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.

Who? Or worse… what?

Her gaze fell to the locket in her hand. A faint blue light seeped through its cracks, flickering in rhythm with her racing heartbeat. It pulsed—alive, restless—casting soft, shifting shadows across her fingers.

Throw it down. Crush it. End this. The thought struck like a hammer, but her hand refused to move.

“What if it ended the chaos—or them?”

Suddenly, the room fell silent.

The once-constant rumble of the Pappy Long Legs ceased, leaving Rick, Roy, and Amelia frozen. Their eyes locked on a silhouette emerging from the swirling gray and black dust.

The oppressive quiet pressed down on them, amplifying the tension.

“Crushing what you don’t understand—that’s ignorance. And a disregard for the flesh that’s still warm inside. You wouldn’t crush the egg of an Ignorpa without witnessing the powerful life within.”

Amelia’s gaze narrowed as she eyed the glowing gem. “W-why shouldn’t I?” she demanded, but the figure said nothing.

Smoke poured from the ceiling—thick, heavy, and almost sticky. It clung to her skin, dragging through her lungs like oil, curling around her feet.

A sound followed. Jagged laughter rippled through the smoke—deep, unsettling, and far too human.

But something about it was wrong. Off.

It scraped at the edges of her mind, each breathless rasp sinking deeper, twisting what should have been laughter into something hollow and broken.

Two glowing blue eyes pierced through the haze, the same hue as the gem in her locket. The figure’s tall, lanky frame wavered, with large protrusions jutting from its back and long, stilt-like legs.

Amelia’s breath caught as razor-sharp strings dangled from above—twisted puppet wires swaying with the figure’s every movement.

“The gem… awarded to you and your siblings at the Greisha ceremony. It carries a piece of Yerro’s soul—something I now intend to claim. No hard feelings,” the voice threatened. “Unless you crush it, that is.”

The strings didn’t just connect to the figure—they extended into the smoke, controlling other shapes.

More Whistlin' Death pirates emerged, similar in appearance, their movements marionette-like, dragged forward by the same glistening, knife-edged strings.

Their jerky movements hummed with tension, the strings tightening with every step.

Rick’s sensors flared as razor-sharp strings snapped into focus, bursting from the smoke like fangs from a predator’s maw.

“I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,” Rick mocked, though his voice carried the weight of concern.

Before anyone could react, a giant metallic ball zipped along the taut razor wires, gliding and twisting as if it had a mind of its own.

It spun closer, each rotation gleaming in the flickering light, its polished surface gleaming wickedly in the flickering lantern flames.

Then it plummeted, slamming into the floor with a deafening crash.

It rolled for a single heartbeat—then burst open.

A web of razor wire unraveled outward, pulling taut with chilling precision.

The wires lashed out, slicing through the air with terrifying speed, their edges glinting like teeth. Sparks flew as they tore into the walls, leaving jagged cuts.

Amelia dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly strands.

Rick wasn’t so lucky. Two of his mechanical arms were caught, razor wire digging deep into their frames. Sparks shot out as he grunted in pain, his body jolting under the brutal impact.

The red lights from the Pappy Long Legs flickered ominously, casting an eerie glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. Amelia’s breath hitched. It had flashed like this before—a warning. Her gaze darted to Rick. His silence said everything. This wasn’t just another fight. The ship trembled as if it sensed the danger too, echoing Rick’s own sinking unease. Rick, still recovering from the last attack, shot her a look—grim, sharp. More trouble was coming.

“So, you believe me to be this ‘Devil Dog?’” a voice slithered from the haze. The silhouette stepped closer, its glowing, jagged grin slicing through the smoke.

“Humorous name for an anim—”

“Animal like you!” Amelia’s voice cut through, sharp and trembling. She tightened her grip on the knife, the cold edge pressing against her palm. “I remember the smoke. That thing nearly killed me. It’s not—”

“Wrong!” the silhouette barked, and a thin wave of razor wires hissed out of the fog.

Amelia barely flinched in time. A sting burned across her cheek as warmth trickled down. She stumbled back—into something worse.

Her back hit a web of razor-like strings. The edges bit into her skin. She froze. Each shallow breath felt like a mistake. Every movement—another gamble with blood. Her clothes hung in shredded strips, leaving her exposed and trembling.

A voice dripped through the mist, mechanical and cold.

“I am Number Two. Behind me stand Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two.” The silhouette leaned closer. “And you, my delusional ex-princess, must be Amelia Woltwork.”

"Girl. Do you want to know what Gigarock can do?" Number Two’s voice sharpened, each syllable a scalpel drawn slow. "The gem embedded in your locket. Do you even understand what it truly is?”

Amelia hesitated, casting a quick glance at her torn clothing. Blood dotted the fabric. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to meet Number Two’s gaze. Only its cold, mechanical eyes pierced through the thickening mist, glowing with a light that matched her locket.

Behind him, figures emerged—half-seen shadows shifting in the fog. The faint outlines of the others—Numbers Three, Seven, and Twenty-Two—hovered in the haze. Their eyes blinked in unison, an eerie orchestra of mechanical intent.

“How it act's as a cage for souls? Its rarity? Its forms? Its value?” The words hung in the air, heavy and calculating, like a threat wrapped in a riddle.

Number Two’s eyes twitched toward her locket, the glow reflected like a smoldering ember. His movements were stiff—puppet-like—but wrong in ways Amelia couldn’t name. The others remained still, their mechanical gazes adding to the dread that pressed against her chest.

“That tattoo—do your brothers carry the same? Does it tingle in the presence of Yerro’s soul?” The silhouette’s voice dropped to a murmur, unnervingly direct.

As if in response, her locket glowed faintly blue, casting an eerie shimmer through the fog, illuminating the twisted metal threads snaking through the mist.

Amelia’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Metal or man?”

“Why the concern?” Its metallic teeth clattered from the fog, accompanied by the faint sound of winding gears.

“You’re either some rogue muscle of the Primarian Arc or an ex-suit from the Primarian Royale. Human has been optional lately. Which one is it?” Amelia challenged, her voice steady despite the dread twisting like ice in her stomach.

Number Two chuckled, a hollow sound that scratched the walls like nails. Outside, the Pappy Long Legs’ rumble faded to silence, leaving only the sinister whisper of sharpening wires behind him.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“I’m just Number Two,” he replied, his voice dropping to a slow, deliberate tone. “And I’m here to extend a deal. Otherwise, you’d already be dead. Down. With. The. Ship.”

Thick smoke curled around him, consuming Number Two’s form entirely, leaving only faint, haunting glimpses of his glowing blue eyes piercing through the haze. The coat it wore hung in tatters, swaying like loose skin. Amelia slipped the locket back into her pocket, her fingers brushing its cold surface as though to keep it close. Her other hand tightened on the knife. The blade’s edge quivered slightly.

From the corner of her vision, a thick, corded wire shot from Rick’s mechanical arm, hissing like a viper. It extended into the smoke, aimed directly at Number Two.

The wire moved with a fluid, sinewy strength, pulsing with a deep red light that flickered in rhythmic bursts, mirroring the lamps of the Pappy Long Legs.

Amelia squinted, barely able to make out the faint shape of the coat clinging to Number Two’s form, its hard edges softened and warped by the swirling mist. She couldn’t see Rick’s precise hit, but the red charge arced through the wire, crackling as it struck.

The silhouette absorbed the current. It twitched but didn’t fall. Its stance stayed loose.

"And that must be Rick," Number Two sneered, his voice carrying a mocking edge from somewhere in the haze. "The legendary Rick. Former Primarian Hammer, am I right? Those wires look familiar."

Rick’s voice broke through the tension with an experienced calm. “They should be. Now get out.”

“Violence first, questions later? Isn’t that what got you into this mess, Rick the Primarian Hammer?” Number Two mocked. “One. Of. Five.”

Rick’s mechanical limbs tensed. “What do you know about—”

Number Two’s eerie gaze shifted toward a giant metal ball hanging just above Roy’s head. “Ah, perhaps it’d be wise to listen before you act,” he replied smoothly.

Roy remained blissfully unaware, focused intently on Glassfor, the former Quadrant Leader. The ball swayed ominously above him.

“This fog,” Number Two continued, his voice curling like smoke, “only grows thicker. It strangles organic life… but electrifies and ignites machines. Gives us a little extra oomph.”

Roy paused, his curious eyes lingering on the thick cables feeding into the walls of the Pappy Long Legs. The machinery surrounding Glassford’s remains hummed with ominous energy.

Rick’s voice broke sharply. “Boy! Where’s your mind!?”

Roy hesitated, quickly withdrawing his hand, though his gaze remained fixed on the large wires, his fingers twitching.

“Tammersmith! Where did you put his mind!? In a deal best served by royalty!? Which King did you ask for the favor!? Michael or his puppet father!?”

Before he could finish, a barrage of thick, tendon-like wires shot from the walls, each ending in spear-tipped edges that slammed into Number Two.

The impact rang out like gunfire. Black oil leaked from its body, pooling beneath the writhing strands. Electricity crackled, searing it one last time before subsiding.

Number Two sagged, its mechanical frame trembling but not falling.

Amelia’s breath came in shallow gasps. “What about the deal, Rick?” she asked her voice tight with unease.

Rick’s expression darkened. “Should’ve kept its mouth shut about my son. Don’t forget—it’s not alone. Whatever it is, it’s using Primarian Hammer tech.”

“The wires?” Amelia pressed, glancing toward the thick strands. “It seemed… familiar with them.”

Rick nodded grimly. “Modified, sure, but I recognize the shotty yet particular design.”

Amelia’s gaze shifted back to the fog, catching eerie shadows hovering beyond. “And the others?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can see their shapes… unmoving. They’re just… waiting.”

“Still as stone,” Rick confirmed, his voice hard. “My security bots are on em' like a living wall. Even those things know better than to test it.”

“Whisky…” Amelia murmured under her breath, grounding herself amid the tension.

Rick’s jaw tightened. “That ‘number whatever’ isn’t dead because it was never alive,” he muttered, glancing her way. “This is all a game to one man—a puppet master pulling strings on machines that should’ve stayed buried. Worse is, I once looked up to him… back when I was an apprentice Primarian Hammer. Never one for subtlety.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and defiance flickering within them. “And now he’s after you? Or…me?”

Rick nodded grimly. “Like anythin’ lately, can’t say for certain. But the Whistlin’ bastards tore apart my shop in Veranus lookin’ for something I may or may not have had—a rare piece of Gigarock. Not your typical Yardrat street grade; this is S-Class. Straight from Yerro’s heart, like the Gigarock in your locket. The kind that keeps a Quadrant Leader ticking.”

“The kind of power that’s a nightmare for New Dwarden’s enemies,” Amelia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked to Roy, who remained transfixed by the wires. Like the machines behind Number Two, he stood still—too still. Her gaze hardened. “Rick… what did you do? What is Roy?”

Rick exhaled sharply. “Your Crowny brother, the King, knew about Glassford’s disappearance three years ago.” His voice dipped lower, rough with fatigue. “It’s a mystery for the ages—the original Glassford was never recovered. So, the King and I fashioned a convincing replica, powered by the Gigarock in his locket.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves burned. “After long nights and seat-denting research, the fake Glassford started appearing in public, steady as clockwork. But it wasn’t long before it started showing signs of… autonomy. Its creation was a secret kept tightly among the Crown and the Primarian Hammer. Fact is, only the King or Queen of New Dwarden could scrounge up an S-Class Gigarock, and even then, only in dire emergencies. It was risky—barely tested and volatile.”

Rick’s expression darkened. He looked down, shoulders heavy. “It was a penny-knicked setup from the start. The damn replica would fail constantly, and I was left to keep it ‘alive’ between appearances like some shitty wind-up doll. But something… changed. Over time, a small piece of the King’s Gigarock must’ve fused with the machine. The replica started to believe it was Glassford—like it had a mind of its own. Even wandered off, far beyond New Dwarden. I found it half-dead.”

His voice dropped lower. “Talked to the King. That’s when we knew it had to be taken out of commission. It’s been hidden away in the Pappy Long Legs ever since—a ghost running on borrowed life. Been salvagin’ what I could.”

Amelia felt a chill creep down her spine. She glanced at her locket, its faint glow casting a soft light against her trembling fingers. This same power—untamed, unpredictable—was hanging around her neck. Her hand closed over it, protective yet uneasy.

Rick’s gaze lingered on her, regret pooling in his eyes. “Eventually, I paid the price for this deception, and so did others. After an unsuccessful attempt to remove its heart, one of us Hammers—Marta… didn’t make it out.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “The kind of power that can breathe life—or something close to it—into a machine… it doesn’t come without consequences.”

Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her suspicion rising. “How much does my brother know?” Her voice cut through the fog, low and demanding.

Rick flinched. His silence spoke louder than any answer.

Amelia exhaled through her nose, bitterness creeping into her tone. “Are you scared to destroy what’s left of its heart? What’s left of the Gigarock’s flesh?”

Rick’s eyes dropped toward the ground. “On the day Marta died, we concluded that the flesh held within a Gigarock cannot be destroyed—only contained. Worse yet, any attempt to can result in… situations far worse than death.”

“What now?” Her voice softened, wavering between wonder and fear. “You want me to repair it? Destroy it? That’s your plan?”

Rick’s head dipped toward the dangling shell of Number Two while the silhouettes of the other Whistlin’ Death pirates seemed to crawl closer from the fog.

His jaw tightened, his words sharp. “You were never part of the plan, Amelia.” Rick’s voice faltered, carrying something almost wounded. “My objective was to figure a way to contain Glassford’s remnant.” He gestured toward Roy.

Amelia’s breath hitched. “Your son? You used your son!?” Her words cracked like glass.

Rick flinched but held his ground. “One of many ghoulish spirits that inhabit Yerro offered me a reward—for returning what it called a ‘Raa’Tas,’ or a ‘tainted piece’ of Yerro’s heart.”

He swallowed hard, his voice roughening. “It preyed on my insecurities, made promises it knew I wanted to hear. My son was teeterin’ on life. And now, the thing’s left me barely breathing, my son without flesh… and here I am, talkin’ about what’s alive and what isn’t. I’m beginning to lose my wonder for this world.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “My brother has you cleaning this up, doesn’t he?”

Rick let out a hollow laugh, but it died quickly. “Furious was he. Had to make up for a terrible thing. Now I’m out lookin’ for Glassford’s original and a permanent way to contain the Raa’Tas, yes,” Rick admitted wearily. “Now caught up in whatever you are and the puzzle you fit into. You—”

Before Rick could finish, the fog thickened, shifting into hulking shapes—mechanical bodies with jointed limbs and hollow faces. They loomed in the mist, twisting like ghosts awakened from their graves.

Amelia’s breath quickened. Tendrils of fog wrapped around her ankles, curling like living vines. WAmelia’s breath quickened. What is this?

Rick smirked, his voice cutting through the tension. “You didn’t think they’d get rid of all my security forces just like that, did ya?”

The ship rumbled, and the walls of the Pappy Long Legs came alive. The “little Roys” clung to the bulkheads like spiders, their glowing red eyes blazing. Their mouths opened—wires uncoiling, spears snapping outward.

Suddenly, the vents began to hum, sucking in the fog like the breath of some massive beast. Swirls of mist coiled toward the walls, leaving only the metallic phantoms behind.

Rick stepped closer, his voice dark with grim humor. “I hear shitty puppets could always use more string,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the lifeless husk of Number Two. “Now, let’s find who’s in control and end this mess.”

Amelia wiped sweat and soot from her hands, her fingers tightening around her knife. She opened her mouth to speak but froze as something crashed down in front of Rick.

A massive metallic ball dented the floor before rolling back into the fog.

A voice followed, smooth and unnervingly calm. “Why ruin the fun?”

The smoke parted, revealing a towering figure with metallic stilts for legs and a mechanical arm. Brass goggles glinted under the dim light, and his tattered coat carried the marks of storms and smoke.

He swung a pneumatic weapon in his hand—a chain-bound ball of steel hissing softly, like a predator stirring in its sleep.

Amelia shuddered. He wasn’t just a machine. He was a statement.

The figure grinned, his glowing blue eyes locked on her. “Number Two? Three? A hundred?” He leaned closer. “Let’s just say I’m not your enemy. But I am.”

His voice cracked with sharpness. “Omission’s still lying. And I won’t kill you—yet. You see, I need that Gigarock in your locket. Dead bodies don’t work.”

The fog shifted again, revealing four more figures—twisted reflections of the first, their frames sharp and skeletal. Each bore crude titles like IRON 1 and GOLD 1, etched in harsh lettering.

Rick’s voice broke the tension. “Why ranks? Why numbers?” He gestured subtly for Amelia to move toward Glassford.

“Wake him or destroy him.” Rick’s tone dropped, urgent. “If this thing’s a rogue Primarian Hammer, we’re going to hell either way.”

Amelia hesitated, her knife trembling. What if waking him makes things worse?

Rick’s golden eyes softened. “No time, Crowny. Trust your instincts.”