Asher winced against the cold spray of water, snapping him from his daydream. Squeezing his eyes shut, willing the intrusive thoughts away. The cool, worn black-and-white tiles of the cramped bathroom blurred into the colors behind his eyelids. Swirling patterns shifting, colors blending and changing like static pixels. Taking in a deep, steamy breath, letting warm air fill his lungs. His breath slowed, the tension draining from his shoulders, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beating against his chest.
Twisting the shower knob with a sigh, pushing aside the shower curtain, revealing his lean, nearly porcelain physique. Cool air kissed his skin, sending hair standing on ends. Reaching for a towel hanging against the rack, wrapping, relishing the warm fabric against the cold seeping in. The mirror snatching a glance. Blood-red eyes, raven black hair framing his sharp features staring back.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as he noticed his elongated canines glinting back at him. Curiously, he ran his tongue along the sharp teeth, the slight prick healing as quickly one drew blood. "Monstrous or just peculiar?"
He reached for his toothbrush, resting against the back of the yellowed sink. Its worn plastic handle cool to the touch against his palm. Bristles scraping roughly against his teeth. “Asher!” a woman’s voice echoing from down the hall, a gentle urgency in her tone. “Hurry up. Your father needs your help with that skill gear!”
“Mmfph!” he mumbled something unintelligible through a mouthful of toothpaste, his reflection giving a thumbs-up in the mirror before he spat into the sink. Stepping out into the hallway, catching the newest additions of paint peeling from the wall alongside a faded photo.
A young couple, hands entwined, posing with smiles on the wreckage of an old rubber wheeled truck, hung beside a well-cared-for mirror in the depths of its wooden cage. Case’s surface scarred with age, but maintained a refined elegance - a perfect frame for the collection of miniature holographic figures within.
Tiny and intricate, their frozen forms glowing under the soft reflecting sunlight. The shimmering display seemed clashing with its weathered exterior.
A creek creeping under foot, the patchwork of old and new wooden floorboards shifting with weighted step. Uneven seams and notches leaving an off-kilter rhythm in his wake.
He reached his room, the knob grinding as he twisted, pushing his weight into the door, finally forcing it open with a muffled reverb. Gashes scored the backplate and crossed the wood. “A foolish tantrum over a monster...” he thought, cringing at the memory.
As a child, he was distraught when his parents had taken the poor thing away, refusing to let him keep it after it became his. But now, he understood their horror at his abuse of that skill, even if he couldn’t grasp it then.
Asher carefully stepped avoiding the scattered obstacles as he headed for his desk. Disassembled components, their exposed circuitry and crystal lattice gleaming in the light, haphazardly scattered around the cluttered workbench.
The jumble of parts and tools virtually obscuring the surface. One half-assembled hilt, its metallic frame and intricate innards, sat prominently in the center of screwdrivers, pliers, soldering irons, and wire cutters.
Snatching a pair of overalls laid between uneven pillars of textbooks and technical manuals, he leaned to slip them on. Spines cracked and dog-eared pages splayed across the uneven stacks, the faint scent of old paper wafting up. The coarse fabric rasped against his skin, catching against seams and rivets. Asher winced slightly, a faint hiss escaping his lips, chafing his delicate folds and contours, sliding the overalls up over his chest.
He grabbed a worn leather tool belt laying on a makeshift table beside his bed, snapping the clip with a tug around his waist. With a subtle gesture, the tools on the cluttered workbench rose, flying up one by one into the empty pouches - a knife, an assortment of screwdrivers, a socket wrench, and his wireless soldering iron, joined by small roll of electrical tape, pliers, and an etching knife.
A dull thud echoing up from the street below. Asher leaned forward, pulling back the thick quilts turned curtains, glancing down out the window. Two figures trading blows in sleeveless shirts and bulging pants against the sunbaked, dusty, cracked, potholed filled road. The bits of salvaged metal catching on one another sewn haphazardly into the fabric.
Neighbors peered out from the ramshackle structures lining the street - a mix of two-story brick buildings, weathered wooden storefronts, and crumbling cinder block apartments. Faded, peeling signs hung above cracked sidewalks with tattered tarps flapped in the wind, exposing the ramshackle interiors within.
A prickling sensation at the edge of his senses drew Asher’s gaze to the alley running beside his home, where a patrol emerged, their batons crackling to life. “Idiots,” he muttered, “go outside the town to fight.”
He turned away from the window; grabbing a faded black shirt from the worn dresser in the corner beside his door, tracing the rough pasty patches along the wall with his fingertips as he moved toward the staircase at the end of the hall, descending the patchwork steps. “Father found some great wood.”
Fresh planks, slightly uneven with the surrounding originals, surfaces bearing odd notches and grooves. He stepped into the living room off the bottom step. A rich aroma of freshly brewed koji filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of potted herbs lining the windowsill.
His mother’s warm voice broke the silence as she said, “Asher, drink your breakfast before heading to the shop,” pouring a deep crimson liquid into a ceramic mug.
The thick, coppery tang of blood hitting his senses. Bringing it to his lips, he drained it in one gulp. Asher set the empty mug down and turned back toward the living room. “Ah, just the right tang, like I like it.”
“Don’t forget to shift,” Elara reminded him.
“I know, Mom,” he replied with a half-smile. Closing his eyes, Asher focused his mind.
His features melted away, replaced by a more normal-like appearance. Raven locks lightened to a sun-kissed brown, crimson irises faded to a warm hazel, and his pallid complexion took on a healthy, tanned hue while softening his angular features. When he opened his eyes again and smiled at his mother, the elongated canines were absent.
“Happy now?” he asked.
Elara chuckled, shaking her head. “Yes, dear. Now go help your father. I’ll join you both at the shop once I’ve finished the dishes.”
Asher headed for the living room’s front door.
The heavy wooden planks blended with bands of metal, the surface etched intricately with runes woven into matrices creating a geometric pattern. As Asher approached, he reached out, tracing his fingers along the glowing patterns.
With a deft gesture, tracing shimmering azure symbols directly against the riveted door. Glyphs fitting like a key fitting into a lock. The etchings gradually pulsed with a warm luminescence fading to a dim glow. The door creaking open raveling a cramped stairwell barely wide enough for two.
Worn wooden crates lined the steps, filled with a disorganized assortment of things. One crate brimmed with rusted machine parts and frayed wiring harnesses. Another overflowed with soil-stained fabric sacks that released an earthy, organic scent.
Immediately a fibrous tendril drew Asher’s gaze. He leaned closer, its nodules pulsing within the warded container. “What are we going to use Trill-Silk for?” Asher murmured, scratching the side of his head. “It’s such a rare, delicate exotic material.”
His eyes then fell upon another crate, radiating an unstable glow, shifting between red and pink. Lifting the container carefully, he shook his head as he descended the cluttered steps with care to the bottom. Hooking a right, Asher entered the foyer, which split the shop into two parts.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Holograms hovered in the air, projecting rotating blueprints and diagnostic readouts. The familiar scents of solder smoke, ozone, and machine oil lingered.
Asher’s father, his greying hair tousled over magnifying goggles perched on his head, hunched over a disassembled rifle, its components spread out on a long stone counter wrapping around the room. His grease-stained overalls bore witness to the controlled chaos surrounding him.
The counter’s etched surface softly glimmering with symbols. Tools - soldering irons, plasma torches, etching knives - shoved haphazardly along the backsplash.
At the center of the workspace, a large fabrication unit hummed to life, its intricate housing adorned with etched geometric glyphs. Shimmering particles of raw materials coalesced and shifted, taking form gradually as the machine assembled methodically some new creation.
Scattered across the rest of the counter were various dissembled items, with electrical taped yellow invoices attached. Components arranged around each project: an exposed plasma pistol, the dismantled pieces of an old radio, the owner’s notes detailing the requested repairs. In the wall furthest to the back, an etched reinforced metal safe stood, its warded surface faintly glowing.
“Dad! You left the Radiant Trillium outside the containment vault again.” Shaking his head as he approached..
Without looking up, his father spoke in a gravelly tone. “Asher, good timing. I need you to man the front counter while I stabilize Mr. Kavanagh’s plasma rifle.” Keeping focus on his work, the delicate tendrils of bluish energy arcing between the disconnected parts contained within a shimmering force field.
“Dad!” Asher tried to interject.
Asher’s father’s gaze briefly flicked to the warding container. “Why do you have the Radiant Trillium? How many times do I have to tell you not to take stuff out of containment!”
His brow furrowing. “I didn’t! You left it on the stairs!”
His father paused, grumbling. “Oh. Well, put it away before your mother finds out!” Gesturing towards the foyer, to the other side with his plasma-wrench. “Then go open the shop. That damned fool tried juicing it with kludged power conduits. Shorted out half the firing mechanism.”
Asher nodded, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as he headed for the etched safe in the back wall. With a familiar gesture, its warm luminescence gradually fading to a dim glow opening the wards.
With a spin the rotary dial, turning it left, then right, right again, and left one last time. The mechanisms within the safe clicked. The door clanked as he yanked the handle, letting out a soft sigh placing the Radiant Trillium carefully at the center of a sigil on a shelf.
Asher moved to the foyer, passing through to the other side. Ambient lighting suffused the space, casting a welcoming glow.
Ahead, an etched, battered counter with an old punch button register separated the sales floor from the cluttered workshop. His fingers trailed along lines etched into the counter’s scored surface, feeling the residual thrum. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he stepped through the mortise.
Rows of shelves lined the walls, showcasing an assortment of goods. Reconditioned microwaves, toaster ovens, and even aged powered can openers, all repaired and refurbished meticulously. Others featured more specialized gear, with phased multi-tools, integrated arc welders, self-cleaning water filters, and a battered radio transceiver.
Crowned at the center of the floor stood a large display case, hosting a sign that read “Skill Integrated Technology (SIT)” in bold lettering. The case itself glowing from within.
Plasma weapons pulsed with an internal rhythm, intricate patterns of interconnected lines and geometric shapes etched into their metallic surfaces. Their etchings glowing with a soft luminescence as energy flowed through the conductive pathways. Energy cells radiating a barely contained power, their pulsing light casting a subtle illumination across the case.
The blades gleamed with a faint aura. Subtle patterns and symbols carved along the length of the steel, hinting at the reinforcement and imbued properties. As the light caught the blades, they seemed to hum with a restrained energy.
Modular armored plates bore scorch marks and dents, telling a story of past battles. Closer inspection revealed a complex network of interconnected geometric runic arrays etched into the composite surface, channeling and distributing energy across the armor.
With a steadying breath, Asher centered himself, mentally shifting gears. He strode towards the shop entrance. Sunlight gleamed through the heavy metal door's glass window panes, one positioned lower than the other.
Two large glass windows flanked the entrance, each sealed behind reinforced solid metal roll-up security gates. Intricate runic matrices carved into the door, gates, and window frames glowing faintly. A small seating area nestled by each window, offered worn but comfortable chairs emitting a faint scent of old paper from the dog-eared tech magazines on the battered coffee table.
Just as he reached for the tarnished brass sign to flip it to the “Open” side hanging in the window, Asher’s movement halted, drawn by an unexpected prickle at the edge of his perception.
He peered through the door window, his gaze dropping to the lower section before standing on toes to look through the pane above. In the distance, he spotted a figure approaching, broad shoulders straining against a double-bladed axe hanging in its leather sling hanging against a leather duster covering the figure’s armored, muscular frame. Drawing closer streaks of red peppering his close-cropped beard, adding a rugged charm to his weathered features.
With a flip of the sign, Asher grabbed a worn broom from the corner somewhat hidden behind the wall shelf. With a subtle movement, his body seemed to blur and distort, becoming a fleeting afterimage as he swept the floor at inhuman speeds. Returning the broom to its place just as the door bell chimed.
“Morning, Asher,” the man greeted with a gruff nod, his voice as rough as the wasteland. Smelling of smoke and sweat wafted in, intermingled with the faint wet metallic tang as the door closed behind him with a soft thud.
A warm smile spreading across his features, gesturing for the man to enter. “Welcome back to Circuits & Sorcery, Gareth,” Asher’s gaze lingered on the fresh day’s old bruising and silenced flesh marring Gareth’s weathered forearms. “You’re looking a little worse for wear. Another run-in with the raiders?”
Gareth snorted, brushing past Asher and into the shop. “Those scrawny pissants? Hardly, a challenge.” He ran a hand over his beard, grimacing lightly. “Nah, got tangled up with a nasty little bugger out near the Scorched Flats. Damned thing damn near took my arm off.”
“Well, I’m glad you made it back in one piece.” Pointing to Gareth’s forearms. “You should go to the clinic, they look terrible.”
He snorted. “Bah. They're scratches, they didn’t even hurt when the fucker’s teeth dug into my arm… well, mostly anyway.”
Asher winced, rubbing his forearms. “What brings you by today? Looking for something in particular?”
He grunted, his gaze sweeping over the displays of gear, salvaged tech and other goods filling the shelves. “Just need a new portable can opener. The last one got eaten. Had to use it to hold the bugger’s mouth open long enough to drive my axe through its head.” He shrugged, a roguish grin tugging at his lips. “Worked like a charm, but the poor thing didn’t survive the ordeal.”
Asher chuckled, “Only you could repurpose a simple kitchen appliance into a makeshift weapon.” Shaking his head with a grin. “One can opener, coming right up.”
His fingers trailing over a shelf’s edge until spotting the familiar shape of a compact can opener, plucking it from its spot. Then turned towards the counter, beckoning Gareth over with a tilt of his head.
“That’ll be fifteen whites,” Asher stated.
Gareth reached into a small pouch on his belt, withdrawing a handful of the slender crystals. Each no longer than the first joint of a pinky finger, placing them on the counter with a soft clink.
Asher scooped the slender crystals from the counter, faint luminescence casting patterns across his fingers. He opened the old brass register and deposited the payment, the dull thunk of the metal drawer echoing in the quiet shop.
“Oh right.” Gareth reaching into a small pocket on the leather strap of his axe’s holster, withdrawing a compact but slightly larger than a forearm-sized weapon. Tendrils of energy arced and danced across the exposed components, casting an unstable glow.
Asher’s eyes widened at the sight. With a swift tracing gesture shimmering symbols into the counter a translucent barrier formed encapsulating the weapon.
Its short, stocky, exotic metallic frame shimmered with a soft luminescence as energy scintillated along the intricate geometric etchings on its distinctive double-barreled design.
Asher’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching. “Putting a damaged Skill Gear item inside another storage Skill Gear,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “No matter its grade, can cause the skills used in their creation to conflict and the Skill Engineering to collapse.” Angrily pointing the can opener at the damaged casing. “An exposed SIT casing is enough to require containment! Let alone a damaged, charged energy cell that’s arcing!” He shouted. “You could have blown the entire shop to pieces!”
“Boy, It’d only happen if the Skill Gear’s casing refinement was botched and chances of that happening are slim. .” Unmoved, he pointed to the crowned case. “If you're refining casings for tier three gear like this? No way you’d botch a simple refining, purifying, or even tempering - that would be simple refining. Maybe if the casing was transmuted, then I’d worry about that.”
Suddenly, the doorbell rang, the sound echoing through the shop, and a resounding bang!
A waft of rich, spicy cologne crept into the air, heady notes of sandalwood and vetiver mingling with an underlying musk.