Their footsteps don’t even echo as they walk, a distance seemingly beyond the range of returned sound.
A pipeline’s walls lined with abyssal black substance akin to steel; a fractaling texture across it seemingly alive as it consumes the orange light from the chemical fire. Metal almost pulsating and writhing with a malevolent purpose in the casted shadows, suffocating every breath taken by biological systems.
The scale of it all grows larger and larger with every step, the arching ceiling high above now almost out of sight to the four pairs of human eyes.
There are pits, depths unfathomable above grates made for passage. Tiny octagonal shapes of steel molded together made for the filtration of solid matter hung across perpendicular pipes, unnoticed at first by the Five with the exception of the mage.
Coaxed across creaking and rusting alloy by the hand of his sister, each careful step over the half dozen scattered drainage pipes executed with immense care by the twisari.
Madeline makes conversation from the void, entertainment provided as a mind attempts to gauge the magnitude of their current situation. “How much stuff could pass through here? Like this was supposed to be all water right?”
The Being tries to retrieve the actual data, instead falling short in the corruption of databases. An assumption created from already known processes, provided in a form digestible by humankind. “This location is primarily a liquid outflow line. It is estimated its maximum capacity is approximately one point five six one one billion liters of water.”
“Gods damned…” Madeline curses at the amount, the number large enough to even force the mage behind her to recalculate digits. “That’s a lot of water for an outflow. So if there’s too much water in the main thing, then it all flows down here?”
“It’s a backup for a primary outflow.” The Being corrects without emotion.
“Then I don’t even want to imagine what the actual one looks like.”
Another branching vein, thinner pipes stacked atop one another in a seemingly random incision into the space. Sixteen smaller functions, all curving upward in the exploitation of gravity to drain downwards in a torrent of excess.
It makes the corrective measure, turning into one of the pipes as he leads them onward into darkness.
Almost instinctively Judge Murphy removes the marker from his storage pouch, a directional arrow of chemical ink slabbed atop alien alloy.
“I do not believe this act of route designation is required or helpful.” Samuel informs the old man, explaining cold logical reasoning. “The route we have taken to this location is not reversible.”
“Just in case, son.” Judge Murphy retorts, recapping the pen.
Madeline makes the observation as well, turning towards the Being now leading them upwards along a small incline. Breaths deepening from travel and stagnant air, a voice turning strained against physical exertion. “Yeah hold on, you’re gonna lead us out right? After we’re done?”
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The Being doesn’t nod, doesn’t say more than a single syllable in the guarantee of safety. “Yes.”
“And also I assume since we all have fragments you’re gonna end up having to break my gun up to actually make the… the thing right?” The woman doesn’t even finch as she continues to question a god. “You’re gonna… give something back right?”
“Yes.” The Being answers once more.
An implication suddenly realized in the vast, scattered intelligence of the Mage. Samuel asks a clarifying statement in relation to his own augmented state and the small chip implanted at the base of his brain. “Will the creation process of the GOD GUN require surgical extraction?”
“Yes.”
A non-assurance, an implied act enough to send a small wave of panic through his form. “Will the surgical procedure be painful?”
“No.”
A whistling song echoing through the tube, Madeline continues to push her requests towards the One. “Ok if you’re gonna give us guns, can I have one of those pillow guns some of the coppers have? The ones that cover people in those magical big pillows? Those are so cool.”
The generic description of the non-lethal weapon is processed by him, its usage remembered in the final hours of a desperate war against humanity itself. The act of capturing by his kind, so called a fate worse than death. He returns her question, the weapon a simplistic fabrication. “Yes.”
A clenched fist in celebration, her form turning to the rest of the trope. “So what do you guys want?! Alto? I honestly think .357 federal magnum’s too small a caliber for you. Maybe a .50 KILCO revolver would work? Bullets even come in non-lethal plastic, and breaking some ribs is a lot better than killin’ ~”
Alto blinks at the suggestion, at the wantant for more lethality. A request from him to the world ballooning in form, answer made in the humbleness of servitude to gods above. “I just want to keep my weapon… if that’s possible.”
Samantha interrupts them all, a demand made to the One. “I require the largest, most damaging gun possible.”
Her sibling continues off of her point, specification of armament against a fatally generic description. “Capable of being wielded. A Centralian Arms Retribution at minimum.”
“Don’t fall for Centralian Arms.” Madeline warns, the name brand linked to her with an uncomfortable distance. “That stuff’s low quality, mass production. Plus, you can’t wield that thing. You’re too small…”
“I can.” Samantha assures without experience, practicality not a measure of assessment within her mind.
“It's like fifty pounds Samantha. You’re not lugging that thing around are you?”
“Fifty pounds is not an issue.” The girl falsely assures as she adjusts the straps of the comically large anti-material weapon at her back.
“Hold on, how much does that thing weigh anyway? That’s gotta have some weird magical weight spell on it cause that looks heavy.” Madeline thinks to herself for a moment. “Or well… it's a fragment so I mean maybe…”
Judge Murphy interrupts the worthless conversion, a question aimed right at the Being. “What’s our timeline for arrival Ar?”
An estimated frame much shorter than previously estimated, a near-death experience providing an unexpected benefit for the sanity of inpatient humanity. No warning provided, just a number and point of measurement. “Ten point one seven minutes.”
“Wow that’s… that’s coming right up.” Madeline pauses, then turns back to the Being at the front of the now separating line of travel. “What does this facility look like anyway?”
The world gives her its answer.