It had to be when they were tumbling. Asmundre drew his coat tight around himself. His father had probably been low on blood ever since the quake. He had seemed strangely quiet on the way down from the junk. Asmundre’s own gauntlet took very little. His father had crafted it well. But a full mech suit - why hadn’t father said anything?

The stars twinkled overhead, bright in the crisp evening air. In the valley between the mounds of junk behind him the craggy wastes ahead and village waited, a small smear of light pushing against the darkness. How was he going to pay for plasma, anyway? He had nothing. Not a single tarnished cent. Junking did not make anyone rich, least of all them. Well, he could ask for a favor. There had to be something that needed fixing, and his father was the best at that.

Bjorn at the general store would have the plasma. And Bjorn might know someone who needed fixing, and Asmundre could hope that whomever it was would take the risk - well, if whatever they needed fixed was broken enough, they wouldn’t have a choice. Because nobody fixed things like father. Yeah, it could work. This wasn’t such a lost cause after all.

Approaching the village, the path through the junk widened, the scraps long ago pushed to the side and the way flattened into a road. Standing on it, just beyond the light from the windows of the nearest house, were two men clad in dark shadows. They grew as he neared, until Asmundre had to stop and stare. The two men towered over the village, starlight glinting off the metal planes of their armor - not men. Blood Mechs. Even at a hundred paces, they dominated the road, each eclipsing a swatch of stars behind their rigid bulk.

Asmundre continued slowly, until he stood in the shadow of them. They had not moved. Closer, he saw that each had a ladder descending from their back. They stood stiff. Deactivated. Not as big as the one he had seen crash. Not even close. But still, craning his neck back and back to look, he thought these must be thirty feet tall. And he wanted to learn how to fly one of these things?

Just how much blood did a mech that size take? The old technology must be incredibly efficient, compared to what his father could cobble together, to run a machine like that off the blood of a single pilot. Thinking of those pilots, Asmundre glanced around, searching the shadows and the street ahead. No sign of anyone watching. He stood directly under one of the mechs now, within arm’s reach of the metal, and no one had challenged him. Did they really just leave them here? But then, who could just wander off with a mech? Few had the touch, and fewer still could use it for anything. Asmundre flexed his gauntlet then stretched metal fingers out to brush the steel of the mech’s leg.

What had he expected? A spark? It was cold metal, as hard and unyielding as any of the scrap he and his father dragged home. Shaking his head, Asmundre continued into the village. Light still shone from Bjorn’s windows and Asmundre let himself in. One of the locals leaned on the counter opposite the shop keeper himself; Vargulf in a thick woolen coat. He stood up as Asmundre approached. Vargulf twitched when he walked, and his hands never kept still.

“You’re getting tall, boy,” he said.

“Been tall for a while.”

Vargulf sized him up, eyes squinted and darting around, unable to land in any one spot for more than a moment. His mouth worked as if he was chewing on something tough. “But not that tall yet, huh?”

“Leave him be,” Bjorn said. “What brings you down here so late?”

“Be more worried about going back up so late,” Vargulf said. He made for the door, adjusting his coat before he pulled it open. “Watch out for them mech-drivers, if I were you.”

“The Midgard?” Asmundre asked.

Vargulf paused in the doorway, eyes locked on Asmundre. “Wear blue like the Midgard.” He remained dead still. “But I’ve met Midgard, boy.”

The door clunked shut behind him.

Huh. But what had Vargulf meant? That crazy old man had said a lot of strange things over the years, but Asmundre couldn’t remember him ever saying them while standing still.

Bjorn tapped his shoulder and Asmundre almost jumped out of skin.

“You forget what you came down here for?” the shopkeeper asked.

“No, no. I aint forgotten.” Asmundre leaned on the counter, drumming his fingers on the dirty glass. Underneath, an icebox hummed, bright white lines glowing. Bjorn could afford all the batteries he needed, of course. “I just, uh.” He hadn’t figured out how he was going to pay for it.

Bjorn leaned one elbow on the table, thick mustache draped across his fist. “Take your time,” he drawled.

Bjorn had always been nice, but this was probably asking too much. Even of him.

“So,” the shopkeeper went on. “How’s your sister doing?”

“She’s fine. Won’t eat, though.”

“That so? Your ma was a damn fine cook, probably hard to compare.” Bjorn put his hand down, over Asmundre’s drumming metal fingers, stilling them. “How about your pa, then?”

“He’s why I came down here, actually. He - uh. I need -”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Bjorn raised a brow, meeting his eyes.

“Plasma. I - he needs plasma.”

Bjorn straightened, rubbing his chin.

“I’m sorry,” Asmundre said. Bjorn stepped back; he wore very fine leather boots. Asmundre stared at them. “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything. Seems like there’s nothing in the junk anymore. And - he really needs it. He used a lot of blood in that junk quake today. And you know we’ll pay you back, just right now -”

“Calm down, son.”

“You mean you’ll -?”

“Expect you to pay me back?” Bjorn lifted a keyring from his belt and picked through the keys. “You better bet I’ll expect you to pay me back. Plasma aint cheap, you know, and I can’t have it getting out that I give it away.” He fit a key into the icebox under his counter. “But, tell your pa I’ll give him a good price. And tell him to stop using so much, Asmund. He’s going to get himself killed one of these days, and going to end up owing me the whole empire at this rate.” Bjorn lifted a small vial from the box and set it on the counter. Frost clouded the glass, obscuring the pink liquid inside. He thumped his keys down next to it.

“You’re sure about it?” Asmundre asked.

The door thunked open behind him.

Bjorn squinted. “You want it or not?”

“Oh - yes!” Asmundre grabbed the vial. “Yes, thank you. I’ll pay you back, I swear. You won’t regret it.”

“I never do,” Bjorn said, his gaze turned past Asmundre at whomever had come into the shop.

Two men stood there, the door still open, cold air and a hint of frost swirling in behind them. A short man with a pointy fox-like face and quivering wet eyes, and looming over him another, broad, dark, and banded in thick muscle. The big man crossed his arms over his chest and glared about the store, as if searching for something to be annoyed by. Both of them wore blue, lapels adorned in silver trim and bright steel buttons. Midgard. Mech pilots. The men Lillian had seen.

Bjorn dragged his keys back across the counter. He wore a scowl under his mustache, and looked away the moment Asmundre noticed.

“Plasma, is it?” the fox-faced man said, striding forward. His large companion stayed by the door. “What are you buying plasma for, boy?”

“Some law against buying plasma?” Bjorn drawled.

The short man approached, leaning in to squint at the vial clutched in Asmundre’s hand. A faint scene of hot metal wafted off him. “And you come down here often. When it’s freezing out. To buy plasma?”

“No - I -”

The man’s eyes lighted on Asmundre’s gauntlet. “And what’s this?”

“Hey,” Bjorn reached across the counter to grab the man’s shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble.”

When Bjorn touched the little one, the big man at the door uncrossed his arms with a grunt. Fox-face put up his hand, stopping the other before he could rush over. “We didn’t come to make trouble, merchant. Just watching for anything suspicious. You wouldn’t be hiding anything here, would you? Anything we might need to confiscate?”

Bjorn’s scowl deepened. Asmundre could hear the implied threat, and now he understood what Vargulf had meant.

These weren’t Midgard. These were thugs.

“Where do you get your plasma, anyway?” The short man turned his attention back to Asmundre. “Come with us, boy. I want to get a look at that arm.” He grabbed Asmundre’s wrist.

The big one pushed the door open again and fox-face dragged Asmundre away from the counter. Despite his small size, he was surprisingly strong.

Bjorn balled his hands into fists and looked away as Asmundre passed.

The giant followed Asmundre out, looming behind him. Outside, the short one stopped a few steps out into the muddy street and withdrew a thin glass tube from his pocket. Asmundre took a step away from the shop, arrested by the giant’s hand closing on his shoulder.

A boom overhead made Asmundre flinch. He looked up just in time to see a bright streak across the sky, vanishing to the east. A blood mech, probably. Some friend of these two no doubt.

Fox-face also looked up, mumbling as he put the tube in his mouth and drew through it. He shut his eyes as whatever drug it contained hit him. “Now,” he said after a long moment silence, “Why don’t you tell me about that arm?”

Asmundre kept his gauntlet at his side. He didn’t think he could overpower the big one. Maybe fox-face. Would be better to run.

“Take it off. Let me see it.”

“I can’t.”

The little man moved fast as a snake. He stood in front of Asmundre, then suddenly pain blossomed in Asmundre’s gut, and the man drew back his fist. Asmundre cried out, the blow so hard and sudden he couldn’t bit the sound back. The giant’s arms clamped down on him, keeping him from falling over forward.

“Take it off,” fox-face barked.

“I can’t,” Asmundre gasped. He could as easily remove his other arm. “It’s attached. It doesn’t come off.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“My pa made it.”

Fox-face reached for him, and Asmundre flinched. Fox-face laid his hand on Asmundre’s cheek. “Don’t lie to me now, boy.”

“He did. He made it from scrap.”

Fox-face stepped back, rubbing his chin, squinty eyes peering at Asmundre. “How about we cut it off then?”

Asmundre yanked at the giant’s hold but only managed to wiggle. Thick fingers dug into his shoulders. Fox-face drew a long knife with a wicked hook on the end. He drew with it a panic that settled down around Asmundre. He flexed his gauntlet, clenching is teeth as the hooks cut his flesh and fresh blood flowed into the mechanism.

Fox-face approached again, one hand reaching, knife ready in the other, his grin exposing sharp little teeth.

“You can’t do this,” Asmundre said. “You’re Midgard. You’re supposed to protect people.”

“Who’s going to stop us?”

He was. Asmundre jerked his gauntlet forward, flooding all the blood stored in it into a single blow. His metal fist caught fox-face in the chin and sent him flying into the mud. The giant’s fingers dug painfully into Asmundre’s shoulders, then a thunk sounded behind him and the giant let go. Asmundre sprawled forward and leapt to his feet. Bjorn stood in the doorway, a metal rod in his hand, while the giant lumbered around to face him.

The giant touched his head with one hand, then examined his fingertips.

“You best get out of here while you can,” Bjorn said, brandishing his weapon.

Asmundre ran.