Waterstrider

8th District, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Thirdmonth, 1634 PTS

Kalthen’s world was a haze of darkness and pain as he struggled his way to awakening. He could hear grinding sounds coming from somewhere, like the scraping of gravel on gravel. A voice spoke distantly in his native tongue, but the words washed across the shore of Kalthen’s mind, finding no purchase. He could feel shifting sensations surrounding him, as if he was sliding through tight, rocky crawl space before he found himself emerging out into a hellscape.

He squinted, the domelight burning his eyes for a moment as the world slowly returned to clarity before him. There was a figure kneeling in front of him, slowly shaking him. The figure was saying something, and Kalthen tried to listen. It was difficult due to a very loud ringing sound that wouldn’t cease.

“...have to get going, little brother. Hey. Hey!” he said, snapping his fingers right in front of Kalthen’s eyes.

Kalthen’s senses felt overstimulated, and he squinted towards the figure, still trying to figure out their identity. They seemed small and annoying, somehow.

“Triezal?” asked Kalthen, taking his best guess.

“Yes. Kalthen, can you stand? We need to get out of here,” said Triezal.

So it was him, mused Kalthen to himself. His mind whirled with thoughts that scattered every moment, trying to remember just what had happened. The aero had crashed, they had looked for the lower entrance, found the Seiyal, and then…

His eyes grew sharp, the wave of memory finally crashing back into the shores of his head and settling into the soil. The maintenance robot had exploded, ignited by the sword of that martial artist. He grabbed onto Triezal, fervently.

“Where is everyone else? Did they survive?”

Triezal shook his head, sadly.

“I think I saw some martial artists running off, but you’re the only survivor of our squad that I could find. Korlove bodies just aren’t as durable as yours.”

A nonsensical list of curses strung together at random emerged from Kalthen’s lips as he sought any means of expressing his feelings. The icy Kande, the boisterous Meru, the studious Kaduk… all of them died, and without even the opportunity to accomplish something. He looked to Triezal again.

“Was it worth it? Do you know where it is?”

The Merris shook his head, sadly.

“Fuck!” shouted Kalthen. Perhaps he would normally have expressed his anger at the other man, but he found his emotions strangely diminished, as if they were happening to somebody else.

Triezal shook his shoulder, and Kalthen looked up at him in a daze of shock and pain. He idly realized that a line of drying blood ringed his neck, as if he had been sliced by something.

“We really need to go, little brother,” he said, urgently. “Station security is here.”

Kalthen nodded dummy, allowing Triezal to help him to his feet. He stumbled after the man. Wobbling on his injured legs. None of his bones had been crushed, as Jobu anatomy lent them to thick, sturdy bones. He was, however, covered in bruises and abrasions and felt as if he had run loops around the entire station.

Triezal led him to the nearest stairwell, and Kalthen leaned on the smaller man for help navigating his way to the lower levels of the stack. He realized that Triezal himself was limping too. It seemed he had hurt his leg pretty badly at some point. The two of them worked to steady the other, awkwardly making their way forward along the uneven piles of rubble.

As they walked, Triezal had explained his plan for escaping the area without being captured by security or worse, the Hadal Clan.

They had to avoid bridges, for those were easier to view from above than the stairwells. Security would be spreading out as they went further down the stack, trying to capture as many involved in the matter as possible. For this reason, stairwells were a safer choice. They could hopefully say ahead of the cordon and make it far enough away to find a Celan hospital. Preferably one controlled by the Heirs.

The fight had been one of the most destructive in Kalthen’s entire lifetime, having destroyed an entire two layers of a stack, and likely damaging several more. Any members of known criminal organizations such as the two of them were likely to be charged with extensive crimes. Kalthen had already spent his goodwill with the Leader after losing the item originally. If he needed to be bailed out of prison, the rest of it would likely be spent as well. At best he could expect the end of his career, unable to ever move into management of the Heirs like his mother and uncle had. At worst, he would be left to rot for decades in one of the Staiven mining colonies.

Even if he were to escape, his failures would not be forgiven until he returned the item to the Heirs’ possession.

“You know…” he said, the words drawing Triezal's attention.

“Know what?”

“I think we need to come up with a new strategy.”

Triezal laughed grimly.

“That might be the case.”

The pair continued limping their way down towards freedom.

1st District, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Thirdmonth, 1634 PTS

The Pantheonic Government’s idea of a holding cell was far different than what I had been expecting. Unlike the grimy, wet dungeons I had experienced in the past, back home on Canvas, this one was made of the same smooth, patch-colored stone as most of the station. What’s more, it was perfectly clean.

I got the feeling that if I were to drag my finger across the surface of the wall, I would put down more grime than I would remove.

The security forces had led me to one of their aeros, carting me across the city to what I imagined had to be the first district, at the very center of the city. They had split me and that Hadal woman apart, placed me in the cell, and told me to wait.

They hadn’t even bothered to take my sword away. I supposed it made sense, as the cell was made of the same advanced yet mundane materials as the rest of the station. I could easily break out with my body alone, and the same went for many of the species residing in the station.

During the long journey here, I had done some minor research on the station. It had originally been intended solely for Staiven habitation, and the design of many features such as these very cells demonstrated that fact.

When it had later been refitted for the residency of other races as refugees and immigrants slowly poured in over the years, the Pantheonic government chose the most economically efficient option when it came to criminal justice. If someone resisted arrest, they would be summarily executed on the discretion of the ranking officer on scene. If they immediately surrendered, they would be taken to the Central Justice Office for processing and trial.

In addition, the Security Department was known for how ruthless it could be. It was said they would destroy an entire district just to prove a point about resisting arrest, if need be. Even the most powerful underworld organizations such as the Hadal Clan and the Heirs of Ottrien generally chose to simply surrender to the security officers and just bribe the Justice Office to let them off with just a fine.

Because of this, I knew that if I were to escape by force, I would have little chance of lasting very long. It would be better to accept trial, and try to get let off with a fine. The alternatives of decades of penal labor in the mining colonies or execution did not appeal to me.

The issue was that while the security officers had not felt the need to confiscate my sword, they had found plenty of need to confiscate the pouch containing the money I had made by selling materials at the black market. Perhaps not even the heavens knew how much of it if any I would receive back when I was finally released.

I sighed, leaning back against the wall, my legs relaxed in a lotus position. My ribs throbbed, as they had not even allowed me to receive medical attention.

At some point I had fallen asleep. I was unsure how long I had been resting by the wall, but at some point I was awoken by an odd keening noise near the edge of audible perception. I frowned, thinking it might be some odd sort of torture technique by the Staiven, though I could not see why they would bother when they had yet to ask me a single question.

“Cyrus.”

It was a slight voice, and at first I thought I was hearing things, making the choice to ignore what seemed a hallucination to my tired mind.

“Cyrus.”

This time the voice was harder to ignore. I scanned the room, looking for the speaker. The sound was faint: could it be somebody from the next cell over? I inspected the walls, looking for any cracks or seams through which the sound might have been transmitted.

The voice was tinny, seeming to be distorted in some way. It was distorted enough that I couldn’t place it exactly, but it had a feminine quality to it.

“Next time, Cyrus, take me with you when you intend to start a massive battle, alright? Think of how much shit I would be in if I had to find a new… partner.”

“...Rachel?” I asked, shocked. The speech of this voice almost had to be her, I was certain of it. But how could she communicate with me in this cell in the first district, from all the way in the fifth? That was miles away, and I knew the range of her illusions did not spread too far from the conduit.

“I’m glad you’re here. How are you talking to me?” I asked.

“I borrowed some lab equipment. Never mind that, though. I can explain the details later, there’s not much time to talk. Look, Cyrus. I’ll try to bribe a judge or two for you. All you need to do is avoid telling them a thing. If they ask what you were doing there, just say you were at a restaurant, or something. I don’t know. Something innocent. If they ask who started the fight, you don’t know. If they ask why you were fighting with Karie Hadal, say she attacked you, and you’re not sure why. Since you’re a foreigner, you have a clean record. So long as they can’t prove you were involved, I should be able to get you out on parole.”

Not that I would bother interrupting Rachel to note it, but that last one had been true. I still hadn’t figured out quite why she had been so insistent on killing me, right after Ria and Taek had tried to recruit me. Were they part of different factions within the Hadal Clan? That could help to explain it, I supposed.

“I… see,” I said. “When should I expect the trial to take place?”

“Some time tomorrow,” she replied. Just hold tight and I’ll handle it- shit! The technician’s coming back. Besurenottosayanything!”

Rachel’s speech sped up, sounding almost more like a video played at high speed rather than a person just talking faster before she ceased talking altogether, and the tinny ringing sound faded from my hearing.

I looked around the empty cell, the multicolored walls and floor and considered what Rachel had said. It was probably solidly in the mid-morning hours, now, considering the time I had spent asleep. That left likely over a full Tseludian day before I would be let out of the cell.

I sighed, rising to my feet, sword falling into hand with a natural motion. I lifted it aloft, admiring the blade for a moment as I settled into my first stance. If I had nothing to do that day, then I might as well spend it training.

I thanked the heavens again that my sword had not been confiscated.

Martial Techniques: [A martial technique is an application of a practitioner's miasma. By moving their body in a certain way, and channeling their miasma to the correct dantians and meridians, effects beyond solely the nature of their miasma can be created. The Upper, or Cerebral Dantian governs the techniques of the mind and the soul's engrams, the Central, or Heart Dantian governs the flow of energy and the strength of the body, and the Lower, or Abdominal Dantian governs techniques of bodily control and movement. These techniques can become highly ingrained after sufficient practice, and in the spirit refinement stage, some techniques have become integral to the dantians themselves, and reflected within the practitioner's very spirit.]