SILAS

The door to the garage opens slowly, gears and belts vibrating as they revolve inside the mechanism.

C'mon, hurry up. What the hell.

As soon as I can, I burst the open doorway and into the spacious hangar bay.

Nothing like the place I was at before, in the South Facility. But it's big enough to house maybe a couple dozen cars.

Not that I see any conventional cars. Mostly these hardy-looking, heavily modified dunebuggy things, and bikes that kinda look like Harleys.

Then, of course, there's the Walker.

It's bigger than I thought it would be. Like three buses wedged together, side-by-side. It's tall, and hulking, and kinda reminds me of the AT-TE Walkers from the prequel Star Wars trilogy, minus all the cannons and turrets. It's covered in camo paint, giving it a beige, desert-y look. There's a side-hatch open, and a ramp extended.

It's impressive to look at. Too bad it won't be any help. Apparently, a vital component was torn out of the console, something called a 'NavChip'. It's broken now, attached to Gavin's stomach via a chunk of blade.

Before, I could have tried to buy enough time for the people of the Cloister to make some kind of escape. I could have taken off in the opposite direction, forcing Daimon to give chase. Eventually, perhaps I could have simply escaped myself. Could have at least tried.

Now, that's out of the question. If I want to stop Daimon, I'm going to have to really stop him.

Somehow...

There's a group of men and women standing between the door to the mechanic's garage and the Walker. Well, most of them are standing. One, a man, is sitting on the ground. He's shirtless, with some kind of bloody-looking bandage wrapped around his mid-torso. His eyes are distant, and he seems to be having trouble breathing. If I didn't know better, I'd say he could be minutes away from death.

They all stare at me. Most of them take one or two steps back. All except for the injured one, of course, and some old lady with loose, grayish-white and steely eyes.

I like her. Not because she's not afraid of me—pretty sure she is—but because she reminds me of my grandma on my mother's side. We called her Gram-Gram, and she always had this way of staring people down. Some people found it intimidating, but I always thought it was funny.

"Oh. Hello," she says flatly.

"Silas, Evelyn," Shiloh says, jogging up next to me. "Evelyn, Silas."

"A pleasure, I'm sure," I say.

"As if we have time for pleasantries," Evelyn says to Shiloh, talking past me. "Just what is going on?"

"Well, for starters, Gavin took the NavChip out of the Walker. And it's broken, now."

"So the escape plan's a bust?" Evelyn says. "We're as good as dead?"

Cade moves past them at a quick jog, heading for 'the lockers', according to what he'd said earlier. For a moment, Evelyn's eyes follow him questioningly.

"Not just yet," Shiloh says, rapping my metal shoulder with a knuckle. "We've got him."

Evelyn eyes me up, doubtful. "We trust it?"

"I do," Shiloh says. "As for you...well, I'm not sure you have a choice."

Cade's already back, panting. He has two oxygen tanks and masks. He hands a set to Shiloh. She straps the tank to her back. Cade follows suit.

"Wait," Evelyn says. "What's going on, here?"

"We're going to go stop Daimon," Shiloh says matter-of-factly, snapping one of the straps over her torso.

"You can't be serious. And what are we supposed to do?"

"Gather what people you can," Shiloh says, looping the strap to the oxygen mask over her head until it hangs from her neck, the mask itself resting at her collarbone. "The people you decide. Have them take the dunebuggies."

"And go where!? I'd be asking people to die out in the desert!"

"You'd be giving them a chance, even it if it's a slim one," Shiloh says. "Just tell them to put some distance between them and the Cloister. Avoid SERAPHIM territory. Once we've dealt with Daimon, we'll radio them to head back."

"And if you fail?"

Shiloh shrugs. "We'll have bought them some time. Break a leg, Evelyn."

With that, she turns and heads back the way we came at a jog, past the door to the garage and toward a long hallway, Cade and I in tow.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"I think I see him," she says, panting.

Sure enough, there's a window in the sealed door up ahead, a grey silhouette visible through the glass. Whoever and whatever he is, he moves with a leisured gait, unconcerned. No rush at all.

We reach the door. Cade and Shiloh both bring up their see-through masks, affixing them over the mouth and nose.

Shiloh turns a lever in the thick door, with a THUNK that echoes ominously.

"You're both sure about this?" I say, glancing between them.

They both nod.

"It's dangerous," Cade acknowledges.

"But it's the only way," Shiloh says. "We have to try."

She has a determined way about her. She and Cade both do. They are molded by their environment, the dangerous and precarious world they inhabit. But in Shiloh's case, it's something I've seen consistently in her interactions. She sets her mind to something, and she just does it. No qualms. No doubts. No hesitation. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like that. Stoic. Certain. Self-sufficient.

I should be more afraid, right now. I really should. I've already been given the low-down on what this guy can do. Impossible speed and reflexes. Special, glowy sword. Miniature jet engine afterburners in his body, giving him extra momentum and impact, when he wants it. And some kind of special blast attack he apparently used to ka-me-ha-me-ha his way through the actual wall. Which is...you know. Just great.

This is a guy with abilities and experience. Someone who isn't afraid to kill, because he's here for that very purpose. On paper, I'm outmatched by every conceivable metric. I should be concerned. I am, to a degree.

But there's a part of me that's starting to wake up, amidst all of this. A part of me that remembers what it's like to fight. With every encounter, every threat, I feel increasingly prepared for the next. Mentally, at least.

Whether or not that feeling has any merit, I guess I'm about to find out.

"Ready?" Shiloh says.

I nod. "Let's do it."

The door squeaks and whines. I ease forward, through the gap. I hear the door wailing again as Shiloh shuts it behind me. All according to plan.

It's a crazy long hallway. I can make out gaps, branching corridors. Like this is some kind of main thoroughfare, connecting to other hallways that are streets. The roads and byways of this place.

The overhead lights are spaced far enough apart to accommodate the gapped populous of shadows in between.The old, buzzy fluorescents flicker and ebb, causing shadows to pulse and throb in some places.

Somewhere, beyond, a blip in the midst of that carnival tunnel of light and shadow, is Daimon. A grey, sauntering figure.

I walk forward. At a smooth clip. Not too fast, because I want to buy as much time as I can. But at the same time, I'd like to initiate the fight as far away from the others as I can.

That's the first objective. Minimize the death toll. As much as I can. My best chance of doing that is to neutralize Daimon.

Once I've done that, I intend to get him to talk. Get some actual answers around here. Figure out where I came from. Why people are after me. What the point is, to all of this.

"Hey." The voice has a prolonged delay effect to it as it echoes down the hallway. It sounds hoarse and scratched, but there's a digitally manipulated edge to it.

I watch Daimon's movements as I walk, looking for some clue in his body language, some hint that he's about to quickly close the distance and attack.

Instead, I see him raise a grey, gloved and gauntleted hand. He's...waving.

"Hey, Silas," he says.

Silas.

Who here, besides Shiloh, would know that name? And how?

But I'd rather not betray my surprise. Don't wanna give him the satisfaction. The march forward doesn't halt. This changes nothing. At least, I don't think it does. Even though my heart just did a barrel-roll inside the confines of my metal ribcage.

"Silas," he says again. "Silas Turner?"

Nope. Still not gonna react. Not gonna bite.

He wants me alive. That's why he's trying to pique my interest. Throw me off guard. I won't fall for it.

He's closer now. I can make out the finer details of his appearance without using optical programming to enhance my vision.

He's not a big guy. He's got a medium-slim build, similar to mine. But there's a certain swagger to the way he moves. He evokes an aura of self-described invincibility.

One word: edgelord. It's in everything about him. The way he moves. The grey motif for every part of his armor and clothing. The clothing itself—long-tailed jacket and hood, the mask covering his entire face, with only two little slits for eyes. Right now the hood is pulled back, his silvery, ear-length hair smoothed back, contrasting with the mask itself, as well as the rest of his clothing. He holds a black handgun with an extended mag in one hand. He continues to wave at me with the other.

"Be honest," he goes on. His voice grows less echo-y, like a radio transmission getting clearer. "On a scale from one to ten, how disoriented are you right now? 'Cuz I know I would be."

Maybe I shouldn't be stonewalling him. The last thing I need is for him to decide brute force is the only way to get to me. Right off the bat, at least.

Get him talking. Lead him on. Like in the movies. Or something.

"I guess now's the part when I ask you how you know my name."

"Ha," he says, a little clip of a laugh. "It's just as I thought. All it takes is one look at your face. I can read you like a book."

Sounds like a bluff.

"It's not a bluff," he says, cocking his head at me. "I know you better than you realize. Better than anyone else ever could."

He comes to a sudden stop, only twenty feet ahead of me. I come to a halt as well, mirroring his behavior. I'm staying in the flow. Sticking to the pattern he's setting. For now.

"Hypothetically," I say, watching his body language to gauge a reaction. "If I hand myself over, will you leave everyone else alone?"

"If I said yes, would you believe me?"

That's a 'no'. According to Cade and Shiloh, there was still ample time on the clock to Daimon's deal. Which means the deal's off. Some new circumstance has reared its head. There's blood in the water, and the sharks are swarming.

It's not just that they want me. They want to destroy any trace I was here. It's the only thing that makes sense to me.

"I'm a dog on a leash, unfortunately," Daimon says, unprompted. "When the master says 'bite', I bite. Otherwise, no meat."

"You're an edgelord, is what you are."

"Edgelord," he says. "That's a good word isn't it? A good trope. Tropes exist for a reason, you know. Because they're effective. You perceived me, the way I move, the way I talk. And you understood. We understand each other, you might say. You know, without my having to say so, that you're not going to be able to reason with me."

"I always liked down-to-earth characters, myself," I say. "You know, the 'everyman'."

"Wow," Daimon says. "We both know that's a lie." He holsters his pistol, somewhere behind his back. "Here's a trope I know for a fact you'll appreciate, though."

He grabs his mask. There's a hissing sound as hidden clasps release. He lowers the mask. His silver hair falls, parted in the middle, framing his face.

This time, my heart does something more than a barrel-roll. It's more like a quadruple backflip through an open access hatch, out into space.

"Stop me if you've heard this one before," he says. His voice still sounds scratched, damaged, but without the glitchy, digital effects. "I'm you. But, you know. Better."