For the son of a farmer, Elliot was remarkably indifferent to the land. He grew up in the old-growth forests of Sidos’s east, which to him only meant something was always lurking a few feet past the treeline, and that his little clearing was less of a safe haven and more of a death trap.

When his father presented him with the miracle of flight, he decided to forego any relationship with the land he walked on. While others were at peace with trekking through hostile brush and deep green, so random that the simplest breath could rearrange their entire path forward, Elliot was never satisfied, knowing there was a way to avoid all of that, to be superior to it.

To mingle with the neutrality that was the sky, the space above the clouds where nothing worldly could ever hope to reach him.

Approaching thirty, he had grown out of such fantasies as superiority and recognised that the skies were just as dangerous as the land he took off from.

But by god, did it make things easier.

Like brush strokes on an abstract painting, the desert was monotonous. Unlike the forest, which chose to hide its dangers until its prey was at its most unsuspecting, the desert had foregone the essential ingredient of life a millennia ago. The grain simply shifted forward, and always forward.

If it were ever to swallow Elliot whole, he would die knowing it was never anything personal.

He was fortunate enough to see the desert as if it really was an abstract painting, instead of having to feel it. The small fan hanging from the roof of the car kept his vitals in check, if not barely.

“Doing alright there?” his driver asked. Jerimiah. A remarkably human name for a Spirit. Clothed in grunt uniform, he looked to be five foot five inches sitting down but was, in actuality, six foot three when he stood. A furry ball of a head, where the skin hugged the contours of his skull a little too closely. He lacked a nose, or eyes for that matter, and sensed everything through the vibrations he felt entering the palms of his bony, furless hands and feet. He had three children and a wife, who had left him six years ago for some Spiritual guru named Urumahya.

The only reason Elliot knew all this, was because Jerimiah was about as persistent of a talker as a cab driver on a Thursday afternoon, and Elliot hadn’t the heart to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

Between the driver to his right and the desert encompassing his pinprick of an existence, Elliot had difficulty deciding which form of consistent and monotonous torture was worse.

But the comfort of his seat and the fan dangling precariously from the car's ceiling persuaded him to hold out for just that little bit longer.

He had readied himself for something more standard of a military. A powerful diesel engine, painted in a camouflaging dull beige, and an open-top roof with no means of cooling off, just to let its passengers know there was no room for wusses. But the transport he got was remarkably…refined.

A sleek, white body that traded subtlety and camouflage for speed and albedo. The insides were cushioned and the dash panels were furnished with polished wood. Of course, the engine was as quiet as Aether was omnipresent. He tapped on the glass and received almost no report whatsoever. It was rock solid. Bulletproof, perhaps four times over.

This was overkill by any military’s metrics, yet in no other country was so much money funnelled into a fighting force so small.

“Hey, Jerry,” Elliot whispered, unsure why he felt the need to ask politely.

“Yes, sir?” Jerimiah responded with an unexpected punctuality.

“How long until we get there?”

“Not long now, actually, sir. That reminds me, can you get the flare out of the glove box? Sir.”

“Flare?”

“Yes. We use it as a signal, sir. To let the base know this car hasn’t been jacked by the F.S.A., sir.”

Elliot bent over and unbuckled the glove box, and just as Jerimiah had promised, a flare lay precariously atop several manuals and relentlessly worked comic books, their spines in shambles.

“Are the F.S.A really that competent, or are you lot just failing?” Elliot asked as he cranked the window down.

“No sir, we’re plenty confident, sir. The F.S.A. gets a lot of outside help, sir. From human-dominated nations, sir.”

“Yeah, I know all about that,” Elliot muttered as he held the flare gun out the window and clamped down on the trigger. With a sound like a miniature mortar, the flare flew into the sky. He angled the side view mirror up, figuring there was no use for it in the open desert. He watched as the flare fizzled behind them as enthusiastically as himself trying to wake up every morning before dying out entirely, seemingly bringing nothing to the world but piss-poor performance.

“Got anything more powerful? They ain’t seeing shit when it’s this bright out,” he said, tossing the flare gun back into the glove box and closing it with his knee.

“It’s an Aether flare, sir. Watchmen at the gate will sense it, sir.”

“What if they’re human this time of day?”

“No humans are allowed on the base, sir. Except for yourself, sir. Humans stay in the city, sir.”

“Right…”

The air base had built itself atop a concrete foundation, rising above and plunging below the metres or so of sand that lapped at the edges of it, silently threatening to swallow the proud monument to money and power in its entirety. A symbol that technology could triumph over the land, or inversely one that nature would eventually reclaim all things.

Proud of that poetry, Elliot finally found himself standing on solid ground once again.

Sand-ridden runways surrounded the central hangars in strips of black scars across the otherwise fluid landscape. Each hangar stood proudly, their silver sheen a bulwark for the pilots and their airborne stallions.

And in the centre of it all stood a watch tower. 'Control tower' was the correct term, but watch tower fit what Elliot saw more accurately. A lighthouse, a penthouse suite scrutinising the lonely panopticon.

Each Spirit that walked by was so different from the one previous, that Elliot lost track fairly quickly. From fur to scales to barely any physical form whatsoever. The only commonality every single Spirit shared was their uniform. A blotched, beige camouflage. To save his limited memory, only those who he spoke to extensively would he consider of any importance.

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A Staff Sergeant Yalowique greeted him with familiar discipline and an unfamiliarly translucent body. Surprisingly, he had four limbs.

“Captain,” Yalowique saluted, tapping his boots together. Elliot returned the salute, albeit much more casually.

“Air Marshall will see you now,” he reported.

“Air…Air Marshall?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Why are they here?!”

“To oversee joint training. They want to meet with you personally.”

“Enter,” a soft voice permitted from the opposite side of the beautifully polished door. He had recieved permission just before his knuckles had the privilege to tap on the wood itself. Such an immaculate door warranted a worthy knock, yet Elliot was robbed of such luxuries on this occasion.

He lightly turned the doorknob, suddenly feeling the need to be as delicate as possible as he entered.

Inside, it was as if the cruelties of the outside world were kept at bay by some magical barrier. Knowing Fadaak, it was not exactly the wildest of guesses.

“Air conditioning. Marvellous, don’t you think? Come, sit,” the Spirit offered from the far side of a large, indulgently decorated desk.

Weird, thought Elliot as he took the Spirit up on its offer, being careful not to forget the appropriate salute. A long body coiled atop itself in a spiral, with its arrowed head craning down above him. Elliot often disliked comparing Spirits to animals, yet he could barely avoid it in this particular case. A snake made of bark, sporting two spindly arms protruding from his torso, almost like an afterthought, one bearing a long pipe.

The only thing more decorated than their desk was their left chest, adorned with seven rows of multi-coloured bands. The overwhelming rank made Elliot strangely proud of the crown of antlers he adorned on his shoulder.

With each small shift, he could hear the forests of his hometown, and the puffs of smoke gave Elliot anxiety as to when the Air Marshall would inevitably set fire to themself.

The Spirit liked its trinkets, judging by the back wall of his office. Almost like a mirror hall did the glass cabinet of rocks, statues and talismans stretch from one end of the room to the other, boasting a collection Elliot could only assume the value of.

“We just got it installed a week ago. FrostBox magic. They’re broadening their business horizons a little,” the Spirit said, its voice emulating a gust playfully rushing through a small grove.

“I thought you didn’t allow humans on site, sir,” Elliot asked.

“If they have a valid reason to be here, we allow it. If they’re outsiders, even more so.”

“But not from the city?”

“Never from the city, no. Cannot trust them as much as we would like to.”

The Air Marshall took a drag on his pipe, the smoke seeping from the seams in their skin, while the cool air massaged Elliot’s muscles and soothed his sweat back into his body. For a strange moment, he felt a breeze travel through the room with no open windows, as the Air Marshall keenly watched him relax.

“Karlan. Vehekres Karlan,” the Spirit said.

“Senior Captain-”

“No need for formalities,” Karlan stated, the persuasiveness of the statement unhindered by his lack of modality.

“Elliot Maxwell, sir.”

Karlan smiled, in a way that stretched the word’s definition.

“We thank you for your service, truly. Having one of Geverde’s best train our pilots is an honour.”

Elliot readjusted himself, feeling too comfortable in his chair.

“No, not at all. The Rapacians require quite a learning curve.”

Using his offhand, Karlan played with the contours of their pipe. A delicate piece, adorned from the stem to the chamber with beautifully carved engravings. Unique in every way possible, yet one of many in their collection.

“I understand very well. I was one of the few who invested in compressor technology the better part of two decades ago.”

“You were?”

Karlan placed their pipe on a small stand, resting it neatly on his desk beside an ink well. Even if only for a short moment, Karlan chose to place things down perfectly, as if it were all to be petrified at any moment.

“Yes. I have always had a great interest in anything human. It is a sentiment carried by many elites in the city.”

They chose a particular cabinet, three from the left, creaking it open delicately with their twig limbs.

“Language creates myths, and myths create order. Order creates society, and society creates power. As if ignoring the natural principles Spirits hold so dearly, humanity gameified power, and monopolised their assets.”

The Air Marshall produced, from the cabinet, a model Rapacian fighter of astonishing detail. Every screw, hatch, and handle even Elliot had trouble recalling was all there, in perfectly ratioed detail.

“Geverde has always been such a shining example of how anyone can play the game of power.”

Elliot’s gaze was still upon the model, a reminder of the strangely alien depiction of Geverde. The one Karlan idolized so fondly.

“I doubt anyone would blame us for trying our hand at the game, don’t you think?” the Air Marshall smiled.

“I think some do,” Elliot muttered, adorning the model for just a second too long.

“You mean the humans in the city? That’s certainly a case-by-case basis, I can assure you. When there are so many, you’re bound to breed a few…bad apples.”

Bad apples with hostages and Higher Order Armour.

“In any case,” Elliot started, “we appreciate your generosity in allowing us to investigate your city. It means a lot to the families of the ones missing.”

“Oh, don’t mind that,” the Spirit scoffed, adorning the model plane themself, tracing the contours with their hands, delicately caressing it like a hopeful child would nurse their dreams for the future. “It seems everyone has been losing something in the desert recently.”

The minty fresh air had taken on a sinister cold, yet a sudden subtle rumble saved Elliot from living in the uncomfortable moment any longer. The entire building swayed gently, from left to right and back left. The Air Marshall’s pipe fell on its side, releasing the lazily smouldering material onto the table.

“What was that?”

“Grain Men,” explained Karlan, playing with the wasted contents of the pipe. “Spirits of the desert. We do not encounter many this close to the coast, yet they’re attracted to Aether, like most Spirits.”

“So, they’d target the base?”

“No, we don’t think so. The magic here is plentiful, but weak compared to what Grain Men bother themselves with. Guardians, as far as our understanding goes. Guarding god knows from anything too powerful.”

Karlan found the will to brush the spilled ash into a neat pile, before crushing it soon after. Slowly, with a single finger.

“You needn’t worry yourself, Senior Captain. Your domain is the skies, not the sand.”

A low rumble drew Kurael’s attention away from his work. The third time that morning. Each count had progressively worsened, albeit not by much. Kurael’s only reassurance was the definite sense of distance between the base and the mysterious source of the sound.

He returned to tightening the bolt, which had loosened a few rotations to the vibrations. Grumbling, he began to refit it.

Six men were currently working on the forearms of their twenty-seventh unit. He had them sort pieces, measure metal plating, and cut parts down to size before passing the ingredients on, allowing him to tighten the screws himself. The assembly had remained a closely guarded secret, and it, in turn, guarded the value of his life.

“Hand me another armour plating,” Kurael called from his step ladder.

“Right away boss,” a miscellaneous voice reported from behind him. Out of spite, he had avoided remembering names, but he knew the voice's owner to be the smallest and the skinniest of the group of six, the one that had a knack for asking useless questions.

He felt the metal in his hand and returned to the rhythm of tightening.

“Say thank you.”

His body tensed, and the hand clutching the spanner tightened instead. Kurael could barely work up the resolve to turn around, let alone answer. His voice box scratched between silence and sound, unsure which would save his life and which would have him lose it.

“Say thank you, boss,” another said. “We ain’t your slaves.”

The particular line coerced Kurael into choosing his next words wisely. He turned, albeit not the full half circle, only enough to see their dead-serious faces. They expected a reply. The correct reply.

“T-thank you. Good work...I appreciate it.”

“Wasn’t that easy?” one asked. A larger one, muscles bulging from his meek singlet.

God. Why did he have to think about his mother now? Just as the adrenaline subsided, just as the six returned to their work, the image of her ran through his head. The gesture of disappointment was the only thing he could remember of her. The only thing. His betrayal of her. The one that corrupted every other memory of her, the fear that it could be the only memory he kept of her when he drew his last breath.

But he was breathing. The best thing he could do for her, was to keep things the way they were for as long as possible.

The F.S.A. Their logo coated with sand had warranted little attention upon his arrival, but it did not take long for him to discern what it stood for.