The sun crept in through the the third story window like a dagger through between plates of armor. The sun was usually bright, the night storm had bore actual clouds free floating clusters free from the assimilated congestion of the gray veil that usually was. The space between to see the blue sky, seemed like an unreal anomaly. An ancient wonder of the old world. The radiated upon Vance he awoke the unusual warmth on his skin. The likes of which was feeling felt maybe once every two months. He look down upon his hand reflecting the alien angel glow. Normally he would feel overtaken , overjoyed , possessed by a sense rush of inspiration, but now he felt detached staring at his hands, his body, as if it too had betrayed him , as if it had become shallow shell that his soul somehow piloted. “Who am I supposed to be?” the question clawed at him. “A demure farm life?” He envisioned filled with the same sense of angst and dread that filled his mom. Also picturing a world where the war never ends, even in 20 years. “In war, only the war wins, forcing beings to create it.” A quote that stuck inside his mind like a thorn, waiting for it’s ancient wisdom to be exhumed, by the right person at the right time, in history. Would he just watch? He wondered a he would perhaps had a a family of his own on the farm, as the cogs of warfare continued to grind the future into a deserted gray squall possessed only by the hopeless lust of militaristic conflict. An effigy of ash was what came to his mind as he imagined society growing more distant , more scarce and hollow, as if a slight needle move away with the tune of a car’s radio dial, as if the fate of all humanity could be a nudge away from nothingness. “No can’t just sit by like that.” He said to himself, with an almost internal fury. If the world was a knob’s turn away from falling apart he would not let it happen. “But how?” He wondered, would he accomplish such an audacious goal. But ‘The military “was the only answer that came to him but for some reason, it seemed like the wrong answer, a convenient lie the world told itself to sleep at night. so he trusted his gut even though he didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle. He would give it some time Vance decided, know he was letting a ‘golden day’ go to waste. He needed to go to the prosthetician in town anyway. He was now more well acquainted with his mother’s frantic desire to stay busy than he’d like, almost like that sound of a running engine that could drown out the gray whispers of anxiety, if only as long as you could keep feeding it a steady supply of gasoline trickling into it. The only question left to decide, would he wear formalized attire? “Yeah I better” he told himself as an unfamiliar swell of wanting to go unnoticed rolled in om him like the gray wall of swirling clouds still dominated the sky that day. His wounds , his scars, his stories, that he was usually so proud of, now just seemed like placebo drugs, he used to adjust his view of the world to an optimistic one. Either way he did not want to stand out. Which ironically was the goal of everyone in town. Not wearing wearing some of ones most formal clothes was surely a cause to draw concern. A status quo society, awarded itself for overcoming the breath of extinction upon it’s neck, that they would rather pretend wasn’t distant and still there. “An ostentatious shield from reality.” He thought, and one that he had previously been so eager to indulge in. But that wasn’t him anymore He now established. “But was this just a phase? A season in life perhaps? Either way it feels real.” He would keep u the facade of who he was, at least for now. Just to be sure he wasn't jumping to conclusions. So he began to get ready. He was going to wear one of his most opulent outfits. If not for himself , then for the honor of his family. He was going to wear his burgundy military formal regalia. A style and color that signified one’s familial heritage to a military background. What used fill him with honor and pride now felt like a disguise, hide his falling admiration at the current state of affairs. He geared up with the overly embellished outfit, that made him look somewhere between a spiffy train conductor, and and opulent emperor, with tones of light brown and burgundy. His pants were a faded well fitted red denim cargo pants, loitered with excessive amounts of pouches. His upper body had a pressed collared shirt that was more of a light brown than a yellow color, and thick red leather vest that looked like it could belong to an aristocratic cowboy. He put on his faded brown gloves, which looked like they could be used for gardening , blacksmithing, or motorcycle riding, the one piece of his wardrobe he felt still suited him somehow, and to be seen not wearing gloves in public was more a symbol of bad hygiene and social rebellion than financial status. Last but not least was his ‘Overcoat’ , what was nearly ubiquitously replaced jackets for anything social was typically a collar connecting two pauldrons, hoisting a weather resistant cloak usually generously above the ground, depending on the design. Vance’s was a more traditional iconic model more synonymous with military formal attire. The cloak could wrap all the way around and overlap for complete environmental coverage if need be. Vance’s cloak was made of military grade material with thick leather drapes that were anti ballistic for most circumstances, with it’s signature Odescyrian military scarlet color with the localized branches mascot, a white fang badger icon, of the “Bristle Brow Badger”. The ensemble was a keepsake when his dad Enlisted with the military , that now miraculously fit Vance almost better than it ever did him. Now fully suited up with his matching yellow brown boots buckled, he wanted to make his way over to town, preferably without Zaith, if he could avoid it.

The house was calm as as he made his way down the coliseum of stairs, dressed in his gladiator attire, even the darkness of the stairwell was dispelled by the “actually yellow for once.” sunlight. He heard some rummaging about on the other floors as he passed by them. “Zaith is probably up, so I better be quiet if I want time alone.” Vance told himself knowing full well that if his brother wanted to go with him it would be hard to say no, but he needed some space, just to meditate with his thoughts and reflect. He made his way out the front door closely guiding it shut as to not announce his departure. He jogged over to the side hangar attached to the barn where the family cruiser was resting. “The dust got to it again I guess.” He thought, referring to the ‘Knoxville: Arid Drifter’. A car looking like wheel-less rust corroded version of 58’ Chevy Impala. It was the family commuter vehicle, But one of his father’s last parting mementos, was teaching him how to operate it, telling Vance to “Take care of it until I get back!” which he said almost as a joke at the time, considering the vehicle belonged in a museum or a salvage yard, but to Vance, and his mom, it held a certain nostalgia to it, so they kept it running instead of getting a more reliable one. So he sat in the drivers seat and fired it up. The vehicle raised two feet off the ground. The dashboard interface began booting up like a dial up computer. “Anti gravity thrust regulators: Functionality Normal” he read on the display. “Thank God.” he told himself out loud knowing he was not in the mood fight with the vehicle to get it functioning today. A current of dust orbited around the vehicle as it levitated in place. “Alright, let’s get going!” He said blasting out of the hangar with an explosion of dirt clouds behind him. It was a long trip to town even with modern technology, about 30 minutes with almost strait shot of what seemed like endless empty dirt road. He could comfortably go 150 miles an hour before the damn thing started drifting or rattling with turbulence, where as a new well maintained model could easily do 300 on a wet day. But sun breaking through the clouds made the landscape more scorched and dry, like the stories of how ancient Nevada used to be. But he admired the novelty of the erupting tsunami of dust behind him in the rear view mirror, that the ‘Levicar’ could not typically produce on the mud soaked barren. He now approached the city which from an eye squint distance looked like a tangled web of architecture on edge of the tree line struggling not to be absorbed into the dense mass of forest. He turned left into the communal parking lot at the commerce side of town, instead of following the bridge across the Great Gatsby River, opting not follow the empty road as it bore into the forest. He parked in a vast open parking lot swooning with a sidewalk perimeter. His vehicle slowly descended coming to rest gently on the ground, next to one of the towering black street lamps that, that assaulted the darkness of the asphalt at night. They were slender intricately barbed lighthouses belonged to some long fallen nocturnal syndicate of vigilantes, the were themselves conducting their nightfall ritual of brandishing the haunting undead back to hell. These watch towers were littered throughout the parking lot, in their strategic formations for warding off the agnostic contagious hunger of the moonless nights. so one could easily identify their parking location from a distance in the asphalt harbor.

The town of ‘Aurora Valley Creek’ was fairly friendly to those commuting it by foot, unless trying to explore every alley of each seldom seen sector. The building variety differed wildly with Vance making his way along the slithering stretch of sidewalk that wove it’s way through the labyrinth of old brick buildings. Colloquially called the ‘Commerce Colonials’ by those who had business there, or the ‘Convict Covens’ by the provincial palisades side of the city, that sought not to mingle with the impoverished for anything other than crude novelty. The quaint array of brick buildings converged along the cove of steel barred perimeter of the roaring waterway that divided the town into unequal halves. They served as sedentary sentry of discouragement for their principality of pious neighbors to make the pilgrimage from their peaks to the ‘sleuth of sewage’ as if the mere act of visiting could result in contagion of symptoms, that would somehow surreptitiously seep the devouring disease of destitution into one’s bloodstream.

Vance walked along the sidewalk pier next to the river with a continuous metal gate wall with a swirling bar design, adding some whimsy to what felt like a pedestrian enclosure, that contoured the waterway that was about the same height as the street lights, which only gave way at the stone arched bridges where one would cross to the other side. Along the barred metal fence was a series of trees that were plotted with such symmetrical intervals it would make one feel uneasy, as if they were guards on duty to enforce some sort of quality assurance compliant behavior. The trees now rekindled a spark of anxiety back into him, as if once again hostage in the Educarium Installation that was sunken into the woods behind the affluent side of town shackled by a perimeter of trees that that seemed to swallow all the light except for the few mid day hours. “Nature was a distraction” A sentiment they reinforced during training exercises, where the hexagonal brick fortress walls we joined by watchtowers suppressed any extra curricular inspiration other than the gray skies as they were corralled into the courtyard for conditioning drills. “How did I ever survive that place?” He wondered, as he was somehow haunted by the conflict of what he thought life should be and what it actually was. “A forbidden sentiment.” was what he told himself to keep moving forward , to stop himself from dwelling on it, but now he was free, too free, and it had time to keep crawling back. This town carried a bizarre sense of nostalgia for him, almost like Stockholm syndrome. It felt haunted by trauma for him , but also like home, as if it was no longer cursed by the same dark enchantment that had imprisoned him, as if the city had somehow shape shifted overnight into a place of benevolence and unity, it felt surreal to really be free, it filled him with an unusual happiness that even he suspected of eventual treason. But he could still appreciate a day away from the farm. It was now firmly mid afternoon, probably almost 2pm. The familiar gray syndicate of clouds once again began conspiring to rule the skies, eliminating all but a few sheckles of narrow drawn rays of sunlight that manged to pilfer their way, through the collusion of water condensation. Glancing upwards to take in the sights aside from his wandering mind, Vance could see the ‘Chapel of Shared Serendipity’, a name that somehow rang hollow in a climate of eternal war, a place he didn’t hate, just the name. “More like Insidiousipity.” thought Vance, a word he made up that came to him , that somehow seem more fitting than the actual title. It ornate building that stood with more prominence that the actual town hall that sat buried on the far side of the left side of the less affluent part of town tucked by the edge of the woods next to the ‘Free’ Cemetery for those lacking the budget of a memorial site near the church.

The chapel itself rested directly upon an a massive aqueduct built over the river, the build itself a symbol of unity for people of all walks of life to commune, and set differences aside for one day of the week, or silently judge each other and share the latest gossip. The building itself was the pinnacle of modernness, with with glossy white enameled exterior, and two bell towers, that looked more like plants than actual architecture, with long curved spires that looked like they had been indented by a curved cylinder. The rest of the building carried a similar aesthetic throughout, with the exception being the entrance , which was the the facade of a much more ancient brick building, with two imposing massive wooden dungeon doors, all coated with a glossy white layer of paint to match the modern amenities that had been grafted on top of it over the years. And the building did command the attention of any onlookers, it stood in defiance with it’s clean white exterior amidst the contention of dark green spruce trees standing behind it, that almost looked black by contrast, and the continually conjured downpour of gray upon the congregation of concrete.

Crested with an ornate stained glass window, that hung above the doors like the moon they they could almost never see, depicting a medieval simplification of a mural. Which was a depiction of the seraph Azelinor, during the resurrection of Benedict who was wrongly sentenced to death, but those susceptible enough for the influences of heresy have skepticism that he was truly guilty and was cursed with un-death, and to this day is doomed the residuality of perpetual lingering.

But he admired the porcelain walkways that reached across like arms grasping on to the nearby traditional brick and stone buildings like some sort of symbiote, connecting the third story levels of the the mall, the city hall , and the game warden dispatch office tower, which sat on the opposite side of the river. The church had made itself the town plaza, the crossover center for city dwelling socialites, no one could stay up to day in the latest rinse cycle of happening events. For the last four years he remembered when he too took refuge among the caustic well of refuse, his weekend routine of conspiracy and gossip that gave him an escape from his weekly “highly Incentivized” institutionalized attendance. Not attending would make almost anyone a social pariah, even the rich usually sent their children, not for the financial offering which most families in the area almost certainly needed, but for the social status and discipline, that affluent families seemed to mutate into ardent obsessions with vague ideological amalgamations for their tenets of superior righteousness that they could lord over laymen barbarian crop keeper.”It’s funny the sickness that comfort affords people. Poisoning themselves with their own ego. Thinking they’re somehow more safe than the rest of us when the world withers into chaos.” Vance conjectured to himself staring across the river at a house that always seemed to catch his eye, an old white painted victoran home about 3 stories tall, that looked like it had a lighthouse loft attached to it, that was across the street from the town chapel, the house was immaculately maintained that itself looked like it could host it’s own chapter of followers. He thought it was ironic how they “romanticize their status, but still didn’t make to cut to live in Peregrim. Were they any safer than us just on the other side of the river?” He asked himself rhetorically already knowing the devastation that could be so easily set in motion even by natural occurrence. As he stood, gazing across the glistening current. “This is good, therapeutic to be back here on my own and just reflect.” he realized knowing he had been avoiding time to himself , especially here where he could look the ghosts of his past in the face. He now felt like he could relate to the “Defectants” as the upstanding citizens called them, or “Ghoul Scorned” as they referred to themselves, A guild of hoodlums that had their own establishments in the aqueduct tunnels below, that could be easily identified by their stark contrasting attire with clean aesthetic that even the poorer commerce district tried to maintain. Wearing more distressed clothing, with a heavy emphasis on black, and edgy sometimes excessive adornments and accessories, with unnecessary metal spikes sprouting from anywhere they could. Looking like some sort of black draped wild west posse of vampire hunting cowboys. But the one thing that could clearly identify even the more bland members and the new recruits was the guild patch, usually emblazoned upon their thicket of denim and leather attire, which was a ruby eyed depiction of a “Demidraven” which were the black amphibious eagles, that lived sewage water depths that kept the rats at bay by bursting out of the water and dragging them into the water with their serrated barbs of their beak’s jaw. A hazard beyond the raging current that made the need for gate waterway all the more necessary for the safety of any unsupervised youth, or the wandering feeble elderly. Was he wrong all along? He wondered, even sometimes joining in on condescending discussions about them as they came up, he himself classifying them as “Weirdos”. “Maybe I’ll investigate them later.” He thought grounding himself back into the present moment reminding himself He was here on business. He turned looking across the street to the busier sidewalk on the other side where all the storefronts were, the complete opposite of his side of the street which was mostly where people went if they intended to cross the bridge over the river, or were just leisurely strolling. He looked over at the busiest building that entertained a host of people socializing congesting the generously wide sidewalk outside the “Reedwater Residue Reservoir” that was the local tavern, where even heathens and hard workers would mingle with one another. He wanted to avoid it entirely Fearing he might get caught in a conversation with someone knew, in his transient mental state. “Let’s make this a stealth mission.” he told himself setting his sights on less busy building two stores down “Nifty Nyc’s :’Good as Newt’ Prosthetic Amenities Emporium” A name that Vance always made the store sound more luxurious than the hole in the wall brick and mortar shack that it was. But it was always an interesting place, half pawn shop , half improvised thrift prosthetics for those with “economical limitations” as he would say.

He made his way across with almost a gallop in his step trying to be quick but also not wanting to look frantic and draw attention to himself. The front of the store had big wide walls of glass reinforced with a chain-link fence mesh behind it, sandwiched between layers of brick that formed two half hexagons that curved in in the center where the door was and on the edge of the end of the building. Vance opened the door that had a simple pull grip handle with bells tethered to it to alert Nycallistar when people enter and exit. The aisle shelves were littered with all kinds of vintage antiques and knickknacks, but the high dollar mechanical stuff he kept in a cage in the back that looked like it may have been a renovated pharmacy at one point in time. Nyc was in fact in the cage, and not one of his younger employees today. He was welding something with the torch mounted to where his index finger used to be. “Hey! Nyc!” Vance shouted trying to make sure his voice was loud to reach him over the roar of the torch.

“Hello!” he shouted back , while still focused on his weld. The old praetorian turned around revealing his white snow crusted stubble, his eye patch and welding monocle. “Who’s there?” he said looking right toward Vance with his monocle still covering his singular eye. “It’s Vance! Lana’s son.”

“Oh been a little while since I've seen you in here snooping around, not that I see anything super well anymore, especially after a weld session.” Replied the grizzled codger that looked like he could half polar bear covered in white stubble, or Santa Claus’s less congenial cousin.

“Well, that’s kinda the reason I’m here too I thought if anyone could fix a prosthetic eye it would be you.” Said Vance tilting his head to his newly acquired wound.

“Shit, Boy something did a number on you eh? Welcome to the club, sorry I didn’t send out any invitations. And, yes , I can fix it and you do have some options but anything close to a new eye is out of both our price ranges, unless I wanted to sacrifice my retirement and work another 20 years. I can’t say I’m super keen on that plan, so I figured I’d just let my eye fizzle out until I can’t work anymore, and just admire everything like a Jackson Pollock painting I suppose.” He replied imparting a stern dose of reality as old watchdogs tend to do.

“Yeah, I was kinda planning on something less that top of the line, giving my limited budget.”

“See that’s what I like about you, just like your mom, practical and sensible, that woman is one hell of a negotiator. Haggled me down to a vintage bottle of brandy for that arm of hers! Hows it holding up anyway? Not showering sparks hopefully. Much more practical than the old Mil-Grade with a sawed off built into the forearm I’d reckon?”

“Yeah, holding up pretty good from what I can tell, but she’s always good with maintenance, so I wouldn’t know even if something ever did go wrong with it. But, yeah I think her old one still has some weird sentimental value to her, but she never uses it really. I mean a buckshot is never useless to have with the range wraiths out there, even if it’s not practical modern weapon, those can have their drawbacks as well.” Said Vance now resting his forearm on the counter rummaging through his memories. Even if he initially was not in the mood to chit chat with people he knew, this felt therapeutic, perhaps a more needed conservation than he anticipated, just to escape his thoughts. He would always briefly talk to Nyc, but it was always brief, always in a hurry to go about his day and socialize with people his age, but now it felt the opposite.

“Lost a sibling and an arm to those wretched things, devious mongrels! We weren’t close, but I defiantly felt how it affected my parents back in the day. But some curses are blessings in disguise, and vice versa, I wouldn’t be so adept with prosthetics if hadn’t been using one from a young age. As far old school ballistic weapons go they kind of have certain demographic notoriety to them, as someone who is somehow an inhuman savage. But if it keeps an arm attached it’s dog eat dog as far as I’m concerned. But I’ll tell you a secret, most people wouldn't guess about me, and maybe it’s the same thing for your mom, but I have some weird fondness for old school fire arms, more than just an artifact collector. It’s like being connected with history actually shooting something that was a staple in dealing death for nearly 400 years, it’s something alright, almost supernatural, and it does make me feel like a savage, or primitive, but maybe I like feeling that way, ancestral or something you know? Said Nyc leaning closer to Vance resting his arm on the same customer service counter of the workshop cage, lowering his usually loud abrasive voice to a now softer more personal tone, even though they were the only two in the shop, as if even then, someone could be eavesdropping on through the thick walls of stone, of confessions about himself he was very selective about.

“Can’t say I know the feeling, but it is something I’ve wanted to try, In the Educarium they really only trained us on laser weaponry, with nonlethal dummy guns, but they do seem… mythological to me.”

“We’ll see what we can do about getting you some practice with one. But keep it on the low, not the kind of thing the government is super fond of these days, they want every gun with a serial number and tracking chip, and they’d brand you on the forehead if they could get away with it!” Replied the wizard of machinery as his face became more stern and focused, as if a random train of thought had taken him. “Has she.. told you?” The old man twisted his face as if trying to stare through Vance or read his mind.

“Told me…?” Vance answered as if he barley processed what the man was implying but he correctly assumed “her” was his mom.

“I've been in business a long time Vance, and a place like this tends to attract all types of vagrant folk, especially the less than savory characters. I don’t know if it’s my business to say, if you don’t already know?” He said laying very thick but very vague implications.

“Um, I’m not sure I follow what you mean?”

“You know who your mom really is kid?”

“Is there something I should know?” said Vance now slightly agitated.

“Yeah…, I got something for you, I’ve kept it, as kind of a historical memento.” Said the old revenant sleuth, as he hobbled over to and old wooden desk cluttered with towers of papers, his mechanical limbs squeaking with every sparse maneuver. He returned to the counter with a paper that had become a faded yellow color with a portrait that looked like it was made it was made with crude stamp who’s ink had blended with the paper into a brown color from it’s original black. “Know who this is?” the old man said while orienting it on the counter so it was facing Vance. He studied the fade blotchy ink contours of a torso shot portrait, of what could be a woman with a very manly physique. It was a wanted bounty poster, dated year 279 AAE, roughly 20 years ago.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Can’t say I recognize the person.” Said Vance

“That’s probably why they never caught her!” he said with a wily grin, and is he was privy to some joke Vance was unaware of. “Look closer at the “Her?” Vance thought assuming it was a depiction of some very suave man with a braided ponytail. Underneath the image and the massive text saying “WANTED: Wicked 60 № 12/60 Dead or dismembered. 20,000 Ч (Demerits). For the remains of ‘Lanadrix , louche of larsony’ , for crimes of commissioning rebellion, hindrance of commerce, calamity evocation, kleptomania, embezzlement , skyjacking, and plundering of government armaments, and general nuisancy. The name was similar to his mother’s and lingered in his mind like some not quite toxic pollution, until suddenly upon taking the poster in for a moment, the answers came to him. “Damn she does look like some monstrous sibling of my mother.” noticing some resemblance in the face features, as if someone had turned her into some preposterously muscular villain.

“My mom had a sister?” Vance answered in an uncertain interrogative tone. The old man’s face flooded with a scowl of annoyance, perhaps hoping his answer would be different.

“No boy, it is your mom! Or… supposed to be. But lucky for you she did a good job evading by witnesses. Cause they did a piss poor artistic interpretation. And far be It from me to sell out my best customers, I pride my self on discretionary clients, lord knows I would be out of business without people who live one the edge a little, or worse making pennies on the dollar servicing some government contract.”

“You’re saying my mom was an outlaw?” Vance’s brow tightened with a tinge of judgemental scrutiny.

“Well ‘Outlaw’ is kind of a loaded term. People been around long before laws. I would consider them ‘Vigilantes of subjective moral interpretations’.” Said the old man conjuring his most studiously generous interpenetration of the occupation. “And I’m saying she was damn good at what she did, to get away with it so successfully.” Said the the old man releasing his full wide mouth grin that looked more like a railway of steel than a mouth full of teeth with only two of them that were a rotted brown-yellow stump of actual enamel. A sight saved for the few that truly knew the sly skullduggerous side of the elder man. “Yes, ‘masterfully vagrant’ that woman, too good at things she shouldn’t be.” Vance was not eager to believe, but it did all seem to add up. His mom always seemed way more proficient at too many things than the average farm wife.

“Yeah it makes sense now, like she always so busy like she’s running away from something, or herself, who she used to be. Like a frantic anxiety, she keeps pouring gas into, to stop her from being her old self maybe.” Vance paused and just in reflection at the old man.

“I would take it more as a compliment, an impressive feat. I’m just sorry to be the one to break it to you. I would have assumed you had known already by now. But let’s move on to a more productive conversation. Looks like you’re in need of a new eye since the last time I've seen you Eh?”

“Yeah, got taken from me by a Roach Raven.”Replied Vance almost faintly snapping back to reality, almost as if a car had come inches hitting him. Were he younger an less mentally mature the information would have shaken him up.

“Well damn, you’re lucky that’s all you lost then, I haven’t seen on of those since I was your age, I thought they went extinct, back when the game wardens were thriving, and they actually sent out suitble sized clearing parties. Nowdays, you gotta bother them for months just to have them send out a few bastard rookies to be eaten alive out their. They don’t even offer widow pension funds unless you've already completed a year of service. It’s a damn racket their running, but I can’t say I blame them, war economics is strict business.” He said now giving Vance more information that he could possibly ingest for the day. But he tried to stay tuned in knowing he had a vault of wisdom and experience.

“I guess everything comes with a price, I wanted a once in a lifetime experience and I guess I got it.”

“So what are you in the market for lad, you looking for something functional, or fashionable? Lord knows neither of us can afford both.” Quereied Nyc.

“Well, I’ve never been absolutely opposed to scars, their kind of mementos of adventures, so I guess I’m not looking for anything natural. Could you rig up a synthetic Infrared one, that’s a little more light on the hardware side?” Said Vance already having a preconceived notion of what he wanted.

“’Something light?’ That’s gonna cost quite a bit. You think you can afford something like that?” The man swiveled his head to distribute an uncertain look.

“Yeah I think I got something I could use to make a hefty down payment.” Said Vance revealing the thermos like weapon that was loosely hand by a belt strap looped around his shoulder behind his cloak.

“What’s that you got there boy? Something forbidden I see!” Said the old geezer suddenly enchanted with glee. “Wouldn’t happen to be a ‘Pulse Seeker Channeling Cannon’ Perhaps, would it? Said the nearly blind man still having somehow incredibly keen sixth sense for valuables.

“Thought you might be interested in something like this, wasn't hoping to trade it in so soon, but I figured I better before it get’s me into more trouble keeping it.”

“I think we can work out a good deal, I’ll get the exchange papers and a bill of sale. Here look through this catalogue of retinal veneers for the inferred models, well make it a clean trade, no currency trail if you know what I mean, so just pick what you’ll like.” Vance flipped past the first few pages that were all normal look human eye covers, until he got to some of the more bizarre entries.

“Can’t pick something boring!” He noted a few options as he scrubbed through the pages of viable candidates, then finally he crossed the one that evoked his attention. It was an almost black surface, maybe with a touch of blue or purple, with a jagged edged lighting bolt running down the middle with a red slit in the middle of it. The old man scuttled back to the counter with multicolored sheets of impression paper.

“You know what kind of veneer you want or do you need more time?” He asked Vance handing him a pen and the sheets.

“No , I think I know already. This one seems like my style!” Said Vance thrusting his finger on to the page of the magazine, with a speed that would have made a more clumsy person drop their newly acquired pen.

“Hmm , interesting choice! Can’t say aynone’s ever ordered that one from me before.” The man conjectured. “I’ll go put in the work order , you fill out the papers.”

Vance began filling out his basic personal information. That was issued as “payment for services rendered” rather that an actual bill of sale, because any anti vehicular weaponry demanded a governmental notification process. Which itself was not a problem, but could draw scrutiny. Or unnecessary political extortion. Where as high profile dealers had no problems buying politicians to peddle their plagues unto the populations. The payment type was non taxable affair , listed as “Service for service.” “I Actually don’t think I need to order anything to begin fabrication, we can probably do the procedure today, if you think you’re ready to endure it?”

“Yeah I’m ready. Why wait. Should I wait here? How long until you’re ready?” Asked Vance

“Oh, not very long, just gotta fire up the fabricator, let it run for awhile, and wait for the components to cool. Shouldn’t take longer than 30 minutes! So up to you if you want to get some fresh air before we get you on the table.” Said Nyc with an eagerness to see the finished project, he, like Anorlana, carried an anxiousness about him know something he was committed to was unfinished.

“Fine I’ll go have a cig!” Touted Vance magically making one appear from somewhere way too accessible in his monotonous mountain of attire, as if he was some street magician.

The old man sighed “You Know you shouldn’t be smoking those things at your age, or at all really. But a lot of things that shouldn’t happen always do , so who am I to say what should happen in this world at my age.” He said rolling his eye’s knowing scolding the youngster was a waste of his breath, and was he really even any different at that age? It was so long ago he couldn’t even really remember.

Just then the bells on the door rang. The cozy warmth of the room had been violated by a prolonged ghastly draft of hauntingly cool air, accompanied the cool light from the gray world outside, that now seemed twice as bright blasting it’s way uninvited into the murky works shop.

A Mountainous being that matched the height of the door held it open. The individual was clad in so much concave indented armor they could pass for machine than man, about 7 ft. tall. They both stood staring at the entrance, encased in a thick block of anxiety. This was no ordinary visit. Both of them could easily recognize the armor, by it’s silhouette enshrined by the ceremonious intrusion of light pouring in around the figure. As if the being had divine will over the light rays themselves. Vance squinted to make sure he was actually seeing what he believed he was. “The S.C.S.C., The Scarab Court Security Corps.” Vance thought , recalling to himself what the Acronym’s letters meant. “Couldn’t be good news…” He told himself. As they were the most inactive group of the military, but possibly one of the most influential, some conspiracy theorists could build a case for.

The S.C.S.C. was simply a coalition of disposable contracted forces.

But their iconic appearance warranted something more sinister, perhaps, due to their blind obedience to a select branch of the Federal Consortium government. Commissioned with divine duty rights that were unabridged by government oversight, but also ironically operating as it’s own independent branch of government was the “Disciples of the Chastine Regiment”, which was dedicated to the ongoing project of religious sovereignty, and separation of church and state, by any means. Their relationship with other branches was amicable at best, both sides being somewhat cautious not to rub one another too much the wrong way, but on an individual day, not interfering with any militarily jurisdiction, they could pretty much operate with impunity in personal matters. “But what would draw them to a place of commoners, other than to inflict antagony or fleece the old man down?” His eyes could vaguely separate some color irregularities , from the amalgamation of shadows in the statuesque figure. “Rust.” the word blew into his mind like a refreshing breeze, that somehow made him warmer, an opposing wind to the shiver inducing drought of calmness pouring out of the room. If it came to violence surely the rusty splotches on the armor were some sign of negritude, or hindrance perhaps that could be exploited in an escape attempt. The half cooked ideas came to him in a slurry of mush that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be rain or snow. But still his skin remained clammy, his teeth chattered wired with anxiety and actual coldness.

“The SCSC was some derelict attempt at malfeasant eugenics program. It was however , cruelly effective at it’s objective, but at what cost? An army of obedience spliced killing machines. All women, if you can call them that anymore, artificiality inseminated reproduction machines, if that’s even still necessary, who knows they might reproduce asexually by now, But nobody I know has lived to see one without their armor, probably putrid abominations masquerading in human form.” The door remained propped open by one fully extended arm keeping it from collapsing closed. A machine resembling a small vehicle hovered through the doorway, it’s faint roar could now be heard from the other side of the shop, like a muffled vacuum cleaner. A foreign sight to those not working for a hospital. The vehicle was a detachable life support module to allow traversal for those who had become burdened by life, who could still afford to do so. The scarab court, was scarcely seen, but even more unusual was seeing one of their controllers in person , especially in such unceremonious circumstances, because of their obvious fragility. The door shut as the second scarab guard entered and remained by the door obstructing it’s access with the altitude of their lengthy physique. The shop now felt like it was some dimly lit brawlers arena where, one could wager on rigged matches. The initial guard slowly sauntered down the most central aisle, guiding the survival craft behind her. Perusing area only for potential threats she showed no indication of interest in the commercial goods. Like a monster dwarfing the skyscrapers in a once serene metropolis, she towered over the aisles that stopped at the bust of her armor, which was that was made of thick sheets of woven metal with a concave hostile architecture that compressed any curves she could possibly have, and evaporated any scent of femininity from the entity’s cold lumbering frame. Which had indeed seen some form of combat, with many signs of duress. Vance noted all the marks on the armor as it approached, some looked like more deliberate thick slices on the helmet and chest area taken out like from a blade of a failed assassination attempt, others looked more like consequential wear and tear from perhaps a jagged series of branches, as well as long abrasion streaks that were most likely from high speed impacts. But very visible below where a color bone should be was the unit’s name engraved into the chassis of metal, “Azalea.”. “Ironic.” He thought for a being of death to have a flowery name. If he was going to die , he would see his killers face, stare them in the eyes. Not a plan he was hoping have to employ ,but only if it came to that.

The guard was now face to face with Vance , he stated into the deep void of black glass making up her visor, seeing if vaguely glimpse at any skinless mass of flesh that was the surely the only thing that could move such a frame. It stared back with it’s neck tilted, but nothing could be seen through the glossy tinted shell, even if was perhaps an angle where any visibility might have been possible, any part that wasn’t black, carried the diffuse color ridden contaminated rainbow glare of chemicals on water.

It was like staring into the eye of some giant cyclops species of fly, waiting for the anxiety to decay my body enough for it to slurp up my remains, or host it’s maggot summoning reproduction ritual. She relapsed back to her statuesque pose as her head turned away from me, and took a few steps to the side, to unobstruct the aisle.

The sound from earlier was now louder a few notches below the roar of a running AC unit, that maintained the vehicles hovering altitude. It looked somewhere between a casket and recliner chair, made of the same impervious glossy white alloy as the church building. Loaded inside the glass tube chamber, was something that could barley pass for a human anymore. Painted a teal color from the circulating life support gas compound, was what looked like a still living corpse of man.

A congestion of wires like so needlessly erratic freeway system attached the goblin like creature it’s recliner inside, each cable injecting itself into a different part of the creatures saggy gray skin, as if each one was siphoning any frugal glimmering droplets of human essences that the husk could continue to produce. The anatomy did however look to be a several centuries older-than-Nyc human. Strange gelatinous lesions, where fluid had somehow accumulated, covered the joints of the person’s pruning emaciated physiology, that was overgrown with patches of white hair sprouting in any obscure place they could , like some rampant fungus, on long forgotten fruit in the depths of someone’s fridge. “It stared at me, probably wondering why I was missing one eye at young age, or just why I was in the way, he was probably here for Nyc.” It had possessed eyes, like some demon had crawled into a near death human body and manged to keep it running, like two burning candles staring back at you, the whites of it’s eyes were now a drug stained yellow, like they had been exposed to a lifetime of diesel exhaust, the iris was a red polluted brown. The eyes were the only part of the person that seemed to be alive, and the only visible part of it’s face that could be seen through the openings in it’s animal like muzzle containing it’s bulbous elongated head , minus some tufts of hair that was a younger blonde color crashing some waves out of the top like a sea on a Jagged rocky coast. The mask was a black hive hosting almost as many wires as the rest of the body ,making him fully merged with his chair.

Both Vance and Nyc, knew exactly what this was, a government asset, deemed too valuable to micromanage “Stationary Analogues” Everyone knew about them, they were common knowledge, they are the gifted savants who are capable of surviving full synchopathic projection within technology. Neither Vance or Nyc had seen one before in person, and neither would have wanted to.

“The official government records classify them as ‘Intel assets, capable of accumulating data , and condense complex solutions into practical terms for military programs, as well algorithmic diplomacy resolutions.’ If that even meant anything to the average non high ranking official.” Vance remember briefly brushing over them in one class session as if it was some sort of commonplace office equipment. Their current task directive which made them invaluable, were “Divinity Studies” or in less obfuscating terms, postponing death, preferably, inevitably. And it looked like they were succeeding, but at some great unspeakable cost. As more and more of them began dying off, and potential candidates began to dwindle due to war efforts, or went into hiding to avoid conscription to such an existence. Vance even remembered a particular rumor that now came to mind about a top candidate allegedly sabotaging his own evaluations to avoid being considered for “special programs”. It seemed like hogwash to him at the time, like some superstitious rumor that had boiled out of control for one reason or another, but now face to face with this being he knew with full certainty it was truth.

“What was one doing here, In this little patch of nothing?” He did also remember that each of them did have an assigned district to cover. “Was this our specific one? You would think a being as crucial as this one would have and entire battalion with him? Unless … he was doing something he would prefer to keep discrete.”

“Please Forgive my Incursion into your … quaint abode. “ The deep booming voice that had some trace of humanity to it but was probably not made by a mouth, it was trying to be polite, but gave off the hints of being disgusted by a non sterile environment. It sounded like burly man shouting up through well, who’s word cadence was just irregular enough to sound artificial. “2nd lieutenant William Nycallistar, If I’m not mistaken ? I do believe you severed on the front, back during the infantry incursions, but unfortunately honorably discharged.” The voice howled as the being’s eyes pierced toward Nyc.

“And what business is that of yours, to come dredging through the past in my shop, uninvited?” Nyc wanted answers as to why his daily task were being interrupted, and he was not a man with a lot of time left to waste.

“Ah yes, you’re probably right about that, but technically keeping records IS my business, I just thought it to be a good gesture to recognize such admirable history of service.” Voice tried amend it’s inquisition.

“Well , I’d rather have you admire the value of my time left at my age or recognize the exit!” He said almost spewing his words into jumbled grunt gesturing his head toward the door.

“I hoping you’d be a more hospitable host, especially considering your service. But it would be a shame were anything to happen to such a commendated service man, to pass away before his time, elderly, dimmentia, depression. When they come to clean up the body, I’ll tell them how many times I've seen it before, and that if I would have know maybe I could save him. Or if things in your shop were to just …break. ” Said the Voice , just as something glass fell from somewhere inside the cage making a loud sound as it crashed on the floor.

“For a being in such a fragile state he sure does talk a big game with his body guards around.” Then Vance turned to look at Nyc to see how he was prepossessing this not so subtle threat. He speecheless his jaw trembling as much as Vance’s was earlier. He released a few Angry bestial grunts, which was not uncommon for old men I guess, but Nyc was one to be heard, and speak his mind, even if the recipient wasn’t always keen to it. “His Arm! Something’s wrong with it…” But Vance realized the mans welding torch was slowly moving uncomfortably close to his own face, with every jittery shake. Nyc was old but not so old that he was having muscle tremors, especially not in his prosthetic arm… He grunted clenched his teeth. His whole body was shivering now, he was fighting it with everything he had.

“That’s impossible! I don’t believe it. Telekinesis.” Thought Vance now realizing what Nyc had intermediately known since the glass the glass shattered behind him. Vance contemplated an intervention attempt knowing now, that it would be an absolute futile waste of life, This being did not need It’s bodyguards, and was perhapsstonger than both of them combined. “Damn, this sucks!” Thought Vance growing more angry at his helplessness. “But how could I have prepared for anything like this?! Maybe if knew the extent of it’s TK powers…” thought Vance wishing he was somehow more prepared for the impossible, and the true limitations of such a power was probably a poker card that even the government would hold close to it’s chest.

“Good now, we see eye to eye. I too have no time for games, but I do enjoy them.” Said the monster establishing it’s intentions with small yellow glare flickering in the middle of it’s eyes, like they were wired with some fiber optic cables, that Vance wasn’t capable of seeing earlier from his angle, as they rotated for a split second second to inspect Vance. Nyc’s arm flew down and slammed on the counter after having control of his own body returned to him. Vance watched as Nyc’s explosive attitude had been defused, into some agreeable soft faced man that he had never seen before.

“What is it you want from me then?” Nyc said in his new gently mumbled dialect.

“Well they tell me you everything that passes through this town eventually sifts it’s way through you one way or another. And as you may know a renegade colony class vessel was sighted in proximity of the area, normally this is of zero concern to me, and that’s for the Game Warden vagrant types to deal with, far be it from me to get involved with their messes, but this particular band of outlaws have illicitly apprehended some cargo, that they probably think is just some valuable material, is actually a vital resource for our research and development program. So It is my business to track this resource down, before it is damaged or disposed of accidentally. I do not wish to involve myself here longer than I have business to, so if you come across anything that could make my stay short, I will repay the favor.” The voice bargained.

“Can’t say I've seen anything irregular pass through here recently, we more irregular than the stuff I’m used to, and I’ve seen a lot. What exactly is it that I should be looking for?” Nyc surveyed.

“Well the size of the material is uncertain, it could be a carryable chunk, or as big as a vehicle, but a crystallized metal material, difficult to come by on earth, this one originated from a geological impact site, but it is easily unmistakable by it’s distinct green color, like green gold.” The Voice said with a slight crackle of nervousness that the intimidating tone could not mask, that Vance and Nyc both seemed to pick upon, perhaps disclosing more information than it had wanted to. The sense of fear did seem to put them both a lttle more at ease, that made the being before them seem more human, less of an unconcerned pillaging monster.

“Sure I guess both of us can keep an eye out, right Vance?” Said the old man not missing a chance add a little clever levity to the tension, acknowledging that they were both missing one. “Give me your number and I’ll give you a ring, if I find anything, get you on your way.”

“Thank you, your cooperation with my Investigation will be appreciated, I truly even have no I’ll will to the people whole stole it that is none of my business, if they’re customers of yours. Getting my research material back is my only business, so I would prefer an expedited discreet process, if the option presents itself. Azalea give him your LAN phone.” The Voice commanded. The guard next to him detached a device socketed in her armor, and walked over to the counter placing the phone on the cage counter. (A LAN phone typically being a wired internet capable phone, that was about as reliable as a dial up computers email system, but still it was near instantaneous messaging system for the few, and still more reliable than landlines on occasion.

“Don’t be shy!” said the feminine voice that was deepened by the breathing apparatus of her helmet.

“It’s a woman?! with a sense of humor.” thought Vance taken by surprise, trying to best not grin at how funny he thought it was.

“Very well, consider my business with you done for now.” Said the Analogue as it swiveled the opposite direction hovering in place. It drifted toward the exit, where the second guard was foreclosing the doorway. Vance watched them leave like extraterrestrial visitors from another planet, wondering for a moment if he was even on earth still.

“Well, that was some shit that neither of us was bargaining for, Let’s get that eye implanted for you, and then I’m taking the rest of day off!” said Nyc still tense from the exchange at his age.

“Yeah ill just take it easy over here and chill out until were ready.” said Vance turning toward the couch lodged between the far wall and the cage counter.

“Oh yeah! You want this trash?” Said Nyc picking up the LAN phone waving it at Vance.

“Ummmm, yeah I guess.” Vance curiously agreed with some hesitancy.

“Because I already have one, and no way in hell am I calling that drooling excuse for a monster back, in my lifetime.”

Vance loafed on the couch for a good 30 minutes, before all the parts were ready. Nyc lead him back around the counter through a door letting him in the cage, where a low to the ground slab with worn out cushions on it had been covered with fresh plastic sheet, like a coffee table for surgeries. Above the table attached by a tremendous cylinder module were a swarm of several multi faceted elbow hinge arms. Basically a giant spider mechanic attached to ceiling, for a completely automated mechanical and surgical procedures, that Nyc himself couldn’t even perform if he was in his prime.