The low moan of metal bending rippled through the ship before the first scream. Then came the screech—high, sharp, and unbearable. The sound 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 though the ship itself were crying out in agony.

She had heard tales of this sound—ships collapsing under pressure, entire structures reduced to splinters. Bolton and Michael used to tell her stories like this—the Whistlin' Death turning ports into graveyards—half history, half bedtime horror. But now, it wasn’t just a story. It was all too real.

Explosions pounded the halls. The notorious whistle vibrated the ground beneath her feet, each pulse heavy enough to make her wonder if the ship could survive. Yet before the chaos erupted, there had been warning signs—the faintest hum through the floorboards, the way the lanterns flickered just off-beat, and the air growing too still, too heavy.

She glanced at Rick, confused, her hand instinctively reaching for her knife—only to find it missing. Then the Pappy Long Legs’ lanterns flared a sickly red, casting a pulsing, ominous glow down the corridor. The ship seemed to writhe in anticipation, its lights a heartbeat counting down to disaster.

Amelia and Rick clutched their ears, crouching against the vibrating walls as the relentless cacophony battered them. Each second stretched as the ship trembled, threatening to collapse.

"Rick?! The stories?! What do we do?" Amelia screamed, her voice lost in the noise.

Rick didn’t answer. His mechanical arms dug into the walls, leaving jagged impressions in the metal, his eyes wild but locked onto hers. Then he pointed—urgently—toward a door shaped like an owl at the far end of the hall.

Amelia didn’t need further explanation. She bolted, but the ship’s violent shuddering threw her off balance. She staggered, catching herself against the wall. The vibrations didn’t stop, rolling through her chest like thunder. At the door, her fingers fumbled with the handle, trembling as sound waves pulsed through her body. She yanked, then pushed—nothing. The noise wasn’t just sound anymore. It was pressure—a force pressing down on her, grinding her movements to a crawl.

Her eyes darted back to Rick, panic widening her gaze. This can’t be it. It can’t end like this.

Rick was close behind, his thinner arms covering his ears while two larger mechanical limbs worked feverishly on the door. His fingertips extended, transforming into a crude, sparking saw that screamed nearly as loud as the ship. He motioned for Amelia to stay low, his face tense as the blades carved through.

Before Rick could finish, the original Roy—the mechanical guide Amelia had half-grown to trust—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. However, exceptions have been made,” Roy said, his tone light, almost too casual as if they weren’t seconds from disaster.

They rushed through, passing a crackling veil of blue light. Static buzzed against Amelia’s skin, prickling as she stepped through. The screech faded into a muffled rumble, but even in the silence, a suffocating weight lingered—as if they’d only stepped into the eye of the storm.

“My new directive is to ensure your safety, Amelia,” Roy intoned, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Take a breath before speakin’, Crowny,” Rick warned, brushing past her.

Relief washed over her—briefly. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, dread clawed its way back.

The space was vast, its walls streaked with soot and shadow, lit by flickering flames and electric arcs that framed a towering mechanical figure. It loomed in the atrium, half-suspended in midair.

Half of its body was a mangled metallic skeleton, battle-worn and scarred. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically, barely holding together. The other half was disturbingly familiar—white coat tails speckled with black dots and a frayed bomber jacket hanging loose like a corpse’s skin. A cracked, bird-shaped helmet crowned its head.

Amelia’s breath hitched. Glassford. Quadrant Leader Glassford, the Owl of Quadrant 8. She had seen him countless times—pristine, calm, untouchable. But here, he hung like a broken marionette.

A horrifying thought hit her. He’s a machine. The realization twisted her stomach. Glassford—the leader, the legend—was a lie.

“A...machine,” she whispered. “Rick… one of Father’s best friends. A machine.”

Her mind reeled. This wasn’t just machinery—it had lived, fought, and now, it was dying. The gashes, ruptured cables, and worn patches told a tragic story. Was leadership itself a lie? Were the others like him? What if my brothers are already machines too?

Rick’s voice snapped her back. “Crowny! Listen! If the Whistlin’ Death wanted this airship gone, it’d already be in pieces. They didn’t bring a fleet—just their damned heavy weight. They’re not here to burn us out—they’re here to take.” They’re here to collect something... Or someone.” He jabbed a finger toward Glassford. “The Owl of Quadrant 8. If they can’t get him, they’ll settle for you!”

Her gaze fell to the tubes snaking from Glassford’s body into the walls, faintly pulsing. He was being drained—a Quadrant Leader reduced to fuel.

“Quadrant Leaders don’t get assassinated,” she muttered, disbelief shaking her voice. “They’re the best of the best…”

Rick’s patience snapped. “By the blasted Tumbling Greens! You Woltworks wouldn’t trust the stink of shit in front of you! Yes, that’s Glassford! And no, I didn’t kill him. But I sure as hell didn’t save him! Now hide or pick up a weapon before this mess takes you too!”

Amelia’s gut screamed to press Rick for answers, but the urgency in his voice forced her to act. Survive now—questions later.

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. Killed lik- like any other person! 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!”

Amelia hesitated. Her gut screamed to press him for answers. Could she trust him?

“I’m not doing a damn thing until you explain—” Tried shouting Amelia.

“Explain what? The infinite void that is the spirit world? You want it carved into a damn popsicle stick?!” Rick roared, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “Crowny! I don’t know how it works! I’m just a father who screwed up—a mistake I’d make again!”

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He shouted, his words raw and unsteady, even as his eyes darted past Amelia, scanning the shadows behind her. “Believe me or don’t—but I found him like this. Half-dead, and fading fast.”

Amelia looked away, the thundering pistons of the Pappy Long Legs pounding in her ears like war drums. She stumbled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“Get up! Scurry over here, damn it!” Rick hissed, his voice barely cutting through the hum of the machinery. His red sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tension in his stance betrayed his urgency. “Pick up a stick, a bolt—hell, anything sharp! Something’s coming.”

He paused, his voice softening but no less desperate. “By the Goblet and Green, don’t do it for me. Do it for Roy—and for yourself. We need to be ready.” He swallowed hard. “Extraction Protocol Q8.”

“Extraction Protocol Q8?” Amelia’s eyes darted to Rick, who shifted uncomfortably and avoided her gaze. “Another invention?”

“Another one that saves your life yes,” Rick snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “Our ticket outta here... should yous still feel comfortable breaking bread with me.”

Amelia’s brow furrowed as her gaze drifted toward the platform housing Glassford. The hum of circling engines sent vibrations through the glass beneath her feet, pulsing with flickering lights like veins. A cage. A containment system.

Her breath hitched. What kind of monster needed a cage like this?

The subtle vibrations beneath her feet reminded her of the Yardrat chambers—glass prisons designed to hold creatures too dangerous to roam free, captured during the average supply run. Her mind flashed back to the glistening tanks and reinforced walls, each structure built to either study—or destroy—whatever was trapped inside. Depending on the interest of it’s captur.

The idea unsettled her. She hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on her chest. Her hand hovered near the locket around her neck before she quickly lowered it, frowning as if the action had betrayed her uncertainty.

Her eyes flicked toward the tall, narrow windows lining the walls, revealing slivers of the outer evening sky. Through the dim glass, the faint glow of the horizon seemed distant—cold and indifferent.

The pulsing blue light from Glassford flickered against the glass, casting jagged shadows of small automatons poised in defensive positions. Their metallic frames glinted sharply, reflecting the hum of the containment platform like predators waiting for a signal.

For a moment, Amelia remained still, her breath catching as the machines’ dark outlines twitched ever so slightly—alive, but dormant. Her fingers curled into fists.

The vibrations grew stronger beneath her, a low, mechanical growl building from the depths of the ship. 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 somethin’ that at least looks like a weapon!” 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.”

“This is TRUE,” Roy said, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly.

“So hand it over,” Amelia demanded.

“WHY?” Roy tilted his head. “Whisky requested something of yours. It was going to USE it.”

“Whisky?” Amelia asked, her confusion growing.

“Yes. The security bot YOU dubbed Whisky. It is currently... dancing in the incinerator,” Roy said flatly.

“Really?” Amelia blinked, then shook her head. “Never mind that, Roy! Give me the knife. Rick’s orders.”

Roy turned toward Rick for confirmation before opening a compartment and retrieving the knife. Amelia quickly strapped it to her waist with a loose wire.

“Wait. AMELIA.”

She froze. “What is it, Roy?”

“Your hat.” Roy extended her Yardrat cap—now patched with a tiny metallic smiley face.

Amelia blinked. “You… fixed it?”

Roy’s eyes flickered. “You leak too much.”

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 leak too much," Roy observed, his spotlight eyes dimming slightly as if unsure how to respond.

“Thanks, Roy,” Amelia muttered, her voice softer than she intended. Her fingers brushed over the small patch—the metallic smiley face, a strange and innocent addition that now felt like an anchor in the chaos.

The air hummed with tension as Rick hunched by the door, welding in swift, furious strokes. Outside, Pappy Long Legs groaned under heavy blows, the metal walls trembling with each impact. Yet, in that sliver of time, Amelia felt something different—something quiet and unbroken amid the storm.

She pulled the cap on, a faint smile tugging at her lips. The world hadn’t made sense in ages—maybe it never would—but Roy’s simple gesture gave her one clear thought: not everything was broken. Not yet.

Her thoughts snapped back to the chaos as her eyes caught the blue glow of the gem embedded in her locket. Her hand instinctively closed around it, her pulse quickening. The screeching. The danger. The timing. It felt connected to the gem like it was beating at the storm’s heart.

Is it going to float again? Should I have crushed it earlier? Her mind raced.

“Rick!” she shouted over the cacophony of falling debris and pounding pistons. “Whatever’s happening—it’s because of this damn locket! I—I’m going to crush it, to get the gem... probably!”

Rick whipped around, alarm flashing in his eyes as his welding torch clattered to the floor. “Are you sure, Crowny? You’ve got no idea what that could mean! This isn’t just some rock in a locket—it could be your soul, your brothers’, maybe even a piece of Yerro’s own!”

“If you crush it, young lady, you might trigger something wild—something we can’t take back.”

Her hand tightened around the glowing gem, its pulse thudding in time with her heartbeat. Throw it down. Crush it. End this.

Rick’s voice softened. “This ain’t somethin’ to walk off the chin, Amelia.”

But the chaos outside—the Whistlin’ Death, the mechanical screeches, the roar of imminent collapse—only grew louder.

“It’s like your friend Ehmir said—we’re playin’ ball without a stick!” she snapped back. “My brothers aren’t dead, so staying alive is all I’ve got!”

With a final look at the patch Roy had sewn onto her hat—a quiet symbol of innocence in a world on the edge—Amelia pressed the cap firmly onto her head and straightened it, a grim smile tugging at her lips. The gesture grounded her—if only for a fleeting moment.

“I’m choosing to trust only my brothers! For now! Anyone else is still up for discussion,” she muttered through clenched teeth, locking eyes with Rick. “We’re all lickin’ dice today.”

“Fresh outta my book, Crowny! Well—”

Before he could finish, a thunderous crash shook the room. Amelia ducked as debris rained down from the ceiling. The sound reverberated like a monstrous roar, and through the sudden cloud of dust and smoke, something large, something menacing, descended into the room.