"Are you alright, sir?"
Ben uttered in a trembling tone, his eyes never leaving the Supervisor's face, which was covered in that mysterious blue viscosity. Although Ben was ten years older than the Supervisor, his submission to him was absolute, as if he saw in his position a prestige that transcended age. Ben saw in this man the role model and the beacon, the cornerstone upon which the factory was built before the first brick touched the ground.
Ben turned toward Silas, and his features began to harden. Behind that ghostly uniform, he saw the young man who dared to cross his limits.
Silas remembered that figure well; he could still feel the effects of the severe beating he had received from Ben earlier in the stone chamber. He hadn't forgotten Ben's short stature nor his heavy hand, the cruelty of which no one had ever made him taste before.
Silas stood alone now, unaware of the departure of his companion, the young worker who had disappeared with the fuel canisters, but he wouldn't have cared, for all his focus was on the impending danger.
"Go, Ben... I need you outside... control the situation and enforce suppression by any means necessary, and don't worry about me!" the Supervisor ordered in a broken voice.
Ben tried to object out of respect, but the Supervisor interrupted him firmly: "Just go! You must direct the workers... never mind my condition!"
Ben finally relented, but he wasn't going to leave and let his opponent escape. He gave Silas one last look full of menace, then turned toward the creature crouching in the dark.
"I'll leave XX11 with you," Ben said coldly, then gave the signal to the dog.
The robotic dog launched itself toward Silas. It wasn't a mythical beast, but merely a mass of metal and gears moving on programmed orders. Its movement was rough and made an annoying clatter, but its rush was enough to bring back to Silas memories of the pain he had tasted at Ben's hands.
XX11 rushed like a bullet, its open jaws seeking to tear Silas's flesh. But the latter, with a quick instinctive movement, extended the end of his cane to catch the rush.
The dog clamped its iron jaw onto the tip of the cane with immense force; it was a bite whose metallic screech could be heard throughout the hall, a force capable of splitting a thick wooden plank in half in the blink of an eye. However, Silas's cane, made of treated and reinforced metal, stood as a final barrier, refusing to shatter under the pressure of the steel teeth.
Silas continued to move left and right, swaying with the dog's movement like an acrobat dancing on the edge of an abyss, in a desperate attempt to hinder the movement of this mechanical weight and prevent it from gaining a grip on the ground. Amidst this violent engagement and the constant collision between the young man's body and the machine's frame, the button was pressed by the mutual pressure between the jaw and the metal, causing the light to suddenly ignite from the tip of the cane lodged inside the dog's mouth.
The white beam pierced the beast's hollow, revealing in a fleeting moment innards full of corroded rust and worn-out gears driving this entity.
The dog remained gripping the cane with a merciless jaw, the intensity of its applied force increasing with every passing second, while Silas clung with all his might to his only defense, struggling so the cane wouldn't slip from his hand or shatter under the hydraulic pressure. And at the peak of that tug-of-war, the small bulb couldn't withstand the clamping force; the glass shattered, and the light vanished under the weight of the immense pressure.
The Supervisor was staring in the direction of the struggle with amazing precision; it wasn't his closed eyes guiding him, but another sense, a strange perception transcending human senses.
He had realized that Ben was no longer around, then addressed Silas. He knew the young man was immersed in his deadly struggle with XX11, and that he might not have the luxury of responding, but he continued speaking as if unloading a heavy burden from his chest.
"Perhaps you want to know why we keep those people away from the factory... you might think we are trying to keep our little paradise without sharing it with them."
The Supervisor coughed a dry cough then continued: "Do I look responsible for their condition? You would be wrong to think that... I am just a driven man, and this is their fate. I can do nothing for them."
The Supervisor felt a strange relief as he cast his words into the darkness of the hall:
"All those people were cast away on this island only to die... they had no life left to live. I claim no credit, but I wanted them to continue living... a miserable life, yes, but a life. Nothing can be done for them, for even if they lived a dignified, happy life, they would feel a void that cannot be filled... maybe you met some of them and understood what I mean; they all had that previous life of which they will remember nothing as long as they live."
Silas paid him no apparent attention; every inch of his body was resisting the dog's jaws clamping tighter, his sweat mixing with the smell of burnt oil. Yet he was listening... the words were piercing the whir of gears and settling in his consciousness.
The Supervisor continued in a tone filled with quiet despair:
"If you consider yourself their savior, you would be mistaken, for salvation likely means nothing to them. They rushed in revolt now due to lack and hunger, but what truly moves them is greater than that... at least here, they will be allowed to live the remainder of their lives under the weight of desperate darkness... free."
In the courtyard, Ben moved like a strategist unshaken by blood; distributing orders in a sharp tone regaining the control that had almost slipped away.
"Target those with strength! Leave the old and don't waste your energy! I will deal with whoever allowed this crisis later!"
He realized the battle is not won by the number of blows, but by their precision.
Amidst this noise and fierce clash, the young worker was making his way like a snake, crouching and sneaking between the shadows. He clutched the blue fuel canisters as if they were the earth's most precious treasures, avoiding any contact that might attract attention. All eyes were drowning in the blood of battle, except for one pair... blue glass eyes gleaming from above.
Poggles' detection never missed him, for he knew that this young man's presence meant Silas and Elyra were not far. In that moment, Poggles made his decision; he opened the control room door and exited. Closing the gate had no value anymore, for chaos had already settled inside, and most of the homeless were in.
Poggles approached the young man who was looking around suspiciously in all directions, and as soon as his tail touched the young man's leg, the latter flinched, but quickly regained his artificial calm when he saw the small creature.
Poggles wanted to ask him, seeing no one with him, but the young worker initiated the question.
"You... I don't know what you are, but I think you understand what I say. You are with Silas? I am too... I am on your side. You have a ship, right? Silas told me that... where is it?"
Poggles didn't suspect, for the logic of the machine and animal within him didn't understand twisted facial expressions. He answered truthfully:
"It's in the sea, don't worry... they won't find it. They'll think it's docked on the beach if they search."
Then he continued anxiously: "Where are Silas and Elyra?"
The young man answered, preparing to leave:
"They are still inside, solving some problems... they will be a little late before catching up with us."
His words were convincing enough that Poggles gave him the precise directions and location of the ship. The young man took off into the pitch darkness, relying on the faint glow of the blue fuel to light his way toward a solitary escape. As for Poggles, instead of following him as the young man suggested, he paused... something about Silas's "delay" didn't reassure him. He turned back, leaving the courtyard behind, and heading once again into the dark bowels of the factory.
In the storage hall, the Supervisor's movement stilled, and he returned to his eerie calm. He stood with the steadiness of an executioner, certain that Silas had no chance against the "invincible factory weapon"; the matter in his view was merely moments of "twisting and turning" before the dog finished off its prey. And despite his eyes drowned in viscosity, the Supervisor began to perceive the nature of the situation accurately; Silas was no longer swaying like an acrobat, he had finally fallen.
Silas was sprawled on the ground, his body trembling under the weight of this unequal struggle with a machine of pure pressure. He held his cane by both ends, placing it as a final barrier in the middle of the dog's jaw, which was biting the metal with all its might. Rust saliva mixed with black oil began to drip onto Silas's face, and his hands, no longer strong enough to hold out, began to shake violently.
And in that critical moment, his old thigh wound opened, that trace left by Jackson's blade; pain exploded like a volcano, and blood flew to stain the metal floor. Silas screamed a resounding scream that tore the silence of the hall, a scream of pain and surrender to reality; for he was certain his muscles had failed him, and the cane would slip from his hand any second for the steel fangs to clamp onto his throat.
With lightning speed imperceptible to the human eye, a single blow from a majestic sword descended. It wasn't just a stab, but a blow charged with immense power that dislodged the mechanical dog from its place, flinging it away from Silas's exhausted body.
There was no time for wondering, for the glint of the blade betrayed its owner's identity; Elyra had arrived, and in her hand was the hope the Supervisor had not expected.