Gorthow watched two blips slide across the EtchAfront. There was no doubt about the destination. Whatever they were, they were powerful.

  “Boss mobs. I doubt we could get a reading on their levels.”

  He needed to make a decision; the targets did not coordinate – it was something else, “One of you is being hunted.

  Gorthow’s eyes narrowed. He felt the siren’s song; victory would be his, none could stand against the might of Xylos.

  “Steady General, let them come to you…but will they attack together?

  The sound of armored fingertips drumming on his desk was accompanied by the sliding of needles as the EtchAfront constantly updated.

  “Sound the retreat, withdraw to the landing zone, and prepare for [Shield Wall Formation].”

  Better to keep information succinct for now; the men had enough to worry about.

  —

  Gorthow marveled at the carnage from above and wondered at the sheer scale of it all. Munitions expenditures were far outpacing any reasonable projections, the ground was cratered beyond belief, and for all that, only a single monstrosity felled. He traced the lines of its base as it vanished into the shadows. Any damage caused by the fall had already been absorbed; the plant growth was… unstable. Movement for the armada was, again, far slower than the worst projections. It was well he ordered the retreat; he’d been too zealous before, but the enemy had overplayed their hand; the armada would be ready.

  Transports filled in the back lines, and as panzers peeled off, awaiting to form the shield front. No complications, it made Gorthow nervous, yet the formation locked into place with the usual precision.

  The actual test would come with battle, and it would be soon. Unfortunately, he couldn’t shake the pit of unease in his stomach; with two fingers to his visor, Gorthow checked for fractures, energy fluctuations, thermal reading, and even cosmetic irregularities—anything for an insight before battle.

  “Damn you, what is it – what is it?”

  —

  Eldrin stalked as druids did – by lazing in a tree, while others did the work. Every flower, bug, and beast was his to command. He preferred to stay back, lest he be forced to speak, that human hand nearly driven him mad with its prattle. Bergm?nch – where was it? He needed more power.

  “What are you–” A wyrmback had ventured over to inspect its visitor, after all, this was its branch, as per law of the Mire; Eldrin’s eyes narrowed, and a lopsided grin. He punted the creature and watched in amusement as it vanished in a flurry of foliage. His eyes slid to a nearby knot, “If your sire’s half as smart as Talon –”

  Talon.

  Eldrin gripped his chest, and his heart raced – he snarled. Weakness, he had no weaknesses anymore. Revenge. That was all that mattered; it was his purpose, anything else was dust and ashes; he had to beat the System. He had a plan that would work, because it was simple; the best always were.

  The bark beneath his feet cracked and groaned, armor plates slipped over one another, and the way ahead grew and twisted as he stepped through the canopy. Traversing the Mire was simpler from above; the muck was so troublesome. True, he had other means, but he was in no rush.

  “Let us check in Bergm?nch.

  He gestured with his fist, and a throne grew.

  “Now let us see what transpires.”

  Eldrin’s eyes clouded over, his robe stirred without a breeze, and his mind cast adrift. It moved through time like essence. Shades of light, energy vibrations, this was the world, moving like a thought. Eldrin knew the destination, and so he was there.

  The [Dread Druid] blinked, and a clickbat colony did too, the flat world, yet he had another – stronger sense; sound reflected the aether and bounced like heavy rain across every surface; the world came alive with sound.

  Eldrin smiled at what he saw. It had been a long time since he’d seen something new. “War engines. Those designs are…Yes, I can use that.”

  —

  A pudgy face pinched with rage: covered in rashes, covered in filth, and now aerial pests assaulted his ears; Razer was in a frenzy, and he took potshots.

  “And stay gone! You filthy vermin!”

  He continued on his way. Without his helmet, he was forced to follow the treadmarks.

  “Left behind, those stupid–”

  Razer’s eye twitched. He spun around, repeater in hand; he held down the trigger until it clicked. “Damn it all to the nine hells!” He kicked at a rock, and it splattered his face. He attempted to free his foot, yet it held fast. Razer gritted his teeth, and his neck veins bulged. He popped free; his boot did not.

  This was Razer's day.

  —

  Mirabella moved with her nose to the ground, and her eyes shone with a faraway look. It was a skill, [Spirit of the Hound]. She was on the hunt. Something was wrong with Lyle, she knew it in her belly. Her fur tufts had not stopped tingling, not since the attack on the city. She should never have let him go. She should have sent someone with him; he wasn’t equipped for solo travel.

  He needed to be alive – he just had to. She’d never be able to forgive herself, she was always putting others first – and now it was going to cost her everything. She should never have helped Ren; Lyle was right to be suspicious.

  When faced with the prospect of a lifetime without her [Housebeaer] – Daybroke take them all!

  Lyle.

  Mirabella sped up, as she poured all of her concentration into her snout; every particle might be a clue. She slid to a halt in a spray. Sticking up from the muck, like a stick in the–

  “Hello, is that you, Tom? Listen, about the harvester, it wasn’t my fault.”

  Mirabella squelched her way to the voice.

  “T-tom…really I didn’t know–”

  Mirabella shoved a wet nose into the stranger's eye, as she gave a long, damp sniff.

  “What the – stop. Help, help – a m-monster! Monster!”

  Mirabella sneezed, covering the pudgy face with bear snot. Razer tried to close his mouth – it was too late. The [Shaman] sat back on her haunches, lifting a paw to her snout. “Where is my husband – human?”

  Razer choked on his own vomit as he struggled to sit up. Mirabella grew concerned over the gagging sounds and wondered if she might help. She pulled at her ear as the human clawed in the muck, succeeding in little more than creating a mess.

  Before her anger boiled over and she bit this idiot's head off, she swatted him onto his belly with a single swipe.

  Razer coughed and spat up on all fours. He lifted his head to thank–

  His eyes rolled up into his head. Razer’s day wasn’t getting any better.

  —

  Gorthow landed next to a prisoner transport; it was time he got some information. The door shot up at his presence, and he stepped inside. Xylosians preferred simple geometric designs, and their war machine bore that out. Inside, the lighting was dim. Cells lined the length of one wall. Racks of weapons, gear, and other instruments sat in shelves on the other side – along with… a furred monster – but its markings were…it stank of the swamp, and was matted in blood and grime.

  Gorthow’s lip peeled up, “Is it still alive? Why isn’t it in a cell –” he noticed the array of lines and hoses connected to the creature from the tables display. What were they doing? Medical treatment for a monster? He expected to be shown data sets; a breakdown of internal compositions, and mana extraction levels. What was he even looking at?

  “If you’re ready, Sir – we’ll wake it.”

  Gorthow’s curiosity was sufficiently piqued – he offered no arguments. Instead, he gestured with an open palm. Taking a seat along the observation benches against the near wall. An AI med drone approached from the corner. It resembled a human in a white doctor's coat, but moved with a crisp alien efficiency. And its face…lights and readouts, in a macabre expression of tech.

  A strike team member assigned to the transport noticed the look of distaste on the General's face, “Soul Shell Syndicate's latest model, Sir – it’s capable of enhanced interrogation and combat medicine. Just don’t ask it to make a cup of synth – unless you like it burnt.”

  There was a round of laughter. Gorthow didn’t join in.

  The med drone performed a series of halting movements as it bounced between the monitor and the creature. It didn’t actually touch any of the instruments. It didn’t need to. The lights on its face ran in a kaleidoscope of colours as it drew to a halt and backed away.

  “Mirabella – my plump truffle, where are you?”

  Gorthow had been ready for anything – seriously anything…but this. His helmet clattered to the floor, where it bounced noisily. The drone moved silently around the room, collecting the helmet. The General stared unblinking at the creature on the table – ignoring the expectant drone.

  “What level is it?” Gorthow broke the silence.

  “Sir, level 35 [Housebear].”

  General Gorthow stirred, “[Housebear]... what's a bear?”

  “Sir, I spent some time on the barbarian front…they call it – an animal

  The soldier cleared his throat, shifting in his stance, before looking around the room.

  “Some tribes treat them like a System.”

  “That’s enough. Put that thing in a cell before it wakes any further.” Gorthow seized his helmet from the upstart drone; he needed to make a call.

  —

  Gorthow sat at his desk. His office was simple, just the way he liked things—a rack for sleeping, a desk for reviewing, and a map for troop movements. His daughter, but she was far now, it might be years before they met again.

  “Now is not the time, General. Get your act together and make the call – stop stalling.”

  Gorthow looked at the choices before him. Sitting on his desk: a bottle of Xylos and a canister of Synth. The decorated glass bottle was etched to recreate a typical burrow dwelling from back home, and the dark liquid contained inside had his mouth watering. On the other hand, the sealed steel container filled with piping-hot, bitter stimulant was precisely what his brain needed.

  “For him – I’m going to need both.”

  He slammed a mug down on his desk, popped the cork, and unsealed the container; the smell of ground stimulant mixed with the sweet, bright notes of the spirits. He poured both simultaneously, stopping just as the contents of his mug threatened to spill onto the desk.

  Wasting no time, Gorthow tipped back his mug – halfway was enough – for now. He cleared his desk, took a deep breath, and dialed. He adjusted the position of his mug several times before the call picked up.

  “Gorthow you old swindler! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since–”

  “The Dawnshroud Pass incident.”

  The holo image reared back, laughing. The man's mustache, more a living thing than a style choice, bounced with each snort of laughter. Gorthow's counterpart looked every bit the general with a jaw that could shatter plas-crete, and a voice like iron.

  “...Uh hah, my System man – I couldn’t tell who was more frightened of us after that – the barbs or your own men!” He disappeared, doubled over with laughter.

  “Rylan, I didn’t call to reminisce. And as I’ve explained. I wasn’t responsible, it was something small and pin–”

  Rylan's laughter was so loud that it came out distorted, and there was… an entire weapons rack tipped over.

  “This was a mistake.” But Gorthow waited. And waited.

  —

  “So let me get this straight, General. You have a talking monster. And you called me because…”

  This is making me thirsty. He looked at his desk drawer, and his hand crept in that direction; the laughter stopped. Gorthow’s eyes slid to the holo. Rylan watched in silence, a smug look on his face.

  “Thinking about another drink, are we? Go ahead, I won’t tell – as long as you promise not to blow up your armada. Though I heard MaxTech made some special adjustments with those new panzers, just for you.” Rylan raised an eyebrow as he said the last.

  Gorthow gritted his teeth. “Look, I’m told it's called an animal. What can you tell me about them? Are they intelligent?”

  Rylan grew serious. “Animals, barbs, and monsters. There’s little difference between them. Kill them or charge them [capitals].” He shrugged.

  “Well, Rylan, you’ve been of the utmost help – as usual.”

  “OH, come now, General, don’t be like that. We haven’t spoken in ages, and you want to ask about…a what?"

  “I’m told the barbarians treat these -- so-called animals -- like a System.”

  “Oh, that. Well, and this is off the record. But I did share a drink with a barbarian chief once–”

  Rylan slammed a fist down, “I said off the record, Gorthow. Now shut up and listen – or do you need to call the Leader and report me? Good, now shut up and listen. The red tide was bad that day, and I got caught out with a squadron. Stuck on a cliff – neither side could retreat, and with duskwings circling, a temporary cease-fire was called. The chieftain shared something …ale, I think it was. I’ll never forget that day. I can still taste the sweet foamy drink, heh, it played hell with my mustache. I thought it was a dream, and at any moment, a horde would spill forth and take us all to the pits. Instead, we shared stories of home.”

  “Stories of home. Monsters don’t have homes – they wander and destroy. It's why they must be dealt with – for System and City.”

  Rylan chuckled, “It’s nice to see you haven’t changed over the years. But your experience is limited; you can’t deny it. When the only memories you have of your own family are of holo vids – perhaps then you will understand. You still think this is about glory and honoring the System. Tell me how you feel next cycle, General.”

  The holo winked out.

  —

  Ren woke, and his head was foggy. Where was he? Was Mom home yet?

  She’s dead.

  Memories came flooding back: Mountains like planets stretching into the sky, and a Sun hanging about their peaks, the Mire, Churi, and the nuclear reactor hidden in his chest. He was dead.

  “I’m an [Echo Runner] now – but I’m still a wicked DJ.”

  The DJ from another world sat up and looked around. I have an airship now. Well, he didn’t own DG, but he and the big guy were definitely bros. He liked the accommodations; his room was clean and straightforward, and there was just a hint of nature in the air, like the maple tree at his old house. He could really get used to this.

  “I’m going back to bed.”

  “Ren, are you feeling ok?”

  “Huh, wha – Pat. Are you…watching me?”

  “Yes, of course. WE SEE ALL.”

  “Chill. See anything you like?” Ren gave a gallows grin at the ceiling as he flopped back onto his bed.

  “You're not fun. DG is worried about you. What happened?”

  Ren bounced his. He wore a thoughtful expression, a faraway look. “I saw something. I think we met before. It's dead now – mostly. It left a spark in me, so that's a whole thing. Anyway, that's all I can remember.”

  “I see. Before, did you meet this thing?”

  Ren sucked on his teeth, “On the outside, it touched my mind, only a drop in the ocean of its vast consciousness – but it was enough to shatter me nearly.”

  Pat shifted in their stance, and DG rumbled.

  “DG, can you let me up onto the roof?” Ren was stir crazy; it had been too long.

  The DJ from another world walked out of his room. He followed the running lights to the elevator – they weren’t really necessary. Rolling elevator doors, mana propulsion; he stepped onto the bridge. He was on a mission, DG knew it as well as Ren did – they were excited too! The bridge glass parted like gel, and sunlight filtered in; Ren stepped into the warmth and smiled at the familiar sensations. So much had changed, and they had no time to understand. The world changed; it would never be the same.

  “I wonder what else there is to see?”

  He smiled and twirled his fingers. His decks shimmered into existence. The [Echo Runner] didn’t choose a song from memory, not this time; he opened his heart to the world. His face was like a mask; he let the world wash over him.

  DG vibrated with life beneath his feet, and sunlight warmed his skin, as his ears picked up on a myriad of chittering, clicking, and hissing, and the aether was thick. He took in a deep breath, stretching his lungs, and tasted salty, sweet. It was a good day to be alive.

  All these things and more mixed into a single vibration, an energy source; he could feel the music begging for life. Ren did not resist. The music would come; he needed to be ready. It started with a hum as Ren aligned his being – the aether held frequencies like sign waves, energies that needed to be vibed; fingers moved across the decks, and switches flew as dials tuned, his core knew the way.

  Notes escaped his lips, and their echoes brought ears, come to join in the spectacle—a flirtatious note, light and breezy, like a spring day.

  “

  “The Sun is out. What could go wrong? Let's enjoy this while it lasts.”

  Ren closed his eyes, letting the emotions of the last few days run rampant. He carried so much: a stranger in a strange land, on the run, new friends in tragedy, and others lost.

  Ren smiled as clickbats joined the fray. They came to play, and an audience was best! They dove in a whirl of fang and fur – colonies from far and wide. He was a beacon in the Mire, and they dove and splashed like crashing waves – and Ren stood like a lightning rod.

  “Tomorrow will come. Today, let us remember.”

  The crowd had arrived, a blanket overhead—time for the base. A ripple as the Mire danced. The crew’s eyes grew moist as they watched in awe. He pointed and bade them join, as he dialed up the pace. He moved with the flow, triggering high hats and low – his own creation, the aether manifest, in a show.

  Ren in a sea of monsters – smiled on a razor's edge. He was their guide, giving them sight. The [Echo Runner] jammed deep in the flow.

  There was beauty and grace, art imitating life. Ren's pace grew more frantic, and the colony responded – until.

  Silence.

  The Mire shook. Ten thousand wings snapped wide, and the menacing melodious monsters of the mire absorbed it all; in unison, it was released, and the Mire shook once more. Soon, it was call-and-echo, like schoolyard children.

  “Can you feel that!”

  Meen-Tra appeared, her lips tight and eyes wild with concentration. She flipped and cartwheeled up and down DG’s length, and was blanketed with fur and fang, a living cocoon, breaking free over and again.

  The others joined, and Mitzy took up her place; his decks had space. Hecate and his rangers knew the score, accustomed to battle, today might be their last. They roared and cried – with joy in their fists, while sliding from side to side. Draven maneuvered his scythe in an intricate dance, changing direction on pulse, and reaping with the echoes.

  And DG shattered the aether. There was not a soul in the Mire who did not hear their. Overly large, round, yellow eyes blinked from their watery haven as a gruff General slid back his visor, and a disgruntled druid tapped his foot in… irritation.

  In the depths of the dungeons, twins broke into dance, their auras swelling. Their party watched in horror, except the small and white, a new edition; they joined in the fun.

  The party went on, danger approached, but Ren didn’t care; he was invincible, he knew.

  When it ended, Ren lay flat on his back, his friends all around—tomorrow had come.

  —

  The Mire sprawled to this distance of imagination; it ended somewhere, but none knew where or how. Civilizations swam beneath the muck, built in its bogs, and climbed above. Areas hidden by the ancients were now revealed to time. Prophecy advanced, and people took note. The Grumakh took shelter, their legacies abandoned, and the winds of change blew. Their guard was at an end, and their neighbors took note. Hunting parties advanced, for new territories revealed, the Wyrmbrood were free, their tongue tasted fresh air. A people built for war, their time had come, they marched on clawed feet with spear in hand. The Beast Wars would be like a skirmish for what was to come: a reckoning was owed, and a price to be paid. The levels were waiting for the System to reward blood spilled, and the Wyrmbrood knew it well.

  Beastkin and orc returned to the old ways: cities, tribal land, and villages abandoned. The nomadic life had been their ancestral safety, and it called one more, for the winds of change blew, and none knew what came next.

  Murkspire, in ruins, a single district, yet stood.

  The vatagand hungered for safety below ground. Its target was near; it tasted the mana, foreign and new. Soon, it would grow, and none could stop it. It was a force of nature, and it would be.

  —

  Thrax crouched in the canopy, his eyes sharp and his mind calculating. What had he witnessed? Could it be true? His blood ran cold, and his heart beat wildly, as he watched DG cut through the Mire – a tortoise in the sky. He knew it to be true; his people's time was at an end, and now it began.

  “So it begins.” Thrax turned from the strange sight. Clickbats dancing with prophecy in numbers he couldn’t imagine. He needed to return to the Elders, as the decision was theirs, but he knew what would come. It was time to leave the Mire; the future was here, and the scrolls were clear. The unknown awaited, their salvation and damnation; it all hung in the balance by the tip of a reed.

  “I know that flyer…DG4 the abomination. So, it was you all along – Draven the cursed. Heh, your parents would be proud.” He shook his head and activated a skill. Thrax moved like the wind, his sandals propelled him with grace, and he shot like a fireball away from the scene.

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  “I hope to see you soon, brother.”

  —

  Gorthow was anxious as he paced in his office. His eyes flickered from the EtchAfront to his desk. The sonic attack had him rattled; the force of it and the power within threatened even his forces, and he could not lose. The armada was fierce; most of his troops were above [50]. Sure, there were some juniors in their 30s like that fool whose chain reaction had almost lost him a transport. They were probably dead now; his fellow soldiers had left him behind, a fitting punishment for someone so careless with tech.

  “Was that an attack. Sonic weapons…are not unknown, but that was strange. No damage was done; perhaps it was some mental attack? A [Mind Flay]? But I feel no ill effects. An odd desire to tap my foot…but surely that wasn’t it?

  Gorthow paused in his pacing; he was distracted and not doing his job.

  “Number two casualty report?”

  “Sir? Casualty report, there’s been no–”

  Gorthow's patience was at an end. “The sonic attack! Casualty report: How many troops were injured? And the armada, what is the inspection report?”

  “S-sonic…yes of course, Sir. We didn’t know – there was confusion, and some of the men felt the urge to…move about. I – we’ll send out inspection teams now. Sorry–”

  Gorthow wasn’t listening anymore, the fools, surely he couldn’t be the only one to see the attack for what it was. The enemy was attempting to sow confusion.

  “No, no no no, no. Gone…how can that be?

  Gorthow was at the EtchAfront; he gripped its edges, and a fear sank deep in his heart. The targets were gone, both vanished. The board was still; there was nothing out there.

  “The attack will come soon. This is it, time for levels and glory.”

  Gorthow clicked his helmet into place. He rolled his neck and spared one last thought for his daughter; his mind must be clear. It was time to deliver these rebels from their chains; there were [capitals] to be made.

  —

  “So what's our plan, dudes?”

  They sat around the bridge round table, except Mitzy, who, as usual, sat on it. After Ren’s impromptu dance party, the waters had calmed, and the team was ready; they didn’t know for what.

  “We know not what we face, lad. A [Ranger]’s duty is to scout. This is a good test for my apprentice.”

  Draven oiled his scythe as it lay across the table, his face impassive. Mitzy spoke up, “I can go with them, I have skills that can help with speed. Do we leave DG in place? Or does he advance slowly?”

  “I think we have company – separatists. My MaxTech, I think that's what they called it, helmet was integrated into DG’s systems; my HUD is showing… a crapload of, I’m not sure? Large dots and small dots, a cluster of them, outside the Mire–”

  “How can you tell, Pat?” Ren wanted to know.

  “How can I tell what?”

  “How can you tell they're on the outside?”

  “OH, well, my minimap shows a clear delineation on the tree line. It's quite handy, though I can’t tell much what I’m looking at; I know nothing about the Mire. But I can tell what's swamp and what's not, mostly because of the lack of trees and overgrowth, which shows like a…forest of light blips. I think this area here is Murkspire, it's more open – see. The impressions circle these brighter lines here, DG says Those are districts?”

  The wall screens changed, and a giant map showed with Pat walking beneath it, pointing at the indicated areas, like a cartoon on display, it would have been silly – if it weren’t so real.

  “Separatists, I should have known. This calls for candy.” So saying, Mitzy hopped from the table and vanished into the elevator.

  “She really has a thing for candy, doesn’t she? But is now the time? I mean, I’m down but –”

  “Gnomish candy has power.” Draven paused from his polishing to speak.

  “R-right, chill. Well, we’ll need all the power we can get. As for scouting, I think it should be me. I know I’m new here, and this isn’t my home. But with my speed and the fact I can find DG from anywhere, I’ll go and give us a report from my comms.”

  “I da kna lad. There’s more to scouting than speed. But yee fast I’ll give ya tha.”

  Nosh and Mog wanted to protest, but held their tongue. Hecate knew best, and they trusted his judgement.

  Ren walked over to the map and pointed to another open area crawling with movement, which piqued his curiosity. “What’s this area here?”

  “Grumakh.”

  “That's your spot, right? Before you were excommunicated, or betrayed by Thalgor or whatever. What are they doing? It looks like their – wait, Hecate, I thought you said the Grumakh evacuated like the Plateau? Speaking of that…where did they all go?”

  “That did. Thrax brought word. The dungeons and prophecy – a frightening tale he told. But we of the tribes of the Plateau heeded the call; we have always known this day would come.”

  “I see. Sounds like bad vibes. Erm, what day? And prophecy, isn’t that like fake news?”

  “My people believe the quaking bog exists on the shell of a tortoise. And that one day they will rise from the bog, and take our peoples out of the Mire. It’s nought but fantasy, frogkin swim the depths, and no such beasts exist. But with the mist gone…”

  “What does fog have to do with anything? And where did it go? Does this happen often? Is this like an apexing thing – or, I’m confused?”

  Meen-Tra stirred, “The Shining Ones protect us as a shelter from the outside, but the Grumakh see them as our cage. This is their fault; they must have done something to bring this about. They seek to impose their stories on us all. It has to be. She was right–”

  Meen-Tra stood up, and her chair toppled over, and she disappeared into the elevator.

  Ren blinked, “Well, she seems to be doing better. I couldn’t get a word out of her before.”

  “Pat, what do you and DG think?”

  “DG wasn’t to explore above.”

  “Above…oh right, well, he is an only natural flyer. I guess a whole world has opened up to you now. I didn’t really think about that.”

  “Yee shouldna go. There's a reason we stay in the Mire.”

  Ren adjusted his hood, “Reason? Like what?”

  “Da know. But it is known. We are safe with the swamp. It is known to us here.”

  Ren smiled, “Somewhere we aren’t supposed to go. We should definitely go there. What's the worst that could happen?”

  “Hold position. Let us gather our strength. Hecate and his scouts should gather supplies while we wait.”

  Ren’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. Draven spoke in multiple sentences, and with such command! “Draven, my dude, I like it when you take charge. Hecate, what do you think?”

  In response, Hecate stood, but not before Draven flicked a rune-stick in his direction. He snatched it from the air, “Come on, lads, let's earn our keep. We got mouths to feed.”

  “DG has a hydroponics bay, which is very interesting. What else do you have, DG? Are you keeping secrets? Well, yes, I have access to all your – no, I didn’t.”

  Ren chuckled, ignoring the alien, who appeared to argue with themself. He was going to find Camo and check in on their other guests; they missed the party, and he wondered why.

  —

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, puffy and red, his nose leaked, and his head was pounding. Razer didn’t know what was happening; this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Glory wasn’t like this; all the HoloVids said it was different. He plopped himself in the muck, heedless of the mess, not even his rash could distract him from his thoughts. He was going to die, lost alone, and no [capitals] to his level.

  “W-where did I go wrong?”

  Life was tough for those born to the lower levels of Xylos. He hadn’t been born in the depths of Haveena, yet his burrow wasn’t far removed. He lived in the shadows of glory, as most did, without levels and opportunities; a life wasn’t worth much. He wanted to join the front; he always had, as most men his age, but the queues were long and his chance to join was slight.

  But then the announcement had come, and the Emperor’s vision revealed a new front to explore – there would be glory for all. But this, Razer looked around him, his eyes puffed nearly shut. He sniffled and wiped his nose. At least his MaxTech suit was good for something, certainly not protecting him from – wherever this was.

  The Emperor's portal had transferred them here, and now he was lost. Razer had never even left his burrow, and certainly not Xylos. He’d been to the Gladiator games before, and that was a treat. But this, he’d never seen so much green in his life, and it was making him sick. Or that could be his rash; he didn’t really know.

  Xylos was all plas-crete and steam. There were parks with green in them, but rarely did he go there – who had the [capitals] for that, certainly not a street urchin like him. Razer made what little money he could, scraping stone and doing odd jobs. There was good money in stone scraping – enough to eat anyway, and always more steam from above. It was necessary, of course, so that the conglomerates could create items in the Systems name. He knew it was essential that everyone did; without items, humanity was weak and vulnerable to rebels and monsters.

  But that didn’t make it any easier; it was what it was. Razer had gone out every day, scrubbed and fought, ran packages to the [Tool Pusher] portals, and even been a target dummy for those with levels and [capitals].

  He was a level [30] Soldier; it took him a decade. He began at level ten, like most Xylothians. It made all the cleaning and scrubbing he did that much harder, since he had no relevant skills. And his soldier class was weak; he had no live combat training – only target practice.

  The truth was, he was an errand boy without any good skills, and his class was his prison, for he didn’t know how to use it.

  Sure, he could aim a repeater in a general direction, but hitting anything was more luck than skill. He met the minimum requirements to join the armada, but most were level [50] and had any number of combat skills. He only had one, [Quickfire]. For a short burst, he could shoot really fast, but it did him little good as he couldn’t hit the board side of a mana factory as is.

  “I’m going to die here. Surrounded by plants, like some rich kid in a park.”

  This was Razer’s day.

  —

  Ren could really get used to this; he didn’t ever want to leave. He wandered the ship, at his own insistence; DG didn’t guide him to his destination; he wanted to explore. He was looking for those they’d rescued, and he wanted to see Camo. The ship, or DG, was terrific; there seemed to be no end to its corridors. He popped his head into the closet that led to nowhere, and the halls ended. There were so many floors on the elevator, he thought the buttons must be wrong. So he stopped at each, expecting the elevator doors to slide open and find nothing but a blank wall, but each time he stopped, another floor revealed itself.

  It wasn’t just the space that gave wings to his imagination. It was the textures, sights, smells, and sounds. The ship was abuzz with life, plants, and bugs, but still it grew. Typically, he would have been creeped out by the small ship's crew; humans didn’t like bugs, everyone knew that. Nobody wanted to wake to find a spider crawling into their mouth. But these were different; he knew they tended to their own habitats and spaces, and left the rooms to the big folk who now called the ship home.

  Ren stopped and watched for what seemed like hours at a dance of lights. He came to a dead end and, before he could turn back, looked up to his amazement, an insectarium for bugs and a show to behold. He listened to their music and marveled at their dance. He’d never seen a firefly circus before, and yet here one performed. They needed an audience, and so he obliged. Ren closed his eyes and sat cross-legged in the air, as the light and sound washed over him, aglow from far above.

  This place really was excellent, and he never wanted to leave. All that was missing was some good food.

  The Kitchen, he’d find that next, but first – Camo.

  —

  Ren finally gave up exploring after the ninth floor had been examined down to the last empty room. He’d spent too much time there; the entire floor of the hall was covered in flowering vines. They reminded him of a honeysuckle bush from his childhood. He and Mom used to make daisy chains from their flowers, sucking the nectar from each, before looping it onto the next. They would spend hours making a necklace, and when all was done, they’d dance in the street like crazy people. Ren always thought it was normal, and everyone else was the strange ones. Who didn’t like dance parties?

  “I guess we were strange. But I stand by my beliefs – everyone likes to party!”

  Ren nodded his head in affirmation, and Pat appeared on the wall next to him. “Ahh! Ren grabbed at his chest, “Where in the – how many screens – that is so cool.”

  Ren poked at the flowery vines, their blossoms swirled with colour like oil paints poured but not mixed, swirls of velvet purple and creamed white; his stomach growled.

  “Pat, don’t scare me like that. A little warning next time. You don’t have a screen in my room, do you?”

  A firefly landed on a hair blade. Ren’s eyes crossed. “Hello there, little buddy, where’s the rest of your troupe?”

  “Troupe?”

  “Yeah, they have dance teams – put on quite a show on the insectarium deck. I didn’t want to leave – I could have stayed there all day. I think I picked up a new technique. Little guys can really jam.”

  The fly on Ren flashed in excitement.

  “See, it knows.”

  “I see. I’m not really sure why DG insisted on bringing them aboard, but they did, so here we are. The things are breeding like rabbits. I’m worried their population is going to get out of control. It's enough that their coruscating behavior is clashing with the lambent textures of our ceiling lights; it took me forever to get the scheme where I liked it. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had.”

  Ren lowered his eyes, “So safe in your…virtual world, aren’t you. Do you have any regrets?”

  “Regrets?”

  Ren grabbed the back of his neck, “About your death.”

  Pat stared back, their alien expression impossible to read. “Uh, yeah, I mean. You're dead, aren’t you? You're just a…

  Ren waved his hand at the view screen.

  “...Pixels? Don’t get me wrong, it seems cool, but don’t you miss food? For instance.”

  “OH, I eat, I eat ideas. I can make almost anything in here. Though I mostly stick with popcorn. The flavor I can remember is from a special memory from my childhood. It's everything.”

  Ren’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, so you can just manifest any flavor from memory in there? That seems OP. Ok, now I’m jealous of your death.”

  “I’m not dead. My existence is just beyond your understanding.” Pat blinked at him, their expression still unreadable. Ren would figure it out; he was good with people, in the meantime.

  “Can you light the way to Camo, please? I give up trying to find him.”

  The floor light ran at Rens' feet. He smiled – he had really gotten used to this.

  —

  Camo was in the kitchen. Helpers surrounded him, many of them children, orcs, some orange and others green – but none had the tattoos marking them as leveling adults. Ren smiled as he approached. Camo was doing his best not to burn whatever he was cooking – switching burners and shooing gruntlings away. It was wonderfully chaotic; it reminded Ren of the holidays. He and Mom were alone, but they used to volunteer at the local pantry during the Christmas season. They didn’t have much, but Mom was an excellent cook, and the kitchen always welcomed their help.

  “Camo, my dude, it smells like heaven! Whatcha making?”

  Camo’s neck bulged, and his eyes swiveled around backwards. He blinked twice. “Hello, Ren, do me a favor and entertain these pests for me, the food's almost finished – which reminds me. Pat, can you let the crew know – meals on in fifteen.”

  So saying Camo went back to tending the pots, in a flurry of spatula, his tongue bungying out to test.

  “Not exactly like they teach it. But every good chef has to taste each creation.” Ren chuckled as he charged into the mix of gruntlings, scooping up the nearest two under his arms and exclaiming with a roar, “I am Lord Blood Fly – all your liquids are belong to me – RAAR!”

  They scattered like dust on the wind, shooting in all directions. Soon Ren was hovering around the room, heedless of any decency or decorum – there was a war on!

  —

  Meen-Tra entered the kitchen and looked around in amazement. Tables stretched into the distance, bench seating, and their tops covered with decorations; flower arrangements fit for a high-level artisan. The actual kitchen where Camo worked was like nothing Meen-Tra had ever seen. It was like something out of an alchemist's shop; the cooking surfaces were huge, and there were more dials and levers than she could understand. It looked like what she’d imagined [Chefs] used in the upper floors of a guild hall, where they prepared dishes for high levels and council members.

  She’d dreamed of the day she could access the upper floor of the artisans' guild; she was close. Once she broke level [30], maybe it would be her turn. But now, who knew what was left, and if Garzha really was dead – there probably wasn’t much left.

  Garzha – Mother.

  She missed a step and was wracked with guilt. She’d gone a whole minute without thinking of her; how could she forget? Meen-Tra turned around. She was going back to her quarters; this was too much.

  “Yoo, Meen-Tra, just in time…”

  She turned around as she brushed her hair back out of her eyes.

  “...For an attack from the Blood Fly LORD. I want to drink you.”

  Her eyes went wide as Ren charged at her, holding his arms in front of his face, his fists clenched together. “DRINK YOU, DRINK YOU.”

  At the last second, he dropped into a crouch and slung her over his shoulder, “Come, my minions – we feast, we feast! This one is a prize, her blood is like cherry-flavored Kool-Aid!”

  Ren laughed as he ran around the room, a horde of gruntlings trailing in his wake, eager for the taste of orc flesh. Meen-Tra struggled to get free, but her heart wasn’t in it. She gave up as a smile played on her lips, and she reached out for an orange gruntling dressed in torn rags, “Not today! I’m praying to no gruntlings such as you! You’ll never take me alive, you little flies. HA-HAHA-HA.”

  That's when Draven entered the room, but before he could pull out a rune-stick – children gave him a headache – Camo ushered him into the kitchen. He needed help setting the table; their feast was about to start.

  —

  Mitzy entered the kitchen in time for the prayer. Folks lined benches, their heads bowed. “...Bless this meal and all those we have here to enjoy it together. Let's party!” The prayer finished, Ren dug in with gusto, filling his plate. He grabbed one of each colour. The grunts, all smashed together with Meen-Tra and Ren as bookends on either side, had their eyes alit and their stomachs empty.

  Pat spoke from overhead, a special viewscreen attached to a swivelling arm allowed him the perfect positioning, “I didn’t know you were religious, Ren, catholic or Christian?”

  Ren spoke from around a mouthful of skewer meat, “Shpurtshul.”

  Pat pulled a face; it was anyone's guess as to which one. Draven ate in silence while keeping a weary eye on the children. Hecate and his apprentice sat across from the gruntlings and helped them serve, and their parents relaxed for once, given a moment of peace. Food and safety had been scarce, and until now, they weren’t sure where their next meal would come from.

  “I’m not religious, but I always like doing prayer, minus the god part. Seems like a good idea to give thanks when you can. I do it with music usually, I give thanks with a song, and a spin from my tables.” He smiled up at Pat before sticking out his tongue, all covered in mash.

  “Eugh, you're an animal.”

  Several heads turned at that comment, and Ren laughed, which was unfortunate timing as he spat food across the table. Draven was not amused. After he got control of himself, Ren thanked Camo, “This food is delicious, Camo. What kind of meat is this – it reminds me of the Night Market, there was this one vendor, a family recipe, he said–”

  “Meat? Is the menu mostly vegetarian, you know? Except fish, frogkin do love fresh fish.”

  Ren’s face screwed up in confusion, “Vegetarian but…

  He held up a skewer full of plump, juicy chunks.

  “...see Exhibit A. It tastes like chicken, but I haven’t seen any. I hope it's not lizard – or blood fly.”

  “It's bok…”

  Ren looked from his food to the frogkin. Camo licked his eye, which left some food particles there; he blinked them away, “It's a skill, [Carnafie]. [Chefs], [Cooks], [Housekinds], and many others acquire it. Works best with bok, since it's so protein-packed already.”

  Ren tore into his skewer, “I love this place. All of the fun, and none of the bad. Except that Talon guy, what a jerk. And possibly Thalgor, the jury's out on him.”

  —

  Ren entered the dining hall. He’d been helping shuttle grunts to bed, after all the excitement and food, plus Ren’s play; the children were dead with exhaustion. His party was seated around the table, and their eyes too flirted with the backside of their lids.

  “So that was fun, Draven. When are we going to have some of our own?”

  Draven sighed and pulled out his rune-stick case. “I hate kids.”

  “And why am I not surprised, come on Draven, it wasn’t your fault you reaped your parents' souls – and besides, look what's become of them.”

  Ren gestured around the room, and Draven blew a smoke ring in his face; the firefly still attached to Ren's hair swung through the hoop before taking back up its perch. Ren coughed in exaggeration. “Draven, didn’t anyone ever tell you it's rude to smoke at the table?”

  Hecate laughed, “Give one ove,r lad – don’t listen to the pink one, he must have been raised by proper folk – guild leaders I’d wager.”

  “You know I’m not from here, right?”

  “Hur and ware yee from ehh?”

  “Earth.”

  Hecate stroked his pleated beard, and their jewelry clinked, “Ohh, fancy lad, aren’t you?”

  Ren smiled, “I’m exotic.”

  Pat rolled their eyes, finally making an expression someone could relate to, but no one noticed that they needed a better seat at the table.

  Meen-Tra looked interested for the first time, Ren noticed, “It's not on this planet, Meen-Tra.”

  “Oh.”

  Ren looked around the table, while Pat furiously punched buttons on their touch screen in an attempt to lengthen their viewscreen's arm. Nobody seemed impressed with Ren’s statement. Now he was confused, though Draven and Thalgor hadn’t been impressed either – things happened so fast back then.

  Mitzy looked up from where she polished her mecha arm, “Most people are from different planets, Ren. What did you think gnomes and orcs evolved from the same place, hah! Though with the levels of sugar in their swamp…” She began adjusting her head, dish as she muttered to herself – something Lecker…

  “It's true, lad, we all cum from off-world. There may be an ancient orc who remembers. Though the Mire is almost known.”

  “I see, Draven, you didn’t think to mention this before?”

  Draven looked up from his rune-stick case. He was fiddling with the clasping mechanism. “It didn’t come up?”

  Ren blew on a hair blade, “Didn’t come up…well, I think it did, check the tapes.”

  Draven gave up, “Tapes?”

  Ren sighed, “Never mind. So you're all immigrants from another world, then? Are there naturalized citizens?”

  Hecate, who had been watching Draven with some amusement, looked to Ren, “Like a [Druid]? We have those. Though ever since he rose in power, 'tis found upon.”

  Ren looked around the table, confused; it seemed like it was way past bedtime. Finally, Mog came to the rescue, “Eldrin, he was a druid. He went mad in the end. Disappeared mysteriously, none too soon, if you ask me. I reckon he’s a tree now; they are all like that, secretly wishing to be a plant. I had a gran that was a druid – mad as a starving wyrmback, she was.”

  Ren poked a finger at Jeremy, making sure the firefly was still alive, “I thought Eldrin was beloved? Didn’t he build Murkspire?”

  “OH tha he was. Tha he was.”

  “So it's a love-hate relationship. Got it.”

  Pat chimed in, from over Draven’s shoulder, “Remind me of Rondale, what a coot, what a coot – did I ever tell you about the time one of our staffers lost an eye or was it a–”

  Draven blew a cloud of smoke over his shoulder, completely covering Pat's screen.

  Ren chuckled, and Meen-Tra’s face hit the table; the [Sandalmancer] needed rest.

  —

  After putting the crew to bed, Ren had to carry Meen-Tra to her rack – he wandered the ship. He wasn’t fatigued, and in fact, he realized, tired wasn’t something he felt…anymore. The last time he remembered sleeping, or at least waking up, was in Mirabella's tent.

  “Hmm, Mirabella and Lyle, I hope you're ok. Speaking of which.

  Ren looked down at his chest and poked himself.

  “Hello, anybody in there? Ancestor, sorry we didn’t get to chat for a while since I was last in there. In dreamspace? Yeah, dreamspace, how do I get back to you? I have some questions I’d like to ask. Mainly, why does my chest hurt again? I think something is wrong. It’s probably fine.”

  Ren didn’t know. His core seemed to be unique, if Thalgor was to be believed. Thalgor…There were so many things happening in Ren’s life, and he wished he could slow down and get some answers – if only there were a way to get everyone aboard this ship? Then they could all gather around and hash this out. It seemed like there were a lot of unknowns, if he was anything to judge. Folk of the Mire were super chill, and he liked that about them – but he did have concerns. Mainly, why weren’t more people concerned?

  “Am I crazy, Pat? Does it seem like folks are too… what's the right word, casual about all the chaos happening right now? I mean a dragon worm, the death of a God, or whatever the Shining one was…or is? It might still be alive–

  Ren poked his chest. Jeremy flickered and readjusted himself.

  “Pat, are you there…”

  Ren sighed; even the pixelated alien dude was asleep; he really didn’t feel like waiting.

  —

  Ren ended up back in the aviary quarter, as he was affectionately calling it. The ship was asleep, even the bugs. DG was there, the constant tug of his existence, now a familiar and somewhat comforting sensation – his privacy felt lacking. But then again, DG wasn’t exactly…well, no, he couldn’t go down that route. DG4 was a person; they were just strange. They certainly weren’t an animal, not like a beastkin…

  “This isn’t getting you anywhere, Ren, your mind's too busy, you’re just worried about your friends. You know something bad is coming. The System message was, so not chill.”

  That hadn’t ever come up, which Ren thought was strange, and what it said was also weird—too many coincidences, as they say. Ren didn’t like it. He was pacing, down one end of the hall and back the other.

  Finally, he stopped under the insectarium, “Screw it. Time for some meditation – it's past due.”

  He sighed. He really should do this more often; it's called a practice. He chuckled at the memory. He positioned himself comfortably, folding his legs and tilting himself just right; levitation was handy. The soft glow of a resting firefly cast a scene of serenity, and Ren breathed. His thoughts were natural, he knew; he did not fight them.

  So many thoughts: Pats map, the gruntlings, an unknown threat, prophecies, Meen-Tras huge, Thalgor, and so much more.

  “Chill vibes, bro. Chill vibes.”

  The process was familiar, and it felt easy. His breathing was deep and steady, and his body sat relaxed, yet he did not sleep, nor did his mind churn; the void was calling, it whispered his name. Time slowed, and his thoughts stilled – Ren was no more.

  —

  He opened his eyes a little while later and suffered something of a shock – where had he gone? The first thought that occurred to him, after he took his bearings, was that this was a dream. The second was, this is definitely not a dream – he’d dreamwalked recently, and this wasn’t it. He put out a hand and leaned against the cool metal surface.

  Shielding his eyes from the Sun with his free hand, Ren thought he recognized the area. The grass, of course, like an ocean of coral, bends in the wind. This was the Crystal Plains. He looked to his side and noticed something odd. He was leaning up against. Ren’s eyes moved up, and up – this was a large, and if he wasn’t being honest, scary tank?

  “These don’t belong here, even I know that.”

  Ren looked from side to side; he couldn’t see beyond the two mountains on treads to either side. He walked to the rear of the vehicle, which was quite large; he counted his paces at about twenty-five.

  “So, that was from about halfway. Wow – fifty footers. That’s big? I’m not sure this is my first tank…”

  Ren scratched the back of his neck as he leaned out. He looked left and right, tanks. He turned around and walked back inside the line. It was too quiet. Did it make him feel like throwing a show? Thought he wasn’t sure how that helped him here. Maybe he could distract these dudes? Or if he entertained them, they wouldn’t turn these guns on his friends?

  “None of those seems likely, I mean dudes rolled tank, that doesn’t exactly say, ‘Hey we are the good guys!’ now does it?”

  Ren squinted. The Mire looked rough. It made him angrier than he thought it would; there were so many titan – what were a few destroyed. He needed to do something. He stared down at his open palm – maybe he could shoot them? He looked from his hand to the thick armored plating; the metal reminded him of his chains. That reminded him of the time he was flayed alive and his bones engraved with…

  “Ahh, memories. Hello, what have we here?”

  Ren stepped to the gears and the straps comprising the inner tread, and climbed up in sandals and a hoodie, like a bum at the beach. He looked like some peace activist; he was totally out of place. One didn’t fight an army of tanks, dressed like a–

  “You, my friend, look like a gas tank, but that would be weird, because there's no gas here, right?

  Ren inserted two fingers into the slot in the rectangular cutout, just above the tread. It hung out, easy as you please. Ren’s eyebrow climbed to his hair. A cap – a gas cap?

  “Huh. Well, I’ll be, it's like they want me to be entertained.”

  Ren twisted, and it turned with ease. He pulled, and a canister slid free. It was long, and soon it passed over his shoulder, and still he pulled and pulled; he flipped over backward, and his prize with him. As he floated down, he wondered if he was about to die.

  Nothing but a metallic thud in the dirt. “That was easy. I should probably hurry; someone might miss that.” So saying, Ren disappeared the canister into his inventory and climbed back up. He peered into the opening and saw…nothing; it was too dark. He turned around, looking for something, and he checked under his sandals. Nope, nother there. What if…he wished Mitzy were here; she seemed to know a lot about killing separatists.

  “I don’t really want to kill you guys. But I don’t have a choice? Probably?”

  Ren sighed while drumming his fingers. Cries of alarm, Ren looked around. He held his ear to the gas tank. Yep, sounds from within. The time for moral dilemmas and quandaries was over. He could take this chance, or turn and run.

  “Decisions, decisions…” He sucked on his teeth as he removed monster cores from his storage, dropping them down, one at a time; they landed with a dull clank. He wrapped one in gnomish utility cord and tossed it down too, then added some more – until it was full.

  A hatch banged open from somewhere above, so he jumped the gap to the neighboring tank and ran around the far side.

  “Check the mana cell, I’ll call it–”

  Ren wasn’t listening; he’d already removed the second cell, storing it. He repeated the process, and when he was done. The two tanks were connected, and their cells took up space in his inventory.

  “Now to test out the vibes on these chords – heh, heh, heh.”

  Ren crouched down, a hand overhead, gripping the length of the chord in one hand. He reached out to his core, and it answered the call. The power was instant, and Mitzy’s gift was responsive; it vibrated like piano wire.

  Ren gave a gallows grin.

  “There’s no way this works.”