Amelia

  The low moan of metal bending rippled through the ship before the first scream. Then came the screech—high, sharp, and unbearable. The sound of the Whistlin' Death tore through the air like knives scraping glass, sending shivers down Amelia’s spine and rattling her bones. It felt as though the ship itself were crying out in agony.

  She had heard tales of this sound—ships collapsing under pressure, entire structures reduced to splinters. Bolton and Michael used to tell her stories like this—the Whistlin' Death turning ports into graveyards—half history, half bedtime horror. But now, it wasn’t just a story. It was all too real.

  Explosions pounded the halls. The notorious whistle vibrated the ground beneath her feet, each pulse heavy enough to make her wonder if the ship could survive. Yet before the chaos erupted, there had been warning signs—the faintest hum through the floorboards, the way the lanterns flickered just off-beat, and the air growing too still, too heavy.

  She glanced at Rick, confused, her hand instinctively reaching for her knife—only to find it missing. Then the Pappy Long Legs’ lanterns flared a sickly red, casting a pulsing, ominous glow down the corridor. The ship seemed to writhe in anticipation, its lights a heartbeat counting down to disaster.

  Amelia and Rick clutched their ears, crouching against the vibrating walls as the relentless cacophony battered them. Each second stretched as the ship trembled, threatening to collapse.

  "Rick?! The stories?! What do we do?" Amelia screamed, her voice lost in the noise.

  Rick didn’t answer. His mechanical arms dug into the walls, leaving jagged impressions in the metal, his eyes wild but locked onto hers. Then he pointed—urgently—toward a door shaped like an owl at the far end of the hall.

  Amelia didn’t need further explanation. She bolted, but the ship’s violent shuddering threw her off balance. She staggered, catching herself against the wall. The vibrations didn’t stop, rolling through her chest like thunder. At the door, her fingers fumbled with the handle, trembling as sound waves pulsed through her body. She yanked, then pushed—nothing. The noise wasn’t just sound anymore. It was pressure—a force pressing down on her, grinding her movements to a crawl.

  Her eyes darted back to Rick, panic widening her gaze. This can’t be it. It can’t end like this.

  Rick was close behind, his thinner arms covering his ears while two larger mechanical limbs worked feverishly on the door. His fingertips extended, transforming into a crude, sparking saw that screamed nearly as loud as the ship. He motioned for Amelia to stay low, his face tense as the blades carved through.

  Before Rick could finish, the original Roy—the mechanical guide Amelia had half-grown to trust—emerged from behind the door. His metallic fingers beckoned them forward, his spotlight eyes cutting through the chaos like a guiding beacon.

  “YOU are not allowed. However, exceptions have been made,” Roy said, his tone light, almost too casual, as if they weren’t seconds from disaster.

  They rushed through, passing a crackling veil of blue light. Static buzzed against Amelia’s skin, prickling as she stepped through. The screech faded into a muffled rumble, but even in the silence, a suffocating weight lingered—as if they’d only stepped into the eye of the storm.

  “My new directive is to ensure your safety, Amelia,” Roy intoned, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “Take a breath before speakin’, Crowny,” Rick warned, brushing past her.

  Relief washed over her—briefly. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, dread clawed its way back.

  The space was vast, its walls streaked with soot and shadow, lit by flickering flames and electric arcs that framed a towering mechanical figure. It loomed in the atrium, half-suspended in midair.

  Half of its body was a mangled metallic skeleton, battle-worn and scarred. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically, barely holding together. The other half was disturbingly familiar—white coat tails speckled with black dots and a frayed bomber jacket hanging loose like a corpse’s skin. A cracked, bird-shaped helmet crowned its head.

  Amelia’s breath hitched. Glassford. Quadrant Leader Glassford, the Owl of Quadrant 8. She had seen him countless times—pristine, calm, untouchable. But here, he hung like a broken marionette.

  A horrifying thought hit her. He’s a machine. The realization twisted her stomach. Glassford—the leader, the legend—was a lie.

  “A...machine,” she whispered. “Rick… one of Father’s best friends. A machine.”

  Her mind reeled. This wasn’t just machinery—it had lived, fought, and now, it was dying. The gashes, ruptured cables, and worn patches told a tragic story. Was leadership itself a lie? Were the others like him? What if my brothers are already machines too?

  Rick’s voice snapped her back. “Crowny! Listen! If the Whistlin’ Death wanted this airship gone, it’d already be in pieces. They didn’t bring a fleet—just their damned heavy weight. They’re not here to burn us out—they’re here to take.” They’re here to collect something... Or someone.” He jabbed a finger toward Glassford. “The Owl of Quadrant 8. If they can’t get him, they’ll settle for you!”

  Her gaze fell to the tubes snaking from Glassford’s body into the walls, faintly pulsing. He was being drained—a Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel.

  “Quadrant Leaders don’t get assassinated,” she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. “They’re the best of the best…”

  Rick’s patience snapped. “By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn’t trust the stink of shit in front of you! Yes, that’s Glassford! And no, I didn’t kill him. But I sure as hell didn’t save him! Now hide or pick up a weapon before this mess takes you too!”

  Amelia’s gut screamed to press Rick for answers, but the urgency in his voice forced her to act. Survive now—questions later.

  Her gaze shifted to the tubes snaking from Glassford’s ravaged body into the walls, faintly pulsing. His energy was being drained—a Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. She pressed a hand to her chest, betrayal mingling with a creeping fear.

  “Rick. Quadrant Leaders don’t get assassinated. Killed lik- like any other person! They’re the best of the best! This is…impossible,” she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. If Glassford could be taken down, what did that mean for the others? For everything she believed untouchable?

  Rick’s patience snapped. “By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn’t trust the stink of shit right in front of you!” His voice cracked. “Yes, that is Glassford! And yes, I’m not innocent! Didn’t kill him but… didn’t help him either! Now hide or pick up a weapon, unless you want to get permanently tangled in this mess as well!”

  Amelia hesitated. Her gut screamed to press him for answers. Could she trust him?

  “I’m not doing a damn thing until you explain—” Tried shouting Amelia.

  “Explain what? The infinite void that is the spirit world? You want it carved into a damn popsicle stick?!” Rick roared, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “Crowny! I don’t know how it works! I’m just a father who screwed up—a mistake I’d make again!”

  He shouted, his words raw and unsteady, even as his eyes darted past Amelia, scanning the shadows behind her. “Believe me or don’t—but I found him like this. Half-dead, and fading fast.”

  Amelia looked away, the thundering pistons of the Pappy Long Legs pounding in her ears like war drums. She stumbled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

  “Get up! Scurry over here, damn it!” Rick hissed, his voice barely cutting through the hum of the machinery. His red sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tension in his stance betrayed his urgency. “Pick up a stick, a bolt—hell, anything sharp! Something’s coming.”

  He paused, his voice softening but no less desperate. “By the Goblet and Green, don’t do it for me. Do it for Roy—and for yourself. We need to be ready.” He swallowed hard. “Extraction Protocol Q8.”

  “Extraction Protocol Q8?” Amelia’s eyes darted to Rick, who shifted uncomfortably and avoided her gaze. “Another invention?”

  “Another one that saves your life yes,” Rick snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “Our ticket outta here... should yous still feel comfortable breaking bread with me.”

  Amelia’s brow furrowed as her gaze drifted toward the platform housing Glassford. The hum of circling engines sent vibrations through the glass beneath her feet, pulsing with flickering lights like veins. A cage. A containment system.

  Her breath hitched. What kind of monster needed a cage like this?

  The subtle vibrations beneath her feet reminded her of the Yardrat chambers—glass prisons designed to hold creatures too dangerous to roam free, captured during the average supply run. Her mind flashed back to the glistening tanks and reinforced walls, each structure built to either study—or destroy—whatever was trapped inside. Depending on the interest of it’s captur.

  The idea unsettled her. She hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest. Her hand hovered near the locket around her neck before she quickly lowered it, frowning as if the action had betrayed her uncertainty.

  Her eyes flicked toward the tall, narrow windows lining the walls, revealing slivers of the outer evening sky. Through the dim glass, the faint glow of the horizon seemed distant—cold and indifferent.

  The pulsing blue light from Glassford flickered against the glass, casting jagged shadows of small automatons poised in defensive positions. Their metallic frames glinted sharply, reflecting the hum of the containment platform like predators waiting for a signal.

  For a moment, Amelia remained still, her breath catching as the machines’ dark outlines twitched ever so slightly—alive, but dormant. Her fingers curled into fists.

  The vibrations grew stronger beneath her, a low, mechanical growl building from the depths of the ship. Hesitation wasn’t an option.

  She glanced at Rick, who was furiously welding the door shut, his posture tense, shoulders hunched as if holding the weight of the ship’s chaos on his back. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the room. His movements were frantic, sharp, as though fighting against time itself. Meanwhile, Roy tinkered with a small ventilation unit, his mechanical fingers clicking away with precise, playful indifference.

  The platform hummed louder. The engines seemed to come alive, the faint vibration now pulsing through the glass beneath her feet. Amelia shifted uneasily, glancing down as if the ground could fall away at any second.

  “Where’s my knife, Rick? The one that should’ve been in the front pocket of my uniform,” Amelia asked, her voice cold but measured.

  “By the Goblet and Green! Grab somethin’ that at least looks like a weapon!” Rick shouted, frustration spilling over as debris crashed from the ceiling, cracking one of his lenses.

  Amelia shot him a sour look, her frustration still simmering, but without a word, she knelt to pick up his cracked glasses. Rick kept welding, the sparks casting fleeting shadows across his face, but there was an unspoken tension in the air. Gently, almost reluctantly, she slid the damaged frames back onto his nose. Her fingers brushed against his skin, and for a moment, his mechanical limbs stilled. His frown, once hard and set, softened at the edges. Neither of them spoke, but in that quiet gesture, the argument seemed to fade, leaving behind a fragile truce.

  He grunted, his tone quieter. “Roy’s got your knife,” he said, his voice still rough but with a hint of reluctance. His gaze lingered on her briefly, almost as if weighing his next words. “Get it. Help me fight. Live another day.”

  With that, he nodded toward Roy, leading her in the direction of the small machine, his previous gruffness easing into something a bit more protective.

  She nodded in agreement, quickly making her way toward Roy, who was standing just a few steps away, manning a console that controlled the pistons galloping in the room.

  “Rick said you have my knife.”

  “This is TRUE,” Roy said, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly.

  “So hand it over,” Amelia demanded.

  “WHY?” Roy tilted his head. “Whisky requested something of yours. It was going to USE it.”

  “Whisky?” Amelia asked, her confusion growing.

  “Yes. The security bot YOU dubbed Whisky. It is currently... dancing in the incinerator,” Roy said flatly.

  “Really?” Amelia blinked, then shook her head. “Never mind that, Roy! Give me the knife. Rick’s orders.”

  Roy turned toward Rick for confirmation before opening a compartment and retrieving the knife. Amelia quickly strapped it to her waist with a loose wire.

  “Wait. AMELIA.”

  She froze. “What is it, Roy?”

  “Your hat.” Roy extended her Yardrat cap—now patched with a tiny metallic smiley face.

  Amelia blinked. “You… fixed it?”

  Roy’s eyes flickered. “You leak too much.”

  Amelia blinked, taken aback. Her Yardrat hat—the simple flat cap she had worn countless times in the mines—sat in Roy's hands, as pristine as ever. But something was different. Roy had added a patch, a small metallic smiley face, its dull sheen catching the flickering light. It was an odd, almost childlike touch, completely out of place amid the noise and destruction around them.

  “Y-you fixed it?” Amelia whispered, reaching out to take the cap, her fingers brushing against Roy’s cold, mechanical ones. The weight of it in her hand felt strangely comforting, a relic of a simpler time before the weight of machines and broken truths had pressed down on her.

  Roy’s spotlight eyes flickered, dimming slightly as if unsure of how to respond. “Yes. You are… Yardrat. UNIFORM must be whole.”

  She stared at the hat, her mind struggling to reconcile the innocence of the gesture with the chaos unfolding around her. For a moment, the cacophony of battle and the screeching of the Whistlin' Death seemed to fade, replaced by the simple truth of this small act of kindness. Roy, for all his oddities and mechanical nature, had fixed something. And not just anything—he had fixed something that mattered to her, something tied to her identity, her history.

  "Your eyes... they leak too much," Roy observed, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly as if unsure how to respond.

  “Thanks, Roy,” Amelia muttered, her voice softer than she intended. Her fingers brushed over the small patch—the metallic smiley face, a strange and innocent addition that now felt like an anchor in the chaos.

  The air hummed with tension as Rick hunched by the door, welding in swift, furious strokes. Outside, Pappy Long Legs groaned under heavy blows, the metal walls trembling with each impact. Yet, in that sliver of time, Amelia felt something different—something quiet and unbroken amid the storm.

  She pulled the cap on, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The world hadn’t made sense in ages—maybe it never would—but Roy’s simple gesture left her with one clear thought: not everything was broken. Not yet.

  Her thoughts snapped back to the chaos as her eyes caught the blue glow of the gem embedded in her locket. Her hand instinctively closed around it, her pulse quickening. The screeching. The danger. The timing. It all felt connected to the gem—like it was beating at the storm’s heart.

  Is it going to float again? Should I have crushed it earlier? Her mind raced.

  “Rick!” she shouted over the cacophony of falling debris and pounding pistons. “Whatever’s happening—it’s because of this damn locket! I—I’m going to crush it, to get the gem... probably!”

  Rick whipped around, alarm flashing in his eyes as his welding torch clattered to the floor. “Are you sure, Crowny? You’ve got no idea what that could mean! This isn’t just some rock in a locket—it could be your soul, your brothers’, maybe even a piece of Yerro’s own!”

  “If you crush it, young lady, you might trigger something wild—something we can’t take back.”

  Her hand tightened around the glowing gem, its pulse thudding in time with her heartbeat. Throw it down. Crush it. End this.

  Rick’s voice softened. “This ain’t somethin’ to walk off the chin, Amelia.”

  But the chaos outside—the Whistlin’ Death, the mechanical screeches, the roar of imminent collapse—only grew louder.

  “It’s like your friend Ehmir said—we’re playin’ ball without a stick!” she snapped back. “My brothers aren’t dead, so staying alive is all I’ve got!”

  With a final look at the patch Roy had sewn onto her hat—a quiet symbol of innocence in a world on the edge—Amelia pressed the cap firmly onto her head and straightened it, a grim smile tugging at her lips. The gesture grounded her—if only for a fleeting moment.

  “I’m choosing to trust only my brothers! For now! Anyone else is still up for discussion,” she muttered through clenched teeth, locking eyes with Rick. “We’re all lickin’ dice today.”

  “Fresh outta my book, Crowny! Well—”

  Before he could finish, a thunderous crash shook the room. Amelia ducked as debris rained down from the ceiling. The sound reverberated like a monstrous roar, and through the sudden cloud of dust and smoke, something large, something menacing, descended into the room.

  Who? Or worse… what?

  Her gaze fell to the locket in her hand. A faint blue light seeped through its cracks, flickering in rhythm with her racing heartbeat. It pulsed—alive, restless—casting soft, shifting shadows across her fingers.

  Throw it down. Crush it. End this. The thought struck like a hammer, but her hand refused to move.

  “What if it ended the chaos—or them?”

  Suddenly, the room fell silent.

  The once-constant rumble of the Pappy Long Legs ceased, leaving Rick, Roy, and Amelia frozen. Their eyes locked on a silhouette emerging from the swirling gray and black dust.

  The oppressive quiet pressed down on them, amplifying the tension.

  “Crushing what you don’t understand—that’s ignorance. And a disregard for the flesh that’s still warm inside. You wouldn’t crush the egg of an Ignorpa without witnessing the powerful life within.”

  Amelia’s gaze narrowed as she eyed the glowing gem. “W-why shouldn’t I?” she demanded, but the figure said nothing.

  Smoke poured from the ceiling—thick, heavy, and almost sticky. It clung to her skin, dragging through her lungs like oil, curling around her feet.

  A sound followed. Jagged laughter rippled through the smoke—deep, unsettling, and far too human.

  But something about it was wrong. Off.

  It scraped at the edges of her mind, each breathless rasp sinking deeper, twisting what should have been laughter into something hollow and broken.

  Two glowing blue eyes pierced through the haze, the same hue as the gem in her locket. The figure’s tall, lanky frame wavered, with large protrusions jutting from its back and long, stilt-like legs.

  Amelia’s breath caught as razor-sharp strings dangled from above—twisted puppet wires swaying with the figure’s every movement.

  “The gem… awarded to you and your siblings at the Greisha ceremony. It carries a piece of Yerro’s soul—something I now intend to claim. No hard feelings,” the voice threatened. “Unless you crush it, that is.”

  The strings didn’t just connect to the figure—they extended into the smoke, controlling other shapes.

  More Whistlin' Death pirates emerged, similar in appearance, their movements marionette-like, dragged forward by the same glistening, knife-edged strings.

  Their jerky movements hummed with tension, the strings tightening with every step.

  Rick’s sensors flared as razor-sharp strings snapped into focus, bursting from the smoke like fangs from a predator’s maw.

  “I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,” Rick mocked, though his voice carried the weight of concern.

  Before anyone could react, a giant metallic ball zipped along the taut razor wires, gliding and twisting as if it had a mind of its own.

  It spun closer, each rotation gleaming in the flickering light, its polished surface gleaming wickedly in the flickering lantern flames.

  Then it plummeted, slamming into the floor with a deafening crash.

  It rolled for a single heartbeat—then burst open.

  A web of razor wire unraveled outward, pulling taut with chilling precision.

  The wires lashed out, slicing through the air with terrifying speed, their edges glinting like teeth. Sparks flew as they tore into the walls, leaving jagged cuts.

  Amelia dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly strands.

  Rick wasn’t so lucky. Two of his mechanical arms were caught, razor wire digging deep into their frames. Sparks shot out as he grunted in pain, his body jolting under the brutal impact.

  The red lights from the Pappy Long Legs flickered ominously, casting an eerie glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Amelia’s breath hitched. It had flashed like this before—a warning. Her gaze darted to Rick. His silence said everything. This wasn’t just another fight. The ship trembled as if it sensed the danger too, echoing Rick’s own sinking unease. Rick, still recovering from the last attack, shot her a look—grim, sharp. More trouble was coming.

  “So, you believe me to be this ‘Devil Dog?’” a voice slithered from the haze. The silhouette stepped closer, its glowing, jagged grin slicing through the smoke.

  “Humorous name for an anim—”

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  “Animal like you!” Amelia’s voice cut through, sharp and trembling. She tightened her grip on the knife, the cold edge pressing against her palm. “I remember the smoke. That thing nearly killed me. It’s not—”

  “Wrong!” the silhouette barked, and a thin wave of razor wires hissed out of the fog.

  Amelia barely flinched in time. A sting burned across her cheek as warmth trickled down. She stumbled back—into something worse.

  Her back hit a web of razor-like strings. The edges bit into her skin. She froze. Each shallow breath felt like a mistake. Every movement—another gamble with blood. Her clothes hung in shredded strips, leaving her exposed and trembling.

  A voice dripped through the mist, mechanical and cold.

  “I am Number Two. Behind me stand Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two.” The silhouette leaned closer. “And you, my delusional ex-princess, must be Amelia Woltwork.”

  "Girl. Do you want to know what Gigarock can do?" Number Two’s voice sharpened, each syllable a scalpel drawn slow. "The gem embedded in your locket0. Do you even understand what it truly is?”

  Amelia hesitated, casting a quick glance at her torn clothing. Blood dotted the fabric. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to meet Number Two’s gaze. Only its cold, mechanical eyes pierced through the thickening mist, glowing with a light that matched her locket.

  Behind him, figures emerged—half-seen shadows shifting in the fog. The faint outlines of the others—Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two—hovered in the haze. Their eyes blinked in unison, an eerie orchestra of mechanical intent.

  “How it acts as a cage for souls? Its rarity? Its forms? Its value?” The words hung in the air, heavy and calculating, like a threat wrapped in a riddle.

  Number Two’s eyes twitched toward her locket, the glow reflected like a smoldering ember. His movements were stiff—puppet-like—but wrong in ways Amelia couldn’t name. The others remained still, their mechanical gazes adding to the dread that pressed against her chest.

  “That tattoo—do your brothers carry the same? Does it tingle in the presence of Yerro’s soul?” The silhouette’s voice dropped to a murmur, unnervingly direct.

  As if in response, her locket glowed faintly blue, casting an eerie shimmer through the fog, illuminating the twisted metal threads snaking through the mist.

  Amelia’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Metal or man?”

  “Why the concern?” Its metallic teeth clattered from the fog, accompanied by the faint sound of winding gears.

  “You’re either some rogue muscle of the Primarian Arc or an ex-suit from the Primarian Royale. Human has been optional lately. Which one is it?” Amelia challenged, her voice steady despite the dread twisting like ice in her stomach.

  Number Two chuckled, a hollow sound that scratched the walls like nails. Outside, the Pappy Long Legs’ rumble faded to silence, leaving only the sinister whisper of sharpening wires behind him.

  “I’m just Number Two,” he replied, his voice dropping to a slow, deliberate tone. “And I’m here to extend a deal. Otherwise, you’d already be dead. Down. With. The. Ship.”

  Thick smoke curled around him, consuming Number Two’s form entirely, leaving only faint, haunting glimpses of his glowing blue eyes piercing through the haze. The coat it wore hung in tatters, swaying like loose skin. Amelia slipped the locket back into her pocket, her fingers brushing its cold surface as though to keep it close. Her other hand tightened on the knife. The blade’s edge quivered slightly.

  From the corner of her vision, a thick, corded wire shot from Rick’s mechanical arm, hissing like a viper. It extended into the smoke, aimed directly at Number Two.

  The wire moved with a fluid, sinewy strength, pulsing with a deep red light that flickered in rhythmic bursts, mirroring the lamps of the Pappy Long Legs.

  Amelia squinted, barely able to make out the faint shape of the coat clinging to Number Two’s form, its hard edges softened and warped by the swirling mist. She couldn’t see Rick’s precise hit, but the red charge arced through the wire, crackling as it struck.

  The silhouette absorbed the current. It twitched but didn’t fall. Its stance stayed loose.

  "And that must be Rick," Number Two sneered, his voice carrying a mocking edge from somewhere in the haze. "The legendary Rick. Former Primarian Hammer, am I right? Those wires look familiar."

  Rick’s voice broke through the tension with an experienced calm. “They should be. Now get out.”

  “Violence first, questions later? Isn’t that what got you into this mess, Rick the Primarian Hammer?” Number Two mocked. “One. Of. Five.”

  Rick’s mechanical limbs tensed. “What do you know about—”

  Number Two’s eerie gaze shifted toward a giant metal ball hanging just above Roy’s head. “Ah, perhaps it’d be wise to listen before you act,” he replied smoothly.

  Roy remained blissfully unaware, focused intently on Glassfor, the former Quadrant Leader. The ball swayed ominously above him.

  “This fog,” Number Two continued, his voice curling like smoke, “only grows thicker. It strangles organic life… but electrifies and ignites machines. Gives us a little extra oomph.”

  Roy paused, his curious eyes lingering on the thick cables feeding into the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. The machinery surrounding Glassford’s remains hummed with ominous energy.

  Rick’s voice broke sharply. “Boy! Where’s your mind!?”

  Roy hesitated, quickly withdrawing his hand, though his gaze remained fixed on the large wires, his fingers twitching.

  “Tammersmith! Where did you put his mind!? In a deal best served by royalty!? Which King did you ask for the favor!? Michael or his puppet father!?”

  Before he could finish, a barrage of thick, tendon-like wires shot from the walls, each ending in spear-tipped edges that slammed into Number Two.

  The impact rang out like gunfire. Black oil leaked from its body, pooling beneath the writhing strands. Electricity crackled, searing it one last time before subsiding.

  Number Two sagged, its mechanical frame trembling but not falling.

  Amelia’s breath came in shallow gasps. “What about the deal, Rick?” she asked, her voice tight with unease.

  Rick’s expression darkened. “Should’ve kept its mouth shut about my son. Don’t forget—it’s not alone. Whatever it is, it’s using Primarian Hammer tech.”

  “The wires?” Amelia pressed, glancing toward the thick strands. “It seemed… familiar with them.”

  Rick nodded grimly. “Modified, sure, but I recognize the shotty yet particular design.”

  Amelia’s gaze shifted back to the fog, catching eerie shadows hovering beyond. “And the others?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can see their shapes… unmoving. They’re just… waiting.”

  “Still as stone,” Rick confirmed, his voice hard. “My security bots are on em' like a living wall. Even those things know better than to test it.”

  “Whisky…” Amelia murmured under her breath, grounding herself amid the tension.

  Rick’s jaw tightened. “That ‘number whatever’ isn’t dead because it was never alive,” he muttered, glancing her way. “This is all a game to one man—a puppet master pulling strings on machines that should’ve stayed buried. Worse is, I once looked up to him… back when I was an apprentice Primarian Hammer. Never one for subtlety.”

  Amelia’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and defiance flickering within them. “And now he’s after you? Or…me?”

  Rick nodded grimly. “Like anythin’ lately, can’t say for certain. But the Whistlin’ bastards tore apart my shop in Veranus lookin’ for something I may or may not have had—a rare piece of Gigarock. Not your typical Yardrat street grade; this is S-Class. Straight from Yerro’s heart, like the Gigarock in your locket. The kind that keeps a Quadrant Leader ticking.”

  “The kind of power that’s a nightmare for New Dwarden’s enemies,” Amelia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked to Roy, who remained transfixed by the wires. Like the machines behind Number Two, he stood still—too still. Her gaze hardened. “Rick… what did you do? What is Roy?”

  Rick exhaled sharply. “Your Crowny brother, the King, knew about Glassford’s disappearance three years ago.” His voice dipped lower, rough with fatigue. “It’s a mystery for the ages—the original Glassford was never recovered. So, the King and I fashioned a convincing replica, powered by the Gigarock in his locket.”

  He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves burned. “After long nights and seat-denting research, the fake Glassford started appearing in public, steady as clockwork. But it wasn’t long before it started showing signs of… autonomy. Its creation was a secret kept tightly among the Crown and the Primarian Hammer. Fact is, only the King or Queen of New Dwarden could scrounge up an S-Class Gigarock, and even then, only in dire emergencies. It was risky—barely tested and volatile.”

  Rick’s expression darkened. He looked down, shoulders heavy. “It was a penny-knicked setup from the start. The damn replica would fail constantly, and I was left to keep it ‘alive’ between appearances like some shitty wind-up doll. But something… changed. Over time, a small piece of the King’s Gigarock must’ve fused with the machine. The replica started to believe it was Glassford—like it had a mind of its own. Even wandered off, far beyond New Dwarden. I found it half-dead.”

  His voice dropped lower. “Talked to the King. That’s when we knew it had to be taken out of commission. It’s been hidden away in the Pappy Long Legs ever since—a ghost running on borrowed life. Been salvagin’ what I could.”

  Amelia felt a chill creep down her spine. She glanced at her locket, its faint glow casting a soft light against her trembling fingers. This same power—untamed, unpredictable—was hanging around her neck. Her hand closed over it, protective yet uneasy.

  Rick’s gaze lingered on her, regret pooling in his eyes. “Eventually, I paid the price for this deception, and so did others. After an unsuccessful attempt to remove its heart, one of us Hammers—Marta… didn’t make it out.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “The kind of power that can breathe life—or something close to it—into a machine… it doesn’t come without consequences.”

  Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her suspicion rising. “How much does my brother know?” Her voice cut through the fog, low and demanding.

  Rick flinched. His silence spoke louder than any answer.

  Amelia exhaled through her nose, bitterness creeping into her tone. “Are you scared to destroy what’s left of its heart? What’s left of the Gigarock’s flesh?”

  Rick’s eyes dropped toward the ground. “On the day Marta died, we concluded that the flesh held within a Gigarock cannot be destroyed—only contained. Worse yet, any attempt to can result in… situations far worse than death.”

  “What now?” Her voice softened, wavering between wonder and fear. “You want me to repair it? Destroy it? That’s your plan?”

  Rick’s head dipped toward the dangling shell of Number Two while the silhouettes of the other Whistlin’ Death pirates seemed to crawl closer from the fog.

  His jaw tightened, his words sharp. “You were never part of the plan, Amelia.” Rick’s voice faltered, carrying something almost wounded. “My objective was to figure a way to contain Glassford’s remnant.” He gestured toward Roy.

  Amelia’s breath hitched. “Your son? You used your son!?” Her words cracked like glass.

  Rick flinched but held his ground. “One of many ghoulish spirits that inhabit Yerro offered me a reward—for returning what it called a ‘Raa’Tas,’ or a ‘tainted piece’ of Yerro’s heart.”

  He swallowed hard, his voice roughening. “It preyed on my insecurities, made promises it knew I wanted to hear. My son was teeterin’ on life. And now, the thing’s left me barely breathing, my son without flesh… and here I am, talkin’ about what’s alive and what isn’t. I’m beginning to lose my wonder for this world.”

  Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “My brother has you cleaning this up, doesn’t he?”

  Rick let out a hollow laugh, but it died quickly. “Furious was he. Had to make up for a terrible thing. Now I’m out lookin’ for Glassford’s original and a permanent way to contain the Raa’Tas, yes,” Rick admitted wearily. “Now caught up in whatever you are and the puzzle you fit into. You—”

  Before Rick could finish, the fog thickened, shifting into hulking shapes—mechanical bodies with jointed limbs and hollow faces. They loomed in the mist, twisting like ghosts awakened from their graves.

  Amelia’s breath quickened. Tendrils of fog wrapped around her ankles, curling like living vines. WAmelia’s breath quickened. What is this?

  Rick smirked, his voice cutting through the tension. “You didn’t think they’d get rid of all my security forces just like that, did ya?”

  The ship rumbled, and the walls of the Pappy Long Legs came alive. The “little Roys” clung to the bulkheads like spiders, their glowing red eyes blazing. Their mouths opened—wires uncoiling, spears snapping outward.

  Suddenly, the vents began to hum, sucking in the fog like the breath of some massive beast. Swirls of mist coiled toward the walls, leaving only the metallic phantoms behind.

  Rick stepped closer, his voice dark with grim humor. “I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the lifeless husk of Number Two. “Now, let’s find who’s in control and end this mess.”

  Amelia wiped sweat and soot from her hands, her fingers tightening around her knife. She opened her mouth to speak but froze as something crashed down in front of Rick.

  A massive metallic ball dented the floor before rolling back into the fog.

  A voice followed, smooth and unnervingly calm. “Why ruin the fun?”

  The smoke parted, revealing a towering figure with metallic stilts for legs and a mechanical arm. Brass goggles glinted under the dim light, and his tattered coat carried the marks of storms and smoke.

  He swung a pneumatic weapon in his hand—a chain-bound ball of steel hissing softly, like a predator stirring in its sleep.

  Amelia shuddered. He wasn’t just a machine. He was a statement.

  The figure grinned, his glowing blue eyes locked on her. “Number Two? Three? A hundred?” He leaned closer. “Let’s just say I’m not your enemy. But I am.”

  His voice cracked with sharpness. “Omission’s still lying. And I won’t kill you—yet. You see, I need that Gigarock in your locket. Dead bodies don’t work.”

  The fog shifted again, revealing four more figures—twisted reflections of the first, their frames sharp and skeletal. Each bore crude titles like IRON 1 and GOLD 1, etched in harsh lettering.

  Rick’s voice broke the tension. “Why ranks? Why numbers?” He gestured subtly for Amelia to move toward Glassford.

  “Wake him or destroy him.” Rick’s tone dropped, urgent. “If this thing’s a rogue Primarian Hammer, we’re going to hell either way.”

  Amelia hesitated, her knife trembling. What if waking him makes things worse?

  Rick’s golden eyes softened. “No time, Crowny. Trust your instincts.

  Before she could react, the machine—Number Two—lunged. Nearly invisible razor wires hissed as they snapped taut, propelling it forward with breakneck speed. Its metallic limbs blurred, a whirlwind of aggression and smoke, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Thick, dark fumes poured from its mouth, swallowing the air in the acrid stench of burning oil—like the Clankers that haunted Whistletop Alley. Amelia’s mind screamed move, but her legs stayed rooted, frozen by terror.

  A massive arm struck her. The impact sent her crashing into the cold metal wall of the Pappy Long Legs. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening, but the sight of the ‘little Roys’ beside her burned clear. Their glowing eyes blinked wide with concern as she gasped for air, pinned by the machine’s weight. Number Two loomed closer, its joints groaning with each lurching step.

  Instinct seized her. Her hand shot to her waist, finding the knife. She drove it forward without thinking.

  The blade struck true. It sank into Number Two’s chest with a metallic screech, the machine’s momentum forcing it deeper. Sparks erupted—electric-blue flares mixed with fluorescent black oil laced in rainbow streaks. The viscous liquid sprayed in arcs, reflecting eerie patterns against the walls and across her face.

  The weight pressed harder. Her breaths came fast and shallow as the machine froze, shuddering under the sudden impact.

  The little Roys sprang into action, their small hands pressing against the cold frame, shoving in a desperate attempt to free her. Their efforts barely moved it. The machine’s weight held firm, its glowing eyes flickering—not with defeat, but amusement.

  For a moment, only the hiss of steam escaped the wound. The machine’s light dimmed, pulsing erratically, but it did not collapse.

  Then it spoke.

  “You…” The voice rasped, glitching with static, and then chuckled—a sick, distorted sound. “Sometimes I wonder… do I even have the privilege of dying?” It paused, its light flickering again. “Too bad.”

  Amelia froze. Her grip on the knife tightened as she watched it move—deliberately, consciously.

  With unsettling calm, it slid further up the blade, forcing the weapon deeper into its chest. Each inch sent arcs of electricity crackling outward, spraying oil in rainbow-hued bursts, but the machine didn’t stop. Its glowing eyes burned brighter, reveling in her horror.

  Suddenly, its free hand darted into her pocket. Before she could react, it yanked out her pendant, holding the locket up like a prize. The chain swung, catching the dim light, mocking her helplessness.

  “Don’t miss this moment.” Its voice softened, savoring her shock. “Look at me, girl! What does a machine need with a soul?”

  Its fingers curled around the locket, metal joints creaking as if ready to crush it. The glow from its eyes flickered, locked onto hers, unblinking.

  “Ahh,” it murmured, almost tenderly. “Your eyes—so full of life.” Its voice dropped lower, twisted with greed. “I, too, can be greedy.”

  The words sank like hooks into her chest, but anger snapped her back.

  “As if a Yardrat has anything to fear in the dark!” she spat, her voice sharp and defiant.

  The machine tilted its head, a cruel grin carved into its motion. It leaned closer, pressing harder against the knife, almost daring her to act.

  But her fury flared brighter. Her hand shot out, wrenching the pendant free from its grasp. The chain snapped as she tore it away, shoving it into her pocket and sealing it closed with a fist.

  Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She pushed against Number Two’s frame, straining against its weight, but it didn’t budge. Her chest burned, pinned by the limp yet unyielding mass.

  Then—a metallic groan.

  Rick’s voice cut through the chaos. “You didn’t think they’d take out all my security forces that easily, did you?”

  Before Number Two could react, Rick’s mechanical arm splintered outward like an uncoiling piston. Bolts snapped, gears cracked, and the impact smashed into the machine’s body. Number Two staggered back, freeing Amelia in a burst of movement.

  She stumbled forward, dragging in gulps of air as she scrambled to her feet. Her gaze locked on Rick—awed, terrified, and desperate all at once.

  Rick steadied himself, his splintered arm twitching, but his eyes burned with focus.

  Then, without a word, his hand disappeared beneath his shirt, gripping something inside—a pulsing core of blue and orange light, wrapped in mechanical threads.

  Amelia froze at the sight. It was alive. Or something close to it.

  “Rick!” Her voice cracked. “Dammit! If you die, Roy dies!”

  But Rick didn’t stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth and yanked the core free.

  Before he could respond, a harsh, rattling cough cut through the chaos. Amelia spun.

  Roy hunched over, hacking up a vile mixture of black oil and dark, blood-red fluid. The iridescent drops trickled down his chin—an unnatural blend of machine and life, tangled like some macabre alchemist’s brew.

  Amelia’s stomach churned. “Roy?”

  Rick’s gaze darted around the room. The fog thickened, curling low across the floor before being pulled into the Pappy Long Legs’ vents—silent, deliberate, like the ship itself was breathing. Along the walls, razor wires unfurled, and massive iron balls hung poised on their tracks, ready to strike.

  Rick wheezed. “If you die—Roy dies anyway.” His voice cracked, raw with effort. “He… has my human heart. But I damn well wonder… if that’s all he has.”

  Amelia froze.

  “He’ll live,” Rick rasped, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “You’ll find a way in Veranus! The blasted recipe—Morsha Bread!”

  Before she could speak, Roy straightened. His pale face was waxy, his eyes dulled to faint embers. Slowly, with an almost mechanical motion, he reached to his chest for the heart still beating.

  “No—” Amelia started.

  Roy’s trembling fingers hovered, hesitating for just a moment. His gaze flickered toward her, and something human—fear?—surfaced behind the mechanical glaze.

  Rick’s voice cut through. “It’s all right, Roy.” His voice softened, raw but steady. “You’re still here, son. You’re still here.”

  But Roy’s fingers moved again.

  Rick’s own hands mirrored the motion, tearing into his sternum. Sparks danced as his chest split open like a cabinet. Wires and glowing veins pulsed beneath the surface, twisting and writhing in a fragile, alien web.

  Amelia stumbled back, her breath hitching. The sight hollowed her stomach—both horrifying and mesmerizing.

  Rick’s eyes burned with resolve. Without hesitation, he gripped his core—a heartlike mass glowing blue and orange, wrapped in taut, mechanical tendrils—and twisted. Sparks erupted as he crushed it in his palm, the raw energy bleeding through his fingers.

  “This is what happens…” His voice faltered but didn’t break. “When you make the wrong deals… for the right reasons.”

  The Pappy Long Legs shuddered. Gears groaned to life, pistons churning with thunderous force. Walls shifted, snapping into place, and the ship itself seemed to wake, trembling in response to Rick’s sacrifice.

  Amelia screamed. “Rick, stop!”

  But it was too late.

  Rick turned to her, his cracked red glasses catching the dim light. He tossed them her way, the reflection of the burning core dimming in his eyes. His smile—faint but defiant—froze her in place.

  “Live for something better, Crowny,” he said, his voice breaking. “Promise me.”

  Then the light flickered out.

  “Activating. Protocol. Q8.”

  Roy’s voice rang out—flat, mechanical, hollow. The words echoed in the silence, sealing Rick’s fate.

  The Pappy Long Legs roared to life. Its walls twisted, gears locked into place, and compartments exploded open, revealing weapons that snapped into position. The ship shifted as if breathing—its massive bulk pulling inward before exhaling into motion.

  And then Roy moved.

  His eyes, once dull embers, blazed with a sudden, unnatural fire. Metal veins beneath his skin pulsed to life, glowing with the same eerie blue and orange light that had burned within Rick’s core.

  The mechanical groan of the Pappy Long Legs amplified, its vibrations rumbling through the floor as Roy’s body stiffened. His voice deepened, distorted.

  “Command recognized,” he intoned. “Veranus destination locked. Objective—unwavering.”

  Amelia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

  “No.” She stepped forward, reaching for him. “Roy—wait—”

  But Roy didn’t move. His gaze—calm, mechanical—was already locked forward.

  A pulse of energy rippled through the ship, rattling the walls. The razor wires unfurled, snapping into place, and the iron balls on their tracks lurched forward with deadly purpose.

  Amelia’s breath quickened. She clenched Rick’s cracked glasses in her fist, her knuckles white.

  The Pappy Long Legs wasn’t just awake.

  It was alive.

  The Pappy Long Legs responded with a mechanical roar. Compartments hissed open along the walls, releasing weapons and defensive systems that snapped into position like waiting jaws. The little Roys sprang to life, scrambling into position. Tiny cannons locked onto the invading puppets, their glowing red eyes blazing with purpose.

  Red lights pulsed brighter, bathing the room in an ominous glow as gears ground and twisted. It felt alive—awakened not as a ship, but as a fortress. A beast defending its wounded heart.

  Amelia barely breathed as the chaos unfolded. Awe and dread tangled inside her, tightening her chest. The ship revealed hidden mechanisms—gun barrels sliding from panels, spiked rails lining the floors, and iron traps snapping shut.

  The little Roys fired first. Their tiny cannons spat fire and lead, tearing through wires and limbs. Sparks rained as the fog was sucked away through vents, unveiling Rick—standing, barely upright, at the room’s center.

  He was fading. Amelia saw it—the heat rippling off his skin, the unsteady tremor in his hands. Yet, even as he teetered, Rick’s eyes burned with focus, his determination holding the ship together.

  The walls shifted again, crushing razor wires and slamming invaders into grinding gears. Panels snapped shut, sealing paths. The Pappy Long Legs moved like a living machine—relentless, precise, and terrifying.

  Amelia’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t tear her eyes from Rick. His jacket hung open now, exposing the raw blue-orange glow pulsing in his chest. It flickered, struggling, feeding the ship even as it devoured him in return.

  The room pulsed with him. Each breath. Each beat.

  The little Roys moved in sync, falling into rows, their red eyes glowing as they pressed forward, cannons still firing. Amelia swallowed hard. It wasn’t just Rick’s creation anymore—it was his body, his blood, his soul welded into the ship.

  But it was breaking him.

  Her throat tightened. Her voice cracked as she shouted, “R-Roy, what is Protocol Q8?”

  Roy, still hunched and dripping oil, straightened. His voice emerged hollow, mechanical, yet laced with something too human to ignore.

  “To clear the objective,” he said, staring ahead. “No matter the cost.”

  “No!” Amelia’s voice sharpened. “Get me to Glassford—now! I made my choice!”

  Roy’s eyes flickered, as if something inside him heard her desperation. He stepped closer, his movements calm despite the chaos. His metallic fingers gripped her arm, steady but gentle—a touch that grounded her.

  He glanced briefly at Rick, then turned back to her. “He cannot fully die until I die.”

  The words hung between them, heavier than the grinding metal around them.

  Amelia’s breath caught. “What does that mean? Roy—what does that mean?”

  His glowing eyes softened—just for a moment. “I… still live,” he said. “I am… alive.”

  The words struck her harder than the chaos around them. She bit back the lump rising in her throat and set her jaw.

  “Roy.” Her voice steadied. “Toss me—now.”

  Roy’s grip tightened. With a smooth, powerful motion, he launched her through the air. Amelia soared, her arms outstretched, before crashing onto Glassford’s massive frame. She grabbed hold of the tangled cables hanging from the Quadrant Leader’s body, her breath ragged, her determination blazing.

  “This ship’s still heading to Veranus, right?”

  Roy’s voice rang out, loud and certain. “At all costs.”

  Around them, the Pappy Long Legs came alive again. The little Roys adjusted like soldiers, their cannons spitting fire into the retreating pirates. Iron tracks groaned, sending massive balls of steel careening through the remnants of enemy machines, flattening them in bursts of sparks and shrieks.

  The room shifted—walls folding, gears grinding, stairs unfurling from hidden compartments. Narrow windows slid open, slashing beams of light through the swirling steam. Vents hissed, releasing clouds of heat, and the ship trembled, its full strength finally unleashed.

  Roy’s head snapped up. “Amelia!” His voice rose above the chaos. “The Whistling Pirates’ ship—its magnetic grip is gone. Rick’s protocol broke it!”

  Amelia’s fingers dug into the cables. “And the Pappy Long Legs?”

  Roy’s eyes brightened. “It flies again.”

  A thunderous groan shook the room. The ship parted down the middle, gears and pistons grinding as it pulled itself free. Wind howled through the gaps, carrying the scent of metal and rain.

  The sudden rush of air sent Amelia’s hair whipping back as debris from the destroyed machines scattered into the horizon, disappearing into the swirling clouds.

  Her gaze darted upward. A colossal airship loomed above, casting its shadow over the chaos—a polished galleon fused with sepia-toned metal, its rotors humming like thunder. The hammer-and-flame insignia of the Whistling Pirates gleamed against the hull, flickering in the light.

  The Pappy Long Legs trembled but held firm, its walls and beams locking into place with a final, resonant snap.

  Amelia’s grip tightened. The ship wasn’t just fighting—it was claiming itself, reborn in fire and steel.

  The little Roys pressed forward, dismantling the last of the pirate automatons in bursts of sparks and shredded metal. Weapons folded back into their compartments as the room settled, its hidden defenses ready for the next assault.

  Amelia climbed higher, her hands stinging from the jagged edges of Glassford’s frame. The light in its chest pulsed faintly, beating in time with the Gigarock in her locket.

  Amelia’s voice softened as she climbed, moving carefully from one mechanical rib to the next toward Glassford’s chest. “Roy! We’re family now! Got it?!”

  The wind surged, whipping her hair back as she lost her grip. Her fingers slipped against the cold metal, and her body began to slide. Panic flared in her chest, but before she could fall, strong metallic arms caught her.

  Roy’s hands shot out, clamping down around her wrists. Metal scraped against metal, his joints creaking under the strain. For a moment, it felt like he might buckle, but then his grip tightened—unyielding, solid. Amelia gasped, her breath shaky as she clung to him. The hum of his inner mechanisms vibrated through her arms, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if she could feel the faint echo of Rick’s pulse still beating inside him.

  “I’ve got you,” Roy said, his voice softer now—mechanical, but steady.

  Her heart pounded at the certainty in his words, even as faint sparks flared along his elbow joint. She tightened her grip on Glassford’s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  Roy’s expression flickered—something unreadable passing through his dimmed eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he nodded.

  Amelia’s heart pounded at the certainty in his words. She tightened her grip on Glassford’s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  “Good,” she said, her voice raw but steady. She let out a shaky breath, then grinned—just barely. “By the Goblet and Green… we’ll get through this.” Her fingers tightened on the jagged edges of Glassford’s frame. “One piece at a time. And if we don’t—” Her grin sharpened as she braced herself against the wind, “—then let’s make it loud enough they remember we tried.”