, forcing everyone to keep their attention to him. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, it would be wise–“ Everyone else turned to look at Wise, who flinched at the sudden attention. “–for us to move forward with the meeting…”
Faust walked toward the front of the room alongside Yi Sang. She adjusted her coat before she began.
“Faust would like to start this meeting… by extending our sincerest apologies for the death of your employee, Rebecca Halden.”
Her tone was solemn, but lacking in emotions. “Per contract Clause B-41 of inter-company incident protocols, reparations have already been arranged. The Dieci Association have placed her family under the Beneficiary Trust List and have given them a sum of compensation with the help of the Hollow Accident Insurance.”
Koleda lowered her head slightly, murmuring. “Thanks, I guess...”
A brief moment of silence passed through the room, with the only sound coming from the buzzing from the fluorescent lights.
Vergilius soon followed up, taking out a bundle of papers from behind his back. “Now, for the reason we called you here.”
He shifted the papers around before neatly arranging them on the table. “Phaethon here has personally recommended Belobog Industries as a viable partner for the expansion of the L.C. Headquarters, as well as a potential partner for field operations.”
Faust moved wordlessly to the front. From her coat she produced a rectangular cassette—roughtly coded and hand-labeled. She inserted it into the top of the battered projector.
With a low click-hum-whirr, the lens ignited.
The projector coughed light onto the far whiteboard, flickering before stabilizing. Slowly, the layout of the entire headquarters unfolded like a scroll.
At the top were the L.C.C.B and L.C.C.A departments, located right at the surface.
Below was the first layer labeled Asiyah, all of the rooms—Control, Information, Training and Safety—were all labeled as complete.
Next was the Briah, which was mostly labeled incomplete or in progress. Central Command, Disciplinary and Welfare.
Finally, was Aziluth, with all but one room labeled unreached: Extraction, Record and Architecture.
“As you can see, our previous contractor—Vision Corp.—managed to finish a fair majority of the upper layers, but due to their internal affairs, they weren’t able to further expand.”
She paused, letting the Belobog crew take in the design right in front of them. “It is Limbus Company’s directive to establish a headquarters that meets not only spatial and containment demands.”
Koleda leaned forward, crossing her arms tightly. “You’re building downward?”
“Correct.”
“Why?” Her voice wasn’t hostile—but rather skeptical. “That’s a lot of digging for what sounds like a bureaucratic reshuffle.”
Faust’s head tilted slightly. “Because Limbus Company’s work is not meant for the surface’s eyes.”
She stepped aside, changing the floorplan to focus on the Extraction Department. The design took into account future expansion when it came to containment chambers.
“Our operations must remain sealed. We do not deal in commerce or public service…yet.”
Ben shifted in his seat, scratching his chin.
Anton remained still. “That’s a lot of hallways…”
Grace, however, was the only one leaning forward. Her eyes gleamed faintly in the projected light, studying every detail of the facility.
“Then where do we come in?” Koleda asked, her tone cautious and grounded.
Faust turned toward her—and for a moment, something behind her eyes shimmered like reflected glass. “It is within our knowledge that you possess not only logistical excellence, but a proven track record for completing projects swiftly and with few casualties.”
Wise offered a subtle thumbs up to Koleda and the crew.
Ben kept his tone grounded. “What do we get in return for our services?”
Faust didn’t hesitate. She moved toward the side of the room and opened a long steel case with a sharp click.
She turned the open lid to face them—revealing a translucent box within which swirled a glowing, viscous green fluid.
Yi Sang stepped forward and lifted the container with care, setting it gently on the table. He pulled a sealed sheet of paper from his coat, eyes briefly scanning the lines.
“This is Enkephalin,” he said, reading. ”A fuel source derived from stabilized abnormalities. Its output is multiple magnitudes more efficient than Ether.”
He offered the box toward Grace. “It is clean, renewable, and non-corrosive. It requires no containment-grade equipment to harness.”
Grace’s hands were steady as she accepted it. SHe brought it closer, watching the fluid bubble and shimmer with faint, golden fractals beneath the surface.
Anton eyes it warily, but said nothing.
Ben rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing.
Vergilius finally spoke—his voice as sharp as glass. “You’ll have access to a level of energy other corporations only fantasize about. But once you accept—” his red eyes gleamed beneath his brow, “—you don’t walk away.”
Koleda looked at the others.
Anton met her gaze briefly, before placing a hand onto his chin. “You’re the boss, Koleda.”
Ben scratched the fur on his neck. “It is quite the opportunity, maybe we can cut a few costs here and there.”
Grace gently placed the box into the table, and spoke. “How do we know if this is legitimate?”
Ben rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing. “You could run all of Belobog on that alone if that’s the case…”
Grace gently set the Enkephalin back on the table. “How do we know this isn’t just vapor in a glass bottle?”
Faust didn’t flinch. “You are allowed to test the sample in a private facility. Run as many simulations as you wish.”
“But,” Vergilius added, “in exchange for this knowledge, there is a... condition.”
From Faust’s coat, she withdrew a small leather folder. She laid it on the table, unfastening its aged clasp with a deliberate snap.
“What you’re about to partake in is in standard Limbus-integrated field operations,” she said evenly, unfolding the parchment one by one with the same care one might handle glassware, revealing four similar contracts with a silver sigil.
Koleda’s eye narrowed as she watched. “...Ravenlock Contracts.”
Anton looked at her, incredulous. “Wait, you mean…?”
“Ravenlock Corp.’s singularity. They make it so a deal is followed as long as the contractor allows it.”
Faust nodded. “Correct. These Ravenlock Geas will seal consent to assist us in future projects should the opportunity arise. It also ensures discretion of what you have seen so far.”
Ben leaned back slightly, uneasy. “And if we don’t sign?”
“Then you are not permitted to assist further,” She answered quickly. “And we will move forward with memory deletion.”
Vergilius followed up, placing a pen in front of them. “Each of you will sign your name, and then draw a single drop of blood from your thumb.” He then produced a needle and set it gently beside the contracts. “Press the drop against the seal at the bottom. Once the sigil glows, the contract is bound.”
No one moved at first, until Grace reached out without a word.
She reached for the pen, writing her name at the bottom of the parchment. She then took off her glove and picked up the needle, prickling her thumb. A bead of blood welled up. Her lips thinned her gaze steady as she pressed it firmly onto the glowing seal.
The wax shimmered with golden light, then flared briefly—Limbus Company’s insignia pulsing faintly before vanishing into the parchment.
“...Huh.” Grace pulled back, flexing her thumb. “Not as painful as I thought it’d be.”
The others watched. Then, one by one.
Anton. Ben. And finally, Koleda herself.
With each thumbprint, the air in the room seemed to press inward, as though the crew got involved into something beyond them.
Faust collected the parchments without a word, inspecting them thoroughly before placing them inside the folder and shutting it. “Belobog Industries… I give you a warm welcome… to Limbus Company.”
Notes:
Good Evening. I apologize for the delays. Recently I realized (with the help of my good co-writer Spawn O' Decker.) That I tend to jump into the plot a little... too suddenly.
I originally intended for this chapter to go a way different route, which caused a domino effect that shattered a part of what I had in mind for the plot. But worry not, if anything, I want to try something out.
I want to take my time to let the characters settle down and interact with each other without having to jump into action every now and then.
Regardless, I would like your feedback on this matter.
Make sure to join the Discord.
This chapter will also be out on SpaceBattles.
With nothing else to report, have a good morning, afternoon, evening and night!
Chapter 4: Assembly Required
Summary:
The construction of a new department within Limbus Company Extraction Division has begun! But Grace, feeling unsatisfied regarding the slow progress, conceives and idea most ingenious!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Limbus Company Headquarters | Days Later]
The expansion of the facility was in full swing.
From the glass overlook of the upper catwalk, the entire subterranean sprawl stretched out beneath them—steel skeletons of new hallways, the skeleton of an elevator shaft plunging deeper into the rock, sparks flaring as welders worked in the filtered glow. The sound of machinery and clatter of tools reverberated around the space, layered over the low, ceaseless thrum of the power grid.
Faust stood with her hands folded neatly behind her back, eyes following the motion of an overhead crane lowering a prefabricated containment unit into place.
Vergilius lingered a few steps behind her, leaning his weight into the railing. His crimson gaze swept across the scene, catching the orange-vested Belobog workers moving in clusters among some Limbus personnel.
“I see that they’re making more progress than originally estimated,” he said, his tone flat enough to hide his satisfaction.
“It is as Phaethon said, after all,” Faust replied without turning, her voice calm and soft. “The higher ups will be pleased.”
Below them, Koleda barked instructions at a group of workers as she grabbed her wrench, her voice carrying even through the mechanical din. Grace was further off, her hair a wild mess under her goggles, elbows-deep in a partially assembled lift engine. Ben and Anton shifted heavy crates onto a waiting freight trolley, the motions smooth and effortless.
Vergilius stayed silent for a moment, the faint gleam of his eyes fixed on the work below. Without shifting his stance, he spoke. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Faust glanced at him briefly, her expression unchanging.
“The Ravenlock Geas,” he continued, voice low but edged. “Why use them at all? You know the directive. The company banned their use after what it took to bind Phaethon.”
For the first time since they’d stepped into the catwalk, Faust’s gaze left the construction floor. She regarded him fully now, the thin light from the fluorescents catching faintly in her eyes.
“Because,” she said softly. “I needed a way for Belobog Industries to think they are bound.”
Vergilius narrowed his gaze. “That’s not an answer.”
Faust’s lips curved—something too faint to be called a smile. “And yet it is all that is required.”
She turned back to the floor below, watching as Grace handed a recalibrated drill back to a nearby worker. “The Geas are… a familiar technology. It brings compliance without the mess of force. That’s as much as Faust is willing to share.”
Vergilius studied in silence for a second longer, the faint grind of metal echoing from the work site below. “Does that apply to Phaethon’s too?”
Faust answered the only way she could, by subtly stepping away from the catwalk and walking past him. “Only time will tell.”
Without much ceremony, she vanished into the other side of the catwalk, leaving Vergilius alone with his thoughts.
[Below]
The clang of steel echoed through the cavernous chamber as sparks rained from the half-assembled support struts. Workers in reinforced gear moved between scaffolds and exposed conduit, the air thick with the smell of fresh welding and ozone.
Grace knelt beside a diagnostic console, her goggles reflecting lines of scrolling readouts. She adjusted a probe into a port, listening to the quiet hum of the uplink. The results flickered across the display—within tolerance, but not fast enough.
Her fingers drummed impatiently on the casing. If Friday, Hans and Greta were here… we’d have this done in a third of the time.
Her gaze drifted toward the narrow service lifts at the far end of the chamber—too small to fit even one of her machines. But no, can’t bring them down here without tearing the place open first…
A sudden clink interrupted her thoughts.
She looked up just in time to catch the water bottle tossed her way.
“Somethin’ to clear your thoughts,” came the voice, rough but not unkind.
Heathcliff stood a few paced off, his newly repaired W-engine strapped neatly to his belt, polished plating catching the work lights.
Grace placed the bottle beside the console, letting her eyes drift to the hanging ring. “How’s the engine holding up?” she asked, tilting her chin toward it.
He glanced down at the device, running a thumb along the polished edge. “I’ll fess up, I’m impressed. Never woulda thought you’d get it runnin’ so smooth. Haven’t had the chance to really put the hammer down yet, though.”
Grace smirked faintly. “That’s good to hear.”
He chuckled once, but the smile didn’t last. His ears shifted slightly, picking up on something in her tone.
“You look a bit… off,” he said after a pause, voice careful. “You ‘ight?”
She took a long sip of water before answering, eyes following the slow crawl of a lift descending with a load of steel beams.
“It’s the pace,” she admitted. “Even with some of your lot pitching in, moving materials down here is sluggish.”
Her gaze swept around the area. Yi Sang was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the foreman, Jousaka, the two murmuring over a set of blueprints across a crate. Don Quixote strode past, a single steel meab balanced on her narrow shoulder like it weighted nothing, coat fluttering with every determined step.
Gregor crouched nearby, roach-claw extended, shearing through a stubborn length of rebar with the unhurried precision of a man cutting fine cigar paper. Sparks showered across the floor, bouncing off Ishmael’s boots as she welded a joint shut in the scaffold above.
Closer to the supply lifts, Rodya hummed something tuneless, a bright yellow construction perched over her messy hair. She waddled along with an oversized crate in her arms, calling out a cheerful “Heave-ho!” to no one in particular.
Grace let out a soft sigh, “If I could just get my children down here—we’d be halfway done already.”
Heathcliff followed her gaze, watching the lift creak its way to the ground. “Yeah… I getcha.”
Grace’s gaze lingered on the lift a moment longer—then drifted elsewhere. Not to the scaffolding. Not to the workers. But to the memory of a certain bipedal, steam-breathing machine sealed behind reinforced glass.
“...Hey,” she said, placing the water bottle down and facing Heathcliff. “That automaton in the containment unit in the upper floors… The one with the wind-up key. Could it…” She tapped her index fingers together. “Could it… by any chance be brought down here?”
Heathcliff’s ears flicked back, he took a deep breath before crossing his arms. “You do remember that we ain't allowed to mess with those things, aye?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just matter-of-fact. “Unless you can get permission from an L.C.E. bloke I can’t see it ever happenin’.”
Grace puffed her cheeks in an unspoken pout, turning back to her console. “Spoilsport.”
But when she glanced up again, her eyes caught on a familiar blue coat at the far end of the site. The man wearing it stood with a slightly slouchy posture, coffee cup in one hand, notepad in the other, his focus split between scribbled calculations and the controlled chaos of the construction floor.
Dr. Hohenheim—Extraction Team’s head. Even from here, his presence carried an air of deliberate precision.
Beside him, a younger man—his assistant, if Grace remembered right—flipped through a clipboard thick with schematics. Johann, she thought his name was.
Without saying anything, Grace started walking. Her steps were slow, cautious, like she didn’t want to startle the idea forming in her head.
Heathcliff noticed immediately. “Oi… where are you—?” He caught up in two long strides, falling into step beside her. “You’re not seriously thinking of bothering them, are you?”
She kept her eyes forward, lips pressed into a thin line. “I have to start somewhere.”
“This is probably a daft idea,” he pressed, glancing toward Hohenheim and Johann standing next to each other. “You do realise they just don’t let abnos out of their cell willy nilly?”
[Hours later]
The freight elevator groaned as it descended into the construction bay, steel cables rattling above.
Heathcliff stood at the bottom with his arms crossed, wearing an expression that said he still couldn’t believe she’d managed this.
Grace, on the other hand, looked like a child on her birthday.
Beside them, a couple of Belobog workers craned their necks to see.
Soon, the elevator cage clanged to a stop—revealing the Steam Transport Machine inside, brass fittings gleaming, vacuum tubes softly glowing with yellow numbers.
A Safety Team agent in a fancy wooden suit with vacuum tubes on their chest and a pilebunker strapped to their back stood at its side, one gauntleted hand resting on the automaton’s chassis like it was a very large, very unpredictable dog.
Grace started forward immediately—but the agent lifted a hand, stopping her in her tracks.
“Before you go telling it what to do, here are three rules,” the agent said as they lifted their hand to show three fingers. “Do not startle it. Do not yell at it. And most importantly…” They leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “...Do not hurry it up.”
Grace blinked momentarily, before she nodded with an excess amount of joy.
Only then did the agent step aside.
Grace approached slowly, reverently, like she was meeting a legend. She reached up and gently gripped the wind-up key protruding from its right shoulder. A few careful twists, and the machine’s gears whirred to life. Steam hissed from the exhaust pipes as it slowly began to rise. Its massive head slowly turned, taking in its surroundings.
Heathcliff muttered under his breath, “Hope you know what yer doin’.”
Grace clasped her hands together like she was meeting royalty. “Hello there, handsome,” she said brightly, her voice dropping into the sing-song cadence someone might use for a toddler. “You’re looking sharp today.”
The machine gave no verbal reply—just a faint hiss of steam and the subtle creak of gears inside its chassis.
Grace stepped closer, her tone as sweet as honey.
“Would you mind doing me a teensy favor? See that crate of materials over there?” She pointed across the bay, where a massive container sat waiting to be relocated. “Could you please take it to the far side? Nice and easy, okay~?”
The machine turned its head toward the crate. For a long moment, nothing happened—until its bulky arm extended with a slow, deliberate grace. Clamps clicked into place. With a surprising lack of strain, it lifted the crate like it weighed nothing at all.
Grace’s face lit up. “See? Look at you go!”
Ben stepped beside her and crossed his arms. “Yeah… but look at how long it’s taking…”
Anton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “At this rate, we’ll be here until next week.”
Koleda’s good eye twitched as she watched the automaton take three full minutes to rotate in place, still holding the crate. It let out a soft hiss of steam, then started its painstakingly slow walk across the bay—each step heavy, each pause drawn out like it was savoring the moment.
Grace clasped her hands behind her back, still giddy. “It’s all about patience. We don’t rush art.”
Koleda remained quiet—she was too busy counting the seconds between each clunk of the machine’s feet.
Heathcliff let out an impatient sigh. “I’ll be over there in case any of you folks need me.” He said before heading to the break room.
[One Hour Later]
After a long wait, the machine finally arrived at its destination. It gently placed the crate onto the floor, and slowly began to loosen its grip.
Grace clapped her hands the moment the machine stood upright again, the counter on its head increasing by one. “See? That’s a five-minute time reduction from the trial run!” she said proudly.
Koleda’s palm met her forehead with an audible smack. “We’ve been staring at it for an hour, Sis. One hour…”
Before she could argue further, the machine replaced one of its vacuum tubes with a faint click and hiss—steam curling from the joint—and gently presented the old one to Grace.
She happily accepted it, cradling it like a prize. “Look! It even gave me a cute little gift.”
Ben’s ears flattened as he eyed the tube. “Grace… maybe don’t keep that. Do you not remember what happened with Safety?”
“It’s just a part,” Grace argued, cradling it. “This child’s far more civilized than the… other one.”
Anton scowled at her. “Or it’s the same kind of ticking time bomb.”
Grace gasped, taking a step back. “Are you implying my new son—”
“ Your son? It’s not even—”
The four of them started talking over each other, voices rising just enough to drown on the quiet footfalls of a female worker in the background.
Helmet pushed up, she whispered, “At this rate, I’ll be home after supper…”
She strode forward until she stood just under the machine’s shadow. She tilted her head up to face the machine head on. “Hey, box head. Pick up the pace, we don’t have all day, will you?”
The Belobog crew all ceased the argument instantly, heads snapping toward her in horror.
The Safety Team agent standing nearby visibly tensed. “Uh, Ma’am, I don’t believe you heard me. I recall saying—”
The automaton’s vacuum tubes flickered brighter. WIth a sharp hiss, it rotated on its heels and walked back to the elevator. This time, it moved significantly faster—long deliberate steps giving way to a brisk almost businesslike pace.
The Safety Team agent briefly tapped the comm in their ear. “Begin evacuating all Belobog employees out of here…”
Some L.C. agents rushed onto the scene, and with irritation clear in their movements, they began pushing Belobog construction workers out. A few grumbles of complaints and curses could be heard as the workers moved along, though most were directed at the female employee who rushed the automaton.
Heathcliff came back from his rest area, a can of earl grey tea in hand. “What did I—” He dropped instantly, assuming a quick battle stance as electricity crackled around his fingers. “Ah, bollocks. Not again.”
The woman blinked, stepping back. “What? I just nudged it along. It’s not like it’s going to—”
Lo and behold—by the time the last crate was stacked neatly, the machine froze. The tubes along its chest flickered erratically. Steam hissed in short, sharp bursts. Its head swiveled—slowly, menacingly—until the glowing numbers fixed on the employee.
It began to step forward… again… and again… each step came faster and heavier than the last.
“Easy, easy—” Grace darted forward, both hands raised as if approaching a startled animal. “No sudden movements, alright? She is not a crate, sweetie.”
It didn’t even slow.
“Move!” Heathcliff barked.
Anton grabbed the worker by the arm, hauling her back as Koleda shoved Grace toward the exit. Ben took up the rear, keeping his eyes locked on the machine in case it lunged.
The automaton’s shadow loomed just as they cleared the loading bay doors—its massive hand swung down with a hiss of hydraulics, missing the worker’s head by inches and smashing a splintered crater on the floor.
Dr. Laura and three other Safety Team agents at her flanks strode into view. Each wearing a different suit and wielding a different weapon.
Laura flicked her wrist, a pink ribbon snapping from her glove and wrapping tight around the machine’s wind-up key. “Reel it in, boys.”
The agents surged forward, one of them manifested a set of claws and breathed in from their anesthetic mask. Another pulled out their piledriver and began to charge forward. The last one pulled out a baton wrapped in flames, a pair of moth wings manifesting on their back.
“Keep moving!” Laura shouted over her shoulder, not even glancing at the Belobog crew as they were shepherded out of sight. “You’re out of your depth here—leave the rest to us!”
[Meanwhile]
Far from the chaos of the construction zone, a quiet, dimly lit hallway stretched between reinforced containment cells. Only the low hum of the fluorescent lights filled the air.
Behind the first pane of glass, a large centipede lashes its armored skull into the barrier with a thunderous thoom, arcs of blue electricity crawling through the cracks in its plating. Bolts skittered along the reinforced glass, leaving spiderweb burns that faded a moment later.
The next cell remained still. A massive long dragon lay coiled on itself, mane flowing in lazy rhythm with its slow breathing. Its closed eyes betrayed nothing, but each exhale misted the glass, and the faint rumble in its throat suggested dreams that might not be peaceful.
In the third, a humanoid figure in gleaming red armor, shaped in the flashy, exaggerated style of an old Sentai hero stood utterly motionless—until its helmeted head twitched. Slowly, it tilted toward the far-off direction of the breach, as thought it could feel the rising panic through the steel and concrete. The glowing visor flared faintly, fingers tightening around the hilt of its ornate blade.
The Safety Team was losing ground fast.
The automaton’s arm-mounted steam gun, sending a wall of vapor through the catwalk and shoving two agents back hard enough to rattle the railing.
“Hold it steady!” Laura lashed another ribbon across its waist, trying to lock it in place—only for the cord to snap free under the grinding spin of its torso, leaving it dead on the floor.
Another blast of steam forced the Safety team to dive for cover.
Grace’s stomach sank. The automaton wasn’t slowing. Every movement was faster, more erratic—the measured pace of a wind-up toy giving way to something that wanted to break free.
Koleda gritted her teeth, already pulling out her wrench and hammer. “They’re not going to last much longer!”
Before she could think about jumping in, another sound cut through.
Rapid footsteps, coming from a service door, flooding the loading bay with a cold wash of light. Three silhouettes stepped inside, the sound of shoes ringing evenly on the floor.
Dante’s clock head ticked erratically as their gaze swept the scene. Beside them, Wise’s blue eyes caught the work lights, burning like tiny suns. At the center, Faust walked with her usual impossible calm, not even glancing at the struggling Safety agents.
Grace immediately ran towards them, sweat dripping down her brow. “I-I can explain! We didn’t mean to—”
Faust calmly raised her hand, halting her train of speech. “There are more pressing matters at the moment. Containment takes priority.”
Her gaze slid over her without slowing and turned to face Wise. “Phaethon, you may continue.”
He straightened himself, taking a slow breath through his nose. He took out his Manager Pad and began inputting a series of commands. As he imputed the last one, he gave the Belobog crew a determined gaze. “Alright, team. Just like we tested!”
Before long, golden lights wrapped around them like cocoons. The glow flared—then shattered.
Koleda stepped forward first, her rose-red jacket catching the light, bronze trim glinting at the seams. A large Rosespanner decal sprawled boldly across the right edge. Beneath, a pale purple dress shirt lay neatly tucked into dark pants, heels clicking sharply on the concrete. Her weapon rested over her back—a monstrous hybrid of wrench and chainsaw, teeth gleaming.
Anton followed, his get-up similar but shorter than Koleda’s. The drill that had once defined him was gone, replaced by a large chainsaw grafted into his left arm, its blade purring faintly.
Ben emerged next—black cassock sweeping low, golden stole draped across his broad shoulders. His paws held a book that seemed to be one size too small for him as the sigil on its black cover glowed with a golden power.
And finally, Grace.
Her frame was wrapped in a skin-tight black suit, armored plating hugging her shoulders, chest, ribs and legs. Green tubes ran from her back to her waist, pulsing with green liquid. In her hands, a double-bladed polearm spun with practiced ease, the whir of its edge cutting clean through the chaos.
The golden light didn’t stop with Belobog, as Dante also began equipping the sinners with their own IDs.
Rodion stepped forward in a dirtied hanbok and a brown po overcoat, the sedge hat tilted just enough to shadow her grin, tiny horns curling above. In her hands, a weathered wooden plow gleamed like a blade.
Gregor followed, the familiar Rosepanner uniform stretched across his frame, his claw replaced by a roaring chainsaw that shuddered with eager teeth.
Heathcliff’s body was veined with writhing sinew, his tie sagging like a blood-slick tongue. With a flick of his wrist, a lance of flesh and jagged teeth erupted from his arm, the tip stretching into a phase-sword’s cruel point.
Don Quixote’s hair spilled into wild twin tails, her right eye hidden beneath an eyepatch with flame decals. A construction jacket hing from her waist, tools clattering against her hips as she gripped a wrench in one hand, hammer in the other.
Yi Sang appeared draped in a pristine white hanbok beneath a grey po overcoat, clutters of yellow spicebush blossoms blooming along his eye, shoulders, and arms. In his grip, a long branch of the same blossoms rustled as though caught in a phantom breeze.
Ishmael’s silhouette tightened under pink ribbons wound like silk steel around her limbs, her outfit mirroring Dr. Laura’s sleek style.
And Faust—dressed in nothing but a black sports bra and fitted yoga pants—slung a belt of EMP grenades low on her hips. Her rivet gun hummed with caged lightning as she slid orange-tinted goggles over her eyes.
The last arcs of golden light died away. Everyone assumed a combat ready stance and ran forward.
The floor trembled as the Steam Transport Machine slammed its bulk into a barricade, steam shrieking from its vents. Safety Team agents scrambled back, weapons sparking against its hide to little effect.
Dr. Laura, heels clicking against the steel as she stepped backward, narrowed her piercing purple eyes at the newcomers. She flicked her wrist, the pink ribbon coiled at her glove snapping back like a whip into its reel.
“Well,” she began, her tone a velvet sneer, “looks like the cavalry decided to join the show.”
Her squad looked to her for orders, tense, weapons raised. Laura waved a lazy hand, dismissing them. “Retreat. You lot are sturdy enough for paperwork, not a bloody breach.”
“But, Doctor—” one agent started.
Her gaze cut sharp as glass. “Did I stutter? Out. Now.”
The agents faltered, then withdrew from the battle, leaving her alone at the edge of the chamber. Laura didn’t look away from the Sinners and Belobog, her smirk curling as though she were both amused and unimpressed.
“Try to not make too much of a mess,” she called as the Stream Transport Machine let out a bone-deep hiss. “We can only afford to make enough Nixie Devices.”
The Steam Transport Machine swung its bulk in a wide arc, the hiss of pressure building in its shoulder cannon. The temperature in the chamber spiked as it locked onto the group.
Koleda, Anton, Ben and Grace charged in first, weapons gleaming.
The fluttering of pages could be heard as Ben opened his book, mouth chanting as glowing words flew out of the pages and towards Belobog, covering them like armor.
Koleda’s chainsaw-wrench roared to life, Anton and Ben close at her flanks, Grace’s polearm cutting the air in wide arcs. Their charge struck like a wall of steel and grit—
—only for a deafening hiss to split the chamber.
The abnormality’s vents flared. Its cannon snapped forward with a brutal shunk, releasing a torrent of white-hot steam that blasted the Belobog crew off their feet. Armor screeches against concrete as they skidded back, coughing, heat shimmering in the air where they had just stood.
“What the—!” Koleda spat, teeth bared as she dug her heels against the ground.
“<Phaethon! If we want them to get close, we must split up.>” Dante’s clockhead ticked sharply, their voice echoing through the chaos. “<I’ll have the sinners target the lightbulbs, tell Belobog to keep it distracted.>”
Wise relayed the words with a commanding sweep of his hand. “Belobog—keep the abnormality occupied.”
The Steam Transport Machine’s tubes flickered, venting another piercing hiss. The shriek of gears filled the chamber as its cannon swivelled, hot steam dripping from the nozzle.
“Ben, shields! Now!”
Ben’s paws slammed the pages of his tome wide. “Stand together!” His voice carried, guttural and heavy, each word weaving itself into the air. Glyphs of molten gold spilled from the parchment, spiraling through the chamber like burning moths. They settled onto Koleda, Anton, and Grace—coating them in plates of radiant script that pulsed faintly with every breath.
“Grace and Ben, you two move in front of the team!”
The next blast of steam hit, searing across the floor. Ben and Grace did as commanded, taking the blast. Instead of flaying them to the bone, the golden text sizzled, dispersing the heat in spanning burts of light. The duo staggered but stayed upright.
“Koleda! Follow up with an overhead!”
Koleda cracked her neck, slamming her wrench-chainsaw against her palm. “Aye, aye! Proxy!” She dashed forward, using Ben’s back as a pseudo-ramp to leap.
She jumped high enough to slam her wrench-chainsaw onto the joints, the impact hard enough to damage the joist and immobilize the cannon.
“Watch out!”
Just as Koleda landed, the Steam Transport Machine raised its bulky arm, ready to crush her whole.
Before it could do so, ribbons whipped across the air like living veins. They wrapped around the arm, pulling taut with an almost serpentine strength. Ishmael branched, teeth grit, her arms trembling as the pink cords compiled tighter. “Go! Get out of there!”
Koleda did as ordered, running back to her team.
“Grace! Give it hell!”
Grace darted forward the instant Koleda was clear, her polearm spinning in a wide arc. Sparks trailed its blades as she began to aim high.
The Steam Transport Machine buckled, steam venting in a furious shriek. But then—the ribbons snapped. Ishmael staggered back, her bindings scattering into pink glitter as if they had never been.
“Shit—”
The abnormality’s arm lashed out with frightening precision. Before Grace could pivot away, a steel hand clamped around her ankle. The world spun—once, twice—then slammed down with a thunderous crack.
Her body skidded across the concrete, blood streaking in her wake. The counter on the automaton's chest ticked up by one, vacuum tubes glowing brighter.
“Grace!” Koleda’s voice ripped across the chamber.
The automaton didn’t relent. Before Grace could react, it seized her again, grabbing her by the waist. It lifted her up once more and began to press her hard.
Grace’s body bucked in a sickening arc. The sound that followed was wet and sharp, a snap like splintering timber. Her spine gave way, legs dangling uselessly, arms flailing.
Her scream strangled into a cough, blood bubbling past her lips.
Eventually, the automaton whirled her like dead weight before smashing her into a concrete pillar. Dust cascaded down as she fell in a heap, armor sparking, breath rattled.
She coughed more blood onto the floor, red smeared all over her face—but her suit’s failsafe had activated.
The liquid burned through her veins as they glowed briefly, the worst of the gashes sealed, bones knitting with unnatural speed.
“...heh.” She forced herself upright, spitting copper from her teeth. “Damn stubborn little kid, aren’t you…”
The automaton turned, vents shrieking, stepping toward her with unyielding weight—until a roar echoed from the side.
Gregor rushed forward, chainsaw hand igniting as he carved into the automaton’s shoulder, sparks showering the chamber.
The attack was enough to send it staggering to the side. Before it could reorient, a jagged tear ripped open in the air just in front of it.
The air shimmered inside the portals, showing a glimpse of Faust’s steady hands. SHe stood far back, her goggles aglow, rivet gun humming with electric charge.
“Synchronize.” Her voice cut sharp across the chamber.
A bolt of crackling light screamed through the portal—slamming into one of the glowing vacuum tubes on its body. Glass shattered, fluid spraying in a hiss of steam.
The machine recoiled, venting pressure in a furious shriek as it zeroes on Faust. Steam hissed from its joints as it raised its arms, the massive claw moving toward her.
Faust didn’t flinch, but her goggles caught the gleam of metal, her rivet gun rising just a fraction.
Heathcliff saw it coming first. “Not today, lad!”
He slammed his lance down, sinew veins bursting outward like cracking glass. The rift between the automaton and Faust snapped shut just as its claw came crashing down—its weight meeting only empty space.
In the same instant, three more portals ripped open in the air: one above its head, one at its left flank, another at its back.
Faust’s eyes narrowed faintly. Without missing a beat, she adjusted her stance, rivet gun humming with a high-pitched whine. “Trajectory locked.”
A bolt of lightning tore through the first rift. Then the second. Then the third.
The automaton staggered as sparks exploded from its body, arcs of electricity dancing across its armored plating. Its upper body twisted violently, vents shrieking, vacuum tubes flickering yellow and crimson.
And still—Heathcliff pulled his lance again, dragging another rift open just behind its knee.
Faust didn’t hesitate. With fluid precision, she tugged an EMP grenade from her belt, gave it a kiss for good luck, then pulled the pin. “Impact assured.”
She lobbed it straight through the rift.
The grenade detonated with a bone-deep crack. The blast reverberated through the chamber, and the automaton froze mid-step. Its limbs shuddered, gears whining in protest before locking stiff. Steam vented weakly from its shoulder, trailing like dying breath.
Heathcliff exhaled, dragging his lance free. His grin was sharp and wolfish. “Bloody brilliant shot, that.”
Faust pushed her goggles up with a gloved finger, expression flat—through a faint color touched the tips of her ears. “Merely adequate application of resources.”
“Pfft—aye,” Heathcliff smirked, shoulder heaving with quiet laughter.
“<It’s not over yet, guys. Look!>”
The automaton twitched. Its tubes flickered erratically, wavering back from crimson toward their usual pale yellow. Its vents hissed harder, steam pouring like breath from a dying beast.
Heathcliff’s grin faltered. “...It’s recoverin’.”
“Fear not, I shall prevent it.” Yi Sang’s calm voice rang out, low but clear. He jabbed his spicebush branch onto the floor, the roots digging deep into the ground.
From the cracks in the floor, thick stalks of yellow spicebush erupted, sprouting upward in gnarled twists. Branches forked, curling tightly around the automaton’s limbs and waist. Blossoms bloomed against its armor, their petals glowing faintly as if drawing its strength away.
The machine strained, servos whining, but the spicebush held.
Rodion strolled forward next, dragging her plow across the floor before pulling it up and slamming it down onto the machine with a heave.
Dried tendrils of bark and oak sneaked across the surface of the abnormality’s body before sinking deep into its gaps, drinking in its nutrients.
The automaton let out one last shriek of steam, its vents flowing bright—before the combined force of golden blossoms and rotting boughs sealed it in place.
The floor was still. The great weight of the abnormality sagged against its bindings, twitching but unable to rise.
“<Don Quixote! Finish it off!>”
Don Quixote’s boots thundered across the catwalk, her hammer and wrench clutched right in her hands.
“At last! The fiend is fettered—now I shall deliver the finishing strike!” she cried, voice echoing high and proud.
She vaulted the railing in a single bound, hair and jacket tails whipping in the air as she raised her weapons overhead. The others looked up just in time to see her silhouette framed against the glaring work lights—
—and then the world erupted.
A roar of flame, steel and stars tore through the adjacent hallway, the shockwave ripping through the chamber like a hurricane. The blast cracked glass, snapped scaffoldings, and hurled Don Quixote sideways mid-descent.
She slammed into a nearby railing with a grunt, barely catching hold before the catwalk buckled under the concussive force.
Anton raised his free hand to shield his face. “What the—what was that?”
Koleda’s good eye darted toward the gaping, flame licked hole yawning in the wall.
Through the smoke, a low hum rolled, deep and dreadful—like a chorus of broken gears grinding in unison.
[Meanwhile]
“What the hell just happened?!” Hohenheim’s coat tails fluttered in the hot air thrown by the blast. His coffee cup rattled against the railing as the tremor echoed through the facility.
“Doctor!” Johann skidded to his side, a notepad clutched tight in his chest. His voice came fast, cracking. “It’s from the Information Team! One of the new arrivals, sir!”
“Alert! Abnormality O-01-17-05 has breached containment!”
Hohenheim didn’t flinch. He calmly set his cup down on the table, steam curling from it, and adjusted his glasses with two fingers. His gaze lingered on the steam machine thrashing before shifting through a set of files.
“...It just had to be that one, huh?” Hohenheim groaned as he read through Lobotomy Corp.’s files concerning the abnormality that had just breached.
The smoke rolled thick across the chamber, swallowing the fractured steel and half-collapsed scaffolding. The air tasting of copper and burnt ozone.
From deep within the darkness—two narrowed eyes opened.
Not glowing like lanterns or burning like fire. But hollow. Their light was the kind that stared through you, not at you.
Everyone in the chamber felt it at once—the quiet breeze that coiled down their spines. Weapons lifted instinctively. Even the clockwork of Dante’s head faltered.
The L.C. agents shifted, boots scraping. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
The smoke shifted again, drawn inward as through the very air bowed to whatever stood behind it.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t gonna let them suppress the automaton in peace. That, they knew.
Heathcliff muttered under his breath, voice low and uncertain. “Oh bloody hell… It just had to be that one.”
Notes:
Who will it be? I'll give you a hint, it's an original Abno that my good friend Spawn O' Decker came up on the spot. It may appear soon on a Mirror of the Zenless near you!
That was chapter 4 for today. I apologize for the delay as things changed last minute, yet again. But worry not, we have a good idea of where to go from here.
Before I go, I need some quick feedback. Whenever Phaethon or Dante equips an ID, should a long or brief description be given when it happens? Or should it be mentioned once in the story so it can be namedropped later. I found myself struggling here so the input will be very helpful.
Any other feedback and thoughts are very welcomed.
This chapter will also be uploaded in SpaceBattles.
Don't forget to join the Discord as well!
With nothing else to say, have a good morning, afternoon, evening and night.
Chapter 5: Play the Hero
Summary:
A NEW CHALLENGER APPROACHES!!! But things are not what they seem.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Limbus Company Headquarters]
The haze thickened first—swirling, curling, refusing to clear. A low vibration rolled across the chamber, as if something beyond the smoke was winding itself up, preparing for its cue.
Anton raised his chainsaw arm warily. “Here comes trouble!”
Wise recovered from covering his face with the Manager Pad, eyes narrowing. “Be careful everyone. It may be stronger.”
Rodion gave him an incredulous look as she tilted back her sedge hat. “Gee, thanks a lot, Captain Obvious.”
The automaton froze mid-struggle, vents shuttering in irregular bursts. It took advantage of the distraction to change its vacuum tubes.
A single metallic footstep echoed out of the smoke, each step sharper, as if designed to strike fear on its foes.
Light cut through the haze—two thin, searing slits of gold.
The figure emerged like an actor parting a curtain, red armor shining as if freshly waxed, chrome catching every lamp in the chamber. A cape billowed behind him though the air was still. His every movement carried the weight of performance, sublime and flawless.
Then came the voice, booming and soaked in self-importance.
“✨FEAR NOT, CITIZENS 👨 OF NEW ERIDU!✨”
The sound rolled through the chamber like a sermon shouted into cathedral walls.
“FOR I—THE EMISSARY OF THE HOLLOW!—HAVE ARRIVED 🏃♂️ 💨TO PROTECT THE WEAK! 🛡️⚔️”
Koleda’s brow twitched hard enough to ache. “...you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Don Quixote, however, clasped her hands with starry eyes. “At last—a kindred spirit!”
Grace twirled her polearm behind her, brows furrowing as she looked around. “Anyone else hearing the, uh… music?”
Ben awkwardly scratched his chin with his free hand, one brow ticked slightly higher. “Huh. I thought I was hallucinating.”
The Emissary pointed a gleaming finger toward the gathered fighters, sweeping it in dramatic arcs that left invisible “whoosh” trails in the air. “AND I SEE THEM HERE! YES—THE VILLAINS! 😡💥Those who dare HARM THIS POOR 💰 UNPAID LABORER👷!”
Gregor awkwardly hid his chainsaw hand from view. “Hey, uh, bud. I think you’re mixing us up here.”
The cartoonish fanfare swelled louder, impossibly so—as if the Emissary's mere presence controlled it.
“PREPARE 🗡️ YOURSELVES!” He unsheathed his blade from the metallic scabbard, revealing a gleaming katana, light glinting dramatically off its edge.
The Emissary raised the blade high, catching the light in a dazzling flare that forced several onlookers to shield their eyes. “FOR THE EMISSARY OF THE HOLLOWS SHALL STRIKE YOU DOWN IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE!!✨🔥”
He brought the blade down. Steel shrieked as the edge kissed the floor—yet instead of sparks, reality itself split open. A circular portal tore across the concrete, golden light spilling from the wound.
Wise’s eyes widened. “Wait! What is it doing?!”
Several portals tore open, blooming beneath the feet of Ben, Grace, Heathcliff, Don Quixote, Yi Sang, Rodion—and even Dante.
“<A-Ah! Help!>” Dante’s voice echoed sharply, clock-hands spinning in panic. Their gloved fingers clawed for purchase against the floor, but the pull was relentless.
Wise quickly put away his Manager Pad to help Dante, but by the time he reacted, the portal had already swallowed them.
“Sis! Hold on!” Koleda lunged forward, arm outstretched. But in the blink of an eye, she disappeared as well.
Heathcliff’s curses cut off mid-word. Rodion’s hat spun in the air before vanishing. Yi Sang disappeared silently, Ben fell in a burst of glowing scripts. Don Quixote clutched her wrench and hammer, vowing “Towards the field of justice—!!” as the portal consumed her.
The rifts sealed shut one by one with a snap, leaving behind nothing but scorched lines burned into the concrete.
Koleda, Anton, Gregor, Ishmael and Faust remained, staring at the emptiness.
The fanfare still lingered faintly, as if mocking them.
Finally—like a stage actor exiting with perfect timing—the Emissary gave a final two-fingered salute, cape whipping as he leapt into the rift of his own making.
His voice thundered, echoing through the chamber until it dissolved into nothing. “THE VILLAINS SHALL KNOW FEAR 😨 ! ✨💥”
The chamber reeked of ozone and burnt steel now. Silence hung heavy—shattered only by the faint echo of the cartoonish fanfare fading in the distance, curing off as the final portal sealed with a snap.
Koleda staggered forward, her hand outstretched toward the scorched floor where Grace had stood. The glow was already fading, but her eye still tracked it, desperate as if her sister might claw her way back out.
Her jaw clenched, trembling despite her best effort to hold it steady. “...Grace…”
Anton’s chainsaw arm fell slack at his side. The machine whirred low, like a defeated sigh, as he pressed his free hand against his forehead. His lips trembled before he muttered through grit teeth. “Not again… not them too…”
Koleda’s shoulder hitched once, a raw sting in her throat. She turned away quickly, dragging a hand across her cheet, but the tears still streaked beneath her good eye.
Across the chamber, Ishmael’s gaze flicked between the survivors, her brow furrowed. “Why them? Why not us too?”
Gregor scratched at his temple with his human hand, frustration seething through his heavy voice. “What do we do? We can’t do anything without our Manager bud.”
Faust, however, remained unmoving. She studied the black scorch-marks, eyes narrowed, her expression as unfathomable as ever. “This so-called Emissary must have a criteria of its own,” she murmured. “Though what they are, it is a mystery even for Faust.”
The heavy door at the far end hissed open. Dr. Hohenheim strode in, coffee still in hand, Johann scrambling at his side with a stack of clipped notes.
“Dammit, we’re late!” Johann froze mid-step, eyes darting from the scorch marks on the floor to Koleda and Anton’s grim expression. “Where is the Emissary?”
“I don’t know, you tell us,” shot Ishmael as she crossed her arms at him. “They got dragged inside that Abno’s rift.”
Hohenheim’s gaze sharpened. He effused something low under his breath, barely audible. “Pocket dimension. Fascinating.” He took a quick sip of his coffee before giving it to Johann. “All they have to do is beat up that clown if they want to return.”
Before Anton could demand an explanation, a hiss like boiling steam cut througbn the chamber.
Everyone turned.
The automaton shuddered violently, brass joints creaking. Its newly placed vacuum tubes blared a furious amber. The symbols within them whirred forward in a blur—seconds, minutes, hours, days of stored time burning away in seconds.
“Dammit all,” Koleda gripped her chainsaw wrench hard. “Is it getting back up?!”
The branches Yi Sang had woven around its frame snapped liek twigs. The machine straightened again, gears shrieking, steam roaring from its vents. Cracks in its plating sealed over. Dents and chips mending in seconds.
It stood taller than before, shoulders squared, chest tubes blazing with unholy light.
Anton grit his teeth, chainsaw sparking as he revved it once. “I guess it’s time for round two.”
Hohenheim pressed a finger onto his circular glasses, tone now more serious than before. “L.C.B. We’re wasting enough time and resources already. Get over it and beat this thing!”
The Steam Transport Machine slammed one foot forward, the ground quaking beneath its weight. Its shoulder cannon swiveled toward like a kettle boiling over.
Johann quickly hid behind Hohenheim and gave the team a quick thumbs up. “Good luck, everybody!”
[Meanwhile]
The world lurched, then stilled.
Dante was the first to stir. Their clockhead spun with a ratling clack as they pushed upright, gloved hands stuttering as thought shaken out of rhythm. “<Shuckaroonies! Is everyone alright?!>”
Rodion groaned from the ground, brushing off dust from her coat and gripping her head. “Agh! Dammit. I feel like I got stomped by a rhino.”
Don Quixote bolted upright, practically vibrating with energy despite the fall. “Verily! I yet stand unbroken! Such is the spirit of a construction worker!” She posed dramatically, only to wince as her ankle popped. “...Ah! T-Tis but a scratch!”
Heathcliff grunted, rolling onto one knee with his lance digging into the cracked ground for support. “Bloody hell, a little warning would’ve been dandy.”
Grace helped Ben upright, picking up his book and giving it to him. “You alright, big guy?”
Ben straightened himself and pressed his square glasses onto his snout. “Yeah, it could've been worse.”
Yi Sang pushed himself upright more slowly, his movements graceful. His eye wandered, calm yet faintly shadowed, as he took in his surroundings before speaking a single quiet word. “Observe…”
The others followed his gaze.
They were no longer within the steel corridors of Limbus HQ. Around them stretched the corpse of a city, skyscrapers sheared in half as thought snapped like twigs, rubble scattered in jagged heaps. Roads split open in deep veins, and through those wounds bloomed forests of luminous ether crystals. They pulsed with a slow breathing light, their glow casting faint colors across the ruined walls.
In the distance, the sun burned low, bleeding amber light across the sky. Through it—unfurling like banners of another world—streamed an aurora, green and violet ribbons rippling against the dying day.
A beautiful painting draped over a hopeless scene.
“<Are we… inside of a Hollow?>” Dante’s ticking carried on as they stared out at the ruined skyline.
Don Quixote snapped to attention. She fumbled at her belt until her hand closed around a squared-handled device. With a triumphant flourish, she produced her Ether geiger, flicking it open with practiced drama.
As she turned it on, the needle sat dead center. Her face fell. “Nay, Manager Esquire. The counter is at zero!”
Ben’s paws twitched as he reached into his coat and pulled his own device, smaller and draped in gold etching. He switched it on, ears flattening when the dial refused to budge. “She’s right. Not a trace of Ether in the air.”
Rodion’s eyes darted to the glowing aurora overhead, suspicion etching into her tired face. “Then where the hell are we?”
Before an answer could settle, the air quivered.
A voice boomed across the ruined street, echoing with such force it rattled broken windows in their frames.
“YOU’VE AWAKEN👀!GOOD 👍 !”
Every head snapped toward the sound.
At the far end of the boulevard, against the burning sunlight, a lone silhouette stood atop the jagged edge of a crumbling skyscraper. The figure’s cape snapped dramatically despite the windless sky, red armor gleaming molten gold in the fractured light.
He pointed his katana forward, tip flashing like a beacon.
“BE GRATEFUL 🥹 ! FOR I HAVE NOT UNLEASHED MY POWERFUL CENTAURON 🦾. FOR I AM A FAIR AND JUST⚖️ FIGHTER 🤺!”
A faint, tiny fanfare rose out of nowhere yet again. Don Quixote gasped in sheer delight, practically vibrating where she stood. Heathcliff groaned audibly.
With a mighty shout, the figure leapt.
He soared down the ruined skyscraper, trailing sunlight and dust, cape flaring like wings. His boots hit the cracked pavement in a perfect three-point landing, shards of concrete spraying around him.
The fanfare crescendoed. He rose suddenly, one hand thrust to the sky.
“TREMBLE 🫨 BEFORE ME, VILLAINS. FOR I—THE EMISSARY 🦸♂️ OF—”
“Oh, bloody hell—Get ‘im!”
The group didn't need a second command.
Don Quixote shouted a warcry, weapons raised; Grace spun her polearm, springing forward; Ben’s tome spanned open, golden glyphs spilling across the air; Yi Sang clicked his fan and branch, spicebush petals glinting midair; Rodion readied her plow to strike.
But the instant their boots struck the cracked asphalt—
Everything stopped.
Grace’s foot froze mid-step, Don Quixote’s hair locked mis-swing. Even the stray motes of dust in the air hung motionless. The only thing that moved was the Emissary, glowing eyes sweeping over the paralyzed group.
He sheathed his katana, sparks of cartoonishly exaggerated lighting arcing skyward.
“🦹VILLAINS… YOU DARE RUSH 💨 THE EMBODIMENT OF JUSTICE ⚖️?!” He raised one finger, wagging it dramatically. “Nay! For before battle⚔️, and in accordance with current New Eridu laws, I shall read 🗣️ to you… THE MAGNITUDE OF YOUR CRIMES 💢!”
A tiny trumpet fanfare blared again, louder, looping again into a heroic march as the Emissary puffed his chest and began pacing theatrically.
“Know ye this! Evil cannot flourish 📈 while the Emissary of the Hollow 🟣 yet draws breath🗣️💨! I stand 🧍♂️ for the weak, the meek, the downtrodden😔! I, whose courage outshines a thousand suns🌅! I, whose blade 🗡️cleaves darkness ⚫️itself!”
Everyone groaned in unison except for Don Quixote, who was close to exploding in giddiness.
“Ridu’s sake,” Heathcliff cursed, glaring at the glowing slits of the man’s helmet. “We’re frozen so this git can monologue?!”
Rodion let out a frustrated sigh. “Oh good, a massive waste of our time. Just what we needed.”
Don Quixote began to foam out of her mouth from excitement. “It’s just like the series~!”
Yi Sang exhaled calmly before shaking his head. “Is this the price of denying our wrongs?”
Grace gritted her teeth, eyes shaking. “G-Get me out at once!”
Dante ticked faster, hand hovering over their Manager Pad. “<Why…why is this happening…!>”
The Emissary didn’t hear a word, too absorbed in his own speech. He placed a finger onto Yi Sang. “I’ll start with you 🫵, my blooming 🌺foe!”
His glowing gaze settled onto him. “Yi Sang 🪽 of the former League 9️⃣! You, who led the Technology Liberation 🗽 Alliance, stormed Kerato Corp.’s Department of Food 🍗 Resource Development! Hundreds—hundreds!—reduced to puddles of blood 🩸 beneath your enlightened ✨ hands!”
Yi Sang’s eyes remained half-lidded, unreadable. He exhaled slowly, words little more than mist. “...I sought to liberate myself from the future to return to a better past… and yet I remain inert in the present.”
The Emissary pointed at Rodion next.
“And you, Rodion 💔, Who Denies All! You betrayed 🪓 your brothers and sisters, sold their blood to fatten 💲 your purse! Complicit in massacres for profit 💰 and glory 🌟, wagging your tail to the highest bidder!”
Rodion’s mask of calmness faltered, teeth grit against memory. She spat to the side before glaring at him. “Ain’t like anyone else here didn’t sell out to someone. At least I made sure I lived to wallow in my misery another day.”
The flowing eyes swiveled, locking onto Heathcliff.
“And YOU!—Dr. Heathcliff ⛈️! Desertion 🏃, cowardice, abandonment! You left your comrades to rot underground in that Lobotomy Corp. Branch. They perished screaming 😱 while you rose! All for what?!”
Heathcliff snarled, veins in his suit tightening. “Blimey, there was only one pod! You want me to magic up another!? I didn’t bloody choose to live!!”
The finger swung toward Grace.
“Grace Howard! Murderer of blood 🩸 kin! Killed 🔪 your own sister! You severed the bond of family in cold calculation!”
Grace froze, the words stabbing through her armor more than any blade. Her fingers twitched against her polearm.
“That’s…that’s not…” She swallowed hard, vision blurring for a heartbeat. “... I didn’t… I wouldn’t!” Her voice broke momentarily, her mind fighting to smother the memory clawing its way back.
The Emissary moved forward onto a beaming Don Quixote.
“OOH! OHH!” Don Quixote hopped in place, eyes glinting with childlike wonder. “Noble knight of righteousness, what crime dost thou ascribe to me?”
The Emissary paused. His glowing eyes dimmed faintly as he took a quick whiff of the air. The Emissary suddenly recoiled, as if immensely shook by whatever entered his nostrils.
“GOOD HEAVENS! Your feet 🦶 reek of corruption ☢️! You leather boots 🥾 are a swamp of sin 💀! Take them off! Wash thy soles, foul villainess!”
“<T-That’s her crime?!>” Dante’s clock let out a whistle.
The light in Don Quixote's eyes suddenly vanished. “You dare malign Rocinante, my loyal steed!? These boots have marched against evil, trampled injustice! I shall not hear slander against their noble scent!”
“Trampled 🥾 injustice they may have, but ye have forgotten to wash 🧼 away the filth of evils!” The Emissary continued, stepping back from her. “Allowed it to cling onto every nook and crack of your feet 👣 and toes!”
Don Quixote fumed under the Emissary’s piercing words, but he didn’t seem to care.
The Emissary turned last to Ben, golden light flickering in his gaze.
“And you, beast 🐻 of Dieci 🗝️! How many hearts 💕 have you shaken 🫨with your furry 🐻visage!? How many innocents quake at the sight 👀 of you? A beast clothes 🥼 in man’s trappings, yet none can mistake the predator beneath!”
Ben’s growl rumbled like thunder. His paws flexed against the grip of his tome. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose these claws or this hide. My fault isn’t being born—my fault's letting people like you label me a ‘beast.’”
Finally, the Emissary turned his glowing gaze to Dante. He held his finger level, but his tone shifted, almost soft.
“And you, ticking 🕙one… I see no evil upon you. No blood or betrayal. You are innocent…” His helm tilted, voice lowering. “...but evil clings to you nonetheless. Its source must be the ‘sinners’ bound ⛓️ to you—you bring them back to life, and for what purpose?! So you can carry their sins in place of your own? Pure blasphemy has come to you, dear friend.”
Dante stiffened, gears clicking loud inside their frame. <Is that how it is…?>”
The Emissary raised his arm high, golden slits blazing through his helmet. His cape whipped dramatically in an invisible wind.
“AND YET—THERE IS A CRIME FAR GREATER THAN ANY OTHER💢💢💢!”
The ground trembled faintly as he swiped his finger at the Sinners and Belobog alike. Everyone present tensed…
“YOU ARE ALL—DOGS 🦮OF 💲CAPITALISM! Bound in service to the machine of cruelty, feeding its endless gears ⚙️ with your sweat, blood and very souls! You march 🥁 at the beat of industry’s drum, lining 💵the pockets of tyrants while the weak starve in the gutters!”
His voice cracked with passion, the cartoonish fanfare swelling louder from nowhere once more.
“This world festers in chains ⛓️💥 because of villains 🦹♂️ like YOU! And so—” He unsheathed his katana, sunlight catching the blade. “—I, THE EMISSARY OF THE HOLLOW 🟣, WILL SMITE YOU DOWN, CLEANSE 🧹 THIS CITY 🌆 , AND END YOUR EVIL CYCLE 🔄 ONCE AND FOR ALL!”
The weight of his proclamation pressed down on them like gravity itself.
Then, with a shark crack, the invisible restraint shattered. Muscles unlocked, lungs gasped. One by one, the group raised their weapons, their anger and irritation boiling over.
Heathcliff spat, unfurling his lance, snarling. “Enough of this already!”
Yi Sang’s fan unfolded in silence, his gaze sharp.
Rodion rolled her shoulders, smirk curling despite the judgement ringing in her ears.
Grace spun her polearm into her grip, lips thin but steady.
Don Quixote's eyes glittered with righteous fire. “Let us have a fine duel!”
Ben’s tome snapped open, golden glyphs swirling like embers.
Even Dante braced themselves, clockwork ticking loud and fast as they gripped their Manager Pad.
The Emissary stomped forward, each step ringing like a war drum. “VILLAINS! PREPARE YOUSELVES—FOR JUSTICE!”
The group charged to meet him, weapons and wills flaring against the fading aurora sky.
[Limbus Company H.Q.]
The chamber was a furnace of shrieking vents and grinding steel. The Steam Transport Machine had shed its sluggish demeanor—every motion much more aggressive than before.
The remaining Sinners and Belobog moved as one, sweat and blood streaking their clothes and hair, but no matter how they pressed, the automaton shifted with uncanny foresight, as if replying moves it had already seen a hundred times.
Faust fired a burst from her rivet gun, arcs of lightning snapping against one of its glowing vacuum tubes. For a moment, the light flickered—then stabilized, brighter than before.
Anton revved his chainsaw arm, teeth gnashing as he charged forward. The automaton pivoted, its bulk shifting with uncanny precision, and shot a blast of hot steam from its cannon, throwing him away.
Koleda roared as she brought her wrench-saw down, brass and wood screaming as it bit into its shoulder. She carved through one of the vents—but before she could follow through, the automaton’s bulky arm swept, knocking her sprawling across the floor.
Wise screamed into the air, his grip remaining in the Manager Pad. “Ishmael, quick! Bind it again!”
“Get ready!” Ishmael leapt forward, ribbons of pink snaring from her arms, latching onto the cannon’s frame. She dug her heels in, sweat breaking across her frame. “I’ve got it—pull back!”
For a moment, the automaton seemed caught. Steam shrieked from its vents as the ribbons strained against the cannon’s rotation. Ishmael’s teeth grit, her body trembling as she forced it tighter.
Then—its bulky arm snapped up, seizing the ribbon in its grasp.
Her eyes widened. “No—Not again—!”
It yanked her forward with brutal strength, the air cracking with tension. Before anyone could intervene, the machine’s bulky arm swung wide.
The backhand landed like a thunderclap.
The sound was wet, sharp—like glass splintering under a hammer. Ishmael’s body folded with the blow, ribbons shattering into motes of pink light as she was hurled against the wall. What hit the concrete was no longer whole. Gore sprayed, her remains sliding down in silence.
Anton froze mid-step, his breath caught in his throat. Gregor’s chainsaw arm faltered. Even Koleda’s weapon lowered, if only for a second. Faust didn’t flinch, but she let out a disappointed sigh.
Wise’s trembling hands tightened on the Manager pad, knuckles bone white. “We’re going to have to try something else!” He briefly covered his mouth before curling into a fist.
The smell of iron and ozone pressed all around him, Ishmael’s remains burned into his vision.
The automaton’s tubes flared, brighter, faster. It stepped forward, steam screaming from its vents as thought mocking the fresh hole in their ranks.
Watching from the sidelines, Dr. Hohenheim leaned against the railing, the light of the sparking battlefield flashing across the lenses of his glasses.
Johann hovered by his side, notebook in hand, knuckled tight around the leather binding. His face was pale, lips pressed thin as he scribbled notes between flinches at each metallic groan. “The formation’s broken… With their numbers thinned, I doubt they’ll manage to contain it. Their firepower isn’t enough. At this rate—”
“—at this rate,” Dr. Hohenheim cut in, voice smooth and utterly unfazed. “We are simply watching the clock.”
Johann blinked, words caught in his throat. “Wait, are you telling me you have a backup-plan?”
Hohenheim raised his wrist, tapping the watch strapped there with a calm fingertip. “You have to be prepared for the worst in any case. I thought you knew this by now.” His mouth curved faintly, more a calculation than a smile.
He whispered, barely audible under the din of battle. “She should be here any minute now.”
The ruined city shook with the clang of steel on steel, the sharp crack of energy flaring against armor.
The Emissary moved like a red comet, each step punctuated by sparks as his chrome boots carved divots into the ground. His blade sang arcs of pure destruction.
“JUSTICE ⚖️SHALL STRIKE 💥FASTER THAN YOUR CORRUPTION👿!”
Ben’s glyphs burst across the field, molten-gold letters wrapping around his comrades like radiant shields. Grace braced behind them, her polearm spinning to deflect a swipe—
CRACK.
The sword came down, shattering the scripts like glass. Ben staggered back, muzzle dripping with sweat, growling as he forced more words into the air.
Rodion leapt in with a taunt, swinging her plow in a broad arc. The Emissary caught it on the flat of his blade, his helmeted head cocking slightly in mockery.
“ALLOW ME TO REDEEM YOU 🫵 WITH YOUR BLOOD 🩸 !”
With a flourish, he twisted his sword. Sparks burts like fireworks as her weapon snapped in half. Before Rodion could recoil, the Emissary drove his blade through her chest. The sound of glass reverberating as her body cracked along invisible fault lines, fragments glowing gold as they burts apart into shimmering shards.
Yi Sang rushed to cover her, fan whirling like a storm as spicebush petals flew in frantic bursts—but the Emissary was already upon him.
A single thrust. A pivot. A thousand cuts unfurled in an instant, too fast for the eye to follow. Yi Sang staggered, his hanbok stained in blood as it split into ribbons before his own form shattered into a cascade of sparks.
“Gallop on, Rocinante! Justice shall prevail!” Don Quixote declared, her body shifting into her striped pajamas and iron shoulder pads. She protruded a lance made out of what appeared to be bloodied-metal, and charged.
“FINALLY! A WORTHY⭐️ OPPONENT⚔️!”
The Emissary laughed, his voice booming with cartoonish reverb. He disappeared in a blur, reappearing behind her, then above, then beside—each time his blade slashing.
A storm of steel consumed her. A thousand strikes in a heartbeat.
She held her ground for an instant—just long enough to grin the frenzy—before her body fractured like a pane of stained glass, shattering into the air.
The ruined city fell silent except for the faint, tinny fanfare of his theme music, impossibly out of place against the scene.
He turned toward the survivors—Grace, Heathcliff, Ben, and Dante—his blade raised in salute.
“THE STAGE 🏟️ IS SET, VILLAINS 🦹 . NEXT WHO SHALL FACE THE BLADE 🗡️ OF JUSTICE ⚖️?!”
The automaton shrieked, vents belching with vapor as its hulking form pivoted toward the team.
Gregor’s chainsaw roared to life, the air filling with the burning tang of steam. Beside him, Anton’s own chainsaw screamed, teeth gnashing like a predator’s maw.
“Is it time to rev up?” Gregor barked, voice guttural through his teeth.
“I say it is!” Anton nodded sharply, darting in at Gregor’s flank. Both men rushed in sync, twin saws whirling as they carved toward the machine’s knee joint.
For a moment, it looked like the strike would land. Steel shrieked, sparks danced across armored plating—
Only for the machine’s bulky arm to swipe at them with inhuman speed, turning Gregor into a mess of viscera but catching Anton by the torso.
“Crap! Let me go you—” Anton tried his best to loosen the machine’s grip, but it was for naught.
The machine rotated, steam jets screaming, and began spinning Anton’s body like a ragdoll on a chain. The world blurred with centrifugal force.
“ANTON!” Koleda’s voice split the chamber.
With a final swing, the automaton released.
Anton’s body hurtled across the chamber, slamming into a concrete pillar with a sickening CRACK.
Wise barely had time to duck as fragments of concrete exploded around him. His head whipped toward the sound, breath catching—just in time to see Anton crumple against the base of the pillar. His ID splintered, shards of glass scattering as his Belobog uniform reappeared beneath. The drill clattered uselessly to the floor.
Wise froze. His stomach lurched violently, bile rushing up his throat. For a split second, he nearly doubled over—but he forced back down, swallowing hard until the burning tasted settled in his chest. His hand trembled as it hovered near his mouth before curling into a fist.
He shut his eyes tight, shaking his head once—violently—forcing his focus back. When he opened them again, his usual calm had hardened into something brittle yet sharp.
He rose to his feet, voice cracking before steadying into a raw command.
“Koleda, Faust! Regroup!” His throat felt raw, but he pushed the words out with steel.
Johann’s knuckles whitened around his notepad. His pen scratched uselessly against the page as he finally blurted, voice tight, “Doctor, surely we can’t just sit here and watch. There must be a way for us to help more.”
Hohenheim didn’t move at first. His gaze stayed rooted on the battlefield, then dipped slowly to the silver watch in his wrist. Its second hand ticked with steady patience, indifferent to the chaos.
“I guess I can do something to keep your mind at ease.” Hohenheim said calmly, giving his coffee to Johann. He extended his arm, manifesting his fleshy lance and with a casual swing of his arm, one of the automaton’s legs fell into a rift, stuck.
The machine’s vent shrieked as it strained against the pull. Koleda and Faust got a precious moment to engage in it.
Johann exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Good to see you still have a heart.”
Hohenheim adjusted his spectacles, kindly grabbing his coffee back. “It’s just a delay. Nothing more.”
Ben’s shield’s shattered like glass, the golden glyphs bursting into sparks that fizzled uselessly against the broken pavement. His final roar cut short into silence as his form burst, leaving nothing but his original form and fading embers
Heathcliff slumped against a fractured wall, bloodied and shaking, his lance slipping and undoing from numb fingers. He tried to rise, but his knees betrayed him. All he could do was watch.
Grace stood alone now. Her polearm spun in a blur, its blades ringing as they cut the air. Her breaths were shallow, eyes burning with focus. The Emissary of the Hollow stared her down, his cape flicking in the aurora-lit wind, golden eyes fleming with mockery.
“How noble! To stand when the rest have fallen!” His voice boomed, dripping with theatrical venom. “But I know what you really are…”
He lowered his blade and threw his finger at her accusingly. “A FROSTY COLD ❄️ IRON 🤖 WITCH 🧙♀️ ! THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE! A 🧍♀️ COLDER 🧊 THAN ANY STEEL SHE WORSHIPS, MORE LOYAL TO RUSTED GEARS ⚙️ THAN TO BLOOD 🩸 !”
Grace blinked… then snorted loudly. “Really?”
Her polearm lowered an inch, her lips twitching with the faintest, disbelieving smile. “That’s the best you’ve got? Frosty Cold Iron Witch?”
For a moment, she looked almost amused, head tilted as though she heard a very corny joke. “What’s next, tin clown? You gonna call me ‘Rusty Steel Devil?””
The Emissary didn’t flinch. His glowing eyes burned with righteous fire. “You laugh… because it’s true! YOU ARE FROZEN 🥶 , CHILD 👧 OF IRON 🩶. NEVER GRIEVING 💧, NEVER LOVING 🖤, NEVER LIVING. Even now, you hide mockery so you do not hear your own heart.”
Grace’s grin tightened, not faltering but sharp enough to cut glass. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, enough to give the illusion of ease.
“If you’re going to slay the so-called ‘Iron Witch’,” she drawled, spinning her polearm in a lazy circle—stalling for time. Her gaze flicked once toward Heathcliff’s awakening frame on the ground, then back to her foe. “Why don’t you give me a monologue worth remembering?”
While the Emissary began to do as commanded. Heathcliff already began to drag himself upright with a groan.
He re-manifested his lance and got into a launching position, one foot in front of the other.
With a roar, Heathcliff surged forward, lance aimed for the exposed joint in the Emissary’s armor. His body burned with stubborn willpower, a man refusing to give up. “Take this you smack-talkin’ prick—!”
SHWP!
Heathcliff’s charge cut short with a strangled gasp. The Emissary was now right behind him, his cape fluttered in the aftershock of impossible speed, golden eyes burning with calm finality.
“I’m sorry 😞 to say this…” The blade gleamed as it caught the dying light of the aurora. “...But you’re already dead ☠️ !”
The swings were too fast to see—only the sound, like air being torn in two.
Heathcliff’s body crumpled forward, lance bouncing uselessly against the cracked pavement. Sparks hissed and sputtered as his identity disintegrated, fragments of light scattering into the ruined street.
Grace's grip on her polearm faltered. “Heath—!”
Her polearm spun, fury breaking her hesitation. She lunged in, aiming to carve through the gleaming knight.
But the Emissary shifted in the same position. His sword angled low, slipping beneath her guard.
A jagged line of fire seared across her chest, armor tearing under the strike. Grace’s breath hitched into a ragged cry as blood sprayed the broken stone.
She stumbled, polearm clattering once before her trembling hands caught it again.
The Emissary tilted his head, almost tender in the way he regarded her. “How predictable. You might have fought with borrowed 🪞 strength. But each drop 🟢 is a lie your body cannot keep.”
Grace’s auto-regeneration kicked in, the green liquid surging through her veins, burning like acid and ice all at once.
Her wound closed. Her chest knit back together with horrifying speed. She gasped, choking for air, staggering back onto her feet. “Is that all you have you—”
Before she could speak further, her fingers began to shake uncontrollably. Her skin bubbled, blisters rising before popping into streams of blood. Her arms rippled with veins that shouldn’t exist, green fluid leaking through pores that split open like cracks in glass.
“N-no, no, no…” Grace panicked, voice breaking as her hands dripped. “This… this is the fourth…!”
“Ah… so this is the curse 👁️ you carry.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a mockery of sympathy. “A taste, is it now? The very torment your very sister felt… when you left her to dissolve 🫠 into nothing.”
“Shut up! You don’t know—AGH!” Her legs collapsed beneath her. She hit the concrete on her knees, her armor hissing as steam and blood seeped between the seams.
“I’m sorry… Sweet Pea…” Skin slouched from her cheek, dripping in wet strands that fell to the ground with a sickening plop. The air filled with the stench of rot and chemical tang.
The Emissary’s shadow fell over her, voice dripping with mock. “You know now her agony, Frosty Cold Iron Witch. Let it stay in your marrow 🦴.”
“I’ll be… joining...y—”
He looked away from her, slowly sheathing his sword. The moment it satisfyingly clicked into place, Grace’s body exploded into a mess of sparks and glass, the identity now long gone.
The ruined city had gone quiet.
Only Dante remained. Their gloved hands shivered violently, the ticking of their clockhead becoming more frantic. The ruined sky seemed to press in, the aurora above no longer a hopeful glimmer but a cold, mocking glow. Their knees buckled as the weight of silence closed around them.
The Emissary of the Hollows stood tall. His cape swayed behind him as he turned to face them.
“And now… Onto you my ticking ⏰ foe…”
The chamber was silent save for the hiss of steam and the crackle of broken lights.
Faust was little more than scorched metal and grenades scattered across the floor.
Koleda was all that remained.
Her chest heaved, each breath ragged and shallow. Her chainsaw-wrench hung limp at her side, too heavy now for her battered arms to lift. Her legs trembled, threatening to buckle entirely.
“Koleda!” Wise’s voice tore through the air, fraying in desperation. “You have to get out of there, now!”
But she couldn’t hear him anymore. Not really. The pressure in her chest drowned everything out—the weight of failure, the horror of watching her allies die, the knowledge that she brought them here.
Her eye fluttered shut. The sound of the automaton’s piston-driven steps filled the silence, drawing closer.
It loomed above her. The Steam Transport Machine, vents shrieking, grease grinding, its bulky arm slowly rising into the air.
Koleda’s lips trembled, the words escaping as nothing more than a whisper. “...Dad…”
She bowed her head, bracing for the crushing blow.
Johann hid himself behind his notepad, not wanting to see the despair-inducing scene.
Hohenheim lazily swirled the coffee in his cup though his grip was slightly shaking. His foot tapped with impatience.
Crrk. The comm device in his ear flared.
“Hohenheim. I am in position.”
“Phew.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, he pressed the button in his communicator. “Take the shot, Trigger.”
The automaton’s fist began to descend. The air trembled—
BANG!
The crack of the rifle was deafening, echoing through the chamber like thunder. Koleda flinched, bracing for the pain that never came.
Her eye snapped open.
The machine still towered above her, frozen mid-swing. There was a massive, smoking hole where its vacuum tubes once glowed.
The hiss of pressure died in its chest. The light drained from its frame. Its limbs sagged, trembling, before the entire bulk collapsed backward with a thunderous crash.
The automaton’s plating melted, steaming down into a thick slurry of brass and oil that reeked of ozone. From the heap, something hardened and took shape: an enormous egg. A glassy vacuum tube, the size of a man’s torso, framed in copper gears, with a glowing topaz at its heart.
“...It’s… dead…” The words came out strained, more disbelief than relief.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Every muscle in her body trembled, her ribs aching under the strain. The adrenaline that had carried her through the battle surged one last time—then abandoned her all at once.
With a sharp gasp, Koleda’s body went slack, her chain-wrench clattering in her grip. She toppled sideways onto the concrete, unconscious before she even hit the ground.
“Target: neutralized.”
Hohenheim let out an uncharacteristic sigh of relief. “Right on time…”
Johann exhaled hard, shoulders sagging with comfort. “Glad we can always count on you, Trigger.”
“Don’t mention it~.” There was a faint sound of a bolt sliding into place. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. Trigger, out.”
“Evil has no place in this world,” The Emissary declared, voice booming like a sermon. His glowing eyes locked onto Dante’s trembling frame.
Suddenly—he stilled.
The heroic fanfare that had seemed to echo around him faltered, almost souring in tone. The Emissary tilted his head, as though peering into the Manager’s very being.
“...Strange,” he murmured, his tone no longer bombastic, but contemplative. “Once, you bore the stench of chains… the shadow of sins not your own. But now… it is gone.”
Dante’s clock ticked nervously. “<W-What?>”
The Emissary’s grip on his sheathed blade slackened. He turned his head away, gaze shifting to the horizon of broken skyscrapers and luminous crystals. “Have I made a mistake…?”
For a long moment, he stood in silence. Then, his slowly unsheathed his blade, and carved another rift into the air.
“Then this duel was misguided. The weak need not be punished alongside the wicked.”
One by one, portals split open beneath the corpses of the Sinners and Belobog. Their bodies slacking as they slipped into the blinding light.
The Emissary raised his arm, cape billowing. “Return to where you belong, unpaid laborer.”
The rift yawned wide beneath Dante, pulling them down kindly.
The last thing they heard before the world was the Emissary’s voice, booming with righteous valiance once again. “LET THE FIELDS OF JUSTICE ⚖️ FIND YOU… WHEREVER YOU RUN 🏃♂️ !”
Cleanup around the construction zone was in full swing. Bangboos, Safety and Information agents and clerks placed Nixie Devices to rewind the damage the automaton had caused.
It was then that air cracked like breaking glass.
One by one, the bodies feel through the light—Rodion, Yi Sang, Don Quixote, Heathcliff, Ben and Grace. Their forms reassembled into broken, bloodied corpses on the steel floor.
And finally, Dante. They hit the ground hard, hands shaking as their clock rattled violently. The others—or what were left of them—didn’t stir. Dante could hear both the ticking of their own clock and their beating heart louder than the chaos around them.
“Dante!” Wise was there in an instant, crouching beside them. His face was pale, sweat streaking his brow, but he forced his voice steady. “Talk to me. Are you alright?”
Before they could answer, the chamber blazed again. A brilliant rift tore open. Out strode the Emissary of the Hollow, cape flowing, armor gleaming as if he had never once taken a hit.
“ONCE MORE—THE DAY IS SAVED!” His voice thundered, triumphant and absurd. “The wicked 👿 have been smitten 💥, and the weak shall flourish 📈 under my protection 🛡️!”
Everyone froze as he lifted a finger and pointed at the L.C.E. agents now gingerly lifted the strange egg the automaton had left behind.
“Ah, are you by any chance the unpaid laborer’s fellow servants 🕴️?”
One of the agents carrying the egg began to sweat. “A-Actually, we’re—”
A slap cut him off. Another agent leaned closed, hissing through clenched teeth. “Psst! Play along if you want to live.”
Straightening, the second agent raised their voice, almost mock-heroic. “Y-Yes! We’re taking our great new king to their resting chambers. All thanks to you, great warrior!”
The Emissary stood tall, satisfied. “Hm. Then all is well.”
He twirled his finger once before assuming a heroic pose. “My mission is complete. ✨MY JOB HERE IS DONE! ✨”
He flared his cape dramatically, turning on his heel as he marched toward the direction he came from. Cape billowing against the invisible wind..
A wave of sparks came from the corpses of the team members dragged into the pocket dimension. More theatrical than actual explosions but still real enough to surprise the nearby bangboos, clerks and agents.
Dante managed to raise one trembling finger toward the ceiling. Their voice cracked, small and pitiful against the silence. “<But… but… you didn't do anything…!>”
[One Hour Later]
The chamber no longer looked like a battlefield. The cracks, the scorch marks, the broken scaffolds and pillars—all of it was gone. Nixie Devices pulsed faintly where they had been planted, their humming resonance knitting steel and concrete back into place as if nothing happened.
Bangboos waddled back and forth with boxes of tools, their screens flickering neutral symbols as they ferried leftover scrap for disposal. Clerks in crisp coats swept the area with portable scanners and Concept Erasers, making sure none of the Belobog Employees remember the mess.
At the back, Wise sat slouched against a cot, his chest heaving from the pain of feeling the Belobog’s crew’s pain from the revival. Two nurses in pale uniforms hovered nearby, wiping the blood dripping from his nostril and taking notes on the vitals flashing across a nearby screen.
Across from him, Dante lay hunched on another cot, their frame trembling in small, jerking motions. A medic dabbed their clockhead with a cold cloth, murmuring reassurance that the ticking could not answer to.
The Belobog and Sinners all were being attended by nearby psychologists, each making sure that each member was in full stability. Though the process was more corporate than personal.
Hohenheim’s boots clicked against the floor as he and Johann approached the Belobog crew. The psychologist parted instinctively, as though his very presence demanded it.
“You caused quite the spectacle,” he began, his voice calm but sharp, like a scalpel dipped in ice. His eyes swept across Koleda, Anton, Ben and finally Grace. “And all because of the sake of ‘efficiency’.”
He turned his head, gaze narrowing on the woman who hurried the automaton earlier. She flinched under the weight of it.
“Had it not been for the lack of authority on your employees, a lot of lives wouldn’t have been on the line.” His words cut clean, but he didn’t linger—just let the guilt simmer before moving on.
Johann glanced uneasily at the group, then opened his notepad, as if trying to soften the blow with bureaucracy. But Hohenheim raised his hand, silencing him.
“Of course,” he continued, adjusting his glasses with a finger, “I also approved the release of the abnormality in the first place. The burden rests on my authority.”
The chamber quieted. Even the Bangboos paused in their movements.
“That said—” Hohenheim raised his voice, loud enough to carry across the chamber to the Safety Team, the Information Team, and even the clerks logging cleanup reports. “Effective immediately, all requests to release an abnormality from containment will be denied. There will be no exceptions.”
His words echoed in the steel rafters. The staff froze, then quietly returned to work, the command embedding itself in procedure without further discussion.
Koleda exhaled through her nose, one eye narrowing toward Grace, who lowered her gaze, one hand unconsciously rubbing one wrist.
“You’ve done your part today,” Hohenheim added, his tone returning to measured calm. “Belobog Industries and L.C.B. will take the rest of the day off. And… you have my thanks. You held the line without forcing me to send more Extraction staff to their deaths. That much, at least, is worth acknowledging.”
He let the words linger for a moment, rare honesty in his voice, before turning away. His coat shifted lightly behind him as he adjusted his notepad. Johann offered the crew a brief, almost sympathetic nod before hurrying after him.
The Belobog crew and the L.C.B. were left with the strange weight of reprimand and praise echoing in their ears.
Koleda let out a sharp sigh and stood up from her chair. “Come on, everyone. Let’s wrap it up for the day.”
[Meanwhile]
From the upper catwalk, Vergilius watched the scene unfold below with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The reprimands, the half-praise, the weary shuffle of Belobog Industries wrapping everything up and going home—it all looked the same to him. Another breach. Another cleanup. Another set of rules written in blood.
Beside him, Charon clutched her red stuffed bear, Kkomi, close to her chest. She leaned against the rail, humming softly as though trying to drown out the echoes of groaning vents and dripping blood still fresh in her ears.
Vergilius’ eyes lingered on the crew for a moment longer before shifting back to the horizon of the facility. Noting the cold, efficient and calculating aura of the place.
“It’s been a while, Red Gaze.”
The voice was sharp yet teasing, cutting across the industrial murmur. Vergilius’s jaw twitched as he turned, already knowing who it was.
Or rather, who it had to be.
She stepped from the shadows with a confident stride. Blonde hair tied back into a sleek ponytail, the glint of her tactical armor and bandolier filled with obol coins catching every stray beam of light. Her mask—sleek, black, wrapping just above the nose—liy up yellow with two triangular lenses under her eyes.
“Or should I say…” she tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips, “Vergilius.”
Vergilius exhaled slowly, his expression flat. His crimson gaze lingered briefly on the glow of her visor before drifting back to her face.
“It’s been only a few days, Trigger,” he said, tone clip, carrying that quiet edge of weary familiarity.
She shrugged, her armor and coins clinking softly as she approached him. “I know. It’s just my attempt at humor.”
From behind Vergilius, Charon’s head peeked out. She hugged Kkomi tight against her chest, tired eyes fixed warily on Trigger. “Shiny lady…”
Trigger’s smile softened at once. She crouched down slightly, careful not to loom. “And I hear you have little Charon with you.”
Charon ducked back a little, hiding half her face behind the plush bear. She didn’t say anything, but her grip on Kkomi tightened.
Trigger chuckled quietly, her visor pulsing a faint pink before steadying back to yellow. “Still shy, huh? That’s alright. You don’t need to say anything.” She held out her hand briefly, palm open, before pulling it back with a small wave.
After a pause, Charon gave a tiny nod—still clutching Kkomi like a shield, but not turning away.
Vergilius glanced down at her, then back at Trigger. His expression remained blank, but the barest shift of his brow suggested he’d noticed the way Charon hadn’t outright rejected Trigger’s presence unlike the sinners yet again.
Trigger leaned in just slightly, tilting her head at the stuffed bear. “You’re taking care of him, huh? That’s what Kkomi needs—someone gentle to hold onto.”
Charon shuffled her feet, cheeks puffing faintly. “Kkomi and Charon don’t like the loud bangs,” she mumbled.
Trigger smiled, voice softening. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here to keep him safe." She fussed a little—brushing imaginary dust from Charon’s shoulder, adjusting the way she hugged the bear. “Don’t let him get dirty in a place like this, alright?”
Charon nodded firmly this time, clutching Kkomi close.
Vergilius said nothing more, but his silence lingered long enough for Trigger to adjust her gloves, as though his silence itself pressed on her. The faint pink flicker on her visor dimmed to green.
She stood beside him now, staring at nothing in particular. “You’ve thinned out.” she said casually.
His crimson gaze flicked toward her, sharp but brief.
Trigger leaned against the railing, shrugging like it was nothing. “Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you pull this before—paperwork stacked higher than your head, forgetting you’re not some machine that runs on spite alone. Same thing you used to do years ago.”
Even Charon gave her a tiny side-eye at that.
Trigger smirked, visor flickering orange now, betraying her eagerness despite the cool tone. “If you’re free right now, I know a spot on Sixth Street. Waterfall Soup—11’s been singing praises about their ramen. Are you interested?”
Vergilius adjusted his cuffs, gaze turning back to the floor below. “I’ll have to decline. The L.C.C.B. deployed a team into the Lemnian Hollow. Their reports require my oversight.”
Trigger exhaled through her nose, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Same old Red Gaze. Still rejecting a girl over some papers.”
Vergilius shook his head, before facing her again. “If you’re so insistent, why not take Hohenheim and Johann instead?”
Trigger’s lips quivered at the response. “Hohenheim?” She let out a quiet snort. “That man still can’t use chopsticks without looking like he’s defusing a bomb. Last time we had a group meal, he snapped one in half and nearly flung rice across the table.”
Her visor pulsed faint yellow as she chuckled at the memory. “And Johann’s worse—he starts scribbling schedules on the napkins the second the food hits the table. You know how it is. Work over dinner.”
Vergilius' expression didn’t change, but the faintest twitch of his brow suggested he remembered those dynamics well.
Trigger’s smirk softened as she leaned closer beside him, visor flickering pink again. “So that leaves you, Red Gaze. The only one I’d actually want to share a bowl with.”
Charon looked between them curiously, hugging Kkomi closer.
Vergilius, however, remained unmoved. “The Lemnian Hollow takes priority.” His voice was steady, clipped. “Perhaps have Hong Lu teach Hohenheim how to handle chopsticks. I imagine the doctor would take it as a priority.”
Trigger’s visor dimmed blue, though her voice tried to hold steady. “...Next week, then?”
Vergilius finally turned, his crimson eyes unreadable. “Another time, perhaps.” It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t the flat refusal it could have been. “I have to go now, take care, Trigger.”
Charon turned to wave her plush paw. “Bye-bye, shiny lady.”
Trigger huffed out a laugh, visor flickering back to a soft orange. “...You too.” She gave a small wave back, her hand lingering in the air even after they’d begun to walk away.
Vergilius briefly rested his hand on Charon’s shoulder as they left the catwalk. “Come on.”
Just like that, the sound of their footsteps faded, leaving Trigger alone with the faint hum of the facility. Her visor dimmed blue as she let out a long sigh, shoulders sinking ever so slightly.
“...I wish you weren’t always this cold, Verg.”
Her words were soft, swallowed quickly by the echo of the construction machines powering down, but her visor stayed blue after she turned away as well.
[Lemnian Hollow | L.C.C.B Exploration Team]
The tunnels groaned with the weight of centuries. Walls of fractured stone and rebar were swallowed in jagged blooms of ether crystals, their faint glow washing everything in sickly green and violet.
Boots splashed through stagnant water as the L.C.C.B. squad, composed of both Bangboos and people pressed forward, rifles at the ready.
“Readings?” their captain barked, voice muffled beneath a rebreather mask.
One agent checked his Ether Geiger, the needle clicking softly against the glass. “Thirteen-point-three, and dropping.”
A Bangboo raised theirs, their gauge trembling. “Eh-nah-neh-wah. Na-wha. (Thirteen-point-one. Definitely stronger ahead.)”
Their lights swept over the collapsed archways and rusting support beams, catching glimpses of half buried signage: Property of _o__to_y __rp__a__on - Access Restricted.
The air grew colder the deeper they went, their breaths frosting faintly inside their masks. Each agent called out their readings in sequence.
“12.9.”
“Nah-uh. (12.6.)”
“12.2”
Every number dragged them closer to their destination. Eventually, they stood in front of a metal door, sealed shut.
The Ether Geigers clicked steadily, their readings stabilizing as they aimed them at the door.
“This must be it.” The captain said, putting down his geiger and gesturing down the main artery. “Team Alpha, mark a route for the L.C.B. to follow. We need a clean line from the entrance to here.”
“Aye!”
Alpha moved out, luminous stakes plunging into the muck one after another, their faint blue glow carving a path through the gloom.
Team Beta meanwhile veered off into a side passage, their lamps cutting across old scaffolding and collapsed supports. The air was thicker here, heavy with dust.
“Sir,” one of them called out, voice tinny over comms. “We’ve got something.”
The captain followed, boots crunching against loose crystal shards. Ahead lay a cluster of crates, half-buried under jagged ether growths. The crystalline veins had cracked them open like eggshells, their interiors glimmering faintly.
An agent crouched down, brushing dust off the stencils. The paint bled through clearly enough.
VISION CORP.
The squad traded looks beneath their masks.
“Vision?” one asked, rubbing their mask. “What the hell are their supplies doing this deep?”
“Could be from the planned explosion,” another suggested, thought his voice lacked conviction.
The captain crouched, running a gloved hand across the warped metal. “No. The ether growths are larger than usual. It’s probably been here way longer than that…”
Silenced pressed down, only broken by the occasional crunch of their boots.
“Vision doesn’t move cargo through the Hollows. Not anymore at least,” the captain said at last. His crimson lenses flinted in the crystalline light. “So either they’ve sent a squad down here beforehand… or they’ve been planting their stock where it shouldn’t be.”
One of the Bangboos shifted uneasily. “En, nah-nah? (Orders, sir?)”
The captain stood, shoulders squaring. “Catalog everything. Photos, samples, tags. And keep this quiet until Faust takes a look. If Vision’s mixed up in this—”
“Wait,” one of the younger agents froze, head tilted toward the ether-crusted wall. His Geiger counter hung slack at his side, ticking faintly. “Do you hear that?”
The others stilled, trying to listen.
At first, nothing but static. Then… giant. Like wind slipping through broken glass. A child’s giggle.
The agent's lantern swung, cutting a thin line of light through the tunnel. It fell on something small—sitting atop a jutting branch that pierced the floor.
A fairy.
No bigger than a hand, its body shimmered a sickly green. Delicate wings pulsed with translucent color, scattering motes of light. Its voice echoed without moving its lips. Come closer… take a rest…
The agent stepped forward, trance-like.
“Wait!” Another agent approached, aiming to grab their shoulder. “Don’t touch that—!”
SHUNK.
The branch lashed forward, impaling the agent clean through the chest. Blood sprayed against the crystalline wall. He spasmed once, then went limp, sliding off the jagged wood.
The squad erupted in shouts, weapons raised, lights sweeping accross the cavern.
The “fairy” twitched, its smile stretching unnaturally wide. Then the branch cracked, split—and the illusion peeled away.
The thing beneath unfolded.
Its torso shimmered with crystalline ridges, its limbs half-blackened flesh, half-wood, yellow eyes glimmering from underneath the cracks and gaps in its skin. Where a face should’ve been, there was only a void—a black hole, pulling light around it into impossible curves.
An Ethereal.
The captain’s voice caught. “What the—?!”
“Eh-nah… Wah-ta-eh-nah?! (Is that… E.G.O?!)” Exclaimed a Bangboo, horror bleeding into every syllable.
Another Ethereal appeared in the shadows. And another. The tunnels bloomed with their empty gazes, crystalline bodies glowing faintly like stars.
The Geigers in the L.C.C.B’s belts spiked, shrieking in alarm.
The captain’s throat was dry. “Formation—! Hold—”
More Ethereals sprung out, some wearing E.G.O. of different abnormalities while others had traces of their old uniforms hanging from them.
The cavern exploded with light. Gunshots reverberated across the walls alongside the squads’ screams.
Notes:
That concludes Chapter 5. I hope everyone enjoyed it despite the fact that some of the fights tended to be skimmed off. I am trying out this type of shift. But let me know what you think.
Chapter 6: Before the Descent
Summary:
The Limbus Company, Belobog Heavy Industries, and Cunning Hares go over an important briefing.
Chapter Text
[L.C.C.B Van - En Route to Limbus HQ | 5:30 AM]
The van rattled down the near-empty expressway, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. The streets of New Eridu were still half-asleep, neon signs flickering off at random intervals.
Inside, the four members of Belobog sat in varying states of wakefulness.
Anton was wide awake—painfully so. He leaned forward in his seat, drill arm tapping against the floor with a cheerful thunk-thunk-thunk. “Five A.M., peeps! Fresh air, fresh roads, no traffic! We should do this every day!”
Beside him, Koleda groaned audibly, rubbing her temples. “If you don’t lower your voice I’m going to make traffic by tossing you out the window.”
He grinned, entirely unbothered. “Aw, c’mon, Prez, look on the bright side! We’re being called for something important. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”
“The only thing I look forward is strangling the sadist who thinks meetings should happen at dawn.”
Ben, sitting beside them, spoke in his steady, low rumble. “Easy now. No sense biting each other’s head off before we even get there.” He adjusted his jacket with a massive paw, voice calm. “Koleda, you’ll feel better once we’re settled. Anton, try not to poke the hornet’s nest.”
Anton chuckled, but leaned back obediently. Koleda crossed her arms and stared out the window, jaw set.
Grace sat diagonally across from them, her goggles pushed up into her messy hair, staring down at her notebook she had been scribbling for the past few hours. She hadn’t joined the squabble, or spoken a word since they left.
Her thoughts drifted, unspooling like frayed wires.
Since joining Limbus, everything has been chaotic.
First the appearance of the amalgamation. Then their employee’s death. Heathcliff’s blood on her hands, his W-Engine engraving that refused to give up its secret.
Phaethon’s ability to set up temporary contracts, allowing them to come back from the dead.
That little detail made her mental gears spin, enough to finally speak.
“...Do any of you ever think it’s weird?”
Anton leaned forward from his seat, curious. “Weird what?”
She didn’t look up. “That we are able to die, and come back just like the Limbus Team.”
That pulled Koleda’s eye away from the window. She studied Grace’s profile, jaw set.
Anton scratched the back of his head, his drill giving a faint whirr. “I mean… sure. One moment there’s blood and screaming, then bam, Proxy does their magic and we’re back on our feet like nothing happened.” He shrugged. “Still beats staying dead, though.”
Koleda crossed her arms. “I haven’t dwelled on it. We do the job, we come back in one piece. That’s what matters.”
Ben rumbled in agreement, voice still calm. “She’s right. There’s no use chasing your tail over what’s already done.”
Grace finally looked up at them, her brow furrowed. “But shouldn't this count as True Immortality?” Her mind was briefly occupied by tales and jokes of people disappearing in the shadows after making grand developments.
Ben scratched his chin before speaking. “I don’t think so, considering it isn’t foolproof. We still need Phaethon to be… alive to bring us back and I’ve heard no mention of them being able to evade death like us so far.”
The van rocked gently with the turn of the road. Grace’s pencil tapped against the page in an uneven rhythm. The answer didn’t quell her rising doubts.
Koleda exhaled sharply before turning her gaze back to the window. “Sucks that it works only for people who are still alive… It would've been handy to use it on Becky…”
The van went silent.
Anton’s grin faltered, his drill whining before falling still.
Ben’s paws tightened slightly on his knees, jaw locked.
Grace’s attention shifted back to her notes, refusing to speak further.
Koleda didn’t look back at them. She just kept her face turned toward the neon skyline crawling past the glass.
The only sound was the van’s engine, carrying them inexorably toward the silhouette of Limbus HQ, rising against the pale horizon.
[Limbus Company Headquarters | 6:00 AM]
The briefing chamber’s lights burned just a little too bright for the hour. The hum of the air filters was the only steady sound, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the groan of someone trying not to fall asleep upright.
The Sinners were already seated around the semi-circular tables.
Rodion slumped forward, cheek pressed to the cold steel surface. “This is cruel and unusual punishment. Waking us up this early should count as workplace abuse.”
Heathcliff pinched the bridge of his nose, his elbow on the armrest. “Bloody hell, it’s too early for this shite…”
Sinclair rubbed his eyes with both hands, mumbling into his palms. “S-Shouldn’t… they at least tell us what this is before dragging us out of bed…?”
Gregor leaned back in his chair, holding a cigarette in his left hand. “They tell us when they’re ready to tell us. Which’ll probably be after breakfast. If we’re lucky.”
Hong Lu sat upright, eyes half-lidded but smiling like he wasn’t bothered at all. “Beats having been awakened by assassins in the middle of the night, though~.”
Ryoshu squinted at him, then shuffled awkwardly on her seat.
Don Quixote was the only one radiating energy, posture straight as she made some doodles into the small notepad. “Nay, companions! The dawn hours are when vigilance is most tested! To be summoned so early is proof we are entrusted with destiny itself!
Ishmael gripped a mug of coffee with both hands, her hair still slightly mussed, staring down the projection screen like she was trying to burn a hole through it. “How long do we have to wait again?”
Outis sat with her back stiff, eyes sharp despite the hour. She spoke without looking up. “Your overall lethargy dishonors the Company. Sit straighter and compose yourselves.”
Meursault was silent, as ever. Whether he was alert or asleep with his eyes open was impossible to tell.
Yi Sang quietly took a sip of his coffee before returning to his booklet.
At the center of the table, Dante ticked faintly, hands folded over the Manager Pad that lay in front of them. “<...I’m not even sure if I’m awake right now.>”
The hiss of the briefing room’s door cut through the conversation.
Four figures stepped inside, each offering their greeting in their own way.
Anton was first, raising a hand with his ever-cheerful grin. “Morning, folks! Bright and early as it should be, eh?” His drill gave a soft whirr as if punctuating the point.
Ben followed with a calm nod, his low rumble carrying across the chamber. “Good morning.”
Koleda dipped her chin politely, her tone serious but not unfriendly. “Let’s hope we’re not 2 seconds late.”
Grace walked in last—though instead of acknowledging the room, her eyes instantly locked onto one person.
“Morning, Heath.” She half-jogged over, goggles sliding down her nose. “I finally found a way to recalibrate the limiter on your W-Engine! If you can lend it to me again I can make it run smoother than ever, even under strain—oh, and I also was wondering if we could add a resonance quirk like you suggested—”
Heathcliff barely lifted his head, his posture slumped in the chair like he’d been nailed to it. His voice was gravelly, tired to the bone. “Lass, save it for later, ‘ight?”
Grace stopped short, but her enthusiasm didn’t falter—if anything, it sharpened. “Come on, Heath. You can’t just let these ideas die!”
Across the table, Rodion lifted her head just enough to squint. “Mmm~ Ten thousand Dennies says they’re an item before the year’s out.”
Gregor snorted smoke from his nose, leaning back. “Too slow. I’d say eight months.”
“Six,” Hong Lu said brightly without hesitation.
Dante’s clock ticked faintly at the prediction. “<H-How many months?!>”
Outis crossed her arms, and gave the group a low scowl. “Never, we have to put work over everything. We got no time for—”
“Two weeks!” Don Quixote declared with knightly vigor.
Ryoshu flicked her eyes from her sketchbook, voice flat. “L.U.V. (Lame, Unabaiting and Vexing.)”
Sinclair gave her an incredulous look. “You don’t mean that, d-do you?”
Meanwhile, Koleda’s eye twitched as she watched Grace gush over Heathcliff. She slumped on her seat with her arms crossed before looking away. “At least pretend to care when it matters, no…?”
The pair either ignored the banter or outright tuned it out.
Grace adjusted her goggles with a quick push of her thumb. “Then… could I at least have another look at the W-Engine? Just for a few minutes. I promise I won’t break it.
Heathcliff let out a low grunt, half sigh and half laugh, though there was no amusement in it. His hand dipped into his belt and withdrew the ring-shaped device. He set it on the table between them with a dull clink.
“Knock yourself out. Just don’t expect me to hold a bloody seminar before breakfast.”
Grace’s eyes lit up as she picked it up with practiced care, already turning it in her hands like a jeweler inspecting a gem.
Heathcliff leaned back, his gaze settling briefly on the casing as she worked. The initials caught his eye, faint but eligible.
HC ♥️ ██
The sight made his stomach twist. He couldn’t remember the moment it was etched, nor the hand that carved it. Only that it had always been there.
Why the hell does it bother me so much? He thought, jaw tight.
He remembered the time he had corroded with the Dimension Shredder E.G.O. How he mentioned coming back as a better man to someone. However, he could not recall anything.
If anything, there was a major shroud in his mind that refused to dissipate.
Why did I even come here, to this madhouse? What was I hoping to find?
His grip on the edge of the table whitened. The thought pulled at him like a current, dragging him further down—
“...Heath?” Grace’s voice cut through, soft but insistent. SHe leaned closer, brow furrowed. “Are you alright? You spaced out a bit.”
Heathcliff shook his head before dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry, just uh… thinking.”
“...Maybe I should ask Faust.”
Grace tilted her head, puzzled, but didn’t press. She just bent over the W-Engine again, muttering excitedly about all the upgrades she was going to make.
The hiss of the doors opened once again.
Faust stepped inside first, posture immaculate, a folder tucked neatly under her arm. Her gaze swept the table in one smooth motion, neither hurried nor harsh, but enough that even Rodion sat up a little straighter.
Behind her came Vergilius, crimson eyes sharp despite the early hour. His hands were clasped neatly on his sides, his expression carved into calm severity.
And trailing them were two familiar faces.
Belle practically bounced into the chamber. “Gooooooood morning, everyone!” Her voice rang like a bell, slicing through the collective exhaustion in the room. “Don’t you just love being the early bird?”
Wise followed at a much slower pace, jacket half-zippered, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. His hair was mussed in a way that suggested he’d fought the sleep gods and lost. He lethargically made his way to his chair before speaking. “Belle, not everyone shares the same energy as you. Well, except Don Quixote.”
Belle only beamed brighter. “Come on, big bro! Live a little for once!”
Wise exhaled, defeated. “Case in point.”
Their Bangboo, Eous, waddled in at their heels. His sleek Random Play jacket flowing alongside his orange scarf. He timidly scanned the room. The faint green glow in his optics brightened when Grace glanced his way.
She immediately perked up in her seat, goggles sliding down with a clack. “OH. MY. GOD! Is that Eous I see?!”
Eous let out a spooked “Eh nah” before darting behind Belle’s leg.
Belle laughed lightly, patting his head. “Yeah, uh… he still hasn’t forgotten the uh… upgrade you gave him?”
Grace pressed her hands to her cheeks, grinning like a maniac. “He’s even cuter than I last remembered, I bet you guys—”
The sudden weight of Vergilius’ stare hit the room like a hammer.
Every side conversation, every grin, every whisper snbapped shut. The air grew tight, no one daring to meet his piercing gaze for long. Even Anton’s drill fell quiet.
The silence stretched, almost suffocating, until Vergilius stepped into the center of the room. His posture was razor-straight, hands folded neatly behind his back.
“Now that most parties are present and quiet,” he began, his tone cutting like glass, “the briefing may—”
“Correction.” Faust’s voice slid cleanly over his, calm but decisive. She didn’t even look at him, her powder blue eyes scanning the table as if tallying pieces on a board. “Four individuals are still missing.”
A faint twitch crossed Vergilius’ jaw, but he didn’t argue.
The room shifted uneasily, all eyes flicked toward the door, which hissed open with a clatter of footsteps.
The Cunning Hares came barreling in, nearly tripping over one another like a four-person avalanche. Nicole caught the frame of the door to steady herself, Anby sidestepped neatly out of the way, Nekomata yowled as one of her tails got stepped on, and Billy only just avoided face-planting by catching himself on the wall with inhuman grace.
Nicole stood up and gasped out. “We’re here! We’re here! Totally on time—!” Her eyes flicked to Vergilius’ glare. “...Ish?”
Nicole immediately spun toward Billy. “I told you to set up the alarm!”
Billy’s tone was calm, but there was a hint of irritation. “Hey! My hands were still full of lubricant, so I asked Anby to do it.”
Anby adjusted her skirt, expression unchanging. “I was in the middle of eating my burger, so I handed the task to Nekomata.”
Nekomata flicked an ear, lazily nursing her tail. “Myaah! I reminded Nicole, I hadn't finished grooming yet—”
It was then that Vergilius' shadow fell over them. His voice cut through the room like a whip. “Enough. Quit making excuses and get to your seats. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
The four of them stiffened like chastised schoolchildren. Nicole scrambled into a chair, forcing on her brightest smile. Anby sat neatly, posture sharp. Nekomata sprawled languidly but silent. Billy lowered himself calmly, folding his hands on the table like he’d been disciplined a thousand times before.
Rodion muffled a laugh into her sleeve. “And people say we’re a mess.”
Vergilius didn’t acknowledge the commentary. He turned toward Faust. “All parties are present now, you may begin.”
Faust inclined her head once, stepping toward the center of the room once again. “On behalf of the Company, I extend apologies for the early summons. This matter, however, requires urgent attention.”
The lights dimmed. The projector hummed to life, flooding the chamber with its pale glow.
“At 1800 hours, the Before Team deployed for preliminary reconnaissance managed to find another Lobotomy Corporation Branch, specifically Branch V-15105.”
The screen shifted to show the image of the Old Capital Monument
“However… it appears they have run into something rather… unusual.”
The screen shifted again, this time to shaky footage. Static tore across the feed, the angle clearly from a Bangboo’s recording unit. The scene showed the L.C.C.B. team moving through the jagged corridors of an underground metro, flashlights cutting through the dust.
The footage lurched suddenly—the camera jolting as shadows swarmed from the mist. Shapes too fluid, too sharp: Ethereals lunging from every angle. Claws, tendrils, flickers of otherworldly light.
Faust paused it the moment a particular Ethereal was in view.
Everyone in the room stood straighter as the figure on-screen loomed—an Ethereal clad in what appeared to be corroded E.G.O. Gear.
Faust let the frozen image hang on the screen. “It is, of course, practically impossible that the Agents of Lobotomy Corporation could have survived the collapse and burial process.”
She shifted the display to highlight the distorted lines of armor, tracing the ether resonance across its frame.
“Therefore, the footage presents two impossibilities layered upon each other. Not only do we observe corrosion, but also Ether corruption upon their suits. This suggests an external variable: someone other than Lobotomy Corp. has obtained access to the E.G.O. Gear still housed within the lab.”
The chamber erupted.
Anton slammed his drill against the table, leaning forward. “So someone’s playing dress up with Ethereals? Who the hell would even risk that?”
Rodion raised her head, half a grin on her face despite the tension. “Nagel Und Hammer, obviously. Sounds like their brand of crazy.”
“Hmm~ It could also be the Technology Liberation Alliance,” Hong Lu mused, resting his chin on his hand. “They did meddle with E.G.O. Gear last time we encountered them.”
Outis slammed her hands. “Impossible, we did good work to get rid of their leaders. They shouldn’t be operational.”
Grace jolted up at the mention of that. “Wait, it was you guys? The newspaper said it was Kinography Corp’s security that dealt with the terrorist.”
Sinclair stammered, looking face to face. “Wait, doesn’t this mean that if anyone can just… find the labs and use the E.G.O. Gear… doesn’t that mean anyone could turn into… into that?”
Gregor exhaled smoke, muttering. “Wouldn’t be the first time scavengers tried to use questionable technology…”
Don Quixote leapt onto her chair, voice ringing out. “Then we must brand these fiends of the highest order! Corruptors of sacred armaments—!”
“Enough.” Vergilius' voice cut through the noise like a guillotine.
Every head turned. The briefing room fell silent again.
His crimson eyes narrowed as he looked over them. “You are here to listen, not bicker like drunkards in a tavern. Now sit quietly and let Faust continue.”
Faust inclined her head faintly in acknowledgement, then turned back to the console, bringing up a diagram of E.G.O. Gear. “As you know, Abnormalities are naturally immune to Ether corruption. Since E.G.O. Gear can be considered the flesh of an Abnormality, the natural immunity can be transferred over.”
The screen shifted to show now an individual suffering from E.G.O. Corrosion. “However, some of our recent tests have shown that corrosion seems to lower one’s Ether Aptitude by a wide margin. Leading to the possibility of Ethereals being able to wield E.G.O.”
Faust tapped the console once more. The diagram dissolved intro a new feed, the Bangboo’s lens flickering as it scanned across a jagged cavern wall.
“And to answer your question…” Faust said evenly.
The image stabilized on a half-buried supply crate. The once-pristine steel plating was pocked and cracked, its logo still visible through the crust of Vision Corp.’s insignia. Around it, Ether crystals had bloomed over time, encasing the equipment like insects caught in amber.
Faust zoomed in, the grainy detail filing the projector screen.
“It appears that Vision had abandoned materials inside of the Hollow, and judging from the large clusters, their expedition predates ours by a considerable margin.”
The room stirred again, albeit more quietly.
Koleda’s eye sharpened. “So they were down there first… They knew.”
Ben scratched his chin before speaking. “That is one way to make a mess.”
Nicole leaned back, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Figures. Vision always has its claws in anything worth burying.”
Belle hugged Eous tight, frown replacing her usual cheer. “But if they left those supplies, that means they still know about the lab’s presence…”
Wise gave a humorless chuckle, nursing his coffee. “It comes to a point where it isn’t surprising anymore.”
Faust’s tone remained steady, almost emotionless. “The evidence shown suggests that Vision’s Expedition team failed to secure their target… or chose not to.”
She paused, then tapped the console again. The projector dimmed, leaving only the pale overhead light.
“Moreover, the Before Team did succeed in establishing a preliminary Carrot to the lab. Rookie Deiboot managed to survive to deliver it. He should be here in—”
The doors hissed open right on cue.
A figure stepped into the chamber. He was young—red hair, dark skin, his uniform still scorched. His right arm was heavily bandaged from shoulder to wrist, but not gone; faint traces of dried blood showed through the wraps. Across his waist hung twin holsters, each cradling an unusual sidearm—sleek handguns fitted with brutal bayonet-length blades, the steel glinting faintly in the projector’s light.
His left eye fixed straight ahead, sharp despite the fatigue in his frame, while his right was hidden behind a fresh black patch.
A ripple of surprise ran through the room.
Grace was taken aback. “...Wait, that’s Deiboot? With a name like that I thought it was a Bangboo.”
Heathcliff grunted, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Aye… but he doesn't look like one. Poor sod’s been through hell.”
Nekomata’s ears angled back slightly, her tails curling low as she studied him. Her voice was softer than usual, almost thoughtful. “...He’s still standing, though. It takes grit to walk in here after all that.”
Vergilius' gaze swept the table, silencing the commentary at once.
Faust inclined her head faintly. “Deiboot. You may proceed.”
He swallowed, then stood taller, back straight despite the tremor in his shoulders. “I… was with the Before Team. I am the only one alive as far as I know. But I salvaged what I could.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a sealed data ship, its casing etched with a crude carrot insignia—Carrot Data. He held it out, his voice steadier as he spoke. “This contains the mapped route to the lab’s entrance.”
Deiboot crossed the room and placed the chip into Wise’s waiting hand.
Wise turned it once between his fingers with a pensive expression, then passed it to Belle without a word.
Belle gave Deiboot a small, encouraging smile before slotting into Eous’ access port. The Bangboo beeped, his scarf bobbing as green lights ran down his visor.
“Carrot installed, it shouldn’t take too long to analyze.” Belle confirmed, her cheer tempered by the weight of the moment.
Deiboot exhaled once, shoulders loosening as if a burden had left him. “The route… if you follow it correctly, you shouldn’t encounter as many Ethereals as we did. The clusters thin out past the first kilometer mark. We left some markers on the walls with white resin. It should still be there.”
He paused, his bandaged arm tightening against his side. “As for Hollow Raiders… we didn’t see any. The passage is too obscure for most scav groups to know about, as far as we could tell.”
Anton whistled low, leaning back in his chair. “So it’s a back door. Less hell to slog through.”
Outis’s eyes narrowed, rubbing her chin. “Or a funnel. If the enemy knows the path, it would become a killing ground.”
Deiboot shook his head quickly. “No… it didn’t look like anyone else had been there for a while.” His voice dropped, just a little. “But then… neither did the place where my team died.”
He bowed his head faintly. “That’s… all I can give you. I hope it helps.”
Faust’s eyes lingered on him a moment before she inclined her head. “You have done enough. You are dismissed.”
The rookie hesitated, then gave a stiff nod and turned, boots echoing as he left the chamber. The door slid shut behind with a hiss, the silence behind heavier than his words.
Faust tapped the console, drawing the room’s attention back. Her tone was calm, as though grief had no place in her cadence.
“In accordance with established contracts, both Belobog Heavy Industries and Limbus Company are to descend together into the Lemnian Hollow to secure the laboratory site and to secure the designated ‘object of interest’.”
Koleda’s brows furrowed, arms folding. “Huh? What object, exactly? What could be worth dragging two companies into a death trap like that?”
Grace rubbed her hands together, curiosity sparking. “Is it a prototype? More technology Lobotomy Corp. left behind?”
Faust’s expression did not shift. “The item in question is a Golden Bough.”
The projector screen showed a grainy image of a Golden Bough suspended in gravity.
Anton raised a brow. “A simple gold branch? Doesn’t sound like much.”
Ben’s ears flicked, his tone low. “...Heard whispers about things like that. Black-market chatter. Never thought I’d see one.”
Koleda’s eyes narrowed, leaning forward in her chair. “Yeah. Same here. People call them miracle twigs, apparently. Nothing concrete, but… the kind of rumor Vision or worse would kill to keep quiet.”
She straightened, scowling. “So, you mind explaining why the Limbus Company is looking for this priceless artifact?”
Faust’s voice remained smooth and detached. “That information is classified. Your only concern is retrieval.”
Koleda let out a sharp exhale through her nose. Grace adjusted her goggles, eyes flashing with restless energy.
Faust’s gaze swept toward the other side of the chamber. “As for the Cunning Hares…”
Nicole straightened reflexively, flashing a strained smile.
“You are still expected to fulfill your role in the ongoing proceedings regarding Vision Corporation,” Faust continued. “At present, CEO Charles Perlman has not been located. Until this matter is resolved, your efforts will remain divided between litigation support and field work.”
A ripple of mutters passed around the room—Rodion stifling a laugh, Heathcliff’s ear flicking, Sinclair sighing as if disappointed in the word lawsuit.
Faust did not move from her place. Her gaze turning to the Phaethon pair.
“Wise. For this operation, you will serve as the assigned Proxy. You are to guide us through the Hollow and manage the Belobog Team.”
Wise straightened slightly, setting his coffee aside with a tired sigh. “I hope Fairy goes easy on me…”
At his side, Belle’s eyes widened. “Congratulations, Big bro. I bet you’ll do amazing.” Her expression brightened almost immediately, a grin spreading across her face.
She hugged Eous close, the Bangboo’s scarf bobbing as he blinked. “I’d go with you but someone has to keep Random Play running while you’re gone. Someone has to get those memberships out, you know? So…” She raised her hand in a little salute. “I wish you and Eous the best of luck.”
Eous let out a happy Eh-nah, optics flashing green in acknowledgement.
Faust let out a satisfied hum, and inclined her head once more. “Then the matter is settled.”
Vergilius stepped forward, his voice carrying absolute clarity. “The descent begins in two hours, thirty minutes. Use that time wisely. Arm yourselves, rest, and resolve whatever matters you cling to. When the clock strikes, hesitation will not be tolerated.”
The silence that followed was brief, broken only by the quiet hum of the projector shutting down.
“Dismissed.”
The lights turned back on as the room began to stir. Chairs scraped back and people stretched the stiffness from their limbs.
Billy rested his chin on his palm, sighing softly. “So that’s it, huh? We sit this one out.”
Nicole shot him an incredulous look. “Count yourself lucky. Better to be bored than buried.”
Belle walked towards them and patted Billy’s shoulder with her usual cheer. “Well, at least I don’t have to watch over Waterfall Soup for a day, so that’s a relief.”
Billy let out a disappointed sigh, resting one elbow lazily on the table, chin propped in his palm.
Across the chamber, Grace lingered as she adjusted her goggles. Her gaze drifted toward him, her eyes widening in a way that didn’t go unnoticed by Koleda.
Their eyes met.
Soon, they stood up from their seats, closing the distance until only a few paces separated them.
Billy tilted his head, rubbing his chin. “You’ve been staring at me since I walked in. Can’t say I mind. Curious about something?”
Grace leaned in slightly, goggles slipping down with a clack. “Plenty. You’re… different. Not like the others.”
If Billy had a mouth, he would be smirking. He mirrored her movement, leaning closer until the table’s breadth separated them. “Can’t say I blame you for admiring me, I am built well.”
“Really now~?” Grace leaned in, just enough for her goggles to catch the light. Her words came quiet, but brimming with excitement. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I was to dismantle you, right?”
The air between them shattered.
Billy froze, his eyes shifting to an expression of concern. “C-Come again?!”
Grace’s grin widened. She reached into her utility belt and with a clatter of metal, a handful of tools—pliers, a soldering pen, even a screwdriver—appeared on the table. She creepily began to lean toward Billy, eyes gleaming behind her goggles.
“Just hold still. I’ll only take a peek inside. Just a peek!”
Billy’s optics flared, his feet scraping as he stepped back sharply. “A-ABSOLUTELY NOT—!”
Before she could close in, Ben’s heavy hand clamped on her shoulder, while Anton’s drill whirred to life just enough to hum a warning. Koleda crossed her arms, glaring down at her.
“Grace. No. Drop it!”
The rest of the Cunning Hares came to Billy’s defense, forming a defensive wall.
Grace twisted in their grip, brandishing her tools. “But he’s perfect! I’d be willing to pay a fortune just to see what makes him tick!”
Nicole, caught off guard, barked out a laugh, waving her hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Billy here is a valuable member of the Cunning Hares.”
Grace then protruded a stack of 100,000 Denny bills from nowhere, waving it in front of her. “How about now~?”
Nicole’s eyes flicked to the bills, the weight of debt practically humming in her veins. She snapped her gaze back up, her smile fading into something firmer. “...No. Tempting as it is. Billy isn’t for sale. He’s worth more than that.”
Grace pouted, flicking her goggles up her head. “Spoilsport.”
Hong Lu’s jade eye glinted in amusement.. “Wow~, she actually resisted! Didn’t think you had it in you, Nicole!”
Gregor smirked, smoke curling from his lips. “Shows more spine than most fixers I’ve seen.”
Billy’s optics flickered, a faint glow of surprise crossing them. He didn’t speak, but his posture straightened ever so slightly at Nicole’s words.
The laughter and chatter went on for a moment too long. So long in fact that Vergilius's shadow fell over everyone.
“What part of ‘dismissed’ did you all not get?” His voice cut in low and sharp. His crimson gaze drilling a hole onto everyone. “Everyone leave and get prepared before I decide to make you leave.”
Chairs scraped hastily as teams began filing out, the last echoes of laughter dying in their throats. Grace stuffed her bills and tools back into her utility belt, Koleda dragging her by the arm, while Billy lingered in silence with the rest of the Cunning Hares.
The groups spilled out of the briefing room, boots clanging against the hall’s flooring as they made their way toward the lockers. The heavy atmosphere of the meeting began to fray into mutters and low chatter.
Sinclair trudged with his hands shoved into his pockets, sighing heavily. “Can’t believe we have to do this on a Sunday…”
Meursault walked alongside him, keeping his usual stoic expression. “The nature of our employment demands we work overtime. We must get used to it.”
Sinclair groaned louder. “Overtime on a Sunday is still workplace abuse…”
Rodion fell into step behind them, grinning ear to ear. “What’s the matter, kid? Got other plans? Or were you hoping to spend the day with your shark girlfriend instead~?”
Sinclair nearly tripped, his ears going pink. “Wh-what?! Ellen’s not—she’s just my friend!”
Rodion laughed, slapping his back. “Sure, sure. Keep saying that and maybe you’ll believe it!”
Sinclair’s fists clenched at his sides, frustration bubbling over. “Why are you always teasing me about this, huh? Is it because you’re jealous your own attempt at romance is going nowhere?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
For a moment, Rodion froze. Her grin faltered just slightly—just enough for him to notice. Then she chuckled, a low laugh as she patted his shoulder. “Well, would you look at that? The kid's finally growing a spine. About time.”
She walked ahead with her usual swagger, grin back in place. But as her back turned, her eyes dimmed just a touch, the hurt buried beneath laughter.
From behind Rodion, came an amused snort. “J.E.R.K. (Just Eviscerated Rodion’s Kardia.)”
Sinclair blinked, heat crawling up his neck. “I-I didn’t mean it like that, wait!”
Amid the chatter echoing down the hall, Wise slowed his steps until he found himself behind Dante. The Proxy’s coffee cup had long been drained, but he still carried it absently in his hand.
“Not every day I get told to lead a crew as crazy as this,” Wise said with a dry little smile. “You’ve probably had your own moments, right?”
Dante turned their clockhead toward him. The gears ticked and the hands clicked. But what only came out of them was… silence. A long, flat, deadpan silence.
Wise raised a brow. “...That many, huh?”
Dante’s head tilted every so slightly before making a sighing motion—the kind that implied they could probably count several occasions when the sinners straight up killed each other over nothing.
Wise huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I usually can understand the Cunning Hares perfectly, but Belobog is a whole other can of worms. Take Grace, for example. Neither Belle nor I can get a read on her. One minute she’s all spark and brilliance. Next minute she’s just disconnected from everyone apart from her machines.”
Dante’s head tilted slightly, clock ticking faintly.
Wise went on, voice gaining momentum. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s brilliant. But enigmatic at times. It’s as if she’s wired to a completely different circuit than the rest of us. Have you ever met someone like that in your lifetime?”
Dante’s clock ticked once, slow and steady.
Wise laughed at himself, shaking his head. “Look at me, making a mountain over a mole mound. I’m just yapping away and you’re probably wondering how the hell you got stuck babysitting me.”
After a long silence, Dante finally spoke. “<I wouldn’t say it like that, but I think I can understand the feeling.>”
Wise glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “...Still. Thanks for listening.”
The hall grew busier as the groups split toward the lockers, voices bounding against the steel walls.
Wise lingered at the edge, gaze drifting past the bustle and the chatter—to where Grace had stopped in the corridor. She was animated as ever, goggles glinting as she gave Heathcliff his W-Engine back, despite the latter looking half-dead on his feet but still giving her the smallest nods in reply.
For some reason, Wise found himself observing the pair longer than he meant to.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The fatigue in his frame weighed heavy, but for the first time since the briefing, a faint calm settled over him.
“It'll be fine,” he said softly to himself. “In the long run… it’ll all be fine.”
With that final note, Wise turned toward the lockers.
Pages Navigation
MahguyIlike on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 10:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
the_Shade_of_Blue on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 06:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Makinoharo4717 on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 10:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
NamThunder on Chapter 1 Mon 21 Jul 2025 01:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
NailedLeer on Chapter 1 Mon 21 Jul 2025 03:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
Thereaderacc1 on Chapter 1 Mon 21 Jul 2025 04:37AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 21 Jul 2025 04:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
Makinoharo4717 on Chapter 1 Mon 21 Jul 2025 04:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
Heroes084 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Jul 2025 04:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
TheUnfunny on Chapter 1 Thu 24 Jul 2025 03:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Heroes084 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Jul 2025 04:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kestrel102 on Chapter 1 Sat 26 Jul 2025 11:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
ZygardeFusion on Chapter 1 Tue 29 Jul 2025 05:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kutenaiabi on Chapter 1 Tue 29 Jul 2025 08:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
witnessed-surrender (kanadejpeg) on Chapter 1 Thu 31 Jul 2025 12:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
FiorePanda on Chapter 1 Wed 03 Sep 2025 01:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
FiorePanda on Chapter 1 Wed 03 Sep 2025 01:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hector_Roth on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 09:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
Nilava_Sinistar on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Jul 2025 12:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
zerowars on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 03:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
UltraKS on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Jul 2025 11:40AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 30 Jul 2025 11:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Noone1234 (Guest) on Chapter 2 Wed 06 Aug 2025 11:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kutenaiabi on Chapter 2 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:47PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Nanashi_HF on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 05:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kutenaiabi on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 06:31PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 08 Aug 2025 06:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
Makinoharo4717 on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 09:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kutenaiabi on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Attio on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 08:38PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 08 Aug 2025 08:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation