“No Mistress, his apparent captors were not what they seemed. The asset knew them by name and expressed concern for their lives.” The leading Wychhunter spoke to no-one in particular, though Noah assumed he had some sort of communication link going on within his helmet. The cultist stood at the far end of the craft, near the cockpit, but he spoke loud enough for Noah to hear him over the roar of the engines. He frankly didn’t care what the cultist had to tell his superiors, but he listened in anyway. It wasn’t like there was much else he could do.

The Wychhunters had dragged him all the way to a branch of a Gradial traffic shaft and pushed him aboard a flying personnel carrier of sorts, which had promptly taken off to somewhere Noah didn’t know. He now sat on one of ten seats lining both sides of the surprisingly spacious transport, with the three more conventional soldiers sitting on either side of and opposite from him, forming a loose semicircle to keep an eye on him. The female soldier decked out in a warskin manned some kind of mounted cannon on the vessel’s tail. Only past her armor could he see the outside world, which had been reduced to the faint lights of the gradial shaft, rapidly speeding past.

Their small and heavily armed concession had gotten no small number of strange looks on the way here, though the common people knew not to stand in the Wychhunters way, even if this part of the city wasn’t strictly their turf.

Some part of Noah had at least hoped that someone would call the district militia to come stop this kidnapping in broad daylight, the lack of actual daylight be damned. That hope had evaporated when they actually ran into a militia patrol. The lightly armored conscripts had taken a single glance at the two warskin-clad giants and promptly decided to ignore the cultists, which Noah in hindsight supposed was the wisest choice.

Back when Cai still lived at home, right before his application to the military academy was accepted, his brother had eagerly told him of what a warskin could do in the right hands:

From supporting vehicle grade weaponry and being capable of withstanding orbital re-entry, to lifesign scanning and reaching sprinting speeds in excess of a hundred kilometers an hour, a well trained warskin user stood equivalent to a small army.

Noah had written off Cai’s words as exaggeration at first, the boastful words of an older brother. Now that he had seen a warskin in action for himself, he wasn’t so sure what to believe anymore. The suits frightened him, and he jerked with angst every time one of the two armored Wychhunters made the slightest movement.

He recalled a snippet of a press conference he had seen a while back, where the planetary bondsman himself had addressed the growing influence of groups like the Wychhunters.

“The Cults Militant, if that is what you wish to call them, are not organized enough to maintain such suits of armor in any considerable quantity.” He had said, then flashed the lens a charismatic smirk.

“Even if the cults did possess them, warskins are named the way they are for a reason: They are highly destructive weapons of war. If groups like Maelstrom truly deploy them as frequently as some sources would suggest, then all their turf wars would have ended by now on account of there being no more turf to speak of!”

A wave of slightly forced laughs came from an invisible audience, at which point his mother had switched to a different channel with a sigh of disgust. Noah hadn’t understood her at the time, but his worldview had expanded remarkably over the past eight hours.

He tried to imagine what it might look like when the army made a move to flush out one of the military cults, pitting two forces against one another on an imaginary battlefield which looked suspiciously like his own neighborhood. He shuddered, seeing the soldiers of his mind’s eye loose salvo after salvo of devastating firepower through the windows and alleys he grew up in, breaking down walls and demolishing entire buildings, home to dozens of families he’d known all his life, just to gain an advantage in the next brutal firefight. Especially striking was the image of the small, communal garden around the monument in the center square, the one which Noah had helped maintain. The frail grasses and weeds of the tiny sanctuary had been ground flat by armored boots and tank treads, and beside it lay a score of dead bodies, all of which looked exactly like Nathe. All of them stared Noah directly in the eyes. The macabre scene startled the boy out of the half-slumber he had fallen into, and he woke up with a gasping jerk, bathed in cold sweat. The sudden movement gained the attention of the lead Wychhunter, who shot him a look and then made a quick gesture to one of his subordinates. This went unnoticed by Noah, whose breathing and heart rate had both skyrocketed. A painfully bright flash of red, the sudden stink of molten skin and singed flesh, the sickening thud of a lifeless body crashing against the carpeted floor. Every time Noah closed his eyes, the scene repeated. Every time he blinked, Nathe died.

Noa didn’t even notice when one of the more lightly armored Wychhunters sat down in front of him and removed her helmet, not until she placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, finally drawing his attention. “I can see the stiller isn’t working, so I’ll give you another dose, alright?”

Noah’s lip trembled and his eyes stung with tears he fought desperately to hold back. The Wychhunter’s expression was compassionate, and her kind tone brought him back to the here and now. He sobbed once, wiped his nose with his arm, then burst out in silent tears. The woman shushed him, then set to work with a small syringe protruding from an armored index finger. She wasted little time and stuck the needle exactly where she’d placed it earlier. An icy-cold cocktail flooded Noah’s veins, sending electric sparks down his spine. His heightened pulse worked to quickly distribute the drug throughout his body, and before long the boy felt himself get weirdly calm. The horrid vision was still there, it just seemed further away. Like he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, like he hadn’t known Nathe personally, It was more like the scene was something he’d seen in a late-night action flick..The cultist retracted her needle and discarded it, her smile slowly fading. Noah brought his fingers to where she’d inserted the syringe, feeling how the tiny wound had already been closed off by a crust.

“What was that?” He asked the woman, feeling strangely confused now that his distress had been blown away like dust under a leviline. “What did you give me?”

The woman was on the younger side, though gauging the age of adults was not something Noah was very good at. He could at least tell that she was younger than his mother, and older than Rosa.

Like him, she had the telltale features of someone who’d spent their life underground; Ashy pale skin, wide pupils, and thin, dark hair covered in a thin layer of grease. A ridge of pinkish scar tissue where once had been a nasty gash marked her cheek, and Noah noticed how part of the woman’s ear was missing. Service to the Wychhunters was not for the meek, it would seem. Despite that, the woman’s expression wasn’t hostile in the slightest, nor was it particularly kind. Rather, she seemed to regard the boy in front of her with a sort of muted curiosity.

“It’s stiller." She said, frowning slightly. “I gave you some before. Don’t you remember that?” Noah shook his head, although he did feel like he was experiencing some kind of deja vu. Perhaps he did remember feeling this before? He tried digging in his memory, but found he couldn’t say for sure. His eyes wandered down a little, having spotted something of interest on the cultist’s armor. A yellow circle containing a stylised triangle of wheat grains, arranged in the same way as the Sindrionite sigil, adorned her shoulder pad. Noah was no expert on military ranks or designations, but he knew the wheats represented Oracle Ishaï, whose teachings were focused for a large part on medical practices. He assumed then that this woman was a vitalist; a battlefield healer.

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The Vitalist regarded him for a few moments, then gently took hold of his wrist and pressed her thumb against his arterial vein, turning her attention to a bunch of readouts which appeared on her other arm, projected by some hidden device. She made a disapproving click of her tongue, then moved her finger up a little, pressing it against a different part of his arm.

“Is something the matter?” Rumbled the lead Wychhunter, who had apparently been closely monitoring their interaction.

“That depends, sir.” The vitalist responded. “The boy is in shock after what happened. Were he not mission critical, I would not have concerned myself, but given who we’re supposed to deliver him to…” She said, not intent on finishing that thought.

Noah listened with only half interest. There was some rational part of his brain which told him that this conversation was important,and that he should listen in to try and figure out what was going on, but it seemed as if the drug had stumped more than his grief and hurt, affecting his curiosity as well.

“Point made." The warskin-clad leader said. “Is the stiller not properly affecting him? I can authorize you to give him a greater dose, if needed.”

“I’ll remind you that these are combat stimulants, sir.” The vitalist said sternly. “They’re meant to keep us ground-pounders from collapsing in combat situations, not to treat a child’s traumatic shock experience. Stiller can come with serious side effects, and one may experience withdrawal symptoms after excessive use. In an ideal scenario I would not have resorted to it at all, but I was presented with little choice.”

“Is there anything you can do to improve his situation at this point?”

The vitalist shrugged, then cycled through the options presented to her by her wrist computer. “I could put him to sleep.” She said. “It’ll keep his state from degrading, if nothing else. He’ll be presentable for the mistress.”

Noah shot a suspicious glance at the vitalist’s wrist at those words, eyeing the compartment he figured housed her syringes. He did not much like the thought of being put to sleep in his current company, even though he desperately desired some rest.

“Fine, but run a cognitive test first. I want to be sure of his condition before we deliver him.” The leader said, to which the vitalist nodded. She scrolled some more on her wrist console and pulled up a different menu, one which displayed Noah’s portrait next to an official-looking emblem, much to his dismay. They had access to his personal files now? Theft of such data was a hefty crime, it would mean they knew nearly everything there was to know about him.

The woman pulled what looked like two black coins from her utility belt and pressed them against his temples before he had a chance to protest. “Don’t worry.” She said. “I’m just going to ask you a few simple questions, and these will help me see if everything’s still in order up there.”

“Full name, please?” She asked Noah, who responded by pulling up his legs, crossing his arms over them, and looking away.

The vitalist sighed and stole a glance at her superior, who still regarded the two of them in impassable silence. Noah subconsciously followed her gaze. She then turned briefly the other way and regarded the other warskin at the stern of the craft before turning back to him, a telling expression on her face.

We have other ways to make you talk. She didn’t even have to say it out loud. Even Noah could recognize a threat as thinly veiled as this one.

“Noah Tarin Atreuna.” He answered softly and pulled his limbs closer to his body still.

“Very good." She nodded. “And how old are you, Noah?”

Again, Noah hesitated before answering. But he knew that the woman’s patience would run out eventually, and he didn’t feel too eager to find out what the consequences of that might look like. “Twelve years.” He finally said. The vitalist frowned at that, and scraped her throat as the projection on her eye shimmered a little.

“Twelve years, you say?” She asked, then looked him up and down with a hint of skepticism. “You’re supposed to be nine, and you really don’t look a day older to me.”

“I’m twelve.” Noah insisted, and it was the truth. Actually, he knew exactly where the confusion was coming from, but he really didn’t feel like clearing up something so trivial for the cultist.

“Hmm, are you just messing with me or are you actually experiencing stress-induced amnesia? I can’t imagine the stiller did this much damage already.” The woman finally said, completely overlooking the far more simple answer. Noah smirked inwardly: Mark down one point for him, he was on the board at last.

“He’s using Origine years.” One of the other cultists broke in with a groan of annoyance, ruining the one small victory Noah had going for him. “Remember primary education? Three years here is four years on the sprouting world.”

“Right, who even uses that stuff so far away from the central systems?” The vitalist sputtered, then sighed and shook her head before continuing.

“Now here’s a fun one.” She said after reading a little further, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Central Risk Index. What do you figure his rating is, Rein?”

“What, he’s not classed as harmless?” The Wychhunter who had spoken up before asked, then glanced over at Noah, who turned his eyes to the transport’s studded metal floor. He did not much like to go into this detail.

"Nope." The female cultist responded. “Court’s got him marked as potentially dangerous. Who'd have thunk it, huh?” She chuckled and shook her head in disbelief. “It doesn’t say what he did to earn that, though. Should we figure that out as well?”

Both Wychhunters turned to Noah with expressions he didn’t like, and a palpable silence followed. A silence only disturbed by a clanging choir of metal when the vehicle went through some kind of turbulence. Noah briefly wondered if he should just tell them so he could be done with it and move on, but he never got that chance.

“No need.” Rumbled the cultist’s leader. “We already knew of this. Normally, we would brief you more extensively on the target’s background, but the Mistress demanded maximum confidentiality for this mission.”

“Are we expecting trouble at the district border, sir?” The third Wychhunter, who had so far been quiet, asked. “The target’s CRI rating won’t allow him to cross over without a valid visa.”

“That is not for you to worry about.” The armored giant said and took another step forwards, the sudden movement making Noah flinch. “All I’ll say is that we are not expecting more armed conflict on this mission.”

Shortly after those words, the craft banked and then ascended steeply to another part of the city, leaving the gradial traffic shaft behind. Noah looked to his left, seeing the busier traffic of the shaft quickly disappear from his sight. He should really have been keeping track of where the craft was going, he now realized. If he was ever gonna try to escape, knowing where to go was a pretty important detail.

“Where are you taking me? What does this mistress of yours want with me?” He finally asked; questions he was too afraid to ask before. Maybe that stiller stuff they gave him was good for something, after all, as his fears had receded along with every other emotion.

“That’s not for me to tell you.” The leader said. “In fact, I don’t know the answer to the latter either. You’ll see what she needs you for when–”

All five Wychhunters’ domes chimed as one, and the leader’s voice trailed off mid-sentence as he read the message displayed on his helmet lenses. “Put him to sleep.” He said after a few moments, then turned around and entered the cockpit.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Noah asked in confusion, turning to the vitalist. She had just finished her own message, and her face had turned an ashy gray. She wordlessly prepared another syringe and made for his arm, but Noah jerked it out of her reach. “What’s happening?” He asked again, more firmly this time. Looking up, he saw that the other two Wychhunters were looking equally uncomfortable. None of them answered him. They were all thrown back as the craft accelerated immensely. Whatever had happened, the Wychhunters were now in a hurry.

“This’ll put you into a dreamless sleep.” The vitalist said absent-mindedly. She took his arm and pulled it closer. The muscle fibers in her armor, though marginally less powerful than that of a warskin’s, were still more than enough for her to easily overpower him. Noah continued to struggle, but could do little to stop the vitalist plunged the needle into his vein.

Not a minute later, Noah was vast asleep. Blissfully unaware that the Baknian invasion of Sindrion had begun.