The screech of the Whistlin' Death tore through the air like knives scraping glass, sending shivers down Amelia’s spine and rattling her bones. It felt as if the ship itself was crying out in agony. She had heard tales of this sound—ships collapsing under pressure, entire structures reduced to splinters—from the bedtime stories Bolton and Michael used to hear from New Dwarden's former king, recounting the Whistlin' Death's relentless assaults on Akiyoma's ports. But now, it was all too real. Explosions echoed through the halls, the notorious whistle vibrating the ground beneath her feet with an intensity that made her wonder if the ship could survive.
Before the chaos erupted, there had been a deceptive stillness, a quiet that lulled Amelia into a false sense of security. She glanced at Rick in confusion, instinctively reaching for her knife—only to find it missing. Then, without warning, the Pappy Long Legs' embedded lanterns flared a burning red, casting an ominous, pulsing glow down the corridor. The ship seemed to anticipate the Whistlin' Death. Each pulse was like a heartbeat, counting down to disaster.
Amelia and Rick clutched their ears, crouching against the vibrating metal walls as the relentless cacophony assaulted them. Each second stretched, the metal frame trembling, threatening to shatter under the sound’s pressure.
"Rick?! The stories?! What do we do?" Amelia screamed, her voice swallowed by the overwhelming noise.
Rick didn’t respond. His mechanical arms braced against the trembling walls, leaving impressions in the metal as if sheer force alone could halt the chaos. His gaze locked onto hers, urgent, and he pointed to the door shaped like an owl at the far end of the hall.
Amelia didn’t need further explanation. She bolted toward it, but the ship’s violent shuddering threw her off balance. She stumbled, catching herself against the wall as the floor vibrated. When she reached the door, her fingers fumbled for the handle, trembling as sound waves pulsed through her body. She yanked, then pushed—nothing. The vibrations had rendered her almost powerless, the sound now more than noise—it was a paralyzing force.
Her gaze shot to Rick, panic wide in her eyes. This can’t be it. It can’t end like this. Her thoughts spun as the world around her seemed to collapse. Rick’s silence gnawed at her distrust—had he planned this? But there was no time for doubt.
Rick was close behind, his ears covered by two of his mechanical arms while others worked feverishly on the door. His fingertips extended, transforming into a gyrating saw that sliced into the small gap. He motioned for Amelia to stay low, his face tense as the screeching blades carved their way through.
Before Rick could finish, the original Roy—Amelia’s strange, mechanical guide—emerged from behind the door. His metallic fingers beckoned them forward, his spotlight eyes cutting through the chaos like a guiding beacon.
“You are not allowed. Exceptions have been made,” Roy added innocently, as if he had been merely resting moments before.
They rushed through, passing through a thin veil of crackling blue light. The buzz of static surrounded Amelia, prickling her skin, but as she stepped through, the world beyond quieted. The screech was muffled, a low rumble now. Yet even in this silence, a sense of foreboding lingered—it felt like stepping into the rumbling eye of a storm.
“My mission is now to ensure your safety, Amelia,” Roy said, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Take a real nice breath before speakin’, Crowny,” Rick warned, rushing behind her.
Amelia nodded, her body moving on instinct. Relief washed over her, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, the feeling disappeared.
The room was vast, lit by an unsettling mix of flickering flames and crackling electric arcs that framed a towering mechanical figure suspended in midair. Half of its body was a mangled metallic skeleton, battle-worn and scarred. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically, barely clinging to life. The other half was disturbingly familiar—a white coat with tail ends speckled with black dots, a frayed bomber jacket draped over its shoulders. A cracked, bird-shaped helmet crowned its head.
Amelia’s heart froze. Glassford. Quadrant Leader Glassford, the Owl of Quadrant 8. She had seen him countless times in newspapers and on television—pristine, calm, in control. But here, he was a twisted, broken shadow of that leader.
The realization hit like a punch. He’s a machine! The thought twisted her stomach with shock. Glassford—the powerful, respected leader—was a construct, a lie. How could I have never known?
“A...machine. Rick…” she muttered weakly, eyes locked on the metallic skeleton. “My father’s best friend. A machine.”
Her mind raced, unraveling the longer she stared. This wasn’t just a machine—it had lived, fought, and now, it was nearly dead. The gashes, ruptured cables, worn metal patches told a tragic story. Was everything she knew about leadership a lie? If Glassford was this convincing, what about the other leaders? Her brothers? Were they even human?
“Amelia!” Rick’s voice cut through her fog. She didn’t respond.
The weight of the realization gnawed at her. Are the leaders like Roy—many? Or living batteries? The thoughts overwhelmed her, but she forced them aside for now.
“Amelia! Listen, Crowny!” Rick called, sharper this time. “If the Whistlin' Death wanted this ship shredded, it’d already be in pieces. They’re after the owl! And if they can’t get him, they might just settle for you.”
Her gaze shifted to the tubes snaking from Glassford’s ravaged body into the walls, faintly pulsing. His energy was being drained—a Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel. She pressed a hand to her chest, betrayal mingling with a creeping fear.
“Rick. Quadrant Leaders don’t get assassinated. They’re the best of the best! This is…impossible,” she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. If Glassford could be taken down, what did that mean for the others? For everything she believed untouchable?
Rick’s patience snapped. “By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn’t trust the stink of shit right in front of you!” His voice cracked. “Yes, that is Glassford! And yes, I’m not innocent! Didn’t kill him but… didn’t help him either! Now hide or pick up a weapon, unless you want to get permanently tangled in this mess as well!”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Amelia hesitated. Her gut screamed to press him for answers. Could she trust him?
“I’m not doing a damn thing until you explain—”
“Explain what? The spirit world? You want it written on a popsicle stick?!” Rick roared, desperation in his voice. “Crowny! I don’t know how it works. I’m just a father. Believe me or don’t, but more-or-less I found him like this. More than half-dead.”
Amelia looked away, the thundering pistons of the Pappy Long Legs growing louder in her ears. She stumbled, falling to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Now scurry over here! Please, Amelia. Pick up a weapon from the wall,” Rick pleaded softly, voice barely audible beneath the hum of the machinery. His eyes were hidden behind his red sunglasses’ glare. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for Roy. We need to be ready for Extraction Protocol Q8.”
“Extraction Protocol Q8?” Amelia’s eyes darted to Rick, who avoided her gaze. “Now, what ominous thing could that be?
“To put it as simply, it’s a ship inside a ship. Our vehicle outta’ here... should you still want to trust me,” Rick snapped, his voice edged with frustration.
Amelia’s brow furrowed as she glanced toward the platform housing Glassford. The engines circled the base, faintly humming, the platform itself slightly raised from the floor. She noticed a subtle vibration under her feet, like the low growl of something waiting to be unleashed. The glass floor beneath it reflected the dull glow of the containment wires, flickering in sync with the pulsing lights. A containment system? Her mind flashed to her days as a Yardrat, remembering the glass chambers built to hold volatile creatures, each one ready to be studied—or destroyed—at a moment’s notice.
The idea that something so powerful could be housed here unsettled her. She hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest. Her hand instinctively hovered near the locket around her neck, but she quickly lowered it, frowning as if the action had betrayed her uncertainty.
Her eyes flicked toward the small hand cannons embedded in the wall. For a moment, she remained still, fingers curling into fists as she sat in stunned silence. The idea of trusting Rick lingered at the edge of her thoughts. She could feel the tension in the air—the weight of what he wasn’t saying. But the vibrations under her feet intensified, a low rumble reminding her that hesitation wasn’t an option.
She glanced at Rick, who was furiously welding the door shut, his posture tense, shoulders hunched as if holding the weight of the ship’s chaos on his back. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the room. His movements were frantic, sharp, as though fighting against time itself. Meanwhile, Roy tinkered with a small ventilation unit, his mechanical fingers clicking away with precise, playful indifference.
The platform hummed louder. The engines seemed to come alive, the faint vibration now pulsing through the glass beneath her feet. Amelia shifted uneasily, glancing down as if the ground could fall away at any second.
“Where’s my knife, Rick? The one that should’ve been in the front pocket of my uniform,” Amelia asked, her voice cold but measured.
“By the Goblet and Green! Grab a hand cannon, girl!” Rick shouted, frustration spilling over as debris crashed from the ceiling, cracking one of his lenses.
Amelia shot him a sour look, her frustration still simmering, but without a word, she knelt to pick up his cracked glasses. Rick kept welding, the sparks casting fleeting shadows across his face, but there was an unspoken tension in the air. Gently, almost reluctantly, she slid the damaged frames back onto his nose. Her fingers brushed against his skin, and for a moment, his mechanical limbs stilled. His frown, once hard and set, softened at the edges. Neither of them spoke, but in that quiet gesture, the argument seemed to fade, leaving behind a fragile truce.
He grunted, his tone quieter. “Roy’s got your knife,” he said, his voice still rough but with a hint of reluctance. His gaze lingered on her briefly, almost as if weighing his next words. “Get it. Help me fight. Live another day.”
With that, he nodded toward Roy, leading her in the direction of the small machine, his previous gruffness easing into something a bit more protective.
She nodded in agreement, quickly making her way toward Roy, who was standing just a few steps away, manning a console that controlled the pistons galloping in the room.
“Rick said you have my knife,” Amelia stated.
“This is TRUE,” Roy nodded, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly as if puzzled.
“So hand it over,” Amelia demanded.
“WHY?” Roy tilted his head. “Whisky was going to USE it. Whisky requested something of yours.”
“Whisky?” Amelia asked, her confusion growing.
“Yes. The security bot YOU dubbed Whisky. It is currently... dancing in the incinerator,” Roy explained matter-of-factly.
“Really?” Amelia blinked, momentarily thrown off before refocusing. “Never mind that, Roy! Give me the knife. Rick’s orders,” she insisted, her confusion now mirroring Roy’s.
Roy turned toward Rick as if to verify her words, while debris continued to rain down from the ceiling.
“Do it, boy,” Rick called from across the room, standing on a small stair leading to another console near Glassford. “And ready Protocol Q8.”
“Understood.” Roy looked back at Amelia with an unnervingly human gaze before opening a compartment in his shoulder joint and retrieving her large hunting knife. Amelia quickly took it, strapping it to her waist with a loose wire she found among the rubble.
“Wait. AMELIA,” Roy pleaded suddenly.
Amelia, mid-step, froze and turned halfway, barely acknowledging him, her mind still swirling with uncertainty about Rick, the room, and this entire chaotic mess. “What is it, Roy?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tension gnawing at her.
“Your hat. From your Yardrat uniform. I fixed it. It was ripped. I FIXED it,” Roy said, his metallic fingers extending a flat cap toward her, the one she had long forgotten in the chaos.
Amelia blinked, taken aback. Her Yardrat hat—the simple flat cap she had worn countless times in the mines—sat in Roy's hands, as pristine as ever. But something was different. Roy had added a patch, a small metallic smiley face, its dull sheen catching the flickering light. It was an odd, almost childlike touch, completely out of place amid the noise and destruction around them.
“Y-you fixed it?” Amelia whispered, reaching out to take the cap, her fingers brushing against Roy’s cold, mechanical ones. The weight of it in her hand felt strangely comforting, a relic of a simpler time before the weight of machines and broken truths had pressed down on her.
Roy’s spotlight eyes flickered, dimming slightly as if unsure of how to respond. “Yes. You are… Yardrat. Uniform must be whole.”
She stared at the hat, her mind struggling to reconcile the innocence of the gesture with the chaos unfolding around her. For a moment, the cacophony of battle and the screeching of the Whistlin' Death seemed to fade, replaced by the simple truth of this small act of kindness. Roy, for all his oddities and mechanical nature, had fixed something. And not just anything—he had fixed something that mattered to her, something tied to her identity, her history.
"Your eyes... they perspire water far too much," Roy observed, giving Amelia a gentle look.
“Thank you, Roy,” she muttered, her voice softer than she intended. Her fingers traced the small patch—the metallic smiley face, an innocent addition that now felt like a reminder of the strange, chaotic world she had been thrust into.