The Lancaster megaplant had been designed for intimidation, not subtlety. Its silhouette cut the skyline like a blade: tiers of smoked-glass, each wrapped in a corset of steel bracing, every surface studded with glyphs so dense that even the air around the building shimmered with incipient violence. The security perimeter was a kilometer wide, bordered by sensor fences, mirrored drones, and the perpetual low whine of mana suppressors at maximum legal setting.
Jane and Ellen approached from the west, their route mapped to slip through overlapping blind spots between automated patrols. It was raining again—a cold, needling downpour that burned on exposed skin and ate the rubber off cheap boots. Jane kept her face angled upward, letting the droplets hiss off the heat-shielded surface of her coat, while Ellen moved with the economy of a shadow: no wasted movement, each step perfectly silent even on water-slicked pavement.
The first obstacle was a line of surveillance drones, each one armed with a pair of micro-shot turrets and a field of runic cameras. Jane flicked her hand, palm outward, and a pulse of fire no larger than a coin stitched through the air. The lead drone vaporized instantly, its casing liquefying mid-flight; the next two dropped in quick succession, their alarms silenced by the heat-shock. Ellen, right behind, stepped in and caught the last drone by its tail, a quick twist freezing its servos solid and shattering the optics with a flick of her wrist.
They moved on, undeterred.
"Nothing but toys," Ellen muttered, voice barely audible under the rain.
"They'll have real muscle inside," Jane replied. "But they're not expecting us. No one ever expects us."
The next perimeter was human—sort of. A pair of Nexar Dynamics contract mages, both loaded with off-the-shelf suppression gear: broad-spectrum anti-magic vests, low-grade mana projectors, and what looked like DIY-rigged staves. They flanked a checkpoint, looking bored and a little wet.
Ellen flashed a gesture, two fingers slicing the air, and a lance of air so cold it split molecules shot out. The nearest mage's breath crystallized in his lungs; he dropped without a sound. Jane followed with a lazy flick, a bead of flame that expanded to a fist-sized orb right at the edge of the second mage's faceplate. The plastic and bone behind it went up in a brief, bright burst.
Jane moved past, pausing just long enough to drag a body into the rain gutter. "They'll send a QRF soon. Two minutes, tops."
Ellen knelt and lifted a badge off the dead mage's jacket. The security clearance still pulsed blue. "We only need ninety seconds."
They breached the outer doors with the badge and a short, brutal heat spike from Jane's palm. The inside was warmer, less exposed to the elements, but the sense of surveillance only grew: every corridor lined with mirrored panels, every turn watched by a silent, floating orb. The plant's interior was a study in class hierarchy—upper floors reserved for licensed mages, their uniforms crisp, their eyes blank with either sedation or the knowledge that stepping out of line would mean instant exile. Below, the floors got darker, louder, filthier. Non-magic laborers in faded jumpsuits hauled crates of raw leyline, their movements robotic from fatigue or the promise of violence. Jane saw a teenager with a patch over one eye, steering a dolly stacked with crates nearly twice her weight. A Nexar guard leaned in, whispered something, then cuffed her hard enough to stagger her against the wall.
Ellen's jaw tensed. "That's their own. Imagine what they do to us."
Jane grunted. "We're not here for them. Not tonight."
They slid past the checkpoints, ducking only once to avoid a patrol of white-suited engineers. Jane's eyes scanned for the door to the vault, and she found it—midway down a service corridor, guarded by a triple-locked blast panel etched with the Lancaster crest. Ellen moved ahead, checked the panel, then looked back.
"It's runic," she said. "But I can break it. Sixty seconds, if you keep the corridor clear."
Jane nodded, then pressed her back to the wall. A new alert blared from above—someone had found the bodies outside, and the security grid was going orange. Jane heard boots on steel, the vibration of armored vehicles, and the first spark of real challenge in her chest.
Ellen went to work, her hands a blur as she summoned glyph after glyph, countering the lock's own recursive pattern with a custom script she'd probably written last night. The panel sizzled, spat blue fire, then hissed open with a rush of ozone.
Jane grinned. "Show-off."
Inside, the vault was cold and impossibly bright. The Bridge sat in the center, suspended in a cylinder of glass and ceramic, cables and runic chains coiled around it like the tendrils of a machine god. It glowed blue, then white, then blue again, as if uncertain which was more obscene.
"Go," Ellen said, already inside.
Jane entered, her boots leaving scorched prints on the tile. She circled the Bridge, eyeing the containment field. "Can you shut it down?"
Ellen was already moving, fingers tapping a glyph into the air, then slapping it onto the containment panel. "Yes," she said. "But it'll trigger a building-wide lockdown."
Jane checked her comms. "Do it. We're out in ninety."
Ellen touched the final rune, and the glass shimmered, then vanished. The Bridge fell into her hands—light, almost weightless, but the hum of power from it made the skin on Jane's neck rise.
They turned to leave. In the corridor, the alarm went from orange to red. "No one really believes S-Class mages exist," Jane said, mostly to herself, "much less that two would walk in together."
Ellen stopped, turned. "That's why they never see us coming."
Jane nodded, a rare smile flickering over her face. She took point, Ellen close behind, the Bridge cradled in one arm.
The building was a hornet's nest now—security teams flooding the corridors, mages drawing quick and sloppy wards, even the laborers standing back to let the pros pass. Jane torched the first three guards in their path with a wall of heat, each one melting into the floor before they could aim a weapon. Ellen flicked shards of ice into the faces of the next set, freezing nerves and arteries in place.
They made it to the main floor in under a minute. The exit was only thirty meters away, but it was blocked by a cluster of heavily armed mages and two anti-magic golems: slabs of steel and ceramic, each the size of a van, glyphs crawling over their exoskeletons.
"Yours or mine?" Ellen asked.
Jane's grin sharpened. "I'll take the left."
The golem came at her, arms spinning up in a tornado of kinetic energy. Jane ducked, rolled, then spat a line of fire up the side of its torso. The flame didn't melt the shell, but it did overload the embedded runes; the golem stumbled, its head spinning wildly. Jane leapt, landed on its shoulder, and drove her fist through the weak spot in the upper back. She ripped out a glowing blue core, then chucked it at the other golem.
Ellen, meanwhile, had walked right up to the second golem. She placed a palm on its leg, whispered something in a language the machine probably wasn't built to understand, and watched as a vein of frost ate through its body, splitting it from the inside out. It fell, arms spasming, then went silent.
The mages had seen enough. They scattered.
Jane and Ellen stepped out into the night, the Bridge between them, alarms howling behind. The rain hadn't let up. If anything, it had gotten worse—a sheet of acid and sorrow, cleansing nothing.
"For the powerless," Jane muttered, staring down at the device.
Ellen wiped blood from her cheek. "Whether they want our help or not."
They vanished into the dark, the city howling after them.