3.5

Rhyce pushed himself up from the splintered boards of the pier, his movements unnervingly steady despite the dark bloom of blood spreading from his shoulder. His breath came in slow, controlled heaves. Behind him, two of his henchmen approached. How they could support someone as cruel and merciless as him, Isolde couldn’t fathom. It was as if their free will had been stripped away, their actions dictated by some unseen force. Looking closer at their mesh-like skin and the pulsing green veins that traced unnatural patterns across their temples, it was hard to tell where flesh ended and technology began. Their eyes glowed faintly, vacant yet unyielding, as though tethered to Rhyce’s will by an invisible chain. Perhaps they were controlled—puppets of the same sinister technology he flaunted, their humanity suppressed by whatever was in that green concoction.

The substance spilled from his lips like molten drool, each laboured breath rattling as if his lungs were on the verge of collapse. Was he running out? It didn’t matter, because a moment later he pressed the side of his neural port again, causing more Ghostfire to pump through his system. This time his cyberware didn’t just glow green—it pulsed violently, as though alive. His face contorted, veins bulging beneath the surface, and the metal along his neck wrenched forward, tearing through flesh and leaving jagged wounds. The cables winding through his body throbbed with each beat of his augmented heart, and his eyes flickered, twitching as if they might roll back into his skull. His steady glare morphed into a twisted grin. The humanity was gone; this was more machine than man.

The long-limbed mercenary, Cormac, didn’t look frightened in the slightest. “Destroy the canister,” he said.

Just like that, the officer with the augmented visor lifted his large rifle, crouched down on one knee, and fired. A beam of dark-blue energy streaked across the pier, heading straight for Rhyce.

Rhyce darted to the side and charged, a blur of speed and fury, but the projectile shifted mid-flight, arcing back with lethal precision. It slammed into his back, sending him sprawling onto the wooden deck before he could close the distance.

“Insignificant worm,” Cormac said, slowly walking towards him.

Isolde was partially relieved—someone had finally stopped this monster—but then she saw Rhyce pick himself up off the ground again, and she held her breath. He wasn’t steady this time. His body convulsed, glitching in and out of place as though reality itself rejected him. His movements became erratic, his form jerking and distorting, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as sparks and Ghostfire spewed from the ruptured canister. The liquid sprayed in wild arcs as he zipped, colliding with kiosks, toppling game stands, and smashing through animal cages. When he finally careened into The Whale, the impact dislodged the row of candles lining the edge of the stage.

The flames tipped into the spreading Ghostfire, igniting it in an instant. The blaze surged along the trail he’d left behind, snaking through the pier like a living creature, devouring everything in its path, spreading, growing. And soon, kiosks began to fall. The smoke misted through the air as a dark smog, making it impossible to see beyond The Whale.

But Elysia was still down there, and she needed help.

Isolde picked herself up. She wanted to tell the mercenaries, any of them, but Rhyce’s goons flashed through the darkness, appearing out of nowhere. One of them struck Cormac square in the jaw, the impact echoing like a hammer on steel. He staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, his long arms shot out behind him, catching his weight with an almost elastic grace. With a force like a boulder in a slingshot, he snapped forward, his massive, steel fists aimed to obliterate their skulls. But they were faster, so much faster, slipping out of reach and vanishing into the smog.

“My daughter is down there,” Isolde cried, but it fell on deaf ears.

The invisible mercenary dashed into the smoke, following the trail of green mist. Soon, the officer with the mantisblades followed, and then Cormac began walking. Isolde grabbed his arm, and he turned to her.

“Please,” she said, her voice heaving with fear. “Muh-my—”

Cormac shoved her away with his long mechanical arm. “Move!”

Another strike, once again straight to his jaw.

Isolde slid back on her ass and hit her head against something solid. Her voice cried out with rage: “You buh-bastard. You eh-evil bastards!” She picked herself up once again, leaning on the object; the smog was becoming so thick she began to cough, the harsh ashy taste thick on her tongue. She coughed, and coughed, and coughed.

The realisation hit her. No one was coming. No one would save her. Her daughter would be swallowed by the chaos—the flames, the smoke, the clanging of metal limbs in battle—all of it drowning out Elysia’s fragile, terrified movements. Isolde’s legs trembled as she pushed herself upright, the object she’d leaned on digging into her palm. She didn’t care. The world around her had devolved into chaos and blood, but one thought burned brighter than any flame licking the pier: Elysia needed her, and fast.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Tears streaked Isolde’s cheeks as she padded along the deck, keeping low, doing her best to avoid the thick, chemically enhanced smoke. She could hear the battle outside, could see it through the smog: clashing metal, flashes of green, interrupted only by the blue energy from the officer’s rifle, zipping back and around. She kept moving, creeping along the inside of Silas’ kiosk, her hand brushing against the large white rabbit doll. It was already burning up and blackening from the heat. She couldn’t stop. Not now.

Isolde was steps away from crossing the border between the front and back of The Whale when a body crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. One of Rhyce’s men lay there, writhing, his breath gurgling through blood that bubbled up from his lips. His arm—no, what was left of it—ended in a spiky stump, sparking wires tangled with shredded flesh, the ghostly outline of bone glinting beneath the grume.

He was about to pick himself up, but a steel limb shot forward and smashed down on his skull with the palm wide open. It was crushed, leaving only the brain splatter. A little of it got on Isolde’s jacket, but she pushed on, staving off the disgust and fear. She snuck around the back of The Whale, and she could see clearly.

Elysia was crouched against the underside of the stage, sucking on her finger. Isolde scampered forward, moving like some wild animal, and at the same time, Elysia hurried over to her, wrapping her in an enormous hug. She broke it swiftly and saw a large bitemark on the tip of her index finger. The jackrabbit, of course. Elysia was bawling.

“I’ll fix it later,” Isolde rasped. “But we have to leave. Now.” She took Elysia’s hand, grasping it firmly, and guided her around the left side, towards the steps leading to the beach. It wasn’t the best place to escape, but anything was better than this deathtrap. In the distance, police sirens whirred, and through the darkness glisters of red and blue emerged. She approached the side, keeping her eyes steady, but she stopped suddenly.

In front of her sat Rhyce, his back against the stage, the skin of his face peeling away to reveal the raw muscle underneath. Green goo leaked from his eyelid. His chest heaved, each breath struggling through his body, and clutched in his arms: the Ghostfire tank. The shadow inside swirled about, bashing against the glass, trying to break free. In his left hand was one of the officer’s blue-ringed pistols. He looked at Isolde, and she expected him to say something, but he didn’t.

He brought the pistol down to the tank, took a deep breath, and—

“No!” Isolde turned, yanked Elysia in front of her, away from the tank, and pulled her back behind The Whale.

BOOM!

The explosion ripped through the pier with deafening force, a blinding flash of green and orange, sending shards of the tank over her shoulder, the heat reeling into her neck. She screamed in pain.

The pier groaned, the wooden planks cracking and splintering like brittle bones. She felt the weight of the platform shift back, and suddenly she slid under, her head striking the metal sharply. The Whale shuddered as the supports beneath it gave way. Its metallic hull creaked, twisting grotesquely, before it tipped forward. She watched above as it collapsed, and the boards beneath helplessly subsided, bringing everything down with it. Isolde did her best to catch on to something, but everything came at her too quickly. The boards snapped, pulled, and yanked. Down she went, keeping her daughter tucked in her arms as saw-edged splits dug into her limbs.

Another scream, and they continued falling. The Whale lodged itself deep in the pier, and for a moment she thought it had stopped, but looking above, she saw the remains of the Ghostfire tank begin to creep over the ledge, and in it: the hanging body of a dead snake.

Her eyes lit up as the flaming barrel fell down. She couldn’t turn over this time to protect Elysia from the blow. All she could do was rest her arms over her daughter’s skull.

It crashed into them, the weight enormous, burning Isolde’s arms.

The pier beneath snapped one last time, and they fell. Isolde lost control of her daughter; the pain was too great, and they dropped into the harsh litter along the beach below. They were free. She looked up at the aperture from which they’d fallen, seeing that the tank had wedged itself in the gap. She looked down and saw Elysia picking herself up near the drum fire several yards way.

Isolde pushed against the sand, screaming to her knees, but the pain was too strong for her to sit up. She reached out her hand to Elysia.

The pier slid.

She looked up at the aperture again, and this time the Ghostfire tank had broken free. It fell quickly, struck the drum fire, and lit up in flames.

The fire spiralled outward, catching everything in its wake.

Elysia stood there, her small frame silhouetted by the blaze, her wide, frightened eyes locked on Isolde.

“Elysia!” Isolde’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. She clawed at the sand, dragging herself forward, but her limbs were heavy, useless against the tidal wave of pain coursing through her body.

The flames reached her daughter. They licked at her blue coat, the delicate fabric igniting in an instant. Her little arms flailed, beating against the air, against the fire that consumed her. Her face twisted in agony, tears streaking her cheeks even as the heat blackened them.

You’ll never amount to anything so long as you’re taking care of that disgusting, useless, waste-of-space thing.

Isolde’s outstretched hand trembled, her fingers grasping at empty air, powerless to bridge the gap between them. The flames surged higher, a wall of green and orange that swallowed Elysia whole. And then there was nothing but the fire—roaring, crackling, devouring. Elysia’s patting petered into silence, leaving behind only the horrific image seared into Isolde’s mind: her daughter’s small, fragile body lost in the inferno, her sweet, angelic face twisted in a final moment of terror and pain.

See, Mommy is what we northsiders call a ‘bum’. A leech, feeding off me and my husband’s money. Don’t be like Mommy when you’re older, mmmmkay?

Isolde collapsed onto the sand, her screams drowned out by the unrelenting roar of the flames. She pounded the ground with her fists, sobbing uncontrollably. Her stomach twisted and vomit surged up her throat, spilling everywhere. She coughed, the snot gooing across her lips and nose.

I love you.

She couldn’t speak; she could only wail. She couldn’t dare to look up at her daughter’s corpse. She turned onto her side, slobbering, struggling to breathe.

All she could see was a pair of boots with long steel arms hanging near the shins, and everything was silent.

Then a voice spoke, and she would never forget it:

“Trauma team en route. We’ve had a civilian casualty.”