Anora stood outside the hotel, her arms crossed as the afternoon sun pressed down on her. The wind carried the sounds of the village festival, but none of it softened the irritation building behind her calm expression.
She had expected Pheo to have returned by now. The area was pretty small for an oasis village, and he wasn't the type to wander for long. Yet time kept slipping by, and there was still no sign of him.
With a quiet exhale, she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "So much for being quick," she muttered. Waiting was never her strong suit, rather, it was something she'd rather avoid.
After a moment of thought, she turned on her heel and headed toward the small lot beside the hotel where their car was parked. One of the employees straightened as she approached.
"I'll be taking the car," she said flatly.
The man blinked, clearly hesitant. "Should I–"
Anora extended her hand expectantly. "Keys."
He didn't argue further. Within seconds, the keys were in her grasp. She gave a curt nod before sliding into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life beneath her. The festival crowd was starting to thicken, forcing her to drive slowly through the winding streets.
Bright fabrics and hanging lanterns framed the way, but Anora's eyes stayed forward, unfazed by the colors and music. She didn't have time to stroll around, she was there for a reason.
Eventually, the road thinned into a narrow path between two sandstone walls. The car groaned as it squeezed through, pebbles scraping against the undercarriage. The further she went, the quieter everything became until all that remained was the low rumble of the engine and the hiss of sand.
When the walls finally opened, the path leveled out atop a tall sand dune. There, standing against the endless desert horizon, was the weaponsmith's home.
Its structure was unusual, a fusion of metal and stone that seemed almost grown rather than built, its shape smoothed by time and wind. It had a strange kind of grace to it, the sort of beauty born out of survival rather than design.
Anora stopped the car and stepped out, shielding her eyes from the flare. For a moment, she simply looked at it. It was quiet, far away from the noise going on in the village below. "Can't believe you still live in this wreckage."
Midas stepped out into the light, the sound of creaking metal and shifting sand announcing his arrival. He carried a half-empty bottle in one hand, the glass catching the glare of the sun.
His gait was heavy but steady, practiced. He had the kind of balance born from years of drinking just enough to stay sharp without falling apart. He took a swig before speaking, voice deep and worn like gravel rubbed smooth.
"Didn't expect my only customer to come crawling back so soon," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What is it this time? Gun jammed already?"
Anora stood by the car, arms crossed, an unimpressed look in her eyes. Without answering, she reached into her coat and tossed something toward him. He caught it with a single hand, a knife, its mechanism jammed, its mechanical parts failing.
"Not quite," she said flatly. "The knife's been failing to do its magic, something from my last mission broke it." Midas turned it over in his hand, clicking his tongue. "And here I thought you'd finally learned how to take care of your gear."
Anora smirked faintly. "And here I thought you'd have stopped drinking by now."
He let out a dry laugh. "Old habits die hard," he said, shaking the bottle for emphasis. "Just like old debts. You're still dragging yourself all the way out here every time something breaks instead of learning to fix it?"
"Still the same mouth," she said, folding her arms. "And still the same drunk."
"Maybe," he admitted with a grin. "But I'm a drunk who still fixes your toys."
That drew a small chuckle from her, quiet but genuine.
He crouched beside his workbench, setting the knife down among the scattered tools and bits of old metal. "You know," he started, his tone shifting as he studied the jam. "This thing's been with you for what, ten years now? It's about ready to fall apart. You sure it's worth patching up again?"
Anora leaned against the car, arms still crossed. "It's got history," she said simply. "You of all people should understand that." Midas paused, then nodded once. "Yeah," he murmured, "I do."
He worked in silence for a moment, the faint clicks and metallic clinks of his tools filling the air. The smell of oil and metal hung between them, oddly comforting.
"Still using the same old tricks, huh?" Anora said, watching him. "Same bench, same tools, same everything."
"Old tricks kept me alive," he said without looking up. "Besides, If I changed too much, you might've stopped recognizing me." She smiled faintly. "You underestimate my memory."
He laughed again, softer this time. "You overestimate how much people change." Midas's tools clicked and scraped softly as he worked, the rhythm of his movements steady and precise.
He'd pushed the bottle aside now, focus drawn entirely to the knife's inner lock. Anora was now closer, leaning against the metal frame nearby with her arms folded. Her eyes were turned toward the horizon, a view of the entire village greeting her.
"So," Midas began, voice half-distracted, "you come all this way, knife busted, mouth sharp as ever…" He twisted a screw loose and glanced up at her. "There's something else you want, isn't there?"
Anora didn't answer at first. The silence lingered, long enough for Midas to smirk and return to his work. "I need a favor," she finally said. "Ah," he murmured, "there it is." She shifted her weight slightly. "It's for someone else this time. A weapon."
That made him pause. He looked up, eyebrows raised. "Someone else? That's new."
"A kid," she added. "Name's Pheo."
The tool in his hand stilled. "A kid?" Midas gave a short laugh, like he thought she was joking. "You? Taking care of someone?" Anora met his gaze, unamused. "Yeah. Surprised me too."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You've always been the one walking away first, Anora. Didn't think you had it in you to keep someone around, much less a kid." She gave a small shrug. "Circumstances led to it. Things happened."
"Things," he echoed, tasting the word like it wasn't nearly enough. "That so?"
Anora's expression softened just slightly. "He's a good kid," she said quietly. "Rough around the edges, sure, but… it wasn't a waste taking him in. Not after what I've seen from him."
That caught Midas off guard. For a second, the only sound was the faint hum of the tools cooling on the bench. He looked at her, trying to read what sat behind those words, but she was already turning her gaze away.
He sighed. "Alright. If you're vouching for him, that's good enough for me. What are we making, then? A pistol? A blade?"
"I don't know yet."
He blinked. "What?" He set his wrench down with a clatter. "You come here asking for a custom job, and you don't even know what type of weapon you want me to make? Not even a sketch or a description?"
Anora's lips curved into the faintest smile. "I was supposed to bring him here. You'd have seen yourself what fits him." Midas groaned, rubbing his head. "Supposed to?"
"He's still somewhere in the village," she said. "Got caught up with something, most likely. I'll find him and drag him here soon."
"Uh-huh," he muttered, shaking his head. "So let me get this straight. You want me to build a weapon for some mystery kid I haven't met, no specs, no design, and he's wandering around the village right now?"
"More or less," Anora said coolly. He stared at her for a long moment, then laughed, deep and genuine. "Gods above, you really haven't changed."
"No," She said, "But maybe he will." That shut him up for a moment. The way she said it. Calm, but carrying a strange weight, one that made him realize she wasn't just humoring a favor. She meant it.
Midas laughed, a low, throaty sound that ended with him tipping the bottle back for another swig. "You're starting to sound like a parent, Anora," he said, amusement slurring faintly at the edge of his words.
"Never thought I'd see the day." Anora's brow twitched. "Oh, don't start." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying. You've got that tone now, the kind that nags but also worries."
She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "You should be the last person talking about nagging. You remember how you were when we first met?" Midas snorted. "Barely."
"That's because you were drunk half the time," she shot back, leaning on one of the scattered crates. "Couldn't hold a gun straight if your life depended on it. And don't get me started on how much of a wreck you were."
He grinned lazily, eyes half-lidded as he reached for his screwdriver again. "Ah, yes. The good old days."
"Messy old days," she corrected sharply. "You've changed since then, I'll give you that. But not enough to kick the bottle, it seems."
Midas twirled the screwdriver between his fingers, chuckling without looking up. "Some habits don't die, Anora. Especially not this one." He paused, his voice softening as he stared at the drink. "Or maybe I just don't want them to."
For a moment, there was a silence between them, the kind that carried more weight than either intended. The faint hum of the repair lamp filled the room, reflecting off the half-mended knife that laid open on the workbench.
Anora's gaze lingered on him, the words at the tip of her tongue, but she let them fade. Instead, she took a small breath and shifted the subject. "You know," she began, "you really did good back then. Saving this village."
"They still remember," she insisted. "They've been setting up the festival all day, the annual one. The same one they started because of what you did that day. Maybe you should head there for once. Celebrate."
He gave a dry laugh. "Celebrate what? The man who scared half the village after saving it? I doubt they'd even recognize me now. People like stories, not the ones who lived them."
"Then maybe they should remember the man, too," she said, turning back to him. "You should head down there. See what you built." He shook his head. "They don't need me for that. The shield I built did its job long ago, and that's all that matters."
Anora frowned slightly. "I thought you deactivated it after the raid."
"I did," Midas replied simply, placing the unfinished knife on the workbench. "It was never meant to run forever. The system I built had safeguards. No power source, no activation key. It's been dormant for years."
That made her pause. "Then explain this," she said, her tone shifting as she pointed toward the window. Midas blinks, then followed her gaze. The faint light bleeding through the cracks of the metal walls wasn't from the sunset.
It was blue, shimmering in slow pulses. He rose from his seat immediately, the bottle slipping slightly in his hand before he set it down.
They both stepped outside.
The air was still warm, the faint scent of iron and sand filling the wind. Below them, the entire village was enclosed in a massive, translucent dome of light. A blue hexagonal shield, its facets shifting like a living thing.
It wasn't the same as the one he had built long ago, it was now active. Stable, powered. And for a long moment, Midas just stared. "That… shouldn't be on," he muttered, voice low. "No one has the access key but me."
Anora's eyes flicked between him and the glowing barrier. "Then someone found a way to activate it." He clenched his jaw, muttering almost to himself. "That's impossible. The terminal was sealed, it should've taken at least months just to interface with it."
She turned to him, her tone now serious. "So what does that mean?"
Midas didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the glowing barrier below, the faint reflection of the hexagonal pattern dancing across his eyes. "...It means someone's inside my system," he said finally, his voice quiet but tense. "And they just turned on something they shouldn't have."
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Narfius stretched, a long, wet yawn tearing through the stale air of the chamber. The terminal's glow carved ghostly patterns across his gaunt face, his fingers twitching from the hours bent over the keyboard.
He blinked at the screen, the cascading lines of code reflected in his dim eyes. With one final keystroke a low hum reverberated through the room. The monitors flickered as systems long dormant stirred awake.
Outside, somewhere above layers of rock and machinery, a faint shimmer rippled into existence, a translucent blue dome arcing over the village.
"There," Narfius muttered, almost to himself. "Forcefield's live." He let out a tired breath, watching the readings stabilize before leaning back in his chair. "That should keep them contained."
He pushed himself upright and looked at the boy with an even, tired stare. "You ready?" he asked.
The boy's smile was thin and bright in the dim light. "I've been ready for a long while," he said, voice flat and eager. Then, as if tasting the words for the first time, he added, "All I have to do is kill everyone inside. The rest will be done by your people." He spoke it casually, like reciting a chore.
Narfius nodded slowly, clinical and unruffled. "Everything else will be handled. You do the killing. That's your task. Not like you hate it anyways."
The boy's grin widened until his fingered clenched the bodybag with a violent force. From his free hand a brown flame bloomed viscously. He watched as it grew with a hard, delighted focus.
Then, without hesitation, he drove his flaming hand into the bodybag. The moment bent. Air thickened, with the sound constricting to the crackle of the brown flame and wet tearing of fabric.
Light leaned in, as if the room itself were an audience. The brown flame crawled up the boy's forearm like oil finding a seam. It smoked and gleamed with intent, where it kissed cloth, fibers loosening and folding as if fabric were turning to flesh.
Coppery sparks rose and hung a beat too long, then fell in slow, glittering pinpricks. Silence snapped. The boy's outline shivered, the colors bleeding from him as his shadow drained away.
His features blurred and collapsed inward toward the point of contact. His hand, still clenched on the sack, thinned and folded into the mass. The last thing of him to vanish was his grin.
The impact came like a cinematic crack. The bag answered the blow, with its seams screaming, stitching unpicked in a long, wet hiss. The fabric bulged then tore with something pushing through.
First, a leg, then another. Then, a grotesque, wet coordination that looked like creation fumbled into being. Cloth peeled back like an unzipping of skin. Beneath slick, wrong muscle glinted with metal filings and wire.
Sounds returned in a rush. Tearing fabric, with the slap of new flesh on concrete. The terminal's low electric thrum harmonizing with the creature's breath. The brown flame swallowed the bag and collapsed inward, leaving the thing inside streaming and sizzling.
Tendrils of flayed cloth unfurled like banners wrung out. Ragged strips, burlap, lining, brailed thread, all moved out with terrifying curiosity. Curling, testing, seeking purchase on tables, pipes, and bolts.
Each strip ended in crude hooks or loops of tightened fabric that flexed like fingers, They slapped and probed, learning leverage, tugging at bolts as if testing how the world might be gripped.
Narfius watched compositionally, like a director appraising a first take. He circled the thing when it first tried to stand. It wobbled, then violently lurched, collapsed, then prodded gently with the toe to his boot.
The creature flinched, then learned the rhythm of pain and balance. Its second attempt was steadier. Its steps left steaming smears that hissed against the concrete. Where fabric met flesh, mechanical implants gleamed.
Thin rods, pitted plates, braided wiring fused into tendon. The construction was both cobbled and clinical, as if an engineer had been ordered to make a tapestry fight. The head formed last, a misshapen helmet of layered cloth and stitched leather opening into something like a maw.
When it inhaled, the sound was half-animal, half-static, an emergent voice finding itself. Narfius sank back into his chair, the terminal's glow carving hollows in his face. He let the room teach the thing.
He did not rush, he didn't need to. The creature's cloth-shoulders braided into something like muscle, the tendrils learned to bridle and snap, the awkward gait smoothed with each repetition.
Every new motion synced, in tiny kicks, with the terminal's pulse. It was as if the pulse was a metronome and a newborn heartbeat were finding a tempo. "You wake up," Narfius said quietly, not cruelly but with the cold clarity of instructions that must be obeyed.
"You learn how to use that body first, then you go out. Not like they're going anywhere anyways."
The creature turned, its fabric-appendages sniffing the air, each end exploring space for threats and direction. Then, with beginning certainty, it practiced a strike. Testing for its reach, balance, making violent arcs of a killing motion.
Narfius watched the thing take a few more steps and straighten. Its stitched mouth flexed as if tasting the air. One ragged tendril moved and closed, unexpectedly gentle, around his fingers when he extended a hand not to touch but to measure.
The contact sent a low vibration up his arm, like a circuit finding ground. He chuckled, a moist, satisfied sound. "Good. Rest." He folded his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the terminal's hum wash over him.
"By the time I wake, you better be ready."
The creature made another clumsy step and then another, each more confident than the last. It was not yet a monster that could move without learning, it was an infant engineered for violence, practicing the language of menace with every breath.
Narfius leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling on him like dust. His eyelids drooped as the hum of the terminal faded into the background, its rhythm blending with his slowing heartbeat.
The creature watched him for a long moment, its stitched head tilting in a low, curious motion, like a beast trying to understand its keeper. Then, something shifted in the air. A faint vibration through the metal floor.
It turned towards the vibration. Its tendrils twitched in response, the fabric ends trembling like antennae attuned to something beyond the walls. It began to move again, each step quieter than before, its newfound balance eerily fluid.
The first door gave little resistance. Rusted locks snapped like old bone beneath the strength of its limbs. Dust fell from the seams as it passed through narrow corridors lined with cables and dead screens.
Warning lights flickered awake at its presence, strobing the creature's form into flashes. It climbed a short stairwell, dragging itself through the corridors where pipes dripped and steam hissed from cracked joints.
With each turn it seemed to remember something new. How to duck under beams, how to crawl when the ceiling dipped low, how to run. The mechanical hum of the facility rose in pitch, responding to motion that should not have existed.
Narfius slept on, oblivious as the creature made its way towards the main passage, the walls changing from metal to stone. The corridors widened, opening into a tunnel lit by a single trembling lamp.
The flame in its chest guttered, then flared as if it recognized what lay ahead. A reinforced gate loomed at the end of the passage, half buried in sand and corrosion. The creature approached, head tilting, tendrils brushing the seams.
For a moment it hesitated, then, as if understanding its purpose, it reared back and struck. Metal screamed. The old hinges snapped. Sand poured inward as the gate collapsed outward.
Its stitched form shifted in the light, steam rising from its shoulders like breath. Then, step by step, it moved forward, each foot sinking into the sand. The sound of the facility's machinery faded behind it.
The creature laid its sights on the faint lights flickering below, the heart of a living village, unaware of what had just been born beneath them. It tilted its head again, the stitched folds of its face pulling into something that almost resembled a smile.
Then it began its descent.